by Jaci Burton
“No, silly.” The woman’s two white eyebrows tugged together. “He’s down in L.A., of course.”
“Oh.” Maybe he had business there. But why hadn’t he told her? Because in her e-mails, she’d been adamant about not seeing him.
The woman gave her an assessing look. “I’m Dirk’s mom, Betsy, by the way.” Then she beamed, and Dirk’s adorable dimple appeared at the side of her mouth.
“He gets his blue eyes from you.” The same startling blue.
“His daddy had blue eyes, too.” She’d dropped Margo’s hand, but now picked it up again. “I was watering Dirk’s plants, and his TV is better than mine, so I decided to watch the show here.” She surveyed Margo, her eyes twinkling. “You don’t have to go right away just because Dirk’s not here, do you?”
Margo had forgotten her sexy easy-access skirt and tight Lycra top with a strip of her skin showing down the back. Lord. What would Betsy think? Certainly not that Margo was here for a cup of sugar. Giving an excuse, though, would only make the situation worse. “I’d love to watch the show.” Whatever it was.
The living room was toasty warm, a fire crackling, the TV on mute as commercials played. A wine bottle, crackers, cream cheese, and a bowl of salsa littered the coffee table.
Betsy followed her gaze. “I know, bad for the old arteries, but it’s a special night, and I always treat myself.” She picked up the wine. “Dirk said you brought this. I love it. I’ve never had Gewürztraminer before.” She leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “Dirk told me how to pronounce it.”
Odd how good it made her feel that Dirk gave it to his mom.
“Don’t stand there,” Betsy said. “Kick off your shoes and put your feet up on the couch. I’ll get another glass.”
Margo didn’t have a chance to tell the woman she didn’t want anything. She had to keep her head about her. What if she let something slip? For instance: I met your son through a personal ad, and I did a zillion naughty things for him a week ago, and the fact that you answered the door instead of him is killing me.
The commercials ended, and the show began. Some wrestling thing. Obviously not Betsy’s program yet. A log sparked and cracked in the fireplace. Margo’s gaze rose to the mantel and the row of pictures. She hadn’t noticed them on Friday. Nerves, and the fact that she was thinking about taking Dirk in her mouth.
Her tummy flipped over. Good God. She was on the mantel. That’s how Betsy knew who she was. She stood before the fire and gazed at her photo. He hadn’t sent her this one. A pinup pose, before she’d taken her clothes off for him. She wore a secret smile, hinting at a woman with depths yet unfathomed. It was a picture to make a man want to fathom those depths.
He was so good. His pictures saw beyond the outer shell and seemed to reveal the inner thoughts and soul. The man was magnificent in so many ways.
“I’m proud of him, you know.” Betsy waved the glass in the air before she poured, then set it on the coffee table as Margo sat down. “He’s talented in so many ways.”
“I love the pictures he took of you.” The ones upstairs.
“Yes”—Betsy preened a moment—“the things he can do even for an old bag like me.”
“You’re not an old bag. You’re gorgeous.” Margo didn’t add the common “for your age” because, in truth, Betsy was beautiful for any age. She’d weathered her years terribly well.
She took the compliment. “Thank you, my dear. Now let’s not miss the show.”
Margo kicked off her shoes. She was here, Dirk’s mother was nice, and what the heck, she’d drink wine and enjoy the show.
Betsy punched the remote, and the sound blared to life. “It’s time.” She giggled.
Margo marveled. The little lady was a smackdown fan. There was the posturing, the jostling, the two contestants growling at each other like dogs at a fight, the referee trying to shove them apart, them shoving the referee back. All the while the crowd screamed, jeered, cheered, hurled insults, and generally went wild. It was a madhouse. Betsy sat with her legs tucked beneath her, a pillow clutched to her stomach as she nibbled on a cracker. The TV screen earned her rapt attention.
Ironman was fighting Maximum Bob. The names made her laugh, but not too hard so she didn’t offend Betsy.
“Oh my God, look out,” Betsy cried at the screen. “He’s going to do a clothesline!”
Maximum Bob threw himself against the ropes, bouncing out again, ready to smash Ironman to the mat. Obviously Ironman figured out the strategy because he spun, grabbed, and slammed Bob into the mat instead. They rolled and growled, and sweat dripped off their brows. Ironman was huge, two heads taller than the referee who’d just hauled him off Maximum Bob for some infraction. Not that the relatively tiny ref would have budged Ironman if the big guy hadn’t allowed it.
Wasn’t all this fake? Margo didn’t ask, once again for fear of offending Betsy, who was shouting instructions, name-calling, and all the rest of it, just like the audience.
“Get him with a high flyer, Ironman.” Then Betsy shouted a few mild epithets as Ironman ran, jumped up in the corner of the ropes, flipped, and threw himself down on the hapless Maximum Bob.
So, was Dirk down in L.A. on business? Or a photo excursion? Margo didn’t know a thing about him. She still didn’t want to know anything. She just wanted life-transforming sex with him.
Yet she was dying to know what his mother thought their relationship was.
“He won, he won.” Betsy bounced on the couch, giggled, cheered, spilled wine on the braided rug, which she promptly rubbed away with her foot so the stain wouldn’t set in. God, Margo’s mom would have had the spot remover out immediately. Though she’d never have bounced with glee in the first place. Betsy’s antics would have given her conniptions.
Thinking her own thoughts, Margo had missed the win, but she clapped anyway. “Well, that was just marvelous.”
“He’s going to be champion this year, I know it.”
“Ironman?”
Betsy huffed out a disgusted breath. “Well of course Ironman. Who else?”
On the TV, there was all the back-slapping, cheering, booing from the other side, the referee trying to hold Ironman’s beefy arm in the air. The big man’s skin glistened with sweat, his tight trunks outlined every muscle, and even his . . . though she knew he was wearing a protector, his package still had to be one impressive member. And he wasn’t bad looking—
Oh my God.
Her heart beat so furiously she was sure she was having an attack of angina. Get out the nitroglycerine. Did they even use that anymore? Who cared? Oh my God. Dirk “Ironman” Araman took center stage in all his glory.
“Isn’t he magnificent?”
“Definitely.” Questions bounced around her brain, knocking against her skull as if her head were hollow.
“You didn’t know, did you?”
She hadn’t realized Ironman’s mother was staring at her. “I haven’t known him for very long. I guess he didn’t get around to telling me yet.” Just as she hadn’t told him anything, he hadn’t revealed himself to her. But why hadn’t Lorie mentioned it? Hello, because she didn’t have a clue Margo would ever answer that ad.
“I’m going to have a talk with that boy,” his mother said, a diabolical scowl disfiguring her features.
“Please don’t.” God forbid. Dirk would already be having a fit at the fact that Margo had shown up at his house without an invitation and found his mom instead.
“I’ve taught him better than this. If he’s interested in a woman, he’s got to share himself.”
“It isn’t like that. We’re just friends. I’m a lot older than him, you know.” And God, she wished she hadn’t said that. But really, what would people say? It was even worse now that she knew he was a celebrity.
Betsy flapped a hand. “Pah. Age doesn’t mean a thing. Why, my lover Orson is ten years younger than me.” She winked. “I haven’t seen Dirk this animated about a woman . . .” She trailed off, tipping her head. “Well, n
ever. He dates, and he’s brought women home to meet me, but”—she curled her finger around her chin—“but he’s just more about you.”
Oh God. Margo did not want to have this discussion with Ironman’s mom. “Well, that’s really nice. I better be off now.” She rose. “It’s been so nice meeting you.”
“You don’t have to go yet. They’ll be doing an interview with Dirk in a minute.”
“No, really, I have to go. Thanks for the wine.”
She left, speeding out to her car in case Betsy decided to follow her with more tales of the enthusiastic things her son had said about a woman twelve years older than he was.
Betsy didn’t get it. The distance between fifty-two and sixty-two was a drop in the bucket. The contrast between thirty-three and forty-five was like the difference between a 7.0 earthquake and an 8.0. The damage was astronomically higher.
She’d come to his house tonight. If her outfit—as described in detail by his mother—meant anything, she hadn’t come merely to say thank you for the photos.
Hope made him slightly light-headed.
Mom had called him after tonight’s match-up with the tale, going on about what a lovely woman Margo was. It had been a long night, a party afterward, and it was midnight before he got back to the hotel and the computer. His gut rolled when there was no message from Margo. He’d expected something. Even if it was an accusation over why he hadn’t told her about Ironman.
Not that it freaking mattered. It was a good living, but it wasn’t a passion, just something he’d fallen into after being on the wrestling team in both high school and college.
He cracked his knuckles like Ironman would and settled his fingers on the keyboard. What to say . . . “My mom thinks you’re lovely. I think you’re lovely. I’m sorry I missed you tonight. I’ll be down here a couple more days, till the day before Christmas Eve.” He heaved a sigh, then typed. “I’d like to get together when I’m home.”
He stared at the message for a while, deciding what he didn’t like about it. Too much or too little? He wasn’t the type to angst about what to say, what to do, or worry whether he’d said the wrong thing. All his angst went to his art. He’d never been like this over a woman.
“Just send the damn e-mail,” he muttered. In the end, he deleted the parts about his mom and where he’d said Margo was lovely. It was too . . . ingratiating.
He was about to shut down when his e-mail beeped. She was up. Dare he hope she’d been waiting for his e-mail?
He could only smile when he read her message. “You looked very cute in those tight leggings.”
Cute. He laughed harder. The woman was fun. He wanted to be a part of her fun. Yet she was so damn hard to pin down.
“You didn’t say anything about going out with me when I get back.” He hit Send, questioning whether he was being too pushy.
His e-mail beeped again. He wanted to beat his head against the wall as he read her words. “Let’s talk about it when you’re home.”
Godammit.
She was a challenge. He would not give up. Not until the day she gave him an unequivocal no and stopped answering his e-mails.
Eight
After almost five days and so many of Dirk’s increasingly explicit e-mails and naughty photo attachments, she was mad for him. There was no question that she’d see him again the very day he arrived home. A date, Margo wasn’t so sure about, but she would seduce him. Just once. She even planned on wearing the same outfit, skimpy Lycra top and easy-access skirt.
If his mom answered, Margo would expire on the spot.
Afraid she’d lose her courage, once again she didn’t call ahead to make sure he was there and alone. This time no extra car occupied the driveway, the garage door was closed, the Christmas lights twinkled, and smoke puffed from the chimney. Lamps gleamed through the loft’s windows, but the ground floor lay in darkness. He’d said his flight got in midafternoon the day before Christmas Eve. With smoke, there had to be fire, in more ways than one.
She rang the bell but resisted putting her face to the glass to make out any movement inside. If he was in the loft, he had two flights of stairs to descend.
Why was she so jittery? It was worse than the night she’d shown up on a stranger’s front porch. Because she had intention this time? Or because the last time, she’d plucked up her courage for one thing only to be faced with something far scarier. His mom, for God’s sake.
When he opened the door, she realized it was none of those things at all. It was how much she craved his touch, a need that had grown exponentially since she’d last seen him.
“Hey.” He didn’t even turn on the hall light, just grabbed her hand, hauled her inside, slammed the front door, and shoved her up against it. “I’ve never kissed you, not a real kiss.”
He took her, with lips, tongue, mouth, his body pressing her to the door, his hands through her hair, holding her for his possession. Her purse fell from her fingers as she clung to him.
Deep, passionate kisses were for later. This was a heady sampling, but oh so good. She opened for him, licked his lips, stroked his tongue.
He punctuated each taste with words. “God, I needed this.” He traced the seam of her lips. “I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks.” He nipped, sucked, took his tongue deep, retreated. “You’ve unhinged me.” He grabbed her butt and dragged her up close and personal with the bulge in his pants. “You should have called. I’d have made it special.”
Pulling his head down, she shut him up with her kiss. He tasted of beer and man, smelled of pine and wood smoke. “This is special,” she whispered, then stroked her tongue inside his mouth, backed off to his lips, then his jaw. “I missed you.” She held his face in her palms, such a gorgeous rugged face.
“Fuck.” He put his head back a moment, revealing the long column of his neck.
On tiptoe, she licked straight up his Adam’s apple.
He swore again, then dropped his head to meet her gaze. “I don’t want to be an animal. But I’m fucking crazed wanting you.”
“Be an animal.” She lifted his big hands to her breasts. She’d never had a man crazed for her, wild to get inside her. She wanted to feel it, taste it, revel in his need.
“I’m afraid I might eat you right up.” Tugging her shirt down, he stuck his hands inside her bra. Her nipples peaked at the first graze of rough fingers across them. When he pinched, she closed her eyes, moaned, strained up against the door to give as much access as possible.
He bent to lick her nipple, blew on her, and the shock of air was as mind-altering as the pinch. Her knees felt weak. Leaving her breasts bared, he trailed down her sides to the skirt, yanking it up with his fingers.
“There’s a zipper.” She gasped as he rolled his hips against her. “Starts at the bottom.”
He squatted in front of her, big, solid, all male, grabbed the bottom of the skirt, and zipped all the way up to the elastic of her thong. Looking up, his eyes glittered in the darkened hall. “You’re a naughty woman wearing this to entice a man.”
“You’re a very naughty man for unzipping it.”
He covered her mound with his mouth and blew warm air. Margo groaned. He’d teased her with pictures and innuendoes for days. One more second, and she’d spontaneously combust.
“And these are very naughty panties.” He pulled the thong down with his index finger until it dropped to the floor, then delved with the tip of his tongue, barely stroking her clit.
She shuddered at the feel and the sight of this big, hot male down on his haunches before her. All hers to command.
“You like that,” he whispered. He did it again, licking a little longer this time. “You’re very, very wet. I can smell you, like honey.” He probed once more. “Taste like honey, too.”
Her legs began to tremble. He dipped his finger inside her, then stroked the digit across his lips, and stood.
“Taste it,” he said, wrapping his hand around her nape, bending close, his lips such a temptation.
/> She tasted herself, sweet as he said, mixed with his heat.
“Do me,” she whispered against his lips. No man had been inside her in over a year. “There’s a condom in my purse.”
“Came prepared, didn’t you.”
She leaned her head back against the door. “I haven’t thought about anything else.”
He grinned. “I’ve thought about all the different ways to have you.” Bending slowly, keeping his gaze on her as he went down, he grabbed her purse on the first try and rose all the way back up until the rapid pulse at his throat was at eye level.
“I hope you brought more than one.” He held the purse out.
Margo wiggled her fingers in the front pocket and came out with four. “Even you couldn’t use more than that in one night.”
He laughed. “You shouldn’t challenge a man like that.”
Oh yes, she should, because if he could use all four condoms in eight hours, she’d take him up on it. “It’s a bet then.”
“I’m pretty sure if one of us loses, then we both lose.”
She took the purse from his hands, tossed it to the side, and gave him all four condoms, three of which he shoved in his jeans pocket.
“Let’s make sure we both win,” she said. She palmed Dirk in her hand. “You are so big.”
He put an equally big hand over hers and rubbed himself, his head falling back as a low growl rose up from his throat.
“I unzipped you, you undo me,” he said, bringing his gaze back to hers. The Christmas tree lights winking in the living room were reflected in his eyes, catching them on fire.
She popped his button fly slowly, revealing miles of naked flesh, commando again. Leaning fully against the door, she slid her fingers inside, down to his balls, and held them in her hot hand. Squeezing gently, she then trailed the tip of her fingernail back up to his crown. Come beaded on the head.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“You fuck,” she murmured, then smeared the little pearl back and forth through the tiny slit of his cock.
