Seduce Me Tonight (Mischief Books)

by Kristina Wright

  He had other ideas, though. He cupped my face in his hands and pulled me down for a kiss. His lips slanted across mine, warm and wet and firm, tasting just the way I remembered. Then he thrust up into me. Hard. I gasped into his open mouth as he did it again. Hard. Harder. Fucking me in this confined space in quick, short, driving thrusts. One, two, three. Kissing me the entire time, taking my cries into his mouth, giving me his own moans of pleasure. One, two, three.

  I clung to the headrest, my hair a curtain around both our heads, shielding my view of the outside, my existence contained within this car with this man. The whole world could be right outside staring at us and I didn’t care, as long as he kept fucking me. Let them watch. Let them wish they were us.

  ‘Yes,’ I cried out, the angle of his cock hitting that swollen, sensitive spot inside of me. ‘Fuck me, Denny.’

  ‘Say it again,’ he growled. ‘Say my name again.’

  I thrust down on him as hard as he was thrusting up against me. ‘Denny, my Denny,’ I cried out. ‘Fuck me, Denny!’

  He surged up into me and I bumped my head on the roof, but I didn’t care. He was inside of me, he was mine. And I was his. He moaned, the sound primal and filled with longing, and I felt his cock pulse inside of me just as everything inside of me turned to liquid. I was laughing and crying and coming all at the same time, riding him wildly, milking his cock for every sweet drop as he pulled me down on him and filled me with his need.

  Finally, I pulled back and looked at him. I couldn’t help but giggle. ‘This was … wild. I never expected this to happen.’

  ‘Are you sorry?’

  ‘Not in the least. You?’

  He looked into my eyes and smiled. There was no regret or hesitation when he said, ‘I love you. I’ll fuck you like this every night if you want me to. But I’d really prefer to get you naked in a bed – yours or mine – and make up for lost time.’

  I got up the nerve to look around, but I couldn’t see out the windows for the fog we’d generated with our body heat. My skirt was twisted around my waist, my hair was a tangled, damp mess and it felt like a river ran between my legs. I laughed again, shaking my head at the incongruity of it, the pure joy of it.

  ‘Yeah, I think we should find a bed. Right now.’

  ‘Good.’ He pulled my face down for another kiss, whispering something against my lips. ‘Mine.’

  Right As Rain

  I once read that sex was only a big deal if you weren’t getting it. Kind of like air or food. I guess I always felt that way about my own sex life – no big deal, except when I wasn’t getting even my basic needs met. Sometimes I would wonder if there was something more to be had, something I was missing, if all the articles in the women’s magazines on the grocery-store racks were to be believed. But I was getting enough to sustain me – like a strict diet would sustain me – and it seemed petty to complain when I didn’t even know exactly what it was I was longing for.

  Then I met Duncan and realised that I’d been settling for plain noodles when there was a gourmet meal to be had. They say sex isn’t love. They’re right – and wrong. Sex, really mind-shattering, soul-touching sex, can be a form of love. And once you’ve had that, there’s no going back to a bland diet. Your body won’t let you. And your heart? Well, your heart may be OK without sex, but it develops a fondness for the one who gives you everything you never knew you desired. My body longed for Duncan. And my heart was quickly following.

  It seemed fitting that I met Duncan on a rainy day since things were always pretty wet once he was in my life. He moved in downstairs one soggy weekend in April. At the time, I was between jobs, colleges and relationships. I was living in a tiny apartment on the third floor of a sprawling apartment building right off the campus of George Washington University, planning to start my Master’s in political science in the fall. I kept to myself most of the time – busy filling out financial aid forms and job applications – and I was used to my neighbours coming and going at all hours. The guy who lived next door had an older girlfriend with a rockin’ bod who could shake the shingles off the roof with her orgasmic moans. I wondered sometimes, with curiosity and probably envy, if it was just an act or if it was all real. If it was real, well – maybe I needed to chat up Matthew Wheaton (the name on his mailbox) and find out his secrets. Did he have a ten-inch cock? A tongue that curled? Double-jointed fingers? A closet full of sex toys? Somehow, I didn’t think his girlfriend would appreciate my inquiries, so I never said anything.

  Other than the neighbourly waves and ‘how are you?’s, I kept to myself, paid my bills on time and didn’t play my music too loud. For the most part, my neighbours did the same. I’d never felt a compelling need to introduce myself to any of them until that rainy Sunday in April when I looked out my window and saw a lean, athletic, ginger-headed hottie in cutoffs and a SUNY sweatshirt trying to unload a surfboard in the rain off the top of a Jeep Cherokee with New York licence plates. Suddenly, I wanted to get to know my neighbour in a bad way.

  ‘Hey, let me help you,’ I said, a little breathless from running down three flights of stairs.

  Duncan gave me that wary look of all people who’ve lived in a city, the one that says, ‘Stay out of my personal space.’ He gave me the once-over and I was suddenly painfully conscious of my lime-green ‘Give Peas a Chance’ T-shirt, purple tie-dyed yoga pants and mop of dark-brown bed-head hair. I might have looked a mess, but I guess I seemed harmless enough because he smiled.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got it. I can’t get the knots out because they’ve swollen up from the rain.’

  I wasn’t going to be so easily deterred. ‘I grew up around boats and my hands are smaller than yours. Let me give it a try.’

  He cocked his head to the side as if trying to determine who this crazy chick was, willing to get wet in the rain for a stranger, and then shrugged. ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘Wendy,’ I said, thrusting my smaller hand into his bigger one.

  He laughed. ‘Duncan. And a nice girl to help out a stranger. Or maybe you’re a strange girl to be running around in the rain helping a stranger.’

  ‘I like a challenge,’ I said and left him to figure out whether I was talking about the surfboard or something else.

  I didn’t think I was strange. Granted, my technique was more than a little awkward compared to what I imagined he was used to – a bevy of college coeds and surfer girls fawning over him. Not that you could call my impulsive decision to abandon the dry warmth of my apartment for the wet April chill any kind of a technique, but I didn’t really care at that point. He was talking to me and that was a start.

  ‘These knots are a challenge,’ he agreed, taking the high road. Or maybe offering me even more of a challenge?

  I grinned, up for whatever he wanted to throw at me, and worked diligently on getting the surfboard untied. We both got drenched in the process. Five minutes later, with him working on one side and me working on the other, we got the board down. He hefted it on his shoulder and headed up the stairs to his apartment. I watched him go, thoroughly enraptured by his wet running shorts clinging to his taut ass and the sexy way his reddish-blond hair curled on the nape of his neck. Then I did the only thing I could do – I grabbed a surprisingly heavy box marked ‘Media Shit’ and followed him, feeling a little bit like a lost puppy following him home.

  By the time we had unpacked his car, it was raining in great windy sheets and we were both soaked. Helping somebody move, even if it’s only a few boxes, is a bonding experience. It speeds up the ‘getting to know you’ process. Or at least that was my justification as I invited Duncan up to my place for a drink. If it had been a Saturday night and I’d asked him to hit the clubs with me, it would have sounded like a come on. But it was a rainy Sunday, the rest of his stuff wouldn’t get there until Monday morning and he was new to the city, so I was just being neighbourly. OK, so it was still a come on. But it was a neighbourly, friendly come on.

  I made a pot of coffee to knock off the chill. D
uncan had stripped off his wet sweatshirt and I nearly collapsed as I witnessed the unveiling of his flat, ripped stomach. It was smooth except for a reddish-brown sprinkling of hair that started a couple of inches below his belly button and disappeared into his running shorts. Thankfully, he was wearing a sleeveless muscle shirt under the sweatshirt, which he tugged down to cover his stomach and protect my poor heart. But the shirt left little to the imagination and accentuated his well-muscled arms. He hadn’t needed my help carrying his stuff – he could have carried all of it and me, too, without breaking a sweat.

  He flopped down on my futon by the window and watched the rain while I tried not to stare at his biceps or imagine licking a trail down the hair on his belly. He had a Celtic tattoo banded around his right arm. Most guys don’t get the inner arm tattooed – it hurts like hell – but his went all the way around. He won bad-ass points for that. Not that he needed points. I was already counting the ways I wanted to devour his body and I hadn’t even seen him naked yet.

  He shifted around as if he was uncomfortable. His running shorts pulled taut over his crotch and I really had to make a concentrated effort not to stare. He reminded me of a greyhound, lean and muscular with awkward limbs that wouldn’t seem to do what he wanted while he was sitting still. A greyhound with an amazing bulge. I grinned.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Mmm. This is just what I needed,’ he said, sipping from the mug I handed him. He looked up and narrowed his eyes at me, probably because I was still grinning like an idiot. ‘C’mon. Tell me why you’re laughing at me.’

  I sat on the corner of the futon, as far away from him as I could be and still be sharing the same piece of furniture. I would have sat someplace else, but spending money on furniture hasn’t exactly been a priority for me. Some people are funny about having their personal space invaded by a stranger, so I was trying to be polite even though I didn’t think Duncan was like that. Or at least I was hoping he wasn’t like that. On the other hand, I didn’t think he’d appreciate it if I just plopped myself down in his lap, either. But the thought crossed my mind.

  ‘I was just thinking that you look like a dog.’ I realised how bad that sounded as soon as the words were out of my mouth. My face flushed hotly. I was always putting my foot in my mouth like that. Honesty may be the best policy, but if I’d learned anything from the guys I had dated, sometimes honesty needed a filter which I didn’t seem to have. ‘I mean, you look like a runner, someone who is more comfortable in motion.’

  He laughed, no offence taken. ‘Yeah, that’s about right. I ran in high school and undergrad and played just about every sport my parents would let me play.’ He thumped his chest. ‘I’m still pissed my mom wouldn’t let me play football. She was afraid I would get hurt. Me. Look at me!’

  I didn’t need an invitation to look. He certainly looked capable of handling a football. Or anything else. Like me, for instance. Especially me.

  ‘And you surf,’ I said. I was just filled with witty, insightful comments. ‘I mean, you must have surfed at some point. Not a lot of surfing around here.’

  I wanted to bang my head on the hardwood floor so the word ‘surf’ would stop falling out of my mouth. No wonder I didn’t date much.

  Duncan reached over and put his hand on my thigh. He had to lean towards me to do it, and his mug looked precariously close to spilling its contents all over my dry-clean-only futon, but I didn’t give a damn. I stared at his hand on my leg, the long, tapered fingers with their short, neat nails, and I didn’t care if he drenched the futon in coffee. My entire body tensed at that gentle touch. It was ridiculous, I’d just met him, but my brain had become detached from my body, which was quivering with pent-up anticipation.

  ‘Don’t try so hard,’ he said softly.

  ‘Huh? What?’ It was as if my brain had not only shut down, it had packed a bag and left the country.

  Duncan laughed and I decided I really liked the sound, even if it was at my expense. ‘I like you, girlie. You’re cute.’

  ‘Uh, thanks, I think.’ I wasn’t entirely sure it was a compliment.

  He set his mug on the floor and scooted closer to me. I couldn’t have moved if there had been a fire in my kitchen. Or in my pants, which I was pretty sure there was. Duncan leaned over and I thought he was going to kiss me and I thought I was going to come in my panties if he did. Instead, he whispered in my ear, ‘I love rain storms. They make me horny.’

  It was a lame pick-up line. Seriously. Did he think that was all it took? Oh hell, who was I kidding? That was all it took. I’m not the type of girl who lets an opportunity slide by, especially when it looks so fucking delicious still wet from the rain. Still, I was a little annoyed he thought I was that easy.

  I turned towards him, nearly kneeing him in the groin in the process, and took his face in my hands. ‘Do you really think that’s all it takes to get in a girl’s pants? Or are the girls in New York just that easy?’

  He smirked. ‘Well, there aren’t many girls who’d stand out in the rain helping me carry my shit and then offer me coffee. I figure you’re either a really good Samaritan or you think I’m cute, too.’

  ‘You are cute,’ I said, rubbing my knuckles along his cheek. ‘You have cute dimples.’

  ‘I saw you staring at my stomach,’ he said, mirroring my moves and rubbing my cheek. ‘Aw, and now I’ve made you blush. So, should I apologise for the horny comment – or just work a little harder?’

  I smiled. ‘No need to apologise. I’m not as easy as you think I am, but I do think you’re cute.’

  ‘So I should work harder,’ he said. ‘OK, Wendy, I can do that.’

  I couldn’t stop staring at his mouth. His body had been so distracting, I hadn’t noticed his beautiful, full lips. I licked my own bottom lip just at the thought of what his mouth must feel like.

  ‘Can I kiss you?’ I asked, saying exactly what I was thinking about doing. See what I mean about not having a filter?

  ‘Yeah,’ he breathed into my mouth as I kissed him.

  Kissing Duncan was better than his mouth even looked – and that was pretty damned good. His mouth was soft and warm and wet and he leaned into me as I kissed him deeper, his hands on my hips, bracing his weight so that I knew he was there, right there, practically in my lap, kissing me harder and deeper and wetter until I was panting raggedly into his mouth and we hadn’t even touched or undressed yet.

  He must have been thinking the same thing because he ran his hands up my arms to my shoulders and down again, grazing my breasts as he went. He wrapped his hands around my waist and shifted me so that I was sitting across his lap. I sighed, happy to go wherever he wanted to put me.

  He yanked my T-shirt up, breaking our kiss only long enough to get my head through the neck hole. Then he was palming my bare breasts, kneading them almost as hard as he was kissing me, driving me to distraction so that I almost forgot he was still fully clothed. I quickly stripped his tank top off, admiring the nicely muscled chest and stomach that had been teasing me before. He was still very much the runner he had been in high school and college and didn’t have an overly muscular upper body, but I liked it. I ran my fingertips over his pecs, twirled my finger in the scattering of reddish-brown curls on his chest, trailed my fingers down to those washboard abs that intrigued me so.

  I nibbled my way down his collarbone to his chest, where I found the edge of one nipple and sucked it gently before switching to the other. My hand was on another mission, stroking circles around his belly button, scraping my nails across the flat plane of his stomach. I would have been quite content to spend the rest of the afternoon making out with Duncan if he hadn’t gotten his hand down my yoga pants and found my pussy.

  ‘God, you’re wet,’ he murmured as I nipped his shoulder in response to the fingers manipulating my folds. ‘So fucking wet.’

  I tried to get my hand in his shorts, but they were damp from the rain and too constricting.
‘And you’re hard,’ I said, biting his shoulder a little harder. ‘Get these damn shorts off so I can see.’

  We fumbled our way out of the rest of our clothing, panting and laughing as we went, a tangle of limbs and damp hair and wet pussy and hard cock on my too-small futon. It never occurred to me to move the party to my bed. I didn’t care about comfort or space or washable fabrics. I just wanted to get fucked. Fucked by Duncan.

  ‘I want to see you. Naked.’

  Duncan lay back on the futon, feet braced on the ground, thighs spread. He was stunning. I couldn’t stop staring at him, from the sprinkle of light-red hair across his upper chest and his lower belly, to the flat, muscular stomach, to the triangle of darker red hair that framed his magnificently thick cock, to the thighs and legs rippling with corded muscle. He was a naked god. And he was naked on my futon.

  ‘You are amazing.’

  I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I dropped my head between those lean thighs and licked his cock, top to bottom and back again. Slowly. So slowly. Until he was clutching at my hair and pushing his erection toward my mouth in anxious need for more than the torment I was offering him. The futon creaked as he pushed his hips up to meet my mouth and I enveloped the tip, stroking my tongue across it as I went. He moaned and made shallow thrusts as if he couldn’t help himself. I wrapped my fingers around the base of his cock to keep from gagging and guided him back as far as I could take him. That seemed to be enough because he groaned and held my head. I swallowed around him, concentrating on breathing as I held him in my throat, enjoying the way his hips quivered under me.

  I like being in charge during sex. I like going down on a man and feeling that power. And right now, with Duncan’s cock at the back of my throat, I felt all powerful. I slowly slid off his cock, leaving a trail of moisture in my wake, and looked up at him. He was gone – so far into his lust that he couldn’t even speak. He opened his mouth, shook his head and smiled. I kept staring into his eyes as I dragged my tongue across the engorged head of his cock. His eyes widened, as did his mouth, and all that came out was a groan and something that may or may not have been my name. Then I was taking him to the back of my throat again and he was doing his damnedest not to gag me as his hips starting pushing.