Indecent Proposal (Boys of Bishop)

by Molly O'Keefe

  The door swung open almost hilariously fast and Harry stood there, backlit by the soft glow of the lamp in the room.

  He’d showered. Shaved. He smelled woodsy and clean and rich. Masculine.

  Her nipples really liked that and she was sure if he looked past her eyes, he’d see. But he was polite, very polite for a man who was going to fuck a bartender he’d just met, and he didn’t break eye contact.

  He wore jeans and a white tee shirt. His feet were bare.

  His second toe was longer than the first. A little imperfection on all that perfection only made him more interesting.

  “Come on in,” he said quietly, shifting aside.

  She stepped into the guest room, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind her was the sound of no return.

  Here we go, she thought.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked. “I nearly decimated the minibar before coming downstairs. But I think there’s a bottle of white wine left in there.”

  “Am I taking advantage of a drunk man?” she asked, setting her bag down on the low dresser as she walked into the room.

  “No.” His voice was low. Serious.

  Oh, her nipples were just approving everything this guy did.

  She stepped farther into the room. A king-size bed.

  Fun.

  “No thanks on the drink.”

  “What would you like?” he asked. She could feel him behind her. Close, but not too close, giving her room should she need it. Room to get comfortable. Room to change her mind.

  “Hmmmm?” She laughed and turned to face him. There were high spots of color on his face. But those eyes, they were locked on hers, unmoving. Hot.

  A test of sorts, she lifted her hands to her collarbones, pushing the heavy fall of her ponytail off her shoulder. With one finger she traced the demure lace edge of her black tank top. His eyes drifted from hers and followed the movement, but only for a second before his eyes met hers again.

  The air in the room—filled with lust and danger—was hard to breathe.

  I don’t know you, she thought. She was alone in a hotel room with a man she’d just met, which was risky, but everything she did know convinced her that she was safe.

  Secure and menaced, both at the same time. It was heady.

  “You don’t have to be so polite,” she breathed, her finger finding the upward curve of her breast and tracing that, too.

  “I’m a Southern gentleman, Ryan. I’m afraid that’s how we’re raised.”

  “I was born in northeast Philly.” The implication that she was raised without manners wasn’t true, but it certainly served her purpose right now. Hungry for him, her finger glided closer to the hard, aching edge of her nipple. She dropped her gaze from the magnetic appeal of his, and she looked shamelessly at his body. The way his chest filled out that tee shirt. The bulge of his erection beneath the button fly of his jeans.

  “And the men from northeast Philly, what are they like?”

  “Rough.” She thought of Paul. “They have a certain ‘take what they want’ quality.”

  “Is that …” He tilted his head, as if sniffing her on the wind. And she felt suddenly … deliciously … at risk. “Is that what you like?”

  “As a rule, no.” She liked him. The way he’d been downstairs—split open and vulnerable. Human. Real.

  His smile was sharp and fast, a flash of something predatory. “But tonight? From me?”

  “I want you however you are,” she said.

  He flushed, and she got dizzy in the quiet before he charged across the room, pulling her up on her toes, against his chest. His mouth, those perfect lips, hovered just over hers.

  “Who the hell are you?” His minty breath, with the tang of the alcohol he’d been drinking under it, swept over her lips.

  She shrugged.

  “Ryan Kaminski.”

  His fingers swept along her hairline, reaching back through her thick hair to cup her skull in his hands. “Thank you, Ryan Kaminski,” he murmured. “For being here.”

  Oh God, she nearly melted right there. Right into him. With one hand cupped around her head, he took the other and placed it at her neck and then slowly, so slowly, dragged it down her chest, his fingertips brushing hard over a nipple.

  Her knees buckled as her body, long asleep, awoke with a gasp. A raging fire. A sudden painful need.

  His knee slipped between hers, the hard muscle of his thigh right between her legs. Right. Between.

  She gasped at the pleasurable pain of it. His eyes were still on hers, but his gaze was no longer polite. It was demanding and hard, and she quaked beneath it. His hand slid downward over her stomach, setting all of the muscles there trembling over the rolled top of her skirt. He shifted his hand, his fingers pointing down, and stopped just before reaching the ache between her legs.

  She rocked into his leg, biting her lip.

  “That’s still pretty polite,” she whispered.

  He smiled down at her and then pushed his leg up higher and harder against her.

  “How about that?”

  “Getting better.”

  Without warning he spun her slightly, so her back was against his chest and she felt the length of him against her ass. She pushed back against him and he groaned, surging up against her.

  “You were very … kind to me tonight,” he breathed into her ear. She closed her eyes against the electric pulses his voice and breath sent down her neck and over her body.

  “You planning on returning the favor?” She looped her arm around his neck, pulling him down slightly while she rubbed herself against him. A cat in heat. Whatever. It had been a long time.

  “I am,” he said. His hands cupped her breasts. Not so polite anymore, there was demand in his touch, and she bit her lip. She felt the edge of her tank top get pulled down by one of those long, elegant fingers until her breast was revealed.

  And then the other one.

  She reached for the hem of her shirt, to just be done with it, be done with every bit of cloth between them, but he stopped her.

  “Like that,” he breathed, again against her neck. “Look.”

  He grabbed her chin, not hard … but not lightly either, and turned her head until she saw them in the mirror.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed. The two of them together, they were gorgeous. Like incredibly hot. Her arm around his neck lifted her breasts like she was offering them and his wide, lovely body was curved and curled against her. His hair gleamed gold in the lamplight, hers the color of mink.

  “You are really the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He slipped the hand that wasn’t holding her chin down the front of her body, over those breasts, her stomach, and down between her legs, cupping her pussy in his palm, pushing her skirt between her legs.

  “You watching?” He kissed her neck, his fingers moving out of the way. His thumb brushed her lips and she sucked it into her mouth.

  His eyes, burning blue fire, met hers in the mirror and he groaned, pushing his erection against her, his legs flexing under the denim, and she reached with her other hand behind her ass to touch him through his jeans.

  Those manners he’d been talking about, that Southern boyhood that required him to make polite eye contact even while a woman was fondling herself in front of him, were swept aside by the dark hand of lust.

  He shifted them until they faced the mirror.

  “Lift your skirt,” he breathed.

  “You do it.” She squeezed his erection. “I’m busy.”

  His laughter was part growl, and instead of lifting the skirt he pulled it down, over her waist and hips, until she stood in front of him in a thin black cotton g-string and a tank top.

  And the boots.

  She tried to watch as long as she could, the way he soaked in the sight of her, how his hand looked between her legs, pushing aside that cotton and finding the heat and wet of her. The small muscles in his forearms flexing and shifting as his fingers found the hard stone of her clitori
s and made friends. Slowly at first, with soft touches, light but growing heavier. Faster.

  Her eyelids fluttered shut and she groaned.

  Some switch got flipped in him and he pushed her backwards to the bed until she felt the mattress hit the back of her legs.

  “What—?” Without the fire of him behind her, she was cold.

  “I’m sorry.” He tossed her on the bed and she was suddenly very aware of how big he was, how if he chose to exert his strength she wouldn’t have a chance.

  “Sorry?” Panic rippled through her.

  But then he fell to his knees on the floor between her splayed legs. “I’ve got to taste you, Ryan.”

  He used his thumb to pull aside the cotton and she stared blindly at him, waiting for the damp heat of his mouth. And when it came, when it happened, there was nothing delicate, nothing careful—it was fierce and messy, his whole mouth devouring her, his hand spread wide over her tummy, holding her still as she nearly jackknifed off the bed—electrocuted by his tongue and lips. His fingers spearing inside of her.

  She came and she came. Rolling waves picking her up and tossing her around like a rag doll.

  His mouth gentled. He gave her a soft kiss, a slow lap, another. And she twitched under his attention. Shook as his breath ran hot over her fevered flesh. Finally, he sat back, his hands cupping her knees. His thumbs stroking the skin there, making her toes curl in her boots.

  After a moment she sat up, light-headed. Feeling a little silly but very grateful. There were many beautiful things about a man’s mouth that she could not recreate by herself.

  And this man’s mouth was particularly beautiful.

  In the low lamplight, his chin was shiny, his eyes bright.

  He looked pleased and dirty and totally delicious.

  Quickly she contemplated what kind of luck pushed Harry into her bar.

  She laced her fingers through his and tugged. “Come up here.”

  With that economic grace of his he surged up onto the bed, covering her piece by piece. Knees, thighs, belly. He stopped for a second, braced against her, and pulled off his shirt, kindly giving her skin to touch. And such fine, lovely skin it was, stretched over lean muscles, covered with hair as blond as what was on his head. She ran her fingers down his chest, across his nipples. He flinched slightly.

  “You don’t—”

  “I do.”

  His thumb traced the curve of her lower lip. “I haven’t kissed you.”

  “That’s not entirely true,” she laughed. Her clitoris still buzzed from his kisses. “I haven’t kissed you,” she said.

  “Should we fix that?”

  Leaning forward, she kissed his chest. The bit of bone at his sternum. He kissed her shoulder, a surprising quick, hard peck, and she laughed before kissing the tender skin near his armpit, which made him jump.

  “Ticklish?”

  “Yes.”

  He kissed the soft hollow at her throat, where the skin dipped between her collarbones.

  Humming slightly, she lifted his hand and kissed the wide center of his palm.

  Laughter, deep and dark, rumbled out of his chest, and he slipped his hand over her face and then up over her hair. Carefully he pulled out the dark ponytail holder and her hair spilled down over her back, across the white blankets of the bed.

  The sight of her hair seemed to end some game for him and he shifted them so she was lying flat on her back in the bed and he came down over her, with his skin and his serious eyes and his gravitas, and she felt herself slip a little bit in love.

  Just a little. It was something she did—fall in love. Quickly, easily, like a rib popped out of place by one wrong twist. Of course it wasn’t real love. It was infatuation, lust. Camaraderie. A certain affection. Respect. All in all a potent mix.

  Part of why she needed those rules, that hard glass wall of bad past experiences. Because she was always so ready to be in love. Always, despite pretending otherwise, wanting this feeling. This heady mix of the best of herself being called out by a man.

  Which would be concerning if she knew his last name. Or who he was.

  But they were just tonight. That was all.

  And so a little infatuation was safe.

  When he kissed her it was deep and thorough. Not so much a kiss as it was a possession. A slow and consuming takeover. He took his time, worked his way in slowly until it felt as if he’d always been there. Kissing her, the weight of him pressing her down into the superior mattress of The Cobalt Hotel.

  His hand slid from her waist to her breast and she purred in her throat, slipping her own hand between them over the erection she felt behind his zipper.

  The slow possession gained urgency. Gained need, and she fumbled with his zipper, growing frantic to touch him. To have him.

  He reached down to help but only made things worse, and he laughed into her mouth before lying back, unzipping his pants, and pushing them down over his hips and legs. The hard length of his erection popped free and lay against his belly and it was as irresistible as the rest of him, and she slipped over him, lying on her stomach between his legs. He scooched up so she wouldn’t have to twist awkwardly to stay on the bed.

  Very considerate.

  She cupped him in her palm, measured him with her fingers, looked at every inch of him before curling her hand around the solid girth of his dick and leaning forward to lick, very slowly, the head. The salt and sweet of him flooded her mouth and she moaned at the taste.

  He gasped and twitched and she smiled her wickedest smile, feeling her wickedest feelings.

  She could sense him watching her so she settled into her work, easing up on the bed until her breasts rested against his leg, the rough hair teasing her nipples.

  Slowly, she jacked him in her fist, testing her grip until she heard him hiss.

  “Too hard?”

  “Harder.”

  Oh, he was too much, just too much, and she lifted herself up slightly so she could take him into her mouth. Swallowing him deeper until she felt him against the back of her throat and his hands clutched into the thick fall of her hair.

  Yes, she thought, yes. Just like that.

  She hummed, hoping he would understand that she liked that.

  He pulled her hair away from her face, holding it back with one rough hand.

  “So good,” he breathed. “You look so good.”

  Between her mouth and her hand she worked him harder. Faster. Lips, tongue. Both hands. Squeezing. Licking. Until he was pushing up into her mouth when she pushed down and she wasn’t sure if maybe she was hurting him, or he was hurting her, but she couldn’t stand it anymore.

  He came out of her mouth with an audible pop and she got up on her knees beside him, staring down at the lovely flushed and sweaty delight of him.

  “I want to fuck you.”

  He shook his head, his eyes wild, as if words were just totally beyond his ability to understand.

  “Why not?” she asked. There simply wasn’t any way this hookup was going to end like this. She was dying for him. Dying for the sensation of him sliding deep inside of her.

  “I don’t have any condoms,” he said with a slight wince.

  “Oh, you southern boys haven’t gotten the memo—we northern women can take care of things.” She got up off the bed, pulling off her damp and messy G-string, the tank top.

  But leaving the boots.

  From her purse she pulled out Lindsey’s night-making condom before turning toward him, the condom between her fingers.

  “Ta-da.”

  He smiled, then propped up on his elbows, his legs still spread, his ruddy cock lying against his abdomen.

  “I like you northern girls.”

  Feeling like some kind of swashbuckling female pirate, she leapt on the bed and straddled him while ripping open the wrapper with her teeth.

  “Your tattoo—?”

  “Really?” she asked, holding the tip of the condom with one hand while sliding the rest of it over him. “Y
ou want to talk about my ink, now?”

  Mesmerized, he stared like he’d never seen someone roll a condom on with such panache. Willing to give him more of a show, she hiked herself up his body, holding his cock still while she slowly, with breath-stealing, excruciating deliberateness, eased herself down him.

  Despite her eagerness, despite the wetness he had inspired between her legs, there was still the small pinch and sting of taking this man inside of her. The strange reality that no matter what, sex was a matter of submission for her. Of accepting what on some level seemed unacceptable.

  She was not and had never been very good at compliance.

  “Oh … God, Ryan.”

  “Good?”

  “Sublime. Fucking … perfect. You are perfect.”

  Let’s not go overboard, she thought. But once he was inside all the way and she was seated hard in the cradle of his hips, she shook her hair out of the way and raised herself up over him, holding onto the headboard, nearly wild with a surge of power and sex and something old and womanly, and began to ride him.

  Most men didn’t know how to be on the bottom. They either held themselves still, letting her do it all, or they grabbed her hips, keeping her still while jackhammering into her from underneath

  But not Harry. No, Harry understood. Making this work for both of them meant meeting her downward slide with his upward push. When she jerked forward against him, he pushed back until she felt the pressure of his body against her clit. He held her breasts, hard, his fingers careful but insistent vises against her flesh.

  “Look at you,” he breathed. “Fuck, look at you.”

  She was too busy looking at him, watching his face turn from pleasure-stoned to demanding. To animal. The pressure built from her clit and from deep inside where she was clenched so hard around him.

  He reached up to hold her shoulder, pushing her against him, adding force to the incendiary grind they’d worked up. And it worked; pleasure spiked and she fell back slightly, holding herself up against his leg.

  But then, predictably, she hit a wall—her pleasure built but went no higher. No matter what she did, it leveled off into a plateau.

  She jerked and circled her hips, trying to wring every bit of pleasure from their bodies. But it didn’t work. Between her legs she was growing numb.