The Nerd Who Loved Me

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  The shower curtain tacked inside the rim of the bath-tab was opaque, dam it. She would have loved a sneak preview through a clear one. Even so, her imagination painted a vivid picture of Harry standing on the other side of that curtain, water dripping off his ... everything.

  "Who's there?" His voice rose in alarm.

  She wanted to seduce him, not scare him to death. "Just me," she said.

  "Oh." Long pause. "I, uh, thought I'd take a shower." He sounded very, very nervous.

  "I think that's a great idea. It's hot, and some cool wa­ter would feel wonderful." She stepped over to the tub.

  "I'm almost done. In fact, I've been in here long enough. If you want to have the bathroom next, I'll be out in no time. No time at all. And we need to find out what's wrong with the air conditioner." He was defi­nitely in panic mode.

  Five years was too long to go without sex. Oral sex wasn't the whole program, but she could make do with that for the time being. She reached for the shower cur­tain.

  "Lainie? Are you still out there? Listen, I was think­ing we need to figure out what to do about eating."

  "Let me give you a suggestion." She pulled aside the curtain. Oh, yeah. This would be excellent.

  She'd never seen him without his glasses, and he seemed a lot more ragged without them. He looked pretty good without clothes, too, as he stood there with water sluicing off every naked inch of him. All that wonderful equipment was just waiting for her to enjoy.

  Harry didn't have the muscle definition of a jock, but he had great shoulders and a nice chest covered with just the right amount of dark hair to make him look very male and very yummy. As the spray from the shower pat­tered all around her, dampening her skin and making her nipples tighten even more, she pondered her next move.

  As for Harry, he wasn't moving at all. He clutched a washcloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other while he stared at her with a shell-shocked expression. If she hadn't been so sexually excited, she might have laughed. His frozen stance looked like a risque addition to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum. He could be titled Man in Shower.

  Then a part of him moved, the part that interested her the most right now. If she got the attention of that cer­tain part, they were in business. Sure enough, in no time that area of his anatomy was fully deployed and ready for action. Now he could be titled Aroused Man in Shower.

  He must have been squeezing the bar of soap really hard, though, because suddenly it squirted out of his hand and smacked against the wall of the tub enclosure. They both jumped at the loud noise.

  Then they spoke at once.

  "Lainie, I—"

  "Harry, I want—"

  He gulped and spoke again. "I'm not sure this is a good idea."

  She glanced down at his rigid penis. "Then you'd bet­ter have a talk with your buddy."

  "Any man who opened a shower curtain and found you naked on the other side would have this reaction." His chest rose and fell with his rapid breathing.

  She gazed into his eyes. "I have two things to say to you. First of all, I don't want a relationship, so don't worry about repercussions. I want one meaningless or­gasm. Just one. Then we'll go back to our regularly scheduled program. Second of all, it's been five years since any man has seen me naked and vice-versa. I'm a sex-starved woman."

  His gaze locked with hers and his throat moved in a slow swallow. "I... I see."

  "I hope so. You'll love this, Harry. And so will I." She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his thick penis, using it as a grab-bar. "I'm coming in, ready or not. But I think you're more than ready."

  She had that right. He'd been hovering on the edge of readiness for weeks and had stepped over the line into complete readiness several times in the past few hours. When she grabbed hold of him and lifted one long leg over the edge of the tub, he surrendered with a groan.

  The washcloth dropped with a splat into the water swirling over the bottom of the tub as he reached for her. He needed both hands free, one to cup her head and one to explore all the magical territory he'd dreamed of every time he'd watched her dance. Her breasts alone were enough to keep him occupied for a very long time. Fin­gers splayed, he reverently curved his hand over one gen­erous breast as the blood surged through his body in a tsunami wave of lust.

  She still had a firm hold of his penis as he backed her against the wet marble and gazed down at her flushed face. He could barely believe that he was about to satisfy every craving he'd had, starting with kissing those full lips. But she'd have to let go of him or he wouldn't make it through even a kiss without coming.

  "Turn me loose," he murmured, his voice thick and a little shaky with anticipation. "I promise I'm not going anywhere."

  "But I love the feel of you." She rubbed her thumb along the underside of his shaft. "It's been so long."

  "Then maybe you've forgotten what's liable to hap­pen if you keep that up."

  "No." Her smile was one-hundred-proof seduction. "I haven't forgotten." She began to stroke him more firmly.

  He closed his eyes as an orgasm rushed closer. "Lainie, stop." Reaching down, he held her wrist. "Or I'll come."

  "Maybe I want that. Maybe I want to make you lose control."

  He tightened his grip on her wrist. "No, not yet. You're the one who's gone five years without sex. And besides, the man's supposed to satisfy the woman first, so you need to let me—"

  "No, you let me." She tugged his head down and brushed her mouth against his, teasingly. "Here's the deal. I know for a fact that if you let go now, you'll be able to spend more time on me. I'm being selfish, actually."

  Before his brain completely left the building, he checked out her premise and found it worthy.

  "Kiss me, Harry. Kiss me while I make you come."

  So that's how their first kiss turned out. He let go of her wrist, let go of his expectations of himself and let go of his control. Bracing both hands on the marble behind her head, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  She kissed him hard, and he kissed her back just as hard, thrusting his tongue inside as she gave him the most amazing hand job of his life. This wouldn't be an episode where he polished his reputation as a guy who could outlast anyone. But, ah, hell, who cared? What she was doing to him was beyond fantastic.

  Maybe later on he'd be embarrassed by how easily she'd worked him up, but for the moment he was having a terrific time kissing her and abandoning himself to this headlong rush to an orgasm. Then he was there, and he had to stop kissing her so he could gasp for breath between groans of ecstasy.

  He came so hard his ears buzzed, but that didn't block out her soft laugh of delight.

  "Wonderful," she said. "Just wonderful. Oh, Harry, I'm having so much fun."

  He couldn't speak for her, but he was already having more fun than should be legal. She'd asked for one mean­ingless orgasm, but he doubted he could stop with just one. Not when he had a shaving kit full of eight condoms.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lainie hadn't planned her seduction quite that way, but once she'd laid her hands on Harry's stiff penis, she'd felt compelled to see what she could do with it. Maybe she'd been challenged to break through Harry's straight-arrow persona and find the wild man she sensed lurking under all that buttoned-down behavior.

  Mission accomplished, at least for this little space of time in the cool water streaming out of the shower. He re­mained with his hands braced on the marble behind her head and his eyes squeezed shut as he fought for breath. She wondered if he knew how vulnerable he looked. In the aftermath of an orgasm that had left him trembling, he probably didn't even care.

  But it was a defining moment for her, because she was seeing a side of him that she guessed not many people did. It was a side that she could get quite fond of, and that could be dangerous. She couldn't get too fond of Harry.

  He opened his eyes, blinked and shook his head. "Wow."

  "You liked that?"

  "Oh, yeah." His gaze traveled down her body. "But it looks like I ba
ptized you in the process." He seemed al­most proud of the fact.

  She smiled, thinking how cute he was after a climax. "Fortunately we're standing in the shower."

  "So we are." Pushing away from the wall, he turned, stepped into the spray, and snagged the washcloth where it lay on the floor of the tub.

  When he returned to her, his hair was plastered to his head and water dripped from his eyelashes. "We should call the Guinness Book of World Records. This could end up being the longest shower in history."

  And she didn't want him feeling guilty about that later. She wasn't sure where he stood on the ecology is­sue of it all. "Want to shut off the water?"

  "No." He stroked the wet washcloth over her breasts. "Some things are more important than water conserva­tion."

  She had to agree. No man had ever sponged her down before, and she wanted him to have all the water he needed for the job. The cotton terry moving over her nip­ples had never had that effect when she was using a wash­cloth. Then again, she'd never lingered over the process. And Harry was a man with a surprising talent for linger­ing, given how efficient he was normally.

  "Your skin turns rosy pink when I do this." He re-wet the washcloth in the cool spray and rubbed lazy circles over her breasts and tummy, paying special attention to her nipples.

  She sighed at the unaccustomed pleasure of being ca­ressed. "I have ... sensitive skin." How she'd lived for five years without a man's touch, she'd never know. This was pure heaven.

  "Am I being too rough?"

  "No ... oh, no." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the marble. "I—I love it," she admitted.

  "I thought so. Every once in a while you make this little hum deep in your throat."

  She hadn't even been aware of doing it. Eyes still closed, she focused on the texture of the washcloth mov­ing over her skin. Then an even better tactile sensation joined the caress of the cotton terry. He began following the path of the washcloth with his tongue. When he reached her nipple, he paused to suck on it for a while.

  Yes. In the years since she'd experienced this, she'd forgotten the incredible sensation that suction could pro­duce, how it could zing straight down between her legs and nudge her closer to a climax. As if reading her mind, he moved the washcloth between her thighs.

  The first stroke of the wet cloth made her gasp and open her eyes. She'd nearly come with that single touch. She was on fire. With a soft groan he dropped the wash­cloth and sank to his knees in front of her. With the last bit of her restraint she managed not to beg him to hurry.

  Water pelted his head and shoulders as he hunched down and leaned in. Then he settled his mouth right where she wanted it, and in seconds she arched against him, cry­ing out in ecstasy as wave upon wave tore through her grateful body. At last. At long last a man's tongue had re­placed a vibrator as her source of pleasure.

  Even more wonderful, the man in question knew in­stinctively what to do with his tongue. As she started sinking back to earth, Harry zeroed in and took her up again. She clutched his head and called out his name, delighted more than he could know that her bodyguard seemed to have a gift for oral sex.

  After presenting her with a second glorious climax, he rose from his knees and kissed her full on the mouth. She wrapped her arms around his slick shoulders and clung to him, dizzy with appreciation. That's when she became aware that he was sporting another powerful erection. Apparently the orgasmic urge was catching.

  He lifted his mouth from hers and gasped for air. "Time to move to dry land."

  She'd meant to end with one climax apiece, but he'd actually given her two, so how could she leave him in this condition? Her body vibrated with aftershocks, and she felt a real obligation to return the favor. She watched him turn around and shut off the water, and this time she had the presence of mind to admire his butt. Great butt.

  Apparently he had to come back for some more mouth-to-mouth before he could go on with whatever plan he had. Once again he pressed her up against the marble wall and kissed her like there was no tomorrow.

  "I thought... you wanted to get out," she managed to say when they came up for air.

  "I do." He cupped her breasts in both hands and squeezed as he nipped at her earlobe. "But I can't seem to stop touching you. One look at you and I have to have more. And more, and more. Mm." He leaned down and sucked on her breast.

  She was in pleasure overload, but surely his package needed relief. She began to fondle him, thinking that this time she'd treat him to a blow job. "I want to give you—"

  "I have a plan," he murmured against her breast. With a groan he released her. "I have to stop kissing you or I'll never... okay ... stay there ..." He stepped out of the tab and skidded on the wet floor as he hurried to­ward the sink.

  "Harry! Be careful!" Deciding the tub situation was becoming way too dangerous, she climbed out and grabbed a towel. It was skimpy, but it would have to do. She threw it on the wet floor so neither one of them would fall. Besides, the towel would cushion her knees while she took care of that big ol' erection of his. She sank down on her heels, preparing to coax him to come over and let her make him happy.

  But as she glanced up, she noticed that he'd grabbed the small black case that had been sitting on the bath­room floor. He dumped the contents, which bounced off the counter. And just like that, black condom packets lit­tered the white tile floor.

  He didn't give her time to think about that strange turn of events, because he was already ripping a packet open and rolling a condom over his penis, which redi­rected her thoughts to the obvious conclusion that she was about to have a complete sexual experience. They could make each other happy simultaneously, and that was worth waiting for.

  She started to get up from the floor. "The bed?"

  "Right here." His voice rasped with need.

  Then right here it would be. She wasn't particular. So what if her head was on the hard tile and the towel was already soggy from all the water they'd sprayed on the floor? She had Harry fully aroused and fully protected, and life didn't get much better than that.

  Once she was horizontal he got to his knees and moved in, parting her thighs and bracing his hands on either side of her, gazing down with enough heat to melt the polar ice cap. He was breathing hard. "I've never done it on a bathroom floor." Then, with one push he was inside her.

  She'd never done it on a bathroom floor, either, and it might not have been her first choice. But she would have risked a bed of nails to experience this—the slide of a warm, thick penis deep into her vagina. Oh, yes. And when it came to using his equipment, Harry had instincts that she'd bet he wasn't even aware of.

  There was nothing calculated, nothing mechanical about his strokes. For all his desperation to get inside, once he was there he tuned in and created a rhythm that was all about her needs. This kind of empathy couldn't be taught.

  She blossomed beneath him, gripping him so she could feel the muscles moving in his butt. Each thrust was a miracle of sensual delight as he took his cue from her eyes, her breathing, her little cries of delight.

  She loved the wild abandon of dancing, but this ... this had dancing beat by a country mile. And here came another orgasm, riding in on the shaft of his penis. Deliri­ous with joy, she made the tiny space ring with her cries.

  Only then did Harry's rhythm change. As he in­creased the pace, she knew he'd returned the focus to himself, but for all that time until she came, he'd con­centrated on her. What a guy. And he deserved a rousing finale to such a great performance.

  Lifting her hips, she met each stroke with an answer­ing swivel. He groaned and pumped faster. She kept the action going, calling on her dance training to give him the ride of his life.

  He began to pant, and his eyes glazed over. They moved faster, and faster yet. When he came, his roar of satisfaction told her all she needed to know. She'd pleased him a great deal. And pleasing Harry was a worthy goal.

  Joey parked his rental car in front of the condo address
the PI had given him. Nice place, but nothing spectacu­lar. He'd done the right thing getting the medium-priced bouquet of mixed blooms at the grocery store instead of paying florist prices. If he'd been trying to butter up his own mother instead of Harry Ambrewster's, he'd be looking at first-cut roses in a gold box, with a price tag to match.

  Too bad his mother didn't run the Benjamin, Inc., op­eration instead of his father. Joey could always get around her, but Doyle Benjamin was another story. Still, if Joey showed up with a four-year-old son and could put the right spin on how he happened to have said son, Doyle might be so excited about a male heir that all Joey's previous transgressions would be forgotten.

  Once that happened, Joey would go through his mother to get the necessary cash to pay off his debts. He had one more week to deliver the money. If he didn't come up with it by then ... He didn't want to think about what they'd do to him.

  Popping a breath mint into his mouth, Joey picked up the bouquet and climbed out of the car. He missed his Vette and had thought about renting something more ex­citing than an Escort, but he'd finally decided against spending the money. Someday he'd be able to stop nickel-and-diming every situation, but first he had to get Dexter on board.

  He crunched down on the breath mint so he'd be finished with it by the time he got to the front door. He wanted his speech to be clear and his manner pleasant. Her name was Rona. He needed to remember that and call her by her first name. And smile. Hell, he could do this.

  Even so, his palms were sweaty by the time he rang the doorbell. So much was riding on him getting his kid back, and he wasn't even positive Dexter was inside this condo. But if he was, then Joey was taking him out, to­day. Enough of this Vegas trip.

  The woman who came to the door looked damned good for someone in her fifties. If Joey had met her in a bar, he might have considered hitting on her. His mother didn't look that perky, but then, she had to live with Doyle.

  "Rona Ambrewster?" Joey said, giving her his charm-the-birds-from the-trees grin. "I understand you're baby­sitting my son, and I brought these as a gesture of my appreciation." He held out the flowers and waited for her to smile back. Women usually smiled back at him.