He wore a black linen sport coat, a cream-colored shirt, natural linen pants and those nice shoes she’d noticed from a dozen yards away. The ones he was currently kicking off as he shed his jacket. “Just helping,” he murmured, tossing his jacket on a chair. Then he lifted his arms away from his body and looked at her from under his dark brows and luscious long lashes with the hottest, sexiest look she’d ever seen, and that was counting the scene years ago from Thelma and Louise where she’d first seen Brad Pitt—where he was paying for his ride with something better than money.
“You’re really considerate,” she murmured, reaching for a button on his shirt, not sure she was going to last for the entire undressing with the hard steady throbbing between her legs.
“We try.”
“We?”
His gaze flicked down and then up again and met hers—causing her to discard her unbuttoning of his shirt and start unzipping his pants.
He was doing that mind-reading thing again, because he quickly stripped off his shirt, said, “Let me. I’m faster,” brushed her hands away and had his pants, boxers and socks off in a blur.
“Now then.” He smiled. “Standing or lying down. You’re the one giving the orders.”
“Wow,” she whispered, her gaze lifting from his erection.
“You in only your pearls and those fuck-me heels—double wow,” he said, husky and low. “I’m waitin’ for your orders, Ma’am. . . .”
She didn’t think it would really matter where she was when that enormous cock slid inside her. It was sure to be pure heaven.
His ramming speed mentality was hard-pressed to wait for an answer. He’d come here tonight for this—for her—and trailing his palms over her hips, he slid her thong down. As it dropped to the floor, he grasped her around the waist, lifted her away from the pearls lying on the carpet, set her down again and drew her close. Stroking her back in a lazy descent, his hands came to rest at the base of her spine and he kissed her lightly—waiting for her cue.
But she was way past kisses, had been since he’d said, “Do you want a ride home?” and moving her hips against his outrageously large erection pressing into her stomach, she whispered, “I can’t wait—and that’s an order.”
He laughed, her words warm on his mouth, her urgency matching his, her style of fiat like getting the newest PlayStation when you were a kid. Perfect wish fulfilment. And she was a damned convenient height in those spiky shoes—almost perfectly aligned. “At your service, boss,” he murmured, and steadying her with one hand, he bent his legs, deftly positioned the head of his penis with his other hand and took a small breath of restraint. She was flagrantly ready—slick, slippery, panting. He sent up a small prayer of thanks to the elevator gods and pushed into her welcoming body with a smooth upward thrust of his hips.
She shivered, trembled as his rigid length slowly filled her, crammed her, stretched her—her senses flame-hot, needy, feverish with longing.
She was sleek and tight, yielding bit by bit to his invasion. He shut his eyes against the wild, fevered lust exploding in his brain, and cautioned himself to prudence.
“More . . . more,” she panted.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No—no—it’s fine,” she gasped, “perfect . . .”
“Here, then . . . how’s this?” And he eased in a discreet distance more.
“Oh, God, oh, God . . .” The phrase “die of pleasure” was lit up in ten-foot neon in her brain and she panted and sighed and held on for dear life.
After a deliberate, measured forward progress, when he was almost fully submerged and she was teetering on her tiptoes impaled on his erection, he whispered, “Can you take a little more?”
Eyes shut, she nodded, believing and disbelieving, already stretched taut but wanting the staggering pleasure more. She sunk her nails into his shoulders, bracing herself.
In the grip of his own unequivocal need, he didn’t notice; he was picking her up with his hands under her bottom and lifting her up, wrapping her legs around his waist so he could thrust in deeper, hard, hard—like that . . .
She whimpered.
But she was liquid, pliant, hot, hot around his firmly lodged erection. He stayed where he was, gently rocking from side to side.
She sighed then in a low exhalation of satisfaction and kissed his neck and felt him lift her in a slow, leisurely up-and-down motion that brought her pulsing clitoris in exquisite contact with his hardness, blissfully grazed her G-spot, brought her by rapid, pulsating degrees to a sexual frenzy, drenched them both in the glossy heat of her arousal.
She was featherlight in his arms, his adrenaline pumping so fiercely he could have lifted a Mack truck, his mind focused laser-sharp on his furiously approaching climax. Quickly moving to her mirrored armoire, he braced her against the solid piece of furniture; needing more leverage and flexing his powerful thighs, he drove in deeper, wanting what the woman riding his cock with increasing wildness wanted. Now.
She suddenly went still in his arms, as though in some esoteric sexual harmony, and knowing what that meant, he stopped mid-withdrawal and plunged to meet her climax.
His intellect, too long dormant, suddenly came to life, reminding him of what he’d forgotten in this full-speed-ahead racing fuck.
A condom.
For a flashing millisecond, reason quarreled with libido—should he, shouldn’t he? Could he stop even if he wished? Did it matter at this late stage? Or more to the point, how much did it matter? Then, a pulse-beat later, the decision was taken out of his hands—she screamed a high, keening cry, her tight cunt seized his cock in a death grip, her orgasm began rippling up his hypersensitive, damned-near-ready-to-detonate penis. Ohmygod—and, breath held, his orgasm exploded in a furious, high-voltage dam-breaking deluge.
At the same instant the soft golden silk-shaded ambiance of the room was shattered by clamorous waves of Chloe’s high-pitched screams.
Not that anyone cared.
Not that anyone heard.
When he came up gasping for air, he instantly knew he’d been incredibly stupid. Resting his sweat-drenched forehead against the armoire mirror, coolheaded reason, now restored, began enumerating all the possible calamities that could befall him.
But Chloe licked a warm path up his throat a second later and hitched herself up a fraction higher and said, “Ummmm . . .” in the sexiest of whispers that made his penis instantly surge higher. His imprudent, fearless penis was apparently calling all the shots tonight, because it was rock-hard again and engulfed in the velvety sweetness of the tightest cunt he’d ever had the good fortune to bottom out in. Moving faintly as though testing his good fortune, he felt her yield infinitesimally, the lambent, honeyed friction melting through his body; the extraordinary unalloyed bliss torching his brain, and decided, what the hell. He’d see how long he could last.
Raising his head, he smiled at her. “I think we should try that bed of yours next.”
Her lashes lifted slowly. “Anything you say. . . .”
“In my current mood, you might want to rescind that statement,” he whispered, noticing the color of her eyes for the first time, thinking purple was as unusual as everything else about her.
“In my current mood, you’re going to have trouble keeping up,” she murmured, moving her hips in a slow, gliding undulation that added inches to his erection.
He laughed. “Is there a prize for the winner?”
“I’ll think of something,” she purred, feeling his laugh in the shimmering heat of her body, “on the way to the bed.”
It was his cue, and shifting her weight slightly in his arms, he turned from the mirror.
“Look,” she breathed.
His gaze swiveled around and he caught sight of them in the mirror, their bodies in profile, hers cradled in his arms, only the base of his penis and his testicles visible at the point where they were joined. He moved slightly, withdrew fractionally so they could see what he was doing to her, what she was doing to hi
m, what they were doing to each other.
She sighed and shifted downward so his penis slid back in.
He moaned deep in his throat and kept her there, his rampant erection pressed hard against her cervix.
“You’re strong,” she breathed, her eyes closing as she felt herself melting inside, quickening, shuddering with desire. “So very, very, gorgeously—strong.”
“And you’re soft.” He pulled her closer, his hands hard on her bottom. “Really soft,” he whispered, swelling larger and larger, the sensation of pleasure so intense it momentarily blotted out reality.
A pulse beat later when his brain began functioning again, he murmured, “Watch.”
“What if I don’t want to.” Teasing and playful.
“You have to or I won’t fuck you. Look, it’s all slippery and wet from you.”
She clutched at his shoulders and whimpered as he slowly withdrew.
“Are you watching?”
“Yes, yes . . . please, I want it back.”
“Like this?” He moved forward the merest distance.
“No, more . . . more.”
“Are you watching?”
“Yes, yes . . . oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” she panted as he slowly drove forward.
“More?” he whispered, her sweet-as-candy cunt doing disastrous things to his self-control—not that it was even a priority any longer.
“Please, please . . .” Obsessive, avaricious need pulsated in her whispered plea.
And he obliged her, driving into her in a fierce rhythm of thrust and withdrawal as he held her two steps and brief minutes away from where he’d just come in her—unaware of anything but his own raging lust, no longer prudent or cautious, pounding—pounding—pounding into her.
She welcomed him, opened herself to him, every cell and nerve and tissue pulsating with need; receptive, hungry, craving what he could give her, surging pleasure washing over her and through her like molten gold.
He was the one who panted this time. “I can’t wait.”
“I know,” she breathed, already floundering in the turbulent prelude to climax.
And they came a second later in an orgasm that rocked them to the core.
He looked around afterward, not sure for a second where he was, understanding a second later with a lively sense of gratitude—where he was and who he was with and where his cock was buried.
It was inside the luscious Chloe with the fuck-me shoes and the tiny pearl thong and the most seductive, obliging, indulgent, sensational body.
“My legs hurt.” She almost didn’t complain because she liked the feel of him inside her, because he’d just given her the most mind-blowing orgasms of her life and if her thighs were being torn apart, perhaps that was a small price to pay for such splendor.
“You should have said something,” he murmured, quickly moving toward the bed. But on reaching it, he hesitated. The magenta silk coverlet looked pristine while its owner had his semen dripping down her thighs.
“Pull back the covers.”
Either she could read minds or this had happened before. But he did as he was told because this definitely was not a night for undue speculation.
As he lowered her to the bed, she smiled the luxurious, gloating smile of a supremely satisfied woman. “You deserve a reward,” she purred.
“I think you already gave it to me,” he said with a grin, placing her on startlingly chartreuse sheets.
“You’re not leaving—I hope.”
“Not a chance,” he murmured, coming upright, gazing on her lush nudity. “My Pavlov reflexes are on high alert. I’m the rat, you’re the sugar pellet and I’m gonna keep pushing that feel-good button until I drop.”
She laughed. “Definitely a romantic image.”
“Speaking of romantic images,” he said with a flicker of his brows. “You’re dripping all over. Point me to the bathroom and some towels.”
“That way and there’s towels over there too.” She indicated the bathroom with a stab of her finger and the towels with a wave of her hand toward a bedside table.
He’d bet if he opened that cabinet beside the bed there would be condoms alongside the towels. Chloe definitely liked sex. Not that he was complaining.
He washed up quickly in the bathroom and then brought her both a wet and a dry towel, dropped them on her stomach, unbuckled her shoes, tossed them on the floor and lay down beside her. Turning on his side, he wiped her once wet and then dried her while she lay eyes-closed and smiling.
“Maybe you’d like to stay on as my houseboy. You’re damned good.”
“I’ve slept in the last three weeks. I’m one up on you.”
“I’m going to have to stay awake for you,” she whispered, opening her eyes as he ran his hand over her stomach to check if he’d dried all the dampness.
“I’ll have to find something to keep you awake.”
“That’s working pretty well,” she said, reaching out to run a finger down his erection.
He sucked in his breath. “He likes you.”
“The feeling’s mutual, believe me.” She ran her finger slowly around the flange bordering the large showy head of his penis, then measured the rigid length with a downward stroke. “Word of God—that is fantastic—ummm . . . look at him grow.”
He slipped a finger in her newly washed and dried cleft, found the nub of her clitoris and circled it gently, felt it lengthen under his touch, pulse, swell. She moved faintly against the pressure of his finger and moaned, a quiet, almost inaudible sound.
Within seconds, his finger was drenched, the thought of sliding inside her hot, wet cunt was too much to resist, and he eased himself between her thighs in a ripple of muscle and sinew and entered her with exquisite slowness.
“Jesus,” she whispered, arching up to meet him. “Jesus, God . . .”
He buried himself hilt deep, she sobbed—an erratic little rapturous sound—and he found the lines from “Let’s Get It On” filling his mind.
Capturing her hips, his fingers splayed wide, holding her firmly in place, he drove in deeper while she panted and whimpered and ground herself against his engorged hard length, coming before he’d even settled into a rhythm. She was definitely primed, ravenous, insatiable, but it didn’t matter because he knew how she felt.
He was going to fuck her until he couldn’t move.
That’s how it felt.
And that’s what they did until the sun came up and the birds in the trees across the street in the park reminded them it was morning.
Rising from the bed, he threw back the swagged chintz drapes and, bracing his palms on the door frame, hung there exhausted. Ravenous still. Restive and surly.
He didn’t want to leave
Not a useful feeling.
Because he had to go.
She must have felt something or seen something in his face when he turned around.
“Morning and reality—right?”
“No shit.”
“Well, thanks.” She stretched lazily. “It was worth a long wait. Definitely worth it.”
He glanced at the clock buried in bric-a-brac on the desk. “I gotta go.”
“I figured.”
“I really enjoyed—everything . . . you—the night”—he smiled—“you. Thanks.” He began gathering up his clothes.
She rolled over in bed, pulled the quilt up to her chin and let the torpor of three nearly sleepless weeks overtake her. There weren’t going to be croissants and lattes, she could tell. But everything else had been a dream come true. C’est la vie to the rest of it, she drowsily concluded.
Rocco let himself out, sullen and moody.
He didn’t want to go, but he had a breakfast appointment.
And it wasn’t as though she’d notice anyway.
Apparently she’d wanted a stud last night and the night was over.
This was a first for him.
Although, had she wanted more, he couldn’t have given it to her anyway.
His life was
unbelievably complicated right now.
Fucking-A it was.
FOUR
WHEN HE WALKED INTO HIS HOUSE, HE IMMEDIATELY picked up his phone messages. He knew he’d have a slew. Amy—predictable message—angry, hurt, crying; then Amy-Amy-Amy-Amy-Amy-ditto, ditto, ditto. She’d finally stopped calling at two in the morning. A message from his brother saying he had a call from Amy—call him back. A message from his sister saying she had a call from Amy—do not call her back; it was midnight.
He glanced at the clock. Almost eight. Apparently Amy was still sleeping. Thank God. He had time to take a shower and dress.
He was meeting Amy and her father, his sister and his brother at ten.
And then, if he could deal with what was sure to be a peevish, overindulged princess, the rest of them could discuss the particulars of the business they were about to launch. He, along with his brother and sister, were developing a line of natural shampoos, soaps and a few simple cosmetics. Amy’s father was financing half the venture. And therein lay the proverbial fly in the ointment.
His family and the Thiebauds lived in the same neighborhood when he was growing up. Amy’s older brother had been his best friend all through school, and they still got together whenever Steve was in town from Los Angeles, where he produced a segment for Fox Sports. Amy had always been the little sister who got in the way until she’d graduated college and they’d begun dating occasionally. Occasionally being the operative word.
Although she had an altogether different interpretation of their relationship.
They were meant for each other, she insisted.
They’d been soul mates since grade school, hadn’t they?
Everyone said they made the perfect couple.
A fortune teller had once told her she’d marry someone named Rocco.
Apparently, she lived in some fantasy world he didn’t inhabit.
But she’d always been her daddy’s darling, and when Rocco had talked to Jim Thiebaud about investing in their business, Amy had immediately insinuated herself into the venture. She’d model for their ads—be the marketing image like Elizabeth Hurley had been for Estée Lauder. She was blonde and beautiful and certainly suitable; she’d cajoled her daddy into endorsing the concept.
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