When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  "You're spoiling her, you know."

  Tension sat behind her eyes. He took her hand, and led her to the couch. "Sit. Relax." He sat beside her, and she smelled a little like beer and grease and a lot like Frankie.

  "Lean back," he said. She raised her eyebrows, did as he asked. He massaged her temples, watching her eyes close and the furrows leave her brow.

  "You're spoiling me, too," she murmured.

  She tipped her head back, and he enjoyed the round swelling of her breasts above the low-cut top she wore. He resisted the urge to run his fingertip along their softness.

  "You deserve it. I don't see how you manage. One day with Molly, and I'm exhausted. I can't imagine doing this twenty-four seven."

  Her eyes snapped open, and she tried to squirm away.

  Alarm bells went off in his head. Stupid remark. "I didn't mean it like that, Frankie. Wait. Please. I meant I admire you, and all you've done to make Molly the terrific person she is. I'm not sure I could do it, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't want to." Shit, he was getting in deeper. "We had a good time, and I'd like to do it again."

  She settled down again, her eyes narrowed. "Go on."

  He reached for the glass of wine. "Will you have one?"

  With a long exhale, she nodded. "But only half a glass."

  He poured and handed it to her, glad when her fingers slid along his as she took it from him. "I think I got myself into fatal guy-territory, and that's the last thing I meant to do."

  "Fatal guy-territory?" She smiled now, and he leaned back onto the couch.

  "You know. How does a guy respond to, 'Honey, does this dress make me look fat?' There's no safe answer to that one. I'm afraid you'll think I'm doing what you said you hated—being nice to Molly to make time with you, but I'm not. I like her for herself."

  She gave him an evil grin. "Oh, so you don't like me? Don't want to—how did you put it? Make time with me?"

  Warmth spread through his face. "I'm in way over my head here, aren't I?"

  "A foot massage might extricate you from that pile of—stuff—you dug yourself into."

  She shifted into the corner of the couch and laid her feet on his lap. Through the black nylon, he saw toenails painted a delicate pink, and a silver ring on the second toe of her left foot. He tried—but not nearly hard enough—not to let his gaze wander up her slender legs to where that scrap of a skirt ended. He was having too much trouble shutting up the little voice that told him Frankie was forbidden territory.

  And then there was the other annoying part of his anatomy that had been reminding him of its presence all evening. He shifted her feet away from the evidence. When he pressed his thumbs into the balls of her feet, she moaned.

  "Too hard?" he asked.

  "Heaven." She took a sip of her wine and twisted around, trying to reach the end table behind her. Leaning forward, he took it from her before she spilled it. Her eyes glistened in the candlelight, and he hesitated, tempted to lean a little farther and nibble on her earlobe.

  "So," she said, breaking the spell. "What did you and Molly do all afternoon?"

  He set her glass on the coffee table and took a large swallow from his. So much for romantic seduction. He told himself that was a good thing. One annoying part of him wasn't buying it.

  "Play-Doh. Chutes and Ladders. We colored, and she made it clear that I didn't have to stay inside the lines and I could use any colors I wanted. That pictures were for imagining. We read." He stopped for a moment. "She really can read. I thought she'd memorized her books, but I brought her a new one, and—"

  "Wait a minute. You bought her a book? You bought my daughter a present?"

  He looked at her, trying to read her expression in the candlelight. Had he screwed up? Was she back to lumping him with the other men in her life? A kid briber? She must have seen his distress, because she burst into laughter.

  "I'm sure she loved it," she said. "She's been reading for at least a year. She picked it up on her own—with some help from Sesame Street, I'm sure, but she's almost always got a book with her. Probably because I was always reading—textbooks, mostly. She'd sit on my lap while I studied. Nothing like reading eighteenth century art history books to a baby—but you can make anything sound interesting with the right inflection, I guess."

  Relieved, he moved his hands toward her ankles. "I didn't buy the book, though. It was one of mine. When she started reading it, I figured she had a copy, but I didn't see one."

  "What was it?"

  "Hop on Pop. A family favorite."

  "No, we don't have that one." She giggled. "I can see you sitting on Angus' lap, reading together."

  "More like trying to pounce on him, but he was a good sport." He rubbed her calf now, digging his fingers into its firm muscles. When her eyes closed, he moved up a little higher, stroking, caressing. She had to know he wanted her. But she was an adult. All she had to do was say no.

  Part of him—admittedly, a very tiny part—wanted her to give him the red light that would bring him to his senses, send him on his way before he hurt her.

  Instead, her quiet moan of pleasure aroused him further, and he shifted so he was propped over her. One hand sought her breasts. His lips kissed the hollow of her collarbone.

  She tilted her head back, accepting his cautious advances, and he grew bolder, inching his kisses up her neck until he reached her lips. Soft and pliant, they welcomed him. No longer passive, Frankie returned his kisses, delving toward his soul with her tongue.

  Her breasts sat, round and full, atop whatever contraption she wore under her blouse. Ignoring it, he lifted them, releasing them from their prison. She gasped as he fingered her nipples into taut, rigid peaks.

  Her thigh pressed against his erection, and as she writhed, she drove him a little closer to madness.

  "I want you, Frankie." His voice was more growl than speech. "If you want me to stop, say so now, and I'll walk away. I'm not sure I can promise that for much longer."

  "Upstairs," she whispered. "I want to do this in a bed." She blew out the candles, then pressed her lips against his and her arms around his neck.

  He would have carried her, but visions of his knee giving out rallied at the front of his consciousness.

  Hands explored as they moved across the room. Hers, on his chest, then on his buttocks, drawing him against her. His, everywhere he could touch. By some miracle, they stayed on their feet. The kiss intensified as they navigated the stairs, then down the hallway to her room. Inside, he used his foot to shut the door. Still entwined, she reached behind him, and he heard the click as she locked it. For the first time, he felt that she was his and his alone.

  In the dim, gold glow of an outside streetlight, they crossed to the bed, and he sank beside her, trying to remember to breathe. She lay on her back and reached for him, almost as if she was afraid he might change his mind if she broke contact. Her fingers scrabbled for his belt, tugged at his shirt.

  He grasped her wrists. "Slow down," he whispered, although every instinct told him to plunge into her and claim her. No. She was Frankie, not a woman he picked up in a bar. She was a woman to be savored, not plundered. "What's your hurry?"

  She turned her face away. "I thought…don't you want—?" Her voice quavered.

  Sweet Lord, she was embarrassed. He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Hey, of course I do. I want to enjoy you as long as possible, okay?"

  When she nodded, he exhaled, glad for the brief reprieve that returned a modicum of self-control. Open curtains on the window above the bed weren't enough. He needed to watch her skin flush with pleasure, to see the desire darken her blue eyes. But as he reached across for the bedside lamp, she protested.

  "No. Leave it off."

  "You're beautiful. I want to look at you."

  She shook her head. "Please. I like it dark."

  He stroked her cheek. "All right. I'll use the Braille method." He walked his fingers across her forehead, down her nose, to her lips.

  She giggle
d and nipped his finger. He pulled it away and replaced it with his mouth. Heated kisses rekindled the passion. Blood pounded in his ears. He needed her. All of her. He pulled her so she sat astride him. His lips wandered down, suckling a bared nipple, teeth scraping along the taut peak. Her hands pressed behind his head, fingers threaded through his hair, squeezing him even tighter against her. With desperation replacing finesse, and welcome assistance from Frankie, he managed to extricate her from the body armor she wore under her blouse and threw both garments across the room.

  "What the hell was that?" he growled.

  "Bustier. Shut up. Kiss me again."

  "My pleasure." His lips went back to work on her mouth. Tongues met, teased. Teeth nipped, scraped. Desire swelled in his groin. "Lie down."

  She moved from his lap and settled on her back once again, as if she were waiting for instructions.

  He stretched out beside her. His fingers caressed the softness of her breasts, meandered from one to the other, then ventured down her torso, along her warm, flat belly, to her navel. Her skirt, hiked up until it was barely a belt, posed no obstacle to his quest to know every inch of her. His hands roamed around her hips, back to her thighs, tracing along the sleek nylon of her pantyhose, pausing behind her knees, then up again.

  Her whimpers of pleasure stoked his arousal. She squirmed, reaching for his belt again. He shifted, giving her free access. The confines of his jeans were painful now, and he ached for her touch. He held his breath as her hands released the buckle and popped the button at his waistband. The grind of metal against metal as she unzipped his fly was the only sound in the room.

  She fondled him. Feather-light, her fingertips stroked the length of his penis, and he gasped, afraid his control would snap. All too accustomed to race-to-the-finish-line sex, somehow, he found the inner strength to pull her hands away.

  "No?" she murmured, confusion in her voice.

  "Honey, if you do that now, it's going to be all over. Trust me, okay?"

  He felt her head nodding against his chest. Her fingers moved up and fumbled with his shirt buttons. He took a few deep breaths and let her work, searching his mind for anything that would delay the inevitable. There was a shy and naïve quality about her, something unexpected, despite the passion of her kisses. He'd make this good for her, or die trying.

  Both of them bare from the waist up, he lay on his side and drew her against him, skin to skin. Her breasts flattened against his chest like soft pillows. He stroked her back, from neck to waist, found the zipper of her skirt, and eased it down her legs. He detected nothing but skin beneath her pantyhose, and he worked his fingers under the waistband.

  "Wait," she said and pulled his hand away. "Last pair."

  "I'll replace them," he said. He was losing his touch if she could still dwell on things like the cost of some tubes of nylon.

  "It'll only take a second. Besides, there's no sexy way to get out of these sausage casings."

  He disagreed, but decided to keep his mouth shut. Besides, these little interruptions kept him from spontaneous combustion. He propped himself up on one elbow and watched as she rolled the nylon over her hips, then down her legs. As pale skin emerged from black nylon, his breath quickened. He hastened to shrug off his jeans, realizing too late that his boots were caught in their narrow denim legs. Cursing under his breath, he yanked the jeans out of the way so he could get the damn things off.

  "Need some help, cowboy?"

  "Apparently."

  Frankie was already leaning over his feet, tugging off his boots and socks. Her breasts tempted, and he wiggled his toes against them.

  "Pervert," she whispered. With an impish grin, she grabbed one foot and tickled the sole. He snorted, and remembering that Molly slept not far away, tried not to laugh out loud. In his entire life, not once could he remember sex as just plain fun.

  He held out his arms. "Come here, you."

  In a flash, she'd worked his jeans down his legs and added them to the puddle of clothes on the floor. She tilted her head. God, even in shadow, she was gorgeous.

  "Is there a problem?" he asked.

  "No. I guess I figured you for boxers, that's all."

  At least his briefs were clean, was all he could think. On the job, he usually went commando. "We're not going to need them, are we?" He grinned and started to work them over his hips.

  "Wait," she said. "Do you have…you know—"

  "In my jeans. I'll get them." He rolled off the bed and found the condoms in his pocket. After sheathing himself, he optimistically dropped the rest onto the nightstand. When he looked back, Frankie had pulled back the spread and was lying with the covers pulled up to her neck.

  He slipped in beside her, and he felt her tense up. He put one hand behind her neck and drew her to him. Mouth against mouth. Flesh against flesh. Her heart pounded against his chest. He found the elastic holding her braid.

  "May I?" he whispered.

  When she nodded, he pulled it off, then ran his fingers through her plait, loosening the strands. She sighed, almost in relief, he thought. As if whatever tensions had held her captive had released her. The silken tendrils played over his hands like waves on a sandy beach.

  "Oh, God, Frankie, you feel so good." He ran his fingers along her jaw, touched the tip of her chin. He buried his face in the hollow of her neck, letting her hair drape over him, sending a tingling through him, like countless electric wires grazing his flesh.

  He nuzzled her earlobe, caressed her breasts, listening to her breathing grow ragged as he replaced his fingers with his lips once more. His kisses trailed down to her belly, as he savored her scent, her taste. He stopped at the soft curls between her legs, seeking her center of pleasure. She jerked away and pulled on his hair.

  "No…don't."

  He retreated, probing with fingers instead, and found her hot and wet. Her hips tilted forward. His strokes grew deeper, and he matched his rhythm to hers. She writhed, straining against him, making squeaking sounds of pleasure. She clutched his back, pulling him closer. She parted her thighs.

  He moved above her, the tip of his erection poised against her entry. Fighting the urge to thrust inside, he inched forward. Despite her eagerness, she was tight—almost too tight.

  "Relax, honey." He took her hand and placed it on his erection. "You do it. Take your time."

  Her eyes opened, glistening in the faint light. He lowered his lips to hers, kissed her gently. Waited. Her hands found him, guided him. She shifted her hips and took him inside—deliciously, agonizingly, slowly. Surrounded by her wet heat, the pressure for release was almost unbearable.

  "Don't move," he commanded. "I need a minute here, or we'll both be sorry."

  "Tell me what to do."

  He gritted his teeth. Counted to ten. Twice. "Whatever makes you feel good, honey."

  She raised her hips, then pulled back. With a groan of utter contentment, he followed her lead as they discovered their rhythm.

  *****

  Frankie tried to concentrate on feeling good.

  Had it been so long that she'd forgotten? Because the way Ryan treated her did feel good, nothing like what she remembered. She pushed those thoughts out of her head. Brent had no business anywhere in her life anymore.

  Ryan had shifted, and his tongue toyed with her nipple. The delightful torment sent electric thrills straight to her groin, and all rational thought abandoned her. She moaned and moved faster, her entire being concentrated in one tiny portion of her body. She dug her fingers into his buttocks, trying to take more of him inside, to rub him against her core. New sensations built, layer upon layer, as newer ones hovered on the periphery, promises of undefined pleasures yet to arrive.

  She braved a peek at Ryan, poised above her, arm muscles straining. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Guys were supposed to like sex. He'd seemed to be enjoying it, but now he looked like he was grimacing in pain. His knee? She squeezed her eyes shut, praying she wasn't disappointing him.

  "Wait." Ryan's
voice whispered in her ear, his breath hot on her neck.

  She froze, confused by his demand.

  "I want you on top," he said, shifting their bodies as he spoke, without separating them. "I can last longer that way."

  Straddling him, wishing she'd closed the curtains above the bed, she gazed into his eyes, searching for disappointment. Yet she didn't see anything but desire reflected in their depths. He put his hands on her breasts and smiled. "Lean forward a little."

  When she obeyed, he suckled one nipple and rubbed circles along the other. Reflexively, her hips twitched, and she discovered that in this position, the sensations were hers to command. Emboldened by this newfound power, she lifted her hips, almost breaking their connection. Slowly, carefully, she lowered herself, taking delight in Ryan's moan of pleasure. She adjusted her position so his hardness rubbed against the part of her that screamed for contact with every stroke, increased the tempo to meet its demands.

  As she moved, all conscious thought left her. She disappeared, merged into some new being—part Ryan, part Frankie, yet more than the sum of their parts. From some far distant realm came the sounds of rough breathing, of the slap of flesh against flesh, and then the universe exploded in a flash of colors that she could hear, of sounds she could taste, sensations that were brand new, yet instinctively familiar, and only Ryan's mouth on hers kept her from screaming in joy.

  Vaguely aware of his hands clutching at her waist as he gasped and pistoned his hips in a series of frantic thrusts, she collapsed, panting, onto his sweat-coated chest. "Oh, my."

  "In spades," Ryan whispered, kissing her neck. His hands moved up and down her back in gentle caresses.

  Unable to move, she listened as his heartbeat slowed. And then she must have dozed, because she was lying on her side, curled into him, with his arm draped over her waist. She tried not to disturb him as she worked her way out of his embrace and went into the bathroom to stare at the wanton woman in the mirror. But unlike those years ago, she felt no guilt. Ryan had released feelings and sensations she had never imagined.

  She came out, her face scrubbed clean of smeared makeup, tossed on her robe and tiptoed down the hall to check on Molly. In the glow of the nightlight, her daughter slept, cuddling Mr. Snuggles much as Ryan had held her moments ago.