by Regina Kyle
I push aside my self-consciousness and slide the scrap of lace over my hips and down my legs, kicking it off when it reaches my ankles.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” The hand on his cock picks up speed.
I mentally will him to ditch the boxers so I’m not the only one in my birthday suit. Okay, I confess. That’s not the only reason. I want to see him touch himself without a layer of cotton between his fingers and his dick. No, want’s not a strong enough word. I need it, like I need air and water.
But my Jedi mind trick skills must be rusty, because instead of losing his briefs he takes his hand from his cock and grabs my wrist, pulling me closer.
“I like this.” He releases my arm and flicks my bellybutton chain.
“And this.” His finger moves lower, through the neatly trimmed patch of curls above my pussy, making me shiver.
“I showed you mine,” I say, echoing his words from earlier. “Now you show me yours.”
With agonizing slowness, he lifts his hips and hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers.
“Tease.” I let out a low moan as I watch him drag his underwear down his powerful thighs and perfectly muscled calves. It should be awkward with only one hand, but that somehow manages to make the agonizingly slow journey even more sexy.
After what seems like an eternity, the briefs hit the floor. He kicks them aside and spreads his legs invitingly. “Straddle me.”
My clit swells at his hotly whispered command. I do as he asks, brushing my warm, wet, center against his equally warm, wet cock as I climb on top of him. The brief contact makes me want more. More skin on skin. More friction and heat. I brace my palms against the back of the chair and lower myself onto him, but he grabs my waist, stopping me.
Something inside me cries out in protest. I’m panting. Desperate. I don’t have time for slow kisses or soft touches. I need him inside me. Now.
I suck in a breath, working up the courage to ask for what I want.
“Please,” I gasp. “Fuck me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Jake
IT’S NOT LIKE me to say no to a beautiful woman. Especially one who’s in my lap, naked and begging me to fuck her.
But there’s a first time for everything. And this is that time.
“What’s your hurry, Nightingale?” I tease, planting an openmouthed kiss in the hollow at the base of Ainsley’s throat that makes her moan. “Somewhere else you need to be?”
“No, but there’s somewhere else I need you to be. Like inside me.”
She tries to wriggle her way down onto my cock, but I shift my weight so she winds up riding my thigh. It brings back images of her in my kitchen, grinding against me until she came, her cheeks flushed and her lips rounded into a perfect O. I’m half tempted to fuck taking it slow and give her what she wants. Like the last time she rode me.
Her eyes close and she lets out her breath on a long, low hiss that’s equal parts exasperation and entreaty, mirroring my own feelings. My dick is screaming for release. But my head—the other one—is telling me it’ll be even better if we take our time getting there.
Putting on the brakes with this woman might just be the end of me. But man, oh man, what a way to go.
“We’ve got all night,” I tell her, running my hand up her side, loving the feel of the curve of her hip, the dip at her waist, the swell of her breast. “And I fully intend to use every last second of it.”
There’s not a whole hell of a lot of talking after that, unless you count our indistinct moans and groans. I touch and taste her everywhere. Palm those tremendous tits. Nibble on her earlobes. Trail hungry kisses from her mouth, to her jaw, down her neck to her shoulder and lower.
She’s just as adventurous, exploring inch after inch of my body with her hands, lips, teeth and tongue. I was right about that naughty tongue stud. The way it feels when she flicks it against my nipples is everything I imagined and more. I’m dying to have it on my cock.
When she gets there, though, it’s not with her mouth but with her hand, reaching between us to encircle me. She slides her thumb through the bead of moisture gathered at the tip, and I jerk back, muttering a string of curse words.
Jesus. If my dick was screaming for release before, now it’s leading a goddamn please-let-me-come parade.
Through some feat of superhuman strength, I manage to ignore the ache in my groin and prolong the torture a few minutes longer. Only when we’re both clutching and grasping at each other like overeager teenagers, panting and past the point of no return, do I give in and push the hand on my cock aside, thrusting upward and burying myself in her sweet pussy.
“Yes.”
The one word—a single syllable, three letters, uttered on a sigh as she rests her forehead against mine—wrecks me. Then she wraps her arms around me—slowly, softly, even in the heat of passion remembering to be careful of my dislocated shoulder—and I’m not just wrecked. I’m fucking shattered.
I’ve been with women who were more—how do I put this?—sexually resourceful. Women who could bend and twist themselves into myriad positions. Even one woman who’d been on the United States Olympic gymnastics team. But none of their fancy moves or complicated contortions can compare to this. This small, simple, softhearted gesture that’s struck me like a lightning bolt to the soul.
I seat myself deeper inside her, and she rocks back against me with sexy, breathy little gasps. Christ, she’s so wet and hot and tight, her juices soaking my bare cock...
I freeze midthrust.
Shit. No condom.
The fact that I’m so far gone I neglected to wrap my willy speaks volumes. I’ve never not worn a condom before without first making sure my lady’s protected and we’re both clean. And when I say never, I’m not exaggerating. I mean never. As in not ever.
I feel like a total heel. Here Ainsley’s doing her best to look out for me, and I can’t even remember to suit up.
“We have to stop.” My one-armed grip on her loosens, but I don’t release her completely. If I do, she might wind up on the floor. “We—I mean, I forgot protection.”
“I’m on the pill,” she assures me. “And I’m clean.”
“Same here. That is, I’m clean, too,” I clarify.
“Then there’s no reason for us to stop, is there?” Her hands explore my back and move down to my ass, pulling me tight to her.
I still feel like a heel for forgetting the condom, but she has a point. No harm, no foul, right? Besides, there’s no way I can resist when she’s touching me like that.
So I don’t bother trying.
I start to move inside her again, hard and fast. The time for sweet and slow is long, long gone. She moans my name into the crook of my neck as her nails dig into my ass. When I snake my hand between us to thumb her clit, she goes off like a Fourth of July firecracker, bucking and writhing against me, her soft sex sounds building to a kind of high-pitched wailing that shouldn’t torque me up even more but somehow does.
Her release signals my cock that it’s okay to let go, and it does, in spades. I flood her until I’m empty, and we cling to each other sweaty, sated and spent.
We stay that way for I don’t know how long until I’m semirecovered and able to stand, easily managing to take her with me despite the fact that I’ve got one arm strapped to my chest.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her legs coming up to wrap around my waist.
“Taking you to bed. I’m not through with you yet.” Not by a long shot.
I head for her room, remembering there’s an overgrown, overly affectionate canine in mine. Not because I have an aversion to women invading my inner sanctum. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
“I thought kitchen stools and 1960s-inspired armchairs were where we did our best work,” Ainsley jokes.
“Nightingale,” I say, shouldering
my way into the room and depositing her on the bed. “You haven’t even begun to see my best work.”
* * *
Consciousness comes slowly the next morning, courtesy of what sounds like an army of orcs banging on my front door. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. This isn’t the master suite. I’m in one of the spare bedrooms, Ainsley’s soft, warm, fabulously naked body draped deliciously across mine.
Memories of last night come flooding back—the strip Scrabble, the down-and-dirty cowgirl chair sex, the slower, sweeter, more traditional but no less intense missionary bed sex, not once, not twice, but three times—and my dick stirs to life, ready for round five. Maybe a little soapy shower action.
Then the banging starts up again, joined by an unfortunately familiar howl from my bedroom, and I have no choice but to extricate myself from Ainsley’s embrace. She stretches, moans and rolls over, burying her beautiful face in one of my luxury goose down pillows.
Damn. Looks like I wore her out. A kernel of pride plants itself in my sternum and swells to the size of a soccer ball, puffing out my chest.
I drop a kiss in the sex-mussed hair at the top of her head and make my way toward the living room to find my long-ago discarded sweats. On the way, I spot my sling, tossed aside after round one—or was it two?—of bed sex. The doc said I can sleep without it, although there wasn’t a whole lot of sleeping going on in here last night. I consider taking the time to wrangle my way back into the damn thing, but the banging and the howling are picking up speed and volume. Leaving the sling where it is, I continue on my way, closing the bedroom door behind me so I don’t disturb Sleeping Beauty.
“Hold your horses, I’m coming,” I shout, not sure if it’s directed at Roscoe, whoever’s at the door or both. I decide to deal with the dog first. I crack my bedroom door open to let him out, and he practically bowls me over on his way to the kitchen to check out the food and water situation.
After a quick peek inside to make sure he hasn’t peed on my designer bedspread or chewed up one of my Gucci loafers, I head for the door. I’m halfway there when Connor’s voice rings out through the banging.
“I know you’re in there, Lawson. The doorman’s working a double shift. He said you haven’t left since last night.”
I’ve got to have a word with that guy. He’s not supposed to let anyone up without calling first.
“How did you con your way past him?” I ask, opening the door.
“I’m on your emergency contact list.” He brushes past me into the kitchen, stopping to pet Roscoe, who’s sitting mournfully next to his empty food bowl. “I’ve been trying to call you for over an hour.”
I dump a couple of scoops of kibble from the wholesale club–size bag on the floor next to the refrigerator into Roscoe’s bowl and lean against the counter. “What’s up?”
Roscoe wedges his big body between me and Connor, buries his face in his food and starts chowing down like he hasn’t eaten since there was a Bush in the White House.
Connor steps around the dog and pulls out a stool to sit down. “Your guy in Miami faxed some documents for you to go over. Said it’s time sensitive. He wants you to get a hold of him as soon as you’ve read them.”
“Why didn’t he fax them here?”
“Beats me. You’ll have to ask him.”
He hands over a large manila envelope, then frowns. “Where’s your sling?”
“Relax, Dr. House. I’m allowed to take it off to sleep.”
“You’re not sleeping now.”
I toss the envelop onto the counter. “I just woke up. Cut me some slack.”
Connor’s eyes dart to the digital clock on the microwave above the stove. “Jake Lawson, sleeping past seven? What’s wrong? Are you sick? Hung over? Or did you stay up all night playing hide the cannoli with your new roommate?”
It takes everything I have not to smack the smirk off his smug, pretty-boy face. He may be my best friend, but right now he might as well be Draco Malfoy to my Harry Potter. I’ve got to get him out of here before Ainsley stumbles out of bed, all morning-after sleepy and sexy and clearly well fucked. One look at her and Connor will know exactly what went down last night.
Or who went down on who.
I scrape a hand across my five o’clock–shadowed jaw and eye the Keurig. Connor’s self-congratulatory, superior, I-told-you-so is the last fucking thing I need without caffeine in my system.
I start to open the cabinet next to the sink where I keep the coffee mugs, then abruptly slam it shut. I don’t want Connor to get any ideas about staying for a cup of joe, no matter how bad I’m craving a hit of caffeine right about now.
“Documents delivered. Was there something else you wanted?”
He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow. “Can’t a guy check in on his injured friend and business partner?”
“You’ve checked. I’m fine. Thanks for stopping by. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were hiding something.” He stands. “But best friends since second grade don’t keep secrets from each other, right?”
Wrong. Whatever is going on with me and Ainsley, I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Even with Connor.
I pat the envelope on the counter.
“I’m just in a hurry to get these papers read so I can call Alex. We’re this close—” I hold two fingers about an inch apart “—to inking a deal for a sweet space right on the strip in South Beach.”
Although I’m starting to worry that the landlord is jerking us around. Every time it looks like we’re getting close to signing on the dotted line, he changes up the terms. I wonder what new wrinkle he’s thrown at us now.
Connor considers me for a long minute, then nods and starts for the door. “I’m still not convinced this is the right time for us to expand, but I’m trusting your gut on this one. Keep me in the loop, and let me know if there’s anything you need.”
The door swings shut behind him, and I move at light speed to lock it. My gaze strays to another door, the one where I left Ainsley tucked fast asleep in my spare bed, looking like a rumpled, fallen, hot-as-fuck angel. My cock twitches, letting me know exactly what I need, and I check the lock one last time before going for it.
Paperwork and Miami and Alex—hell, even Roscoe, who’s whining to go out—can wait. Time for round five and that soapy shower action.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ainsley
“WHAT ARE YOU hauling me off to today?” Jake grumbles as I lead him across the artificial turf at Hudson River Park’s Pier 46. “Another drag show? A museum? Shakespeare in a parking lot?”
We’ve done all of those things—and more—in the seven stupendous sex-filled days I’ve been staying at Jake’s. Usually he’s not so surly about our little excursions. Sure, Mr. All-Work can take some convincing to switch to play mode. But he comes around pretty quickly. Especially when I sweeten the deal with the promise of a late-night excursion between the sheets. Or in the shower. Or on the kitchen counter...
Today, though, he’s moodier than usual. But I have a feeling I know what’s bugging him. I’m hoping this not-so-impromptu picnic will get him out of his funk. Then—fingers crossed—he’ll be in the mood for another late-night excursion when we get back to his place.
Maybe this time we’ll christen the balcony, me holding tight to the railing while Jake pounds me from behind with the New York City skyline, illuminated at night, as our backdrop.
Sweet zombie Jesus. My panties are getting damp just thinking about it.
“It’s a surprise.” I heft the basket in my right hand and tighten my hold on Roscoe’s leash with my left. The big lug’s been a prince all day, tagging along with me on errands like he’s done all week. But I don’t want to risk losing him in the crowd that’s starting to set up chairs and blankets in front of the giant inflatable scr
een at the far end of the lawn. “We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“Your good news from the doctor.” I gesture with my head to his right arm, newly sans sling.
Jake frowns. He’s been a grump since he met us after his follow-up appointment with the orthopedist. “If you call another week out of work good news. I don’t see why I can’t go back. My arm feels fine.”
“I’m sure the doctor’s just erring on the side of caution. He doesn’t want you playing bouncer again until it’s a little bit stronger. And he let you ditch the sling, didn’t he?” I stop at what looks to be a good vantage point, close but not too close to the screen and off to one side, so we won’t get crushed in the mob of moviegoers. “Baby steps. It’s all about the small victories.”
I ignore the voice at the back of my head telling me that this small victory has big implications for me. For us. With Jake back to two mostly usable arms, there’s really no reason for me to keep shacking up with him.
Well, except for the multiple orgasms.
“Small victories suck,” he mutters, taking Roscoe’s leash from me so I can put the basket down and pull out the blanket I’ve packed. “I have to get back to work. Shit’s going down on this Miami deal. The architect we hired is finishing up the preliminary drawings for our New York renovation. And we’re short two bouncers, thanks to the stupid summer cold that’s going around. They need me.”
“No one’s indispensable. Connor can handle things until you’re able to return.”
He flinches a little. Understandable. No one likes being told they’re an easily replaceable cog in the corporate machine. But my words aren’t meant to be hurtful, just truthful. Jake lives for his job. He needs a wake-up call, before it’s too late and one day he looks around and finds that’s all he’s got.
Like me.
I spread out the blanket, take a seat and pat the space next to me. “In the meantime, why not stop and smell the roses? Or eat dim sum from Wo Hop and watch an iconic ’80s movie.”
