by Lola Taylor
She smiled, so wide her face hurt. “Amazing.”
And she meant it. She was happy, really damned happy, right now.
Which was why she should have known it wouldn’t last for long.
THE WATCHER LICKED his lips as he watched the blonde throw her head back in ecstasy. A streetlamp kicked on just outside the apartment window, highlighting the contours of her body in dusty orange light. Reckless fools, leaving the blinds open like that. They screwed like two animals in heat, so they probably hadn’t been thinking about having an audience.
All the better for him.
The apartment building across the street was supposedly boarded up and closed off.
To all but those who knew how to get in, those lonely creatures who went bump in the night.
No one would see him watching from the dark window, with its yellowed blinds innocently opened as if the last occupant had forgotten to close them. The shadows hid him well as he zoomed in with the binoculars, trying to memorize the lines of Amy’s beautiful body. He could tell from the fit of her clothes that she’d put on some more pounds.
Good. She’d been too damned skinny to start with. He liked a little extra meat, and the softness it provided for fucking.
Just like a velvet cushion.
He licked his lips. A flutter of excitement went through him.
He took his time memorizing the details of her body. The mole on her back that she’d always been self-conscious of; how her hair faded to brunette closer to the roots. Her skin was smooth and flawless. He knew it was soft from the bottle of lavender and vanilla lotion he’d swiped at her apartment earlier. He’d rubbed some on his hands every time after washing them, so Amy could always be with him. The scent was clingy. Even through the gloves, its sweet scent tickled his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply.
She’d kept the bottle by the shower, meaning she probably rubbed it on those long, creamy legs after bathing.
What he wouldn’t give to massage the buttery liquid onto her skin…
Amy’s mouth flew open as her body bobbed up and down. He imagined the blissful sigh releasing from those lips, the ones he’d lined the walls of the apartment with pictures of. How many times had he stood in front of those drawings and photographs, tracing the contours of her mouth with his thumb, leaning in to kiss them while wondering whether they were more like satin or velvet.
Then that begged the question—what did Amy Miles taste like? The thought sent a sharp pang of heat straight to his loins.
Oh, the things I could do to you, Amy.
He always thought seeing her with another man would drive him mad with jealousy. Oh yes, the jealousy was there, coiling deep within his gut like a viper waiting to strike. But with those dark feelings of possessiveness and desire lurked an unexpected surprise—pleasure.
God, it made him hard to watch her in the throes of ecstasy. She hardly ever let loose like that. Since the tragedy that had shattered her world, he’d longed to show her how to feel alive again. That love wouldn’t hurt, that it could make you feel so damned good. He’d dreamed of her mounting him like that, with her full breasts bouncing, nipples erect, inviting him to suck them. He’d tease them until she’d beg him to take her, and then he’d take her into his mouth and show her pleasure like she’d never experienced before.
He knew what was best for her, the things to do to her that would really please her. He’d done his homework, paid attention to what turned her on.
Amy’s hands raked up her chest, cupping her own breasts, and he went utterly still with wonder. It was like watching a preview of things to come. He imagined himself being the one on the bottom, watching his Amy as she rode him.
Shit, this was making him restless. If he didn’t have her soon, he was going to come undone.
He’d tried being patient all these years, had looked the other way when she’d dated other men. He’d punched a wall the night she’d gotten engaged to Michael.
He grinned. Hope hell is as hot as they say it is, asshole.
Michael had been a fool. Had he not been generous when he warned Michael to stay away from Amy? That no one ever had a right to claim her but himself?
Amy disappeared from the window, and he shifted his weight to get a better view. She was sprawled on her back now, the naked ass of a finely sculpted man rocking back and forth over her as he drove himself into her. And she looked as if she was enjoying it.
A growl ripped from his throat. Another fool in the making. But no matter. He, too, would learn it never boded well to touch his things.
Amy belonged to him. They were soul mates, destined for each other since the moment they’d met all those years ago. No one else had ever seen him for who he really was, had ever looked upon him without judgment.
Amy was perfect. She was an angel, a queen, and she deserved nothing but the best.
Even if he had to raise hell itself, she was going to belong to him.
SHE WAS RESTLESS.
Amy twisted in the sheets, which were partly tangled around her naked body and partly dripping onto the floor of Scott’s bedroom.
Her body was sinewy, her muscles completely free of tension for the first time in years. It had been a long time since she’d slept this deeply, the kind of deep, dark sleep where even her nightmares couldn’t touch her.
That’s probably why it took her a whole minute to realize there was a tongue probing at her sex.
Still half asleep, she writhed as it slowly licked her, making her whimper. “What are you doing?” Her voice was scratchy, partly from just waking up and partly from screaming her head off last night as they made love well into the morning.
The living-room rug, the couch, the kitchen counter, the kitchen table, and finally the bed: was there any surface in here they hadn’t had sex on?
Scott’s head looked up at her, a cheeky grin on his face. “Waking you up so we can play some more.”
She sighed as he stroked her sex with his thumb in long circles. Her hips rocked against his hand, and he cupped her; his fingers slid in and out of her as his thumb continued to work.
“Mmmm…play sounds good,” she purred. His fingers glided in and out more easily now; she got wetter by the second.
His rigid sex soon replaced his hand, and thirty seconds later, he had her back up against the wall, her legs wrapped around his torso as he thrust into her. Thank God there weren’t any neighbors on the opposite side. It was a miracle no one had called the cops again because of all her screaming.
The head of his arousal stroked her sweet spot, stoking the fire building deep within her. “Harder, Scott,” she breathed, nipping at his earlobe.
He obliged, lifting her up slightly so he could go deeper. She was coming undone, becoming nothing but a network of skin and nerves floating along a current of bliss. The orgasm rocked her, making every bone tingle and every muscle feel soupy with relief. Sighing, she sagged against him as he finished, coming hard. They both fell against the bed and cuddled, panting.
A few minutes passed while they lay there in each other’s arms. He doodled a design against her cheek with the tip of his finger. “What are you thinking about?”
She smiled and stretched, snuggling closer. “I was wishing that I could wake up like that every morning.”
He chuckled and kissed her forehead. “Amen to that. You hungry?”
As if on cue, her stomach gave a loud growl. She flushed. “Guess all that sex worked up an appetite.”
“Yeah. I was getting kind of scared. Your stomach’s been going off for the past half hour. It was what initially woke me up, all that growling. I thought maybe Braveheart had turned into a tiger and was going to eat me.”
She punched him in the arm. “You are so silly.”
“You like it.”
She grinned. “I do.” She pressed a finger to his nose as he leaned in to kiss her, stopping him. “But don’t let that go to your head.”
“Me? Never.” He pressed his lips to hers in a long, lingerin
g kiss.
She groaned as they forced themselves apart and winced as her stomach gave another audible growl. “Guess I should feed the monster before it decides to eat me instead.”
He grinned, sat up, and stretched his arms above his head.
She openly gawked at him. He couldn’t have more beautifully sculpted muscles if they’d been painted on. With all the jobs he carried, when did he have time to work out? She felt incredibly lame. Here he was, busy as hell, and she couldn’t even find time to exercise with one job—plus, she worked from home.
“Want to go out?” He got up and retrieved his pants from the floor. “I know the people who own this little diner around the corner.”
“Let’s stay in.” She pulled the sheets up to cover her chest in a useless attempt at modesty. Her nipples, puckered from the chill and her afterglow, poked at the material. “I can cook.”
“Ugh, that sounds great.” He gave her a sheepish look and ran his hands through his bedhead. “Except, I don’t have any food here, really, to cook with. Unless you count boxed dinners and soup as cooking.”
“That’s okay.” She got up and started to dress. “I have stuff at my place. You want to freshen up and come over?”
He raised his brows. “All right, cool. Sounds good.”
She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, resisting the urge to wrap her arms and legs around him and pull him back to bed. Being wrapped up in sheets that smelled like their lovemaking was tantalizing.
While he brushed his teeth and combed his hair, she rounded up the cat. About five minutes later, he was ready. On the way out his door, he spanked her ass, and she yelped.
“Careful.” She winked at him. “You’re going to make me horny again.”
“Already there, sweetheart,” he said. Sure enough, there was another bulge around his crotch.
Shaking her head and smiling like a fiend, she opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
Someone rushed past her, nearly knocking her into Scott, who was trying to lock the door. Braveheart gave a screech as she nearly dropped the kennel. “Hey!” she snapped, catching the kennel before it could fall to the floor. “Be careful…”
Her voice died as she took in the back of the tall man. He had on jeans, expensive sneakers, and a black hoodie with a Gothic cross emblem emblazoned in the middle across the back. He raced down the stairs, keeping his head down. The hood was drawn up, concealing his face.
She froze; the hand that gripped the carrier handle had turned white at the knuckles.
“Jerk,” Scott grumbled, watching the guy with a frown. He looked at Amy, and his brows stooped in concern. “Hey, Amy, you okay? Did he scare you?”
She barely heard him. Yesterday, a man had watched her from across the street. Or she thought there had been. It had only been for a few seconds, and it had been getting dark. Maybe she didn’t know what she was seeing. He’d literally vanished when the bus pulled away, meaning he very well might not have even been there at all.
Her mother had always said she had an active imagination. Sometimes, she was so wrapped up in her own little world that she had a hard time distinguishing between reality and dreaming.
Besides, it would be stupid for Nathan to be here. It had taken nothing short of a miracle to get him out of prison—or a quietly bribed judge. Coming from wealth has its perks, she thought bitterly.
A door slammed across the hall, and she jumped.
It was the cantankerous granny who’d yelled at them after they’d stumbled in from their date.
The old woman’s beady eyes looked between them before she sneered at Amy. “Have a fun time last night, little whore?”
Feeling cheeky, Amy grinned. “Yes, ma’am. I sure did! There’s nothing like hot sex to take your mind off your problems.”
The woman’s jaw practically fell off. Amy bit back a giggle as she turned around, grabbed Scott’s hand, and let them into her apartment.
It didn’t feel nearly so scary coming back inside as it had when she’d left last night, but she’d be in denial if she didn’t know it was because of Scott.
He gave the place a quick sweep, as if expecting someone to jump out from a corner at any second.
She let the cat out and wrung her hands, suddenly nervous. “Um, make yourself at home. I’ll, er, get you something to drink.”
She scampered off to the kitchen while Scott sat down on her sofa. Braveheart had scurried off to the pantry, most likely eating right now. The little fella sure loved food.
About halfway to the kitchen, Amy paused, smacking her forehead with her palm while making a face. She turned around. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask what you wanted to drink.”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.” He gave a casual wave of his hand and a smile that had her feeling slick again. She had a feeling if he was within five feet, she’d be doing a whole lot of underwear changing. Fine by her; any excuse to shop for more cute undies was a good one.
Fixing them two iced waters, she handed Scott his, nearly dropping it in the process. She’d been a little clumsy while trying to pour it, getting water on the sides of the glass.
“Whoa.” Scott caught his glass just in time. “You feeling all right? You’re not feeling shaky, are you? I have an aunt who’s hypoglycemic.”
“No, no,” she said quickly, blushing. “It’s just, this is the first time I’ve had a boy over.”
A boy. Oh Jesus. What are you, twelve?
“I mean,” she blubbered, “it’s the first time since Michael that I’ve had a man over. Here, that is. In my home. Where I live. Well, not here, obviously, since I just moved here.” Shut your mouth. Now.
Her lips pressed together, she looked away. Thick silence followed her word vomit. Scott stared at her, glass poised mid-sip and one eyebrow raised.
She let out a huge breath and smiled too wide, giggling. “I’m, uh, going to go do that cooking now.”
Before I make any more of a fool of myself.
The oven had never become so interesting. With her back turned to Scott so he couldn’t see how red she was, she furiously beat the eggs and scrambled them, pressed fresh juice from oranges, and miraculously managed not to burn the toast.
Scott entertained himself by walking around the living room/art studio and checking out her paintings. “You’re really good,” he said as she set out their plates.
“Thanks,” she said, glad for the icebreaker. “Like I said—it’s my passion. And my living.”
“You just paint?”
She nodded, and they sat down beside each other at the bar to eat. “I do galleries and live classes from time to time, but most of my income is from the Web, selling prints, mugs, anything I can think of, really.”
“Wow. That’s awesome. I’d kill to have that kind of life.”
She smiled softly. “I hear that a lot.”
They ate in silence for a beat. “So who’s Michael?”
Amy nearly choked on her egg. Coughing roughly, she forced down a big gulp of juice. “Wow, blindsided.”
“Sorry.” Scott blushed. “I couldn’t help it. I figured it was someone you used to date, and that made me curious. Sometimes I talk before I think, as you’ve noticed.”
“Join the club,” she muttered, dabbing her mouth to get rid of the juice that had dribbled down her chin. She tucked her hands on her lap and stared quietly at her plate. “Michael was my fiancé.”
Scott froze. “Oh Jesus. I’m sorry I brought it up.”
“It’s fine,” she said automatically. She was so used to saying it by now that she almost believed it.
Scott studied her. She could see the curiosity in his eyes, which was why she wasn’t surprised by his next question. “What happened?”
She pressed her lips together. “He died.”
Scott’s face fell. “Oh my God, Amy. I’m so sorry.” He took her hand and squeezed.
She shrugged and tried to smile. Her mouth more or less twitched. “It was a long time ago.”
“What happened, if I may ask?”
Her throat locked up, and her heart began to beat faster as she was pulled into a memory.
She stood at the bathroom doorway, staring. The entire bathroom was white, which made the red pool of blood Michael lay in all the brighter.
She jumped, abruptly pulled back to the present as he squeezed her hand again. “It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me.”
Amy smiled sadly at him, grateful for the understanding. “Maybe someday.”
Scott changed the topic to other things, mostly getting her to talk about her art. It put the shine right back in her and made her heart ache. Michael had been the only other man to understand her passion. Probably because he had been so passionate about music.
Had been.
It had taken awhile to get used to referring to him in past tense. Because that’s where he would always remain—in the past. A memory, one she was scared she was going to forget altogether someday.
They cleaned up, her washing dishes while he dried and put things up. He said he’d get her dishwashing machine fixed right away. In an attempt at playing the part of the polite hostess, she asked whether he wanted to see the rest of the place. It didn’t dawn on her that the message was still on her bed until they walked in her bedroom.
Scott froze in the doorway, staring. Amy sucked in a quick breath and immediately picked up underwear as quickly as she could.
Silently, Scott helped her, not saying a word the entire time. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and his shoulders looked stiff. “I’ll be right back,” he said, an edge to his voice.
After he’d stepped out of the room, she straightened up a bit and joined him in the living room a minute later.
“No, two thirty is fine. There was a recent breakin, and I need to get the locks changed as soon as possible for my tenant’s peace of mind.” After saying “thank you,” he snapped the phone shut.
Amy leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms, smiling slightly. “You mean, for your peace of mind?” Though it was true, changing the locks would make her feel a heck of a lot better.
He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose, but he still didn’t look very calm. “I just can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”
