From Demon Night by Meljean Brook
Two feet of bench seat was apparently nothing when a man had a reach as long as Ethan’s. His hands slid around her waist and he hauled her against him so quickly that she prepared herself for an onslaught on her mouth, but the first touch of his lips was soft and searching.
That sweet heat slipped through her again, warming and melting her from the inside, leaving her skin hot and tight. He groaned, and it sounded like a denial, but then his big palm curved up from her stomach, and the light brush of his fingers over her breast was followed by a possessive stroke of his tongue past her lips.
And it imploded, the burning ache sweeping from her skin to her core. His fingers tangled in her hair. He shifted, turned until he was half-lying on top of her, never relinquishing her lips. The seat cushioned her back, but there was nothing soft about Ethan’s body above hers.
She could hardly breathe, he was so heavy and he was practically f*cking her mouth with each deep lick, and then blazing a hot trail of need to her womb when she returned the penetrating thrust and he caught her tongue in a suckling kiss.
Jesus. Excitement tore through her in an erotic wave, pushing her hips up, arching her back. Her fingers clenched on his waist. He was tilted awkwardly, his legs still beneath the wheel, but she pushed her foot over his thighs to grind closer, trying to kick and pull and do anything to have him big and hard between her legs.
A flat, loud honk split the air. Ethan jerked his head up and away from her, turning to check each of the windows.
“The horn,” Charlie gasped. “I hit it.”