She heard and smiled. “You like—this?” she noted, reaching behind her back to unhook her bra.
An ambiguous phrase, but he knew what she meant. “Where did you get that bra?”
“In Paris—where else?” Slipping the straps down her arms, she tossed the Spider-Man bra to him. “Boys aren’t the only ones who like Spider-Man,” she murmured.
He turned the silk fabric in his hands so the cartoon figures under the half cups were fully visible. “Nice job for Spidey,” he murmured. “Holding up those big boobs.”
“Thanks, but I don’t feel like talking—if you don’t mind.”
She was moving toward him, nude, voluptuous, eager for sex, and no man this side of the grave would have argued with her. Unzipping his shorts, he jerked out his cock; she wasn’t the only one in a rush.
“Wow—every woman’s wet dream,” she breathed, stoppingbefore him momentarily to take in the splendid sight of his huge, upthrust penis.
“Back at you, male version.” She was tall and slender with all the right curves and lovely, pillow-soft breasts.
“I’m really, really glad we met—even under the circumstances. That gorgeous dick goes a long way . . . toward mitigating . . . my not-so-good day. You must have women lined up at your door for a piece of that.”
He smiled. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me.”
“I’m serious.” She was. She could hardly wait to feel that magnificent erection inside her. At which point her body reminded her to stay focused by sending a little hysterical gimme-gimme paroxysm spiking through her fevered, pulsing vagina.
He crooked his finger “No line here, babe. Just you.”
As if she needed an invitation with the pearly fluid of arousal oozing down her thighs in little rivulets and her frenzied heartbeat pounding in her ears.
As she came within reach, he leaned over slightly, slid his fingertip up the trickle of white fluid running down one thigh. “You’re making this real easy, babe,” he whispered, touching his fingertip to his mouth, pulling open a small drawer under the table with his other hand and taking out a condom.
“What’s with that?” Surprise—perhaps the veriest shade of pique.
“This?” He held up the foil pack.
“No, the always-prepared-for-every-eventuality Boy Scout. In the kitchen even.”
“Does it matter?” He wasn’t sure he liked her tone. For sure he didn’t want to explain Lucy’s anything-but-the-missionary-position mentality.
Why was she even questioning him? On the other hand, she had this picture of Lucy Whoever spread out on the table and . . . and nothing she reminded herself. She and Nick were very recent acquaintances, and if she wanted to get to know him better and profit gratification-wise from the experience, she would do well to ignore mental images of Lucy Whoever. “You’re right. Doesn’t matter,” Zoe said, smooth as silk.
He grinned. “Don’t wanna rock the boat?”
She shot a glance at his erection, then met his amused gaze with one of her own. “Let’s just say I have a real incentive to mind my manners.”
He laughed. “So we’re gonna do this politely?”
“Right now, style doesn’t matter so much as speed.” Her brows rose. “If you don’t mind, of course.”
The only thing he minded was if she was Harry’s girl, but even that wasn’t going to stop the show at this point. “It sounds like I’d better get a move on,” he said with a smile. Ripping open the foil packet, he slipped out the condom, dropped the foil on the floor, and rolled the sheath down his cock with the speed of considerable practice. Then, looking up, he opened his arms wide. “Come talk to me, babe.”
Steadying her as she straddled his thighs, he adjusted her position slightly in order to bring the crest of his erection in line with her wet, throbbing pussy. As interested as she was in speed, he gripped her waist and, fingers splayed, began deftly easing her down his sizeable erection.
A taut, hushed silence accompanied her slow, gradual descent,both of them intent on absorbing the full sensual impact—slick electrifying friction, sleek tissue ever so slowly yielding to the compelling invasion, overwrought, prodigious sensation bombarding their brains. When she came to rest at last, blonde hair juxtaposed against his black, her bottom warm on his thighs, her ripe cunt chock-full of cock, they were both scarcely breathing. Unprepared for the raw intensity assaulting their senses, they were momentarily held hostage by a disorienting delirium.
More wary, Nick’s survival instinct kicked in first. Conscious of his surroundings once again, he briefly took note of the woman currently in custody of his cock before scanning the kitchen—carefully, with an eye for detail acquired long ago in Kosovo.
Everything in place.
Including his cock.
Which brought him back to the business at hand.
An orgasm was on the agenda—preferably sooner rather than later.
Although, gentleman that he was, he’d see that she came first. Intent on expeditiously reaching the promised land of sexual bliss, he focused his attention on the lady’s impressionable sensibilities, because the quicker she came, the quicker he’d get off.
Slipping his hands under her bottom, he took care to slide her honeyed cunt back up his cock in a deliberate, leisurely ascent, so she was sure to feel every soul-stirring, quivering degree of sublime friction. In her hot-to-trot pussy, in her lush, trembling body, in her fingertips clutching at his shoulders, and most of all in that primary female pleasure center—her clitoris.
Not that he didn’t experience equivalent voluptuary stimulation.
He found himself holding his breath at the apex of the ascent.
The lady was panting, clearly impatient for more.
He obliged her. She was fantastically hot inside and out, always whimpering on the upstroke, panting on the downstroke. Frenzied in the most disarmingly sexy way.
Although, he had to admit, there was always that moment at the very depth of her descent when he lost it, too. When they both caught their breaths and waited for their nerve endings to stop flipping out.
“You sure know how to push all my buttons,” she murmured once, when they’d both started breathing again.
“My pleasure, babe.” He didn’t say he was restraining his rampaging libido by sheer brute will. Instead, he lifted her up again so they could both feel the edgy rapture.
It wasn’t long before he realized the lady impaled on his cock was seriously approaching the brink. He wasn’t counting, but say on the following fourth or fifth up-and-down transit, she suddenly brushed his hands away and gasped, “I can’t wait.”
At which point, she proceeded to go directly to orgasmic heaven, bypassing GO and any expectations he might have had.
Her scream bounced off the kitchen walls, and sinking downward, she bottomed out on his cock, and feverishly rolled, twisted, undulated her hips in a trembling, overwrought search for Nirvana.
Wasting no time—getting off was high on his priority list as well—he jumped on her speeding freight train. Ignoring her indignant cries, he lifted her upward again, rammed her down hard on his cock, and suddenly recognizing the peaking frantic-ness in her voice, held her there and gave her what she wanted: his stiff cock motionless inside her, stretching her to the limit, pushing her headlong toward the orgasmic finish line.
Or his nominally motionless cock, discounting the steady, rhythmic gush of seminal fluid into latex.
This was, after all, about mutual self-interest.
In time, her screams tapered off.
He could tell because his ears stopped ringing.
Not that he had actually been conscious of the clamor, too intent—once his orgasm began—on his own pleasure.
Her body’s warm, he thought afterward as he held her lightly in his arms. And soft and welcoming, along with any number of other fondly earnest, maybe even sappy, designations.
He must have been amusing himself with Lucy too long, he thought, to find himself so inclin
ed to sentiment. Then again, S&M wasn’t likely to bring out the tender emotions. Not that he was into coercion with his sex, but he knew how to be obliging. And let’s face it, he hadn’t exactly been in a hearts and flowers mood lately.
Whatever the reasons, he preferred feeling what he was feeling now.
Contentment, perhaps even something more.
Astonishing.
“You know, I’m thinking there might be a real upside to my troubles,” Zoe murmured, lifting her head from his shoulder and licking a warm path up his cheek. “That was pretty fabulous.”
She was smiling sweetly at him. “Definitely gratifying, I agree,” he said, smiling back. “And if you’re in the mood for more, we could forget our troubles in the comfort of my bedroom. Whaddya say?”
“I say, yes. I haven’t had nearly enough of you.”
He grinned. “Same here.” Lifting her up and away, he set her on her feet. Stripping off his condom, holding his shorts up with one hand, he rose from the chair, disposed of the condom, and wiped himself off with the kitchen towel.
“How much time do we have?”
He didn’t ask her what she meant. It didn’t matter. “At least until dark,” he replied, zipping up his shorts. After that, there are no guarantees.
She exhaled softly and held out her hand. “I’m glad there’s time.”
They must have been on the same weird wavelength because he understood the carpe diem implication in her words. “No problem,” he murmured, taking her hand and drawing her close. “Just for the record, I’m in a greedy mood.”
“Just for the record, I haven’t had the advantage of a Lucy type in my life lately. I may be more greedy than you.”
He grinned. “I must have died and gone to heaven.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist, rested her chin on his chest, and gazed up at him. “Is this sexy or what? You clothed, me not. I must be here to serve as your afternoon nymphet.”
“Christ,” he said in a husky rasp, “as if I need more provocation.”
“You must like having a nymphet around,” she purred, rubbing against his rising erection. “He seems to be ready again.”
“If you’re gonna be naked and within reach, I guarantee he’s gonna always be ready.”
She playfully fluttered her lashes. “How very lovely to hear.”
Seventeen
His bedroom was like so much of the house, pure retro, including the green chenille spread on the bed and the 1950s furniture. It surprised her that he lived here and nothing of himself was evident. No personal items lay about or adorned the walls. Not even in the bedroom where he slept.
Or maybe he didn’t sleep here. Maybe he just fucked Lucy here.
Which thought was perversely carnal.
It shouldn’t be of course. Then again, everything about him was a turn-on, from the top of his handsome head to his Teva-sandaled feet. In particular his enormous cock that she’d just had the pleasure of ramming up her.
A little thrilling quiver fluttered up her vagina in memory and anticipation of more to come. She came to a sudden stop, clenching her thighs to staunch the going-off-the-deep-end tremors.
He looked at her.
Drawing in a small breath, she exhaled carefully as though she dared not move. “I seem to be on a short fuse with you.”
The with you part struck some weird, machismo nerve, or perhaps anything she said would have been equally arousing in his current horniness. He was in the mood to fuck no matter what. “I’ll carry you,” he said, as though understanding her reason for stopping. Gently placing her on the bed a moment later, he unzipped his shorts and let them slide to the floor.
“You don’t wear underwear.” She unconsciously licked her lips as she gazed at his full-blown erection.
He half smiled. “Is it a problem?” He jerked off his T-shirt.
“God no.”
She wasn’t looking at him, she was laser focused on his cock. “It’s hot in the summer,” he said in explanation, thinking her half-open mouth was damned tempting. If he wasn’t worried about Harry’s girl biting off his cock, he might have followed through.
But figuring he liked his dick intact, he pulled open the drawer on the bedside table instead and lifted out his handcuffs. Not the normal kind—something Lucy brought over. Single cuffs, gold, with long velvet ties for fastening purposes.
Zoe’s eyes flared wide briefly, then narrowed. “Lined in pink velvet. Your favorite color?”
“Not really. I hope it’s yours,” he returned, grasping one of her hands and snapping a cuff around her wrist.
“And if I were to say I don’t like pink?”
“Too bad.” He smiled faintly and held her gaze. “But you’re not gonna say it, are you?”
“I should.”
He snapped a cuff on her other wrist. “And I should send you packing.” His brows rose. “But neither of us is going to do what we should.”
“If you didn’t have such a big dick,” she muttered.
“If you didn’t have the perfect cunt for it,” he softly drawled, raising her hand slightly higher than shoulder level so he could secure the velvet ties to a bedpost.
As he lifted her other arm and fastened the cuff to the bed, Zoe felt as though she might come without any help from him at all. After her recent introduction to his physical splendors in the kitchen, she knew exactly what pleasures were in store for her; her body apparently knew as well and it was jazzed up and ginned up and seriously oversexed.
Also, his quiet authority and purposeful movements, his willfulness and calm intent were profoundly erotic. He didn’t ask for directions; he didn’t ask her permission. He was selfishly intent on his afternoon entertainment.
And she understood why he was tying her up.
He didn’t trust her.
Some impetuous, primal force within her was apparently in tune with his unceremonious divine-right theory of sexual gratification. She was already audibly panting, an ache of longing pulsed hard and deep between her legs, and her engorged labia were slippery wet in welcome.
Having secured her and protected himself, Nick became aware of Zoe’s increasing agitation. Join the club, he thought, gazing at her. Her skin was flushed, her eyes half shut, the minute, suppressed undulations of her lower body, the clenching and unclenching of her thighs, quintessential hot and bothered impatience.
He sucked in a breath in an effort to curb his more headstrong impulses. It wasn’t as though this was the first time he’d tied a woman to his bed—but there was something about this switched on, give-it-to-me woman that triggered his brutish instincts. It was an unprecedented sensation, as if seeing her shackled and ready for him prompted some latent depravity.
He counted to ten, tamping down the wildness.
Then he counted to ten again.
“You’re not doing me much good standing there,” Zoe muttered, high-strung and overwrought. Perhaps still petulant as well over pink handcuffs when she shouldn’t give a damn. When she’d known Nick Mirovic for less than a day and it was none of her business.
“You want this?” He gestured toward his erection stretched hard against his stomach, his voice like hers taut, heated.
“Or my vibrator. I don’t really care,” she said, unreasonably. Neither of them was in a rational mood.
Turning, he walked from the room.
“Don’t you dare!” she screamed.
This was the time to turn her loose, he thought, striding down the hall. Cut his losses, do himself a gigantic favor, and not knowingly look for trouble. If only, his libido smugly mused as Nick walked into Zoe’s bedroom.
He returned with her vibrator. “Lady’s Little Helper and I’ll take turns,” he said, holding her purple vibrator aloft as he approached the bed. “I’m guessing you won’t mind coming a few times.”
“You could be nicer, dammit,” she said, pouty and peevish.
“So could you.”
“I thought you were leaving.”
&
nbsp; “I live here.” He sat down on the bed as if to underline the point.
“I suppose I could apologize”—she glanced at his glorious, upthrust penis—“considering.”
He spread her thighs with a sweep of his hand. “Considering I can make you come?”
“Among other things.”
He looked up, his hand holding the vibrator arrested inches from her crotch. “Meaning?” Harry’s threat returns with a vengeance.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s scary.”
He shot a quick look at the bedposts, checking to see she was still securely tethered. He offered her an imitation smile. “How’s that? Better?” Then he smoothly slid the vibrator up her vagina and effectively curtailed further conversation. He wasn’t in the mood to exchange possible falsehoods with her. At the moment he didn’t give a damn if she was Harry’s girl or not as long as she couldn’t escape her bonds. He was gonna fuck her until he didn’t want to fuck her anymore and in the morning, he’d hand her over to Tony.
This was strictly playtime.
No conversation necessary.
Holding the vibrator in place, ramming it slightly upward with the palm of his hand, he bent low to draw one of her nipplesinto his mouth. He sucked gently at first as she whimpered and writhed beside him, as her body took a real fancy to him, glowing with the heat of arousal, turning liquid around the vibrator, the scent of sexual fervor pungent in the air. As her breathing shifted, became increasingly frantic and her hips rocked wildly against the pressure of his hand, he sharpened the pressure of his mouth. Sucking and nibbling, devouring her tenderness, taste, and texture, he tested the tensile elasticity of her nipples, perhaps tested his own self-control as well as she gasped and cried out in seething frenzy.
As he tugged and stretched her nipple, a fierce, thrilling ecstasy swept downward through her body, met the torrid, seething pulse of nerves stretched taut around her vibrator, and rolled over her in great, glorious pleasure waves. Her orgasm approached like a tidal wave, quickly—too quickly, but inexorably.
Hot Property Page 9
