Unlaced

by Jaci Burton

  That detour had kept her in the area an extra day, so when she’d passed the motorcycle dealership and saw that they did day rentals for enjoying the Berkshire scenery, she’d thought, why the hell not? She’d chosen the Night Rod and headed out with a map.

  Finding this glade had been an extraordinary accident. Pulled over to take a break, she’d seen a pair of deer slipping into the forest. She’d brought a camera, wanting to take some pictures for the kids, so when she’d followed their path, heard the inviting rush of water, she found a stream with a small waterfall, a spot too far off the beaten path for anyone to find. Perfect. Even though she was far from home, the idea of being far from anyone, out of the eye of the world completely, was exactly what she needed.

  It seemed sometimes that all she dealt with were children. She much preferred her siblings to those well into supposed adulthood. Was every man in the world looking for Mommy? Did any of them know how to use their brains and take charge, hold the reins comfortably? She’d met precious few like that.

  As she’d sat in the grass, leaning against the comforting bulk of the bike, she’d closed her eyes, imagined that hard bulk as such a man. Lying back between his legs, the two of them enjoying the quiet beauty of the setting. His hands would slide up to cup her breasts, tease the nipples with relentless skill as he pushed her hair aside to kiss her throat, holding her fast as her legs moved restlessly in the grass, needing his touch between them, something he held just out of reach to drive her need higher.

  In a house of five kids, with her responsibilities as their guardian, there was little privacy, even to do this. Often she felt like a bottle of soda, shaken to the point of near explosion. Jesus, she’d even resorted to adolescent metaphors for her sexual frustration.

  She wanted to stretch her body out on the seat of the muscle bike, strip down to nothing but panties and corset, and make herself come, imagining herself as the pinup of some virile god’s fantasy, watched by him through the trees. She’d know he was there, so her movements would be provocative, blatantly carnal, until he couldn’t resist any longer and came to her. He’d turn her over the back of the bike, bind her wrists to the pedals, spread her legs wide over the rear tire, the sun’s heat on the chrome burning her flesh, and oh, God, she’d be dripping for his cock. But instead he’d kneel first, go to work on her with his mouth, until she was screaming, begging . . .

  She’d put on her ear phones so she wouldn’t worry about every rustle of woodland creature, the snapping of twigs. No one was out here, and she didn’t want to care anyway. Truth to tell, it wasn’t a bad fantasy, imagining someone stumbling upon her. Someone whose name she didn’t need to know, who wouldn’t let her negotiate or get away with anything. Who would see through every ploy and sweep her choices away.

  “Please, let me . . .” She knew she’d spoken it aloud, a whisper, though she couldn’t hear it over the hard bass line. When her eyes opened on a brief flicker to let in sunlight, they stayed open. Widened.

  Apparently, some perverse nature god had answered her silent plea.

  He was outlined by the midafternoon sun, but the shadowing only enhanced everything she wanted to see. Tall, which she liked, because she was five-eight. Golden blond hair pushed back, highlighted with darkened streaks from sweat. He was shirtless, the muscles glistening as if oiled. She’d seen bodies with swollen and bunched muscle, but he was as compact as a spring. Flat pectorals, one or two faint veins following the curves of his biceps. The small silver medallion he wore, perhaps a religious symbol, fell in the ridged vee that divided the pecs and coaxed the press of her thumbs. There was nothing wasted on him. While the arms were muscular, she could see the architecture of his collarbone and rib cage, the frame it provided for the tight stomach that wasn’t a six-pack, just a slab of smooth muscle, with an indentation of navel that looked as firm. Tanned, he wore nothing but a pair of tight bike shorts and biking cleats, showing off a pair of calves and thighs also roped with taut muscle.

  He was a young god by anyone’s standards, but the shorts and shoes said he was definitely of her species. A man who’d interrupted something embarrassingly personal.

  She wasn’t the type to jump up shrieking over it. Kind of beside the point now, anyway. She was the type to tell someone to fuck off and let her get on with it, and watch him run in terror. But unlike some of the infantile examples of manhood she’d been dealing with the past couple days, he didn’t strike her as the bolting kind. It interested her, made her blood ratchet up a few degrees, her body obviously enjoying the view as she weighed what to do next. Or maybe she’d just see what he did next.

  While she waited, her gaze lifted to his mouth. The lean, athletic face which matched the body confirmed he didn’t play—he competed. He had the long, sloping jawline she imagined an Egyptian prince might have. Lips with a touch of sensual fullness to them, and a short hairstyle, just the points of the strands scattered over his high forehead. A tapering to short sideburns. He had a hairstylist who knew his or her business, which said money, but the body was a hundred percent from the sweat of his brow. She liked the way the silver medallion lay on his bare skin. She wanted to taste the metal chain and the sweat of it beneath, the salt of him.

  As he noted her regard, he casually dropped to a squat, his forearms propped on his spread thighs, fingers grazing the earth. Maybe because he could see her earplugs, he didn’t speak, but it intensified the moment, encouraging her to continue.

  She had a Beretta in the backpack and knew how to use it. She’d also had self-defense courses, enough to know isolating herself was stupid, since the first line of self-defense for a smart woman was not to put herself in dangerous situations. But she doubted many psycho serial rapists went out on their bicycles in the rural Berkshires, seeking chance encounters with lone women.

  His attention was on her lips now, her throat, sweeping down over the corset, a question in his eyes, for of course it wasn’t most women’s choice of practical underwear. But then he moved his gaze back to her hand. Though she’d frozen at his appearance, she still held two fingers inside the panties, lying on her quivering clit, the other two fingers on the outside, her thumb in the crease of her thigh.

  Keep going. He mouthed it, she was sure. From the look in his steady gray eyes, it wasn’t a request.

  She stared at him. Breathe slow. Even. Hold it steady. The corset required that. Even an orgasm could get too out of hand, and she had a feeling it was about to, for as his lips formed the words, her clit shuddered under the bare friction of her still fingers.

  He was waiting to see if she was the type of person who would continue. She had no idea what that would make her in his eyes, but why should she care? He wanted her to continue, and hell yes, she wanted to continue. She was far from home here.

  When she began to move her fingers, his gaze immediately returned there. Holy God, who knew that actually being watched was ten times more stimulating than fantasizing about it? And it had been a pretty good fantasy at that. Still, she closed her eyes. Reaching over her head, she found the crisscross of black bungee cords holding her pack. When she slid her free hand under them, the cords cut against her skin, goading her imaginings about her god binding her as he spread her this way, while his mouth . . .

  She sought restraint for her pleasure. That alone spiked Lucas’s response. With his casual bed partners being primarily businesswomen who felt they had to hold the upper hand, it wasn’t easy to find one who naturally desired the more dominant forms of sex he preferred. He wondered if that was the reason she wore a corset under her clothes.

  God in Heaven, what was a woman like this doing in a secluded glade, having to pleasure herself? The way she’d looked at him, that half challenge, daring him to run or stay, laced with a sensual desperation that said Don’t ruin this, had added to the intrigue.

  Now he rose, moved to her. As he laid a hand on her raised calf, her gaze sprang open. He stayed that way, not retreating, giving her time. As he smelled her arousal, his nos
trils flared, for her gaze registered it, her breath quickening. When she made a visible effort to modulate it, he noted she seemed to be using the corset to control the level of her own arousal. Interesting.

  He leaned forward, just enough to have her blue eyes widen a fraction. Pausing, he listened to the faint sound of what was coming through her player. “Hot Blooded,” by Foreigner. It told him what pace she’d been setting for herself. But if he was the stimulus, rather than Foreigner’s bass line, he thought something else might work better.

  Since the player was tucked into the open flap of a saddlebag, he drew it out by the cord so she wouldn’t think he was rummaging through her things, then scrolled through the menu.

  She had eclectic music taste. Ballads, rock, jazz of the smooth variety. But she also had some things that were off the beaten path. Edgy music that could take the mind to a new place, where the unimaginable might become acceptable. He hit the song he wanted.

  “Destiny,” by Zero 7. Had he played the song because of the title? No, this guy wasn’t that cheesy. He’d known the song, knew it had a dark urgency to it. The haunting opening strains talked about a woman alone in her hotel room, watching pay channel porn and dreaming of her lover. There was a loneliness to it. It was about desire, not thought. The need for someone to understand her, down to the dark, below-the-soul levels.

  So he knew the song. But how did he know it would be the right song for this moment, for her?

  He was still leaning over her, his gray eyes studying her with an intensity that suggested . . . not invasion, but as if he was figuring her out. When his gaze finally dropped to her mouth, she had to swallow. As his attention continued to descend, he might as well have put his hands on her, because she felt the weight of his touch in his gaze. He smelled of sweat. Basic earth, male strength.

  Men fell short in many ways, but they could sometimes be relied upon for this. He’d just happened on the rare moment when his abilities and her needs were in perfect accord. Lucky him. Lucky her. In this clearing, where he didn’t know her name, she’d take it, because he’d done all the right things, made all the right moves, the stages of the dance all male animals had to know to win the willingness of a female. Circling, nonthreatening approach, respectful, but knowing when to switch gears and make the request a demand, bring the force of passion to the mix. It was amazing that humans, supposedly the most intelligent of all species, often fumbled the steps even a field mouse could handle.

  As his gaze rose, pinned her again, she gave a bare movement of her head. A nod. Yes. God, yes. But she wouldn’t help him. She was tired of orchestrating the whole damn world so it would work the way it should. She wanted to see if someone else could do it.

  Usually, she felt compelled to direct. Touch me here, squeeze that. Kiss me more. But when sex was like choreographing a major Broadway production, it was too exhausting to be worth the bother, really.

  Putting his hands on her waist, he spanned it, his hands over the tight lacing. Then he moved upward, slow, not as if he was doing it to please her, but as if he was learning her for himself, which pleased her more.

  Slow, slow, he held her firmly as his strong fingers moved up over her rib cage. This was a man who not only knew how to touch women, but that each one needed to be handled uniquely, an important component of the foreplay.

  As he reached her breasts, he stopped, his forefinger and thumb fitting beneath each.

  She wanted to draw a deeper breath, but couldn’t. She had to keep herself calm. Even. She could do that. If she could do it right now, she could do it anytime. She wouldn’t touch him. That would help. But Jesus, the body this man had. She wanted to trail her fingers down his sides, feel the prominent ribs that racked into the muscular abdomen, play at the snug band of the cycling shorts which showed the sleek curve of a sizable erection. Hadn’t she heard somewhere they didn’t wear any underwear under those? When she made herself look up, she couldn’t prevent a groan as he cupped her breasts, squeezing just enough so they swelled farther out the top of the corset. Not gentle. He didn’t hurt her, but he conveyed his desire. The dangerous spark in his gaze at her groan told her he could get a lot rougher, if that was the direction the tone went. He didn’t mind getting down and dirty as needed to make it blow-your-mind sex.

  If she could get all that from one look, she was still fantasizing. But that was okay. For once, she wasn’t going to scale back her expectations just because they appeared unrealistic. If he did everything perfectly, she’d know she was dreaming, no harm done. Even if he did a couple things wrong, she still wouldn’t be tossing him out anytime soon.

  Then his hand went to the first hook of the corset.

  Freeze fantasy.

  Automatically, Cass caught his wrist with her free hand, an unspoken direction. That needs to stay on.

  The god toyed with it, his fingers shifting beneath her grip. She suspected he could make short, deft work of the undergarment. It was an effort to hold on to her resolve, because she wanted those long fingers, wanted to explore the shape of his knuckles, the lines between them, the broad shape of the palm. One more moment, and she knew she’d give in.

  Then he gave her an inclination of his head, a twist of the sensuous lips. Not capitulation. He was just letting her have her way. For now. It stoked the need in her, and pulling her hand away from his flesh didn’t ease it.

  Now one large hand slid back down to her waist. The other closed around her wrist and withdrew the hand she had in her panties. The motion dragged her fingers over her clit, and that, combined with his intent, was like electrical current. Bringing her damp fingers to his mouth, he took them between his lips, sucked them in deep.

  A man who took the reins from a woman in a sexual situation so effectively that it left no doubt who was in charge. That was what she’d wanted, right?

  “Ah . . .” Her body undulated on the seat, a sinuous emulation of what it wanted, before she could stop it. Those full lips were firm and soft at once, his mouth hot, teeth nipping, laving at fingers covered with her scent. As he drew them out, he lowered her wet hand, as if he was going to place it on his chest.

  Too much temptation, the idea of trailing damp fingers over his muscled flesh, marking him. She closed her fingers into a ball, drew it back to herself.

  Again he allowed it, watching her closely all the while. The music had changed once again. Back to Foreigner’s “Hot Blooded.” It sparked a fire in her, such that she raised a leg, intending to place the sole on his tempting chest and shove him back, force him just to watch her. Instead, in a smooth motion, he closed his hand on her ankle, pushed it up to his shoulder, and then dropped to one knee.

  As he hooked her leg in a firm grip she couldn’t shake, panic came and went, gone fast, because he put his mouth on her, over the silky fabric of the panties.

  “Oh . . .” The music boiled through her, warring with any protests, egging him on. The bass line was her heartbeat, pounding hard against her chest, the guitar riffs her gasping breath, too much, overwhelming.

  If he’d stumbled around like most guys did down there, she might have freaked out and shaken him, but she was too aroused, and his mouth knew what to do even better than her way-too-familiar fingers. A scrape of the clit with his teeth, long, dragging licks of his tongue up the filmy fabric, the friction of it galvanizing her hips to his mouth, wanting to feel the press of his nose, the rasp of his cheeks on her thighs. Tomorrow, she wanted to see the marks, wanted it to chafe when she walked. Evidence that she’d had this over-the-top moment with a stranger.

  She twisted, he held her still. She bucked, he moved with her. His mouth was relentless, taking her over from the second it was on her. Foreigner was as merciless as he was, moving from “Hot Blooded” to “Urgent.” No fucking kidding. She wanted that climax so badly, but she wanted more, too, an uneasy, yearning feeling she couldn’t stifle. Her vision was graying. Oh, damn it all, she couldn’t breathe.

  He knew that, too. Already rising, moving up her
body, hands reaching for the corset.

  “No. Don’t take it off,” she gasped. “Don’t.”

  He muttered an oath she could hear even over the music, with his mouth so close to her ear, but he slid his hands under her arms and lifted her so she was leaning into his body, her cheek on the slick chest muscle. His fingers went to the adjustable laces at the back. Yeah, right. Most guys took five minutes fooling with a bra strap. She was an idiot. She’d probably asphyxiate before . . .

  The garment loosened, more than she wanted to admit was needed, but she could breathe. Of course, she was inhaling him at the same time as the oxygen. Sun-warmed flesh, dense muscle. Feeling the touch of his hands on her and oh holy hell, what was he doing now?

  Sweeping aside her hair, he laid his lips on the bump of vertebrae, just at her nape, still holding her close against his upper body.

  The climax swept over her so fast, there was no anticipating it. It ricocheted up from where the ribbed seat pressed against her pussy—still spasming from the memory of his mouth—to her neck, where his lips rested now. He kept a tight grip on her hair, holding her head still beneath that erotic kiss. As she rocked herself against the seat helplessly, he grasped one of her buttocks, squeezing hard to add male demand to her jerking rhythm, working her against the friction of the seat until she was making frenzied cries, pushing against the solid wall of him. God, she wanted him between her legs, instead of a beast of metal. Hammering into her, holding her down . . .