Hot Number

by Sheridon Smythe

  Ashley moaned and spread her legs, letting her head drop back against his shoulder in total surrender. It was useless to fight it, especially when things had progressed this far.

  His wonderful fingers moved faster and faster, until she was on the verge of crying out.

  Then he stopped, leaving her trembling on the edge of her climax. He turned her around to face him. She opened her eyes, staring into his, recognizing the raw need mirrored there. Holding his gaze, she reached out and took the soap from his hand.

  She began to work up a lather, watching him watch her with an intensity that rocked her world.

  * * * *

  She was a sex-goddess intent on enslaving him.

  Michael was helpless to stop her. He didn't want to.

  Her dusky nipples were rigid and begged to be suckled. He leaned forward, intending to do just that.

  She pushed him away and glared at him. “Don't you dare touch me,” she hissed, her hands working the soap back and forth, working up a thick, rich lather.

  He nearly came right there on the spot, just watching her hands on the soap. Back and forth. Up and down. Stroking the bar of soap. The anticipation nearly drove him insane. When was she going to use those hands on him?

  Finally, she dropped the soap at her feet and reached for him, closing her hands around his thick, hard length. Slowly, she slid her soapy hands down to the base, cupped his taut, heavy sack, and worked her way up again.

  Michael's knees nearly buckled. He braced himself against the shower wall with one hand as her hands did an erotic dance along his shaft. Down. Then back up. Down again, lingering, cupping, stroking. Satin against silk.

  Up again. He grew impossibly thicker, longer.

  Harder.

  He dared to let go of his anchor and reach out to her, cupping her breasts, thumbing her nipples back and forth until she moaned. His fingers slipped down across her water-slick belly and into her, breaking her hold on his throbbing manhood.

  He brought her closer, covering her mouth with his own, licking, sucking, biting her lips, her tongue, kissing her until she was crying with need and he was moaning with desire.

  God, she was so sensuous, so sexy. So right.

  The second he thought the damning words, Michael broke free of her mouth. He caught her slender, curvy body and turned her, positioning her hands on the wall in front of her. Her long, wet hair streamed down her back.

  Then, slowly, with his teeth clenched tight, he pulled her firm bottom against him and entered her from behind, thrusting deep and hard. She came instantly, convulsing around him, nearly shattering what was left of his control as she cried out his name.

  He grabbed her waist before she collapsed, relentless in his quest to hear her scream his name again and again. He paced himself, his fingers delving into her wet curls and finding her still-throbbing, swollen nub.

  Within seconds, she screamed again, this time more weakly, as if she didn't have the strength left to voice her pleasure. She was tight and hot, squeezing him, urging him to his own release. The water pounded over the elegant curve of her spine, spraying his chest and stomach, enhancing the sensuous pleasure he had always found in Ashley's body.

  She was his wife, his life, his love.

  She was not his wife. With a mixture of anguish and pleasure, Michael thrust deep one last time, claiming her privately, if not publicly.

  His arms closed around her, pulling her tight against his chest as pleasurable ripples continued to sweep over him. He buried his face in her neck, feeling the furious pounding of her pulse against his cheek.

  From the moment he realized that he loved her, he had been faithful.

  Nothing had changed. Michael closed his eyes and sighed.

  * * * *

  Sated, weak, and pleasantly sore, Ashley lay on her side of the bed, hugging a pillow to her chest, her back to Michael.

  Unseen, tears streamed down her face. She was terrified of Michael, of what he was capable of taking from her. Of the possibility that he could destroy her heart and her sanity a second time.

  She couldn't go through it again. Couldn't love him with all her heart yet live in fear that she would walk in on another scene like the last one that had shattered her.

  And there were no options about loving Michael with all her heart. She couldn't love him just a little and hold the rest in reserve so he couldn't break it all over again.

  No, she didn't have a choice.

  She either refused to love him—or refused to admit it—or she loved him totally and irrevocably. Michael took all or nothing.

  Her breath hitched, and she smothered a sob into her pillow, praying he was asleep. How simple her life had been before this cruise. Safe and simple.

  Without an all-consuming passion. Without gut-wrenching emotion, the kind that made you feel as if someone was taking your heart out and wringing it with their bare hands.

  She wanted to get that back. She did not want to leap into another unstable, uncertain, nerve-wracking relationship with Michael, no matter how good the sex.

  Okay. No matter how awesome the sex. She would stop wasting energy denying that she and Michael were dynamite in bed, but she wasn't going to let it go to her head.

  Or her heart, rather. Her head had more sense than her heart. So what if the sex was incredible? They probably weren't the first or last couple to be compatible in bed, but completely incompatible out of it. She would stop fighting, it, too, for the rest of the cruise. It was not only a waste of energy; it was a waste of effort.

  And at the end of the cruise, she would confess to Tom. If he still wanted to marry her, she would marry Tom and be through with Michael for good. Live a safe, simple, passionless, painless life with safe, dependable, faithful Tom.

  Someone knocked softly on the cabin door. Ashley jerked upright, staring at the clock, which read 4:00 a.m. Who could be up at that hour, she wondered as she quickly slipped on her jogging pants?

  "Michael?” She leaned over and touched his shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Michael?"

  He groaned and turned his back to her, mumbling something about another thirty minutes of sleep. Giving up, Ashley went to the cabin door and opened it a half-inch, peering into the hall. She nearly screamed as she came face to face with Bart.

  "Bart! You scared the daylights out of me,” she scolded, opening the door wider. “What on earth are you—"

  "It's Birdie,” he said. “We need your help."

  "What's wrong?” When the elderly man flushed instead of answering, Ashley's brow rose. This wasn't the Bart she knew! The man didn't have a bashful bone in his body. “Bart? Are you going to tell me or are we going to stand here—"

  "She—we were in the shower, and um, she fell. I just need a hand getting her out of the tub. She threw her back out, you see."

  "Hm. I see.” Ashley struggled not to grin. She couldn't resist getting a little revenge for all the times they had embarrassed her. “You were both taking a shower at four in the morning?"

  Bart's face turned a shade darker. “It was her idea. We heard you and Michael, you see—"

  "Oh,” Ashley inserted hastily, sorry she had asked. She suspected her own face now matched Bart's for color. Stepping into the hall, she pulled the door shut behind her and followed him into their cabin.

  In the small bathroom, Birdie had the shower curtain pulled. Ashley paused inside the door. “Birdie? Are you alright?"

  There was a tiny moan from behind the curtain then Birdie said, “If I were alright, Ashley, I wouldn't be sending Bart over to your cabin at four in the morning. I hope we didn't interrupt anything, although I don't know how you'd have the energy to keep going after all that screaming you did in the shower earlier."

  The unmistakable envy in Birdie's voice went a long way in easing Ashley's embarrassment over her frank talk. “You didn't interrupt anything. I was asleep.” A tiny white lie. She didn't want Birdie asking questions about why she couldn't sleep.

  Bart appeared in the do
orway holding a towel. He stuck it behind the curtain. “Darling? Are you ready for us to move you to the bed?"

  "I was ready an hour ago. A fat lot of good it did me."

  Stifling a laugh, Ashley helped Bart carry Birdie to the bed. She then helped her into her nightgown—which had been thrown on the floor—and sat beside her on the bed to make sure she was comfortable.

  Birdie sent Bart in search of a heating pad, and the moment he was gone, she focused on Ashley. “It wasn't Bart's fault, bless his heart. I keep forgetting we aren't young anymore."

  With her face free of makeup and her blue hair in tiny sponge rollers, Ashley honestly thought Birdie didn't look a day over fifty. The sparkle in her blue eyes added to her youthful appearance. “You're only as old as you feel,” Ashley reminded her.

  But Birdie wasn't listening. With her gaze on the door, she asked, “Is Michael as good as he looks?” When Ashley blushed and tried to stand, Birdie grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. “Oh, never mind. I guess you wouldn't have been screaming if he wasn't any good. Don't mind me, dear, I'm just a dirty old busybody.” Her eyes grew dreamy. “Bart used to be that good, back in his younger days. He'd be good to go two, three times a night."

  "Birdie, I—"

  "I used to worry, you know, that any woman would do when he got the itch."

  "Look, I should—"

  "But after a while, I realized that it was me Bart wanted. Only me.” She blinked and smiled at Ashley, as if she had forgotten she was there. “I know he's been faithful all these years, just like I know Michael will remain faithful to you. Some men are one-woman men, and we've got ourselves a pair of those."

  Ashley felt the blood drain from her face. She shook her head and tried to tug her hand free of Birdie's grip again. “I really need to get back to my cabin, Birdie.” Before she did something she'd regret, like blurt out to Birdie that she was wrong, that Michael had already blown his pedestal all to hell and back.

  Two years ago and counting.

  Birdie held her in a remarkably strong grip, her brow furrowed. “What's wrong, dear? Did I say something to upset you?"

  "No, no,” Ashley said, trying to sound sincere. “You didn't. I'm just tired. If you're okay now, I think I'd like to go back to bed."

  With a sly smile, Birdie let her go. “I don't blame you there, child. I'd be anxious to get back to bed, too. There's nothing like good loving.” She groaned and arched her back. “If Bart ever gets back with that heating pad, I should be good as new by lunch."

  "I'll see you then.” Ashley backed away, then turned and walked hastily out of the cabin.

  One-woman man.

  Michael? Unfortunately, no.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eleven

  "They're having a miniature golf tournament today on the upper deck,” Tanya informed Michael the moment he seated himself at the table. “The winning couple gets five hundred dollars in chips to use in the casino. Are you and Ashley interested? Deckland and I are going to give it a shot."

  Michael hated golf. He'd much rather get down and dirty in a good rough and tumble game of football. He guessed that was out of the question on a cruise ship. “I don't think so, but thanks,” he mumbled, hoping to discourage further conversation with the friendly blonde.

  "Maybe when Ashley gets here, I can convince her to change your mind."

  Tanya sounded very certain of herself, Michael noted. In fact, she was wearing that smug woman-smile Ashley used to wear when she was certain she could change his mind about something.

  He couldn't resist an opportunity to knock it askew. “As a matter of fact, Ashley hates miniature golf.” It was an outright lie, but the devil made him do it.

  "Have a long night, Michael?"

  Michael kept his gaze on the breakfast menu as Deckland attempted to use his manipulative talents to find out why Ashley's chair remained empty. He could feel the older man watching him and had to physically restrain himself from snarling. What was between his wife—his ex-wife—and this Harvard yuppie? The man was nice enough, but he wasn't Ashley's type.

  Come to think of it, neither was Tom.

  Casually, he said, “As a matter-of-fact, Ashley and I turned in early.” What he didn't reveal was that he didn't have a clue where she was now. Her side of the bed had been empty when he awoke this morning.

  He vaguely recalled her attempt to wake him shortly after the hot shower incident, but he couldn't remember why. He clenched his teeth on a groan. Now, why did he have to go and remind himself of that steamy encounter?

  Incident.

  Encounter. He couldn't even call it by its rightful name. To do so would be to admit to something he could never, ever admit to. It was just pure ole body chemistry. Had to be. Couldn't be anything else. Been there, done that.

  And most definitely didn't want to do it again.

  Tanya yawned and tapped her fingers against the menu. Michael glanced at her, disgruntled anew to find that looking at her was like looking at Kim. She did absolutely nothing for him. Zip. Nada.

  Now Ashley, on the other hand—

  Deckland snapped his fingers, startling Michael.

  "I think I know where Ashley is."

  "You do?” Michael blurted out, and then frowned to cover his blunder. He glued his gaze to the menu again. There weren't that many choices, but it gave him something to concentrate on. “Good for you, Detective Jennings."

  His open sarcasm seemed to sail right over Deckland's head.

  "She's off playing sleuth, isn't she? She's determined to find out the identity of the other lottery winner. She mentioned it to me yesterday, but I'd forgotten.” He beamed at Michael, whose frown turned into a full-scale glower at the mention of his suspicious meeting with Ashley. “I'm right, aren't I?"

  Michael hoped like hell that he wasn't. “She's wasting her time,” he said with a hard look at the smiling psychologist, who couldn't possibly know the truth. “I'm certain that information is confidential, so unless he—or she—wants it to be known, it remains confidential."

  He could have bitten his fork in two when Deckland's smile grew wider.

  "Oh, I think if she dug deep enough, she'd find out who he is."

  "Maybe it's a she."

  "Maybe. But I think it's a he."

  Michael slammed his menu down. “Why?"

  Deckland's smile wavered under the force of the question. He looked puzzled as he explained, “Well, I just don't think a woman could keep it to herself."

  Tanya protested, slapping at him with her menu. “Hey! Men gossip as much as women!"

  "But men can keep a secret,” Deckland argued in a good-natured way. “When they want to."

  Reminding himself that Deckland was just guessing, he couldn't resist asking, “But why would he—if we're talking about a he—keep the joyous news to himself?"

  Deckland's eyes narrowed slightly. “Good question.” Then his Harvard smile returned in full force. “Maybe Ashley can ask him when she meets him. Ah, here's our waiter."

  Caught with his mouth open as he readied a reply, Michael looked up at the cheerful server. “Nothing for me, thanks. I just remembered that I need to make a business call."

  He left his breakfast companions without a backward glance. Maybe Tanya and Deckland would find something in common, Michael thought darkly as he navigated the crowded dining room. Deckland obviously needed a distraction. The man was obsessing over Ashley far too much for Michael's peace of mind.

  Speaking of Ashley ... he had to find her before she dug too deeply. Michael suppressed a shudder at the thought. No matter what it took, he had to keep her from discovering his embarrassing secret.

  Even if it meant he had to spend every waking and sleeping hour with her.

  Now, why didn't the very idea make him want to jump overboard? “Body chemistry,” Michael mumbled like a mantra. “Just body chemistry."

  * * * *

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. Due to heightened security, we can't gi
ve out that information."

  The Funstar was filled with frustratingly loyal people, Ashley was discovering. She gave the first mate her sweetest smile. His expression remained stubbornly passive.

  "I'm sure they wouldn't mind,” she said. “I mean, they probably want to meet me as much as I want to meet them. After all, we both won the lottery using the same numbers."

  "How do you know they're even on this ship?"

  "Because the travel agency told me the other lotto winner had accepted the free cruise."

  "Then why didn't they give you a name?"

  Ashley clenched her jaw. She'd hoped he wouldn't ask that question. The truth was, the travel agency said they hadn't been allowed to give out that information, either. “Look, if you could just give me a list of everyone from Missouri—"

  "Sorry. Can't do it. I like my job.” He seemed to soften slightly at her frustrated sigh. “But if I were looking for a lottery winner, I'd be watching for someone who has a lot of money to spend. Have you tried the casinos?"

  Great, she thought, he was suggesting she look in the one place she was trying to avoid! Mumbling a barely gracious, “Thanks,” Ashley left. A quick glance at her watch told her she had missed breakfast.

  She had time to check on Birdie before gluing herself to Michael's side until the casinos closed at midnight. What if she wasn't successful? How badly was Michael addicted? She should have phoned Kim again and told her what she knew and demand more information.

  But then, she mused as she reached the Scotts’ cabin, if she let on to Kim that she was worried about Michael, Kim would think she still cared and redouble her efforts to get them together. And Kim definitely didn't need any encouragement!

  Ashley was just about to knock on the cabin door when she spotted Michael rounding the corner at the end of the hall. Her heart did a crazy flip at the sight of him, so big and lean and beautiful.

  He smiled at her, and an old familiar weakness flooded her knees. Her own smile was tremulous. “Good morning,” she said. “I was about to check on Birdie before coming to find you."