by Sabrina York
He found my entrance. His lips firmed. His nostrils flared. The light in his eye darkened.
And he thrust.
Two fingers. Deep.
Unerringly he found that spot, that tiny spot where the nerves bunched and wept. He found it and stroked it, a delirious, confounding, ruinous barrage. He cocked up his thumb and set it against my clit and ground into me, fucking me with his fingers, driving me higher and higher. Tighter and tighter, until I thought for sure I would explode, implode, deconstruct.
As I neared my climax, his movements sped up. The splash of water over my chest was distracting, maddening. Cold then hot then cold again.
Just when I was about to crest, just when I was almost there, he eased out.
I wailed in denial, fisted my fingers in his hair, yanked my dissent. He chuckled. Dark and low. The sound danced over the water and into the night.
And then silence descended.
His fingers returned in a rush, three of them, stretching me, plugging me, commanding my release.
I came around him. Madly, wildly. Thrashing and mewling, clenching. He continued to work me, continued to drive me on to greater madness. I came again, a torrent of arousal, of release gushing through me.
He pushed me up against the cold tile and forced me to take more, to take it all. Until I had nothing more to give. Until he’d taken it all.
I was limp and lost. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me again, kissed me as I fought for breath, for sanity, for balance in a world suddenly turned on its ear.
Because Marlee’s pool boy was a fucking monster in bed.
And we hadn’t even made it to the bed.
I couldn’t get enough.
Chapter Three
“Are you okay?” he asked, buoying me up in his arms. I loved the peace, the sense of being weightless, the floating warmth. The lapping at my breasts. The water, yes, but Jimmy as well.
Mostly, I loved his touch. His hands gliding over my hips, stroking my scalp, soothing my body.
“Mmm.”
He kissed me softly. “Shall we go to the bedroom?” A whisper.
I bobbed down until I nudged something hard. Something insistent and thrusting.
Something that had not yet been sated.
A hunger, deep inside me, reignited.
Oh my. Yes. More.
“I would love to.” But I levered myself away. It was cute that he pouted. “You have…protection?”
He stilled. His every muscle clenched. “Damn straight, I do,” he growled, and then he yanked me back into his arms and lifted me in a swelling swoop. Water streamed from our bodies as he strode from the hot tub across the flagstones and into the house.
I laughed, because he was tracking water and he didn’t seem to care. Neither did I. But when we came to his bedroom, a large, sprawling manly den done in blacks and browns, he carried me straight through to the bathroom and toweled me dry.
This was no gentle, careful toweling. It was rushed, manic. As though he couldn’t move quickly enough. I couldn’t either. I snatched up another fluffy towel and began working on him. It was a delight, rubbing him all over, catching the droplets of water in his hair, scouring his chin and chest. I dropped to his feet and dried his legs, from the ankles up.
No surprise then, when I reached his hips, something bold, brash and insistent awaited me.
I peeped up at him. His features were taut. A muscle flexed in his cheek. His tongue peeped out as if goading me on.
Slowly, I rolled down his suit, revealing his cock.
And God, it was beautiful. Thick and long. A fat vein throbbed along its length. The head was swollen, a tantalizing mushroom, with one milky tear beading the slit at the top.
I could not resist. I could not. I eased forward and lapped. His essence exploded on my tongue. Salty. Musky, manly.
He seized. All of his muscles locked. An unintelligible profanity passed from his lips.
I wrapped my fist around him and angled his length toward my mouth. Drawing a deep breath, I took him in.
He threaded his fingers through my damp hair, guiding me, but not. When I sucked, they flexed. Trembled.
I loved that I had such power over him, this enormous, muscled man. One lazy lick and I could have him on his knees before me, begging for more. I took his balls in my hand and rolled them gently.
He whimpered.
When I took him deeper, all the way in, and drew a finger along the seam of his ass, he roared and grabbed my arms, hauling me up against him. “Enough,” he said into my mouth. “Enough. Get on the bed.”
I stared at him in shock. Not just because the issued order had been clipped and impatient. It was just very unlike what I had expected from a pool boy, from a man who was so lacking in ambition, he would be happy serving a woman like Marlee. In whatever way she desired.
But I couldn’t think of Marlee. Not right now, at any rate.
Because something in his tone lit a fire in me, a conflagration that would not be quenched. “Get on the bed.” Not a request. A command. A dark, dominant demand.
Naturally, I hopped onto the bed.
I tried not to quiver with anticipation.
This was what I needed. Not some subservient pool boy who would gladly do my bidding, but a man. A man used to command. A man who would take control.
“On your hands and knees,” he barked.
And while it was a bark, there was a thread in his tone, a hint of playfulness. We both knew this was a game.
I rearranged myself as he requested as he fished around in the drawer for a condom. I glanced at him over my shoulder; he ripped the package with his teeth, as if he couldn’t bear to wait. He met my gaze, held it as he rolled the latex on. And then he reached for me.
Wrapping his long fingers around my thighs, he yanked me toward the edge of the bed, spreading my legs and pulling me into the position he desired. He yanked my bikini bottom down to my knees.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, rubbing his cock up and down my slit. I could feel the slick cream of my arousal greasing the way. “Is it?”
When I didn’t answer quickly enough, he smacked my ass. A shock to the system, that, but it sent shards of arousal splintering through me. As easily as that, I was there again, close again. Ready to come as soon as he plunged in.
“Y-yes. Do it.”
But he didn’t. Instead he teased me, dragging the tip over my heated flesh, back and forth. Back and forth. He circled my clit, nudging it with his hard erection.
I threw back my hair as I arched into it. His fingers squeezed my ass, sinking into my hips. There would be marks tomorrow. I didn’t care.
“Now. Do it. Fuck me.”
He chuckled and slipped a finger into my entrance. Not what I wanted. Not nearly enough. I glared at him. He met my gaze and licked his lips. “Say please,” he said. “I want to hear you beg for it.”
Molten lava coursed through my veins. My pulse kicked up a notch and along with it, the thrumming in my clit.
How he’d made me so mad for him, so wild, so soon after coming magnificently in his arms, I had no clue.
And I didn’t care.
I wanted him in me with a hunger I’d never known before.
I wanted him in me, hard and deep.
“Please.”
Before the word left my lips—as if he’d been stretched just as torturously on the rack of need—he buried himself. With one long, hard, steady slide, he filled me.
My body shuddered as I accepted him. Nerves sang and rippled at his advance. As he invaded me, opened me, he hit that spot, the one so newly awakened and alive. And a flutter began in my womb.
So easily.
So simply.
I tried to hold it back. I didn’t want it to be over yet.
As I constricted against the coming onslaught, he hissed. “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus. So tight.”
He pulled out but sank back in, again delighting me with an intense, intimate caress. I bit my lip as s
howers of pleasure washed through me. I felt poised on the cliff’s edge, peering down at oblivion. And I wanted. I wanted to tumble.
“Hold on, baby. Here we go,” he said, but I barely heard him. I was wrapped in a welter of sensation, in the insanity rocketing through my body.
But God. Oh God.
He began a slow, steady rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. And then he sped up, faster and faster, harder and harder, deeper and deeper. Each thrust, each lunge pushing me closer and closer to the edge I dreaded and craved. My body clenched. I fought and fought to hold back, locking my legs and chewing on my knuckles, desperate to hang on. Desperate to endure this torment. Desperate to see it through ’til the bitter end.
I had the sense he was wound tight as well. We both were. His movements were jerky, flailing, frenzied as his body pounded mine. The sounds of our grunts and groans drifted through the room, twined with the slap of flesh against damp flesh.
He ratcheted up another notch, sluicing in and out of me, pummeling me with crazed, manic lunges. This direction and that, driving me higher and higher, driving me wild.
His cock swelled inside me. The taut knot in my belly expanded to an unbearable intensity. I gasped, wailed, pled.
“Come for me, baby,” he commanded, his voice choked. “Come for me.”
I fractured. Shattered. Broke.
My body blossomed around him. Bright lights danced before my eyes, bliss rained down. I dissolved into a series of quivers, all of which seemed to pass into him. He gasped, a sharp breath, and thrust hard one more time, sealing our bodies together for a long, blissful moment. I could feel him tremble and jerk inside me. Each motion, a trickle of fresh delight.
I collapsed onto my arms, with my ass in the air. He stroked me slowly, from my nape to the curve of my bottom. My skin, alive, awake, hungry, rippled to his touch.
He eased out and guided me all the way down to the bed. And then, after taking care of the condom, he joined me there, curling his arms around me. Together, we struggled for purchase.
Adrift in a sea of wafting delight, I was filled with one immutable resolution.
I was not even going to think about Marlee. Not once this whole week.
I couldn’t bear it.
It was late when we roused. Or so it seemed. The moon was high in the clear sky. Stars glittered through the darkness.
I drifted to the patio doors of his bedroom and opened them, gazing out into the night. He came up behind me. I felt his presence before he wrapped his arms around me and cupped my breast. Nibbled my neck.
Shivers of delight scudded through me.
What was it about this man? He’d taken me and taken me hard. He’d made me come at least twice and, if I’m being honest, more than that. Yet still I wanted him.
All he had to do was touch me and I ached for him to fill me again.
“Are you hungry?” His question rumbled through me, his voice low and languid.
I laughed. “You keep asking me that. I’m going to start thinking you’re trying to fatten me up.”
He chuckled against the skin of my nape. “You’re perfect just as you are.” His palm skimmed down, over my belly, over my hips, hungrily, as though he couldn’t get enough.
I turned in his arms and wrapped myself around him. It felt good, our bodies locked together like this. I loved the way the wiry hairs of his chest rasped at my concentration, making it hard to focus. “I could eat.”
“Mmm.” He kissed my forehead, my nose, my chin. “I could eat you.”
I chuckled, but the chuckle petered into a moan as he found a spot—a spot that made me weak at the knees—and worked it. “We…ah…probably should eat,” I said. If he kept this up much longer, I would toss him onto the bed and devour him. “We wouldn’t want anyone fainting from low blood sugar, now would we?”
The glint in his eye was intriguing. “First we eat. And then,” he said, smacking my ass. “Then we finish this conversation.”
“Deal.”
My suit was wet, so I pulled on a robe he tossed me while he tugged on a pair of shorts and then we made our way into the kitchen.
“What’s your pleasure, ma’am?” he asked, opening the fridge.
I wrinkled my nose. “Do you have any peanut butter?”
He shot me a horrified look. “Peanut butter?”
I sighed melodramatically. “I am, I have to admit, a bit lowbrow when it comes to vittles.”
“Vittles?” His laugh was a cross between a snort and a guffaw, and more on the snort side. He took me by the shoulders and gently but forcibly sat me on the stool by the island. “You,” he said, “stay here. I’ll cook.”
“Okay.” I grinned and nuzzled deeper into the terrycloth. It was warm and comfy, but not as warm as his smile.
He uncorked a bottle of Merlot and poured me a glass. It was delicious, tart and rich; it invaded my senses. Then he tugged on his apron and tied it in the back, the same one he’d worn this afternoon. It was well-loved and stained in places, but looked natural on him. “How about pan-seared scallops with truffle risotto? Maybe poached asparagus with hollandaise?”
“Do you know how to make that?” I had to ask. Because I sure as hell didn’t. I’d tried to make scallops once. Once. It had been a dismal escapade and resulted in me ordering out for Chinese. I didn’t think there was any place from which one could order out on this rock.
“Yes, I can make that.” He nodded and a lock of hair flopped onto his forehead, making him look young and playful, just as a pool boy should be.
“Marlee didn’t tell me you could cook.” I bit my lip, but too late. The words had slipped out.
He waggled a finger at me. “We’re not talking about Marlee. Remember?”
I nodded. Of course I remembered. It was my rule after all.
So I nursed my drink and watched him in silence as he pulled this and that out of the fridge, muttering to himself as he arranged everything on the counter, then went on a foray into the walk-in pantry just beyond the fridge. I leaned over to peek inside, gratified to see it was well stocked.
He reemerged with a small brown…well, it looked like a petrified poop. I made a face. “What the hell is that?”
Holding it in the palm of his hand, with the reverence one might bestow upon the Holy Grail itself, he sighed. “This, my dear philistine, is a truffle.”
I put out a lip. “I thought truffles were chocolates.”
“Different kind of truffle.”
He set the poop on the counter with the rest of the assemblage; I studied it askance. “It looks like a turd.” I couldn’t not say it. I couldn’t.
He barked a laugh. “It may look like a turd, but it tastes divine. Trust me.”
I watched as he set water on to boil and began cracking eggs and separating out the yolks. “So, where did you learn to cook, exactly?”
He skewered me with a dark glower, though there was no heat behind it. “Are you questioning my talents, young lady?”
God, he was gorgeous with that steamy look on his face.
“Maybe,” I sang.
“Maybe you need a spanking,” he growled. “Don’t tempt me.”
How wrong was it that I yearned to do just that? Tempt him? His hand coming down on my ass earlier had sent such a sizzle through me. It did still. My contemplation must have shown on my face because he laughed, a full-bodied roll. “Liked that, did you?”
I bit back a smile. “Maybe. A little.”
“Liar. I’m beginning to think Marlee’s friend might just like her sex a tad kinky.”
“Not poop kinky.” I waved at the truffle. “And we’re not talking about Marlee, remember?” But we were, weren’t we? A little. I resolved to push her out of the room. Out of the house. Down the cliff if necessary. “So how did you learn to cook?”
He paused in the process of chopping onions. A flicker of pain crossed his features. “When I was a kid my mom got sick.”
Regret swamped me. I wished I’d never asked. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “I had brothers and sisters. They needed to eat.” He shot me a teasing frown. “Peanut butter was not an option. Someone had to learn how to cook.” His shoulder lifted. “I discovered I liked it. And I’m good at it. And voila! Here I am.”
His self-effacing smile was telling. Yes. Here he was. A pool boy for a spoiled rock starlet, one she loaned out with impunity to her pathetic friends. For sex.
Something icky rose within me.
Unable to watch him cook anymore, unable to evict his ailing mother and hungry siblings from my thoughts, I spun on my perch and, taking my wine with me, meandered to the doors to stare out at the night.
The reflection of the moon shimmered on the water below. Lights of fishing vessels bobbed in the distance. It was tranquil, serene…
“Beautiful.” He spoke my thoughts.
I tipped up my glass and nodded. “It is.”
He picked up the bottle and made his way toward me. “I was talking about you,” he said, refilling my glass. And then he delved his fingers through my hair and cupped my face. And kissed me.
“Mmm. You taste good too.”
I laughed. “It’s your wine.”
“Also, I have excellent taste in wine.”
“You do.”
“Dinner’s almost ready. I just have to sear the scallops.”
I blinked. “That was…quick.” I’d been expecting to wait an hour or two for the meal he described. I followed him back to the island and retook my seat on the stool.
“I’ve a lot of practice.” He winked.
“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
“Five. Three brothers. Two sisters.”
“I’m an only,” I said, apropos of nothing. I hoped he didn’t catch that unfortunate hint of desolation in my words.
“No brothers or sisters?”
I sighed. “Not a one.” I fiddled with a napkin. “I always wanted them though.”
“Well, they’re a pain in the ass. But I love mine.” He chuckled. “The holidays are like a zoo. You should see how insane they are.”
Ah. I would love to.
My holidays were like a library, if we were comparing holidays to places to visit on a Saturday. Quiet and subdued. Just me and Mitten. But I loved to read, so I was cool with that. I supposed. It would be nice, though, just once, to have a zoo-like holiday. I cleared my throat. There was a lump or something there. “And, ah, do they live here? Your brothers and sisters?” All of them.
