Good to Be Bad (Double Dare Book 1)

by Patricia Ryan

  He kept on in that vein, whispering provocative things no man had ever whispered to her before in that deep, soothing drawl, pushing against her, coaxing her closer and closer to fulfillment;

  She felt it gathering, felt her heart swelling painfully, her entire body taut and shuddering. He held her tight, murmuring, “That’s right. Let go. Just let go.”

  When it happened, he closed his mouth over hers, muffling her cries. She bucked beneath him with astonished pleasure. It roared through her, rocking her with its force.

  “Ah,” he said quietly as her climax diminished. “Yes. That was so sweet. You’re so beautiful, so responsive. I want you so much—more than ever now.” He kissed her cheek as she lay panting and overwhelmed and vaguely stunned. “And you know what?”

  She looked up at him, hovering over her with a boyish smile on his way-too-handsome face. “What?”

  “The best is yet to come.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But first—” he rolled off of her and stood “—I need to get something.” He reached down to brush his knuckles over her cheek, then crossed to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  Emma sat up, dazed and sweat dampened and struggling to keep the room from swimming in different directions. She noticed her reflection in the mirror and smiled. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkled, her clothes and hair were in complete disarray. She looked like she’d been having way too good a time.

  “The best is yet to come,” she informed her reflection with a bleary smile. Standing awkwardly, she stretched her back, her gaze on the bathroom door. Emma knew what Gage had gone to get, of course. It was a good thing he’d thought of protection—and had some at hand, apparently—because it had, foolishly, been the last thing on her mind.

  Protection. Condoms. Emma realized she was nibbling on that bottom lip, and forced herself to stop. Would he put it on, or would he expect her to? Could she fake expertise at something she’d never done before? The mechanics of prophylactics—not to mention the entire sexual act—suddenly struck her as unfathomable. Oh, she’d read the how-to books with the semitasteful, soft-focus drawings of wholesome couples pretzeled together in presumed ecstasy, but lacking any actual hands-on experience, as it were, could she pull off the pretense that she knew what she was doing? Or would she look like an idiot?

  Crossing on unsteady legs to the table, she tilted the bottle of Jack Daniels over her glass and poured.

  GAGE CURSED A BLUE STREAK as he rummaged through his dopp kit “Where the hell are you when I need you?” he growled, upending the kit and dumping its contents all over the vanity. His badger shaving brush and vitamin jar rolled onto the floor.

  “Fuck me sideways.” Where were they? It had been months since he’d last used them, but he could swear they were in there. He sorted through his meager toiletries, spreading them out, taking his time, wondering what the hell he was doing anyway, and thinking maybe it was all for the best, this was probably a bad idea.

  He’d known her for what? A few hours? He’d never in his life gone to bed with a woman on such short acquaintance. All right, once, but he’d been sixteen and it had been Tijuana and his first time, and it had cost him a month’s allowance.

  Okay, twice if you counted that redhead in Fort Worth who’d jumped him in the Crawfords’ pantry while they were singing “Happy Birthday” in the dining room.

  But those had been two isolated and unrepresentative episodes. In general Gage Foster was really not a very big fan of casual sex. Of course, he wasn’t too keen on commitment, either; when and if he married again, it was going to be for real, like with his parents. Having found the vast borderland between one-nighters and till-death-do-us-part rife with land mines of one sort and another, his sex life consisted essentially of one long dry spell punctuated by the occasional short-term relationship based on guess what.

  Another thing, Gage mused as he arranged and rearranged the items strewn on the vanity. Zara Sutcliffe wasn’t exactly his type, not by a long shot. At thirty-five, his tastes were pretty well set. He knew what he liked: real women; honest, dependable, down-to-earth women who didn’t play games and get all het up over nothing. Pretty was a given; he liked them pretty—to pretend otherwise would be bullshit—but he didn’t like the kind of pretty that came out of a bottle, never had. He thought the sexiest thing a woman could wear was a white T-shirt and a pair of Levi’s, the button-fly kind. He loved undoing those buttons; just thinking about it got him hard.

  What he’d always disliked in a woman was artifice of any kind. Hair spray turned him off. Ditto Ringling Brothers makeup. And clothes that made a woman look like she couldn’t take a full breath.

  Gage pictured Zara Sutcliffe in her snug, yellow leather suit and thought, well, maybe it was okay if he was the one who had trouble breathing.

  Zara Sutcliffe. He’d once heard it said that the perfect woman was a cross between a stripper and a kindergarten teacher. That was a pretty fair description of Zara Sutcliffe, and he had to admit, he was way more taken with her than he should be, given he’d only just met her. And given that whole weird evil-twin thing, which, thankfully, she seemed to have abandoned.

  She was an enigma, plain and simple—a fusion of sweet and sexy that spun his wheels faster than they’d been spun in a long time. Her responsiveness, once she’d relaxed enough to let go of herself, had excited him intensely. He was used to women who’d ridden around the paddock a few times; when it came to sex, they went through the well-rehearsed motions. Zara, on the other hand, seemed to drink up everything they did together, as if the whole thing were a process of discovery and not the same old same old. There was something almost touching about that sensual wonderment. Only thing was, he couldn’t quite figure out how a sexually experienced woman could still be so endearingly naive.

  Nothing about her made good sense, yet everything about her turned him on.

  Strangely enough, it was her sweetness that got to him most. She had a kind of insightful innocence he’d never encountered before. It made him want to wrap himself around her.

  And bury himself deep inside her.

  Ah! There was a little half-hidden compartment inside the dopp kit that he rarely used. Gage grabbed the kit and unzipped the compartment. “Gotcha!” He slid out the strip of condoms, grinning in anticipation, his misgivings vaporizing in a heartbeat.

  He flung open the bathroom door to find Zara leaning against the little table in the middle of the room, a glass to her mouth. When she saw him, she lowered it; about a finger of bourbon remained in it. She blinked at the strip of condoms in his hand and then swiftly chugged down the rest of her drink.

  “Whoa.” Shoving the condoms in his back pocket, he crossed to her in two strides, confiscated the glass and screwed the top back on the bottle. “Looks like we’re down a quart,” he said, inspecting the level of bourbon remaining. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “I’m jus’ trying to... you know. Relax.” Her eyes shifted in an obvious struggle to focus on him.

  Uh-oh. “Zara, Zara, Zara.”

  “What?”

  “Sweetie, it looks to me like you may have gotten... a little too relaxed.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked thickly. “I’m fine. I feel great.” She waved her arm, almost throwing herself off balance.

  “That’s terrific.” He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. “I’m very happy for you.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” She shook him off, turned and walked slowly back to the chaise longue, her movements very deliberate and oddly graceful in the manner of one determined to appear sober despite a stratospheric blood-alcohol concentration.

  How had this happened without his catching on? He’d had other things on his mind, that’s how. Even so, Zara’s inebriation had obviously snuck up on her. You’d think a woman like her would be acclimatized to alcohol, but then she seemed to be just full of surprises.

  This, of course, was one of her more unpleasant ones, he reflected as she staggered in slow mo
tion to the chaise and sank down on it Closing her eyes, she swayed ever so slightly.

  “Damn.”

  She squinted at him. “What?”

  He made himself smile as he walked toward her. “Damn, you’re pretty.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” He sat next to her and curled an arm around her shoulder. “ Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m gonna lay you down, and I don’t want you to get dizzy.”

  “Oh,” she said, as if this made perfect sense, which in fact it did.

  She closed her eyes. He lowered her gently onto her back. When she tried to open her eyes, he whispered, “Shh. Keep them closed. Just for a minute.”

  “Why?” she mumbled.

  “It’s a surprise. You’ll see.” He stroked her face lightly, and then her throat, as her breathing slowed.

  “When’s the s’prise coming?”

  “Soon. Just relax.”

  Within about sixty seconds, her breathing was deep and steady. “Zara,” he whispered. No response. She was out for the count.

  “Surprise,” he murmured. He kissed her cheek for no very good reason except that he felt drawn to do it. Then he went over to the big four-poster bed, pulled down the covers to expose the white cotton bottom sheet, and plumped the pillows.

  “Okay, sweetheart, it’s bedtime.” He lifted her like a baby, marveling at how light she was, and laid her on the bed.

  And then he stepped back and assessed the situation.

  She was still fully dressed. He could leave her that way, but that suit was tight and it was leather and he just couldn’t see it. So he’d have to undress her. At least partially. No two ways about it, he had to take her clothes off. Shit, he had an obligation to do it.

  So do it.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and took hold of the jacket’s scooped neckline to unsnap it, his fingers sliding beneath the garment’s silken lining and the warm, unbelievably soft upper slopes of her breasts.

  But be cool about it. You’re a doctor, remember?

  Ex-doctor.

  Whatever, be cool.

  Pop. Pop. The top two snaps released and the leather sprang open, revealing a minimal black satin bra ornamenting just about the jauntiest little round breasts he’d ever seen.

  Dr. Foster took a deep, calming breath and popped open the remaining snaps. Rolling her gently from side to side, he managed to remove the jacket, which he hung over the back of a chair.

  She had square little shoulders with just the right amount of muscle, elegant collarbones, those too-perfect breasts that made his hands itch—you’re a doctor, you’re a doctor—and a nice, delicate little waist. Slender but very, very feminine. Just right.

  She stirred, mumbled something and then quieted.

  Now for the skirt. It snapped up the front, too. Gage flexed his fingers.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  Hmm. More black satin.

  Pop.

  Pop.

  He opened the skirt, now just a rectangle of yellow leather lined in matching silk, with some darts in it for shape. She wore tiny black satin bikini panties that barely covered what they needed to, and a matching garter belt, sans stockings, of course.

  “Jesus Christ and General Jackson,” he murmured. Woman, couldn’t you have waited till later to get falling-down drunk? Trying not to think about what could have been, Gage gingerly slid the skirt from beneath her.

  She muttered something. It sounded like “Two mill’n dollars, who’d pay two mill’n dollars for that?”

  Gage had gotten the skirt mostly out from under her when she grumbled something unintelligible and rolled away from him, onto her side.

  He gaped. Those little panties didn’t even cover what they needed to in back. On glorious display was a truly spectacular ass, small and tight with a pair of pronounced lateral lumbar indentations—“dimples of Venus,” as his anatomy instructor had referred to them—just above the half-exposed cleft. They were a genetic trait, one that Gage had always found inexplicably erotic. He really wished she hadn’t gone and gotten herself totally blotto before he had a chance to get better acquainted with them.

  The moral and upstanding part of him—well, more than one part of him was upstanding right now, but the part of him that still had some grip on propriety—tossed the skirt onto the chair, pulled the covers up over her, grabbed one of the pillows and the coverlet and dumped them on the chaise longue.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen this way, he thought as he stripped down and settled in on the narrow little couch, his feet hanging off the end, knowing he’d never get comfortable here and resigning himself to a long, sleepless night thinking about you know who and you know what.

  I said, “Pretty please.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  GAGE WOKE UP, so he knew he must have finally gotten to sleep. It was dark in the room, because of those heavily lined drapes, but it felt like morning. Hearing muffled sounds, he shifted, every bone in his body aching from way too long a night on way too short a “bed.” A ribbon of light glowed at the bottom of the bathroom door.

  She was awake. He felt around listlessly in the heap of clothes on the floor next to him until he located his phone and squinted at it: 7:14. There was a lamp on a little table nearby, and he stretched to turn it on. Tossing aside the coverlet, he lowered his feet to the carpet, groped around for his boxer briefs and stood to shake them out.

  “Oh!”

  Gage turned to find Zara in the open doorway of the bathroom, looking pretty as hell—if a tad pale—with a white bath towel wrapped around her and her hair wet and combed back. Sweet-scented steam wafted out around her.

  Color suffused her face as she scanned the length of his naked body, and then she abruptly wheeled around. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he drawled groggily, stepping into the shorts and pulling them up. “I’m not bashful.” But she was, he noted with interest as she nervously tucked her towel in tighter. She was completely flummoxed. Not quite how he would have expected Zara Sutcliffe to react—especially after last night. “How are you feeling?”

  “My stomach’s bothering me, and I’ve got a headache.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “How did you sleep?” she asked stiffly. Something was bothering her. Maybe she didn’t remember everything that happened last night; or maybe she did.

  “Just dandy,” he lied. He would have slept fine—he’d slept in worse places, God knew—if only he hadn’t spent hour after hour lying there with a blue-steel hard-on, thinking about her underneath those sheets in about half an ounce of black satin and nothing else. “You can turn around now,” he said. “I got all the scary parts covered up.”

  Zara cast him a droll look as she turned to face him, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. “I’m finished in there,” she said, nodding toward the bathroom. “It’s all yours if you want it. I’ll just get dressed out here.”

  Even half-awake, Gage knew she was angling for some privacy. Muttering his thanks, he pulled a clean pair of shorts out of the dresser and padded to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He laid his fresh underwear on the vanity next to something gold—her earrings, he saw, lifting one to examine it. It was heavy, with dangling bits that rattled softly as he turned it this way and that. Despite his aversion to artifice in women, he did have a weakness for big earrings like this, the kind that tickled a woman’s shoulders.

  Something black and glimmery hung on the inside of the door—her underthings. He plucked them off, intrigued by their airy seductiveness. There wasn’t much to the panties, and the garter belt held no surprises, but that perky little bra was just a marvel of structural engineering. In the midst of his dopey ruminations on the mysteries of intimate attire in the 21st century, it occurred to him that Zara would probably need these.

  He cracked open the door and peeked out. She was standing near the be
d with her back to him, wearing the little yellow skirt and shrugging the jacket on over her bare back.

  She must have sensed him watching her, because she turned around, holding the jacket closed with both hands. “Yes?”

  “You... left these in here.” He held the undergarments out to her. “I thought you might, uh... want them.” Although she’d gotten dressed without them. For the life of him, Gage couldn’t keep himself from... hell, he was leering at her, inspecting her up and down while he tried to internalize the fact that she wasn’t wearing a single thing—not a stitch—under that provocative little outfit. Even the skinned knees didn’t compromise the effect.

  She bit her lip; she really should cut that out.

  “I just showered,” she said, blushing again. “I didn’t want to put on yesterday’s underwear after I’d showered.”

  “Right. Okay. Sure. Just checking.” Gage closed the bathroom door and rested his forehead against it. “Go away,” he muttered at the erection straining his briefs. “Come back when I’ve got a job for you. Until then, you’re off the payroll.”

  He could, of course, simply waltz back in there, in all his tumescent eagerness, and try to take up where they’d left off last night—a tempting scenario, but one riddled with pitfalls. If she didn’t remember what happened last night, she’d probably slap him for coming on to her this morning. If she did remember, then she most likely regretted it, judging from how stressed-out she seemed, and wouldn’t be in any mood for a reenactment.

  The prudent course of action was to shock this pesky boner into submission with a nice, cold shower and banish all libidinous thoughts from his mind until such time as he and the singular Ms. Sutcliffe parted company. As casual hook-ups went, she wasn’t that smart a choice to begin with, seeing as how she had designs on him as a client and—

  She wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  He barely knew her—

  Not a stitch. No bra, no panties.

  Nada.

  Gage twisted the cold water on in the shower, kicked off his shorts and got in.