Too Close for Comfort

by Heidi Rice

  He had to keep himself from pushing too hard or asking too much. He wanted this to be good, to be fun, to be light and easy, casual, just like he’d promised, but he had a feeling that after the way he’d gotten himself going last night—and this morning—props might be a good way to remind himself of that.

  He let the dog in the back door, and Cookie gave them a bark of greeting before settling into her basket.

  ‘What’s the syrup for?’ Iona asked breathlessly as they mounted the stairs.

  ‘Wait and see,’ he said, anticipation making his hands tremble as they walked into his bedroom.

  He kicked the door shut, flicked the lock, just in case C.D. didn’t have her customary two-hour nap. As much as he loved his dog, he didn’t want company.

  He placed the syrup bottle onto the bedside table, the sharp crack reverberating round the room. Then went to the glass wall that looked out onto the beach, and dropped the shade.

  He squeezed his fingers into fists, dismayed to feel the clammy sweat on his palms.

  Get a grip, Montoya. You’re acting like a nervous virgin, instead of a guy who popped his cherry a lifetime ago.

  The wayward thought had the rushed, fumbled encounter and the crushing distaste on Mary-Lou Seagrove’s face coming back.

  ‘You’re so handsome, but I guess you’re more Mexican than I thought, because you screw like Speedy Gonzalez.’

  He cut off the memory of the casual racism that had sliced him to the core, forced his fingers to release. That first sexual encounter might have been a total disaster, but he’d learned a lot since then—the first being, never pick your sexual partners according to their cheerleading abilities.

  Iona stood in The middle of the room, her staggered breathing tightening the fabric on her dress as her breasts rose and fell in quick succession. The slatted blinds cast shadows on her face, but he could still read her mood with remarkable ease, her expression a gratifying mix of nervous and excited.

  Forget Mary-Lou. You’re not that overeager kid any more.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, spread his knees and held Iona’s waist. She stepped between his thighs and rested her hands on his shoulders. His pulse leapt as she took the initiative and bent to capture his mouth.

  Her kiss tasted sweet and exotic, sugar and spice. He ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth, delved within, lifted the hem of her dress and cupped the firm cheeks of her bottom. Tracing the edge of lace, he slipped his fingers beneath the satin.

  She shuddered and rocked against him as he found the slick moist heat, more potent than any aphrodisiac.

  ‘You want to get naked?’ he asked, determined to let her set the pace, but not sure he could wait much longer, the hard arousal pulsing painfully back to life in his shorts.

  She let out a throaty laugh. ‘That would be nice.’

  Nice.

  The husky burr of her accent made the word sound rich and full this time, instead of insipid and vaguely patronising.

  ‘Great,’ he rasped. Finding the zip of her dress, he dragged it down.

  She lowered her arms, and stood back to do a wiggle. The simple cotton dress flowed over her curves and drifted down to pool at her feet. The movement was quick, efficient and unbearably arousing.

  She straightened, held her shoulders back, bold and determined. The bra was simply made but impossibly erotic in the shifting shadows drawn by the blinds, the dark outline of her nipples clearly visible through the delicate pink lace. He grasped her narrow waist, dragged her back, then, finding the fastening on her bra, he tried to unhook it, but she braced her hands on his shoulders to stop him.

  ‘You’ll not have me naked and you fully clothed,’ she announced, the brogue much thicker than usual—and a little indignant.

  ‘Point taken,’ he said. Standing quickly, he gripped the hem of his sweatshirt, and tugged it off, flung it aside. But when he went to undo his fly, she placed a hand over his.

  ‘Can I do it? Do you mind?’

  Did he mind?

  He barked out a tense laugh. ‘Be my guest.’

  Her fingers found the tab and eased it down. He heard her gasp as the straining erection sprang free.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she whispered.

  He choked out another laugh, stripping off the shorts and his jockeys. The colour tinted her cheekbones, but she didn’t hesitate as she reached out to hold him.

  Oh, hell.

  His flesh leapt as her fingers curled around him. He sucked in a sharp breath, calling on every reserve he had to stay still, stay focused and submit to the soft touch, the gentle exploration.

  ‘Who says big isn’t beautiful?’ she said with a joyful laugh, and he thought he might actually die as the last drop of his blood pounded out of his head.

  Don’t lose it, Montoya, not now, or you’ll screw everything up.

  He took her shoulders in firm hands, knowing there was a limit to how much of this he could take and he was fast approaching it. He had to take charge, take control. He couldn’t let her see how much she affected him.

  Her hand dropped away, and her eyes lifted to his face.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ she asked, the hint of concern as sweet as the rest of her.

  ‘My turn,’ he managed, the words coming out on a croak, his mouth as dry as the Sahara after a fifty-year drought.

  He used his hands, to turn her round. Unhooking her bra, he cupped her breasts from behind. The nipples poked into his palms as he nestled the rigid weight of his arousal against her buttocks.

  She leaned back against him, arched into his palms as he traced the puckered skin, plucked at the hard tips. He splayed a palm across her stomach, ventured beneath the waistband of her panties. She bucked as he traced the plump lips of her sex, found the slick nub.

  Damn, how could he want her this much again? So much he felt clumsy and raw and as if he were touching her for the first time, the only time.

  Her hands reached back and gripped his thighs to steady herself, the soft moan almost more than he could bear as he circled and rubbed, beckoning the orgasm forth as he fought to keep the thin thread on his control from snapping. He buried his face in her hair, wrapped his arm round her waist to hold her still as he stroked relentlessly. Her body shook and then bowed back as her ragged sobs signalled her climax.

  The scent of seduction surrounded him as she sagged against him. He picked her up, placed her on the bed.

  She looked dazed, unfocused, her eyes round with wonder. ‘Thank you, you’re awfully good at that.’

  He basked in the surge of satisfaction—and thanked God that she hadn’t noticed his hands trembling.

  She glanced at the bedside table, sent him a cheeky smile. ‘Are we going to use the syrup now?’

  He stared at it blankly. Then reached for it blindly, trying to get his mind to engage. ‘Yeah.’

  Fun, superficial, relaxed. Keep it light, damn it. Keep it hot. Keep it non-committal.

  Twisting the top, he drizzled a drop onto the rigid peak of one breast, watched the areola tighten—then concentrated on adorning the other nipple. The hot blood pounding hard in his groin.

  She laughed, shifted, letting the sticky sweetness trickle into the valley between her breasts. ‘Watch out. We’ll get your sheets all sticky.’

  ‘Like I care.’ He forced his lips to lift, then capped the bottle, stuck it back on the table. Gripping her hips, he dragged her beneath him.

  He bent to lick off the amber sugar he’d been addicted to since childhood. But as his tongue swirled across the tight peak and she let out a soft sob of stunned pleasure all he could taste was the intoxicating essence of her.

  Iona lifted off the bed at the sweep of his tongue over sensitive flesh, her mind still fogged with afterglow. He feasted on her, licking and suckling, until her nipples throbbed, sharp jolts of sensation shooting down to her still-tender sex. She lifted her hips, felt the head of his erection brush her inner thigh.

  Holding his cheeks, she lifted his face. ‘Please,
Zane, I need you inside me.’

  Power shimmered through her veins along with the passion as his eyes darkened.

  Lifting up, he reached into a drawer on the bedside table, brought out a condom and sheathed himself.

  Holding her hips, he bent her knees, positioning her so she was open to him and then surged inside in one devastating thrust. The fullness shocked her, so much more than before. She held on to broad shoulders, her fingers slipping on sweat-slicked skin. But then he started to move and the pressure built and intensified, turning to blinding, burning, all-consuming pleasure.

  Her lids fluttered shut as the firestorm blazed through her, seizing her chest, rushing over her skin, making her breath hitch, her mind float, her centre throb.

  ‘Look at me, don’t close your eyes.’ The words were harsh, demanding, but just beneath was the hint of desperation.

  Her eyes flew open and she saw something wild and intense in the brilliant blue. He thrust harder, thrust deeper, stroking that secret place deep inside. Then reached down, expert fingers stroking her core.

  ‘Come for me again, damn it.’ The words ground out low and demanding as the wave of orgasm rushed towards her. Hard, fast and unstoppable.

  Sensation exploded as her body broke apart, the waves of pleasure battering her. She sobbed, the cry of shock and exultation drowned out by his shout of release as he collapsed on top of her.

  Iona drifted back to consciousness, his weight heavy on her, which had to explain the pressure on her chest. She could hear his tortured breathing and felt the hitch in her heartbeat.

  Don’t get carried away. Good sex. No, great sex. Is all about physical gratification. And nothing whatsoever to do with emotion.

  But even knowing that, she couldn’t resist the heavy beat of contentment as she stroked her hands over the long muscles of his back. Maybe this was only short-term, but however long it lasted, while it lasted, he would be all hers. The thought made her a little giddy.

  She trailed her fingers over the bumps of his spine, smiled at his soft grunt of acknowledgement. And felt a little smug at the knowledge that she had exhausted him.

  She stopped, her brows bunching, as her fingertips encountered two puckered scars high on his hip. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  He lifted up, rolled off her, dislodging her hands. Propping himself up on one elbow, he leaned over her. ‘That was really something,’ he murmured, dropping a proprietary kiss on her nose. ‘For an amateur, you’re awfully good at that,’ he said, echoing her earlier compliment.

  Her heartbeat kicked up a notch at the approval in his eyes and she forced herself not to care that he hadn’t answered her question. She could always ask him again.

  After all, they couldn’t spend all their time together making love. If what had just happened was anything to go by, they’d end up killing each other. Funny to think, though, that she was just as excited about the time they would spend together out of bed as well as in it.

  He placed one heavy palm on her midriff, traced the edge of her belly button with his fingertip. She felt the surprising jolt of arousal at her core, and wiggled out from under him. ‘Now don’t start that again,’ she said, bending over to scoop her dress off the floor.

  ‘Why not?’

  She sent him a wry look over her shoulder. ‘I need a quick shower, if that’s okay? And then I need breakfast.’ Her lips hitched. He looked so impossibly tempting with that puzzled frown etched on his brow. ‘A girl can’t live on great sex alone, you know.’

  ‘This is true.’ He got out of bed on the other side. She watched him locate his boxer shorts, admired the tight orbs of his backside flexing as he bent to pick them up.

  No wonder he was so comfortable naked. Why would anyone so staggeringly good-looking ever have a reason to be self-conscious? But somehow the thought of his looks didn’t feel intimidating any more. Maybe because of the memory of his face, harsh with desire and demand, as he’d climaxed.

  He pulled the boxers up his legs, and the strips of sunlight rippled over the scars she’d felt on his back. And suddenly she knew exactly what had caused them. ‘Who shot you?’

  He twisted round. Glanced back. ‘Huh?’

  She pointed to the circular, puckered scars. ‘There on your back—those are bullet wounds, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sounded nonchalant, but didn’t offer an explanation.

  ‘What happened?’ she pressed—the distressing thought of him being shot and in pain making the happy glow from their lovemaking dim considerably.

  He shrugged. ‘I messed up.’

  ‘How?’

  He glanced at her. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Yes, I really want to know,’ she pressed some more, ignoring the shuttered expression.

  He heaved a sigh, but to her surprise began to talk. ‘We were on a stake-out. A low-level meth head. But we had intell he was in contact with the area’s main dealer. When he turned up he had a girl with him. She was strung-out, looked no more than thirteen or fourteen and he…’ Zane paused, shrugged, the movement so stiff it made Iona’s breath get trapped in her throat. ‘I broke cover, against orders and got shot for my trouble, and we didn’t pick up the dealer.’

  ‘You protected her,’ she murmured, her chest tight.

  He looked up, his gaze blank with memory. ‘She was a kid. I couldn’t sit by and do nothing.’

  No, she thought, someone like him with such a strong streak of integrity wouldn’t. No wonder she felt so safe with him. ‘You did the right thing,’ she murmured, impossibly touched by another tiny insight into his past and what it revealed about him.

  He gave a harsh laugh. ‘My commander didn’t think so. He said the kid was collateral damage. I got suspended from duty and quit two months later.’

  ‘You still did the right thing.’ Did he doubt it?

  He hitched a shoulder, his gaze sharp and intent. ‘Maybe.’

  He strolled round to her side of the bed, took her hand and hauled her up. ‘Let’s go grab a shower.’ His hands strayed down to her naked behind, squeezed.

  She wriggled out of his arms, her emotions suddenly too full to risk that kind of intimacy. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, keeping her voice light and flirtatious. ‘If we shower together we’ll get distracted. And it’ll be midday before we have breakfast.’

  ‘I’ve never known a woman to eat like you do.’

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’ she said coquettishly, knowing from his admiring gaze that he didn’t.

  ‘Not at all. One of the things I love about you is your appetite,’ he said, but she wasn’t convinced he was still talking about food.

  He grinned as the blush fired up her neck, but didn’t offer any objections when she pulled her dress over her head. He might not be self-conscious about his nakedness, but suddenly she was.

  Getting off the bed, he sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll shower in the guest bath,’ he said. ‘You can take this one. Then I promise to feed you.’ He crossed his fingers over his chest. ‘But in return I’m gonna expect lots of really dirty sexual favours.’

  She scooped up the maple-syrup bottle on the nightstand, inspired by the mischievous look in his eyes and grateful that the rush of emotion had been replaced by the surge of lust. ‘Watch it, Montoya, I am now in charge of the syrup bottle.’

  He gave a low groan as she swirled her tongue around the neck of the bottle, then lapped at the drops of syrup that had dripped down from the lid. ‘And I’m more than prepared to use it,’ she finished before shooting off to the bathroom—with his pained shout of frustration echoing in her ears.

  She closed the door, her heartbeat thumping with exhilaration and something she refused to address.

  This affair wasn’t a big deal. But why shouldn’t she take pleasure in getting a peek behind that mask of devil-may-care charm he wore so easily—to discover the fascinating and complex man beneath? A man she would have the time to discover fully in the weeks ahead.

  And if s
he had to use really dirty sexual favours to do it?

  She laughed, the throaty chuckle filled with a sexual confidence she’d never felt before in her life.

  Well goodness, it was a tough job, but someone had to do it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘DON’T WORRY, GIRL, not long now.’ Iona smiled at C.D., who gave her tail a lazy flap on the deck, keeping up her patient vigil for Zane.

  Funny to think she and Zane had been having their casual sex-fling for nearly a month now. The time had passed in a blur of hard work, lazy dates and seriously hot sex—which had only got hotter when she’d moved into his place a week ago.

  She’d had her misgivings at first, more than a little concerned about taking him up on his offer of a place to stay when his friend had got a vacation renter for the cottage. She knew she needed to be careful about coming to depend on him too much. But she’d been spending so much time at his place anyway in the weeks before that, he’d managed to make her objections seem like a childish overreaction. They were both adults, both completely clear about what this was and what it wasn’t, and why should she go hunting up a new place when he was perfectly happy to have her stay here?

  In the end she’d agreed, putting her mind at rest about the intensity of their affair by promising herself as soon as she had the required funds, she would book her return flight to Scotland.

  She dabbed the ochre watercolour onto the pet portrait she’d been commissioned to do by one of Zane’s clients—and ignored the flicker of dismay because she hadn’t quite got round to booking the flight, yet.

  It was simply because she was having such a good time here. Carefree and fun—and she’d also found a surprisingly fulfilling and lucrative outlet for her art.

  Never having managed to find any seasonal work in Monterey, she’d been helped out of a financial hole when her neighbour in Pacific Grove, Mrs Mendoza, had asked her to paint a portrait of her Jack Russell, Zapata. Mr Spencer’s cat Figaro was her tenth commission, the new cottage industry providing her with another practical reason to stay at Zane’s. With all its natural light, his beach house was the perfect place to paint. She choked out a little laugh—and then of course there were the other, more exhilarating benefits of living here to consider.