by Tina Donahue
Lauren blew out a breath. “You came back.”
“Yeah, my shift’s not over.” He glanced around and panicked. “Is Clover in the break room or john?”
“Why?” Lauren frowned. “You’re not planning to talk to her, are you?”
At what sounded like an accusation, he stepped back. “I was simply asking. She’s not on either sofa out here waiting for me like she said she would.”
“I told her to use my office. You’ll see her as soon as we close.”
Fully nude and grinning like him. He hoped. Wait. “How’d you know we’d be leaving together?”
Lauren paled.
Jasmina gestured to her computer. “She didn’t book you yet for a tat. We guessed you’d be discussing designs after hours.”
He hoped she wasn’t lying. If she was, he prayed they hadn’t watched and listened in while he and Clover had talked. His shaky confidence didn’t need another hit.
He escaped to his workstation.
In between inking clients, he did what came naturally and what he was good at: scouring his designs and ideas, searching for the perfect tat for her.
Everything came up wanting, the images too garish, bright, or big for her slender form. He changed course to geometric and stylized figures in black, gray, or dark blue. They fit her better but still weren’t ideal.
Lost in his search, he forgot to check the time. The ever-present music switched off. Several light raps sounded. He glanced over.
Clover stood in his doorway, parasol at her side. She chewed her lower lip and looked as awkward as he felt. “Ready?”
More than she might ever know or want. “Sure. Wait. Come here. I’d like to show you something for your tat.” An idea he’d come across.
“Is it only on your computer, or can we look it up at my place?”
“It’s online. I also have images on my phone.”
“Good. We’ll check it out later. Let’s go. I have a surprise for dinner.”
He switched off his computer. “You weren’t in Lauren’s office? You went back to your place and cooked?”
Her laugh pealed through the room. “I’d have to learn how to first. I ordered from Castillo’s.”
His number one choice for food. “I’ll pay.”
“No. It’s already taken care of. But we have only a half hour before they deliver.”
And after that, the entire night to talk art, become friends, then play like adults. He wanted to take her hand but wasn’t sure if he should.
She led the way down the hall. Lauren and Jasmina stood sentinel at the front door. His face burned. This was almost as bad as his senior prom when his parents arranged for his second cousin to be his date, insisting he couldn’t stay home and play with his silly art projects instead.
Good times.
“Have a nice night.” Lauren squeezed Clover’s shoulder, then his.
Jasmina grinned knowingly.
They had watched him and Clover.
Wanting to die, he couldn’t flee quickly enough and pulled in the soupy outside air, his skin clammy, palms sweaty. He wiped them on his jeans. The condom wrappers rustled.
Clover looked at him. Her eyes reflected the tiny white lights that graced storefronts and restaurants, decorations reminiscent of Christmas. “Do you like hot weather?”
He loathed it. “Do you?”
“I’ve gotten used to it. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you I don’t use my air-conditioning.”
“Why?”
“Can’t afford it. But I do have several fans. Do you mind?”
He would have crawled over molten lead and glass shards to be with her. “Nope. I should spring for dinner if you’re having problems paying your electric bill.”
“No. My treat. Please. Don’t make me hurt you.”
He laughed. “Okay.”
She smiled.
They fell into a mostly comfortable silence, the velvety night pressing close. Reggae pumped from a Jamaican restaurant. Laughter rang out. Garlic, curry chicken, and beef scents wafted by. Young and old couples strolled past, the mature ones holding hands, the others kissing.
Clover touched Van Gogh’s arm. Pleasure sizzled down his chest and spine. His balls and cock sprang to attention.
“That’s me. Or rather, us.” She pointed at an older two-story building.
Its ground floor hosted an upscale gift shop with a vintage sign that read Alice’s Wonderland. An older woman with gray hair smiled sweetly from the front window, late customers behind her still perusing the wares.
“That’s Alice, my landlady. She’s super nice. Wave. Please.”
He did.
Alice returned the greeting.
Van Gogh craned his neck. “Does she have your jewelry in the window?”
“Near the register for impulse purchases.”
There couldn’t have been as many as Clover had implied earlier, or with her other outlets, if she’d had trouble paying her utility bills. He trekked up the outside stairs behind her, his damp top clinging to his back. If things heated up between them, maybe he could encourage her to turn on the juice and let him spring for it.
She stopped at a door on the left. Several white bags with Castillo’s logo stood to the side. “Wow, they’re faster than Domino’s. Hungry?”
He wasn’t—for food. The muggy air and heat intensified her fragrance, the scent surrounding him. He inhaled deeply. “You?”
“I could eat. Come on.”
“Wait. I have it.” He gathered the bags and tried not to stare at her place. The dining area, kitchen, and bedroom flowed into one another, the bathroom walled off to the side. An old-fashioned spread sporting lace and ribbons covered her mattress. Large enough for two.
Even in his wildest fantasies, he hadn’t expected this.
He pulled his gaze away before she caught him staring and hesitated putting the bags on the long table. Pliers, scissors, hammers, and wire took up the space. Serial killer tools if not for the glue gun, beads, and other artsy stuff next to them.
“Put the food on the bed.” She opened another window and turned on the fans. “We can eat there.”
If he could get anything down his throat. His hands shook so badly, the bags rustled as he lowered them to the mattress.
“Would you like something to drink? Beer? Ice water? Apple juice?”
Water was probably the best bet to keep him from melting, but his hammering pulse demanded booze. “A beer. Thanks.”
She tossed her silver bracelet on the table.
He cleared his throat. “Do you want to use plates or eat from the, ah, the…”
Clover dropped her tank top on the chair. She hadn’t worn a bra. Her breasts were firm, nipples surprisingly large, pink, and puckered despite the outrageous heat.
Every word he’d ever known evaporated. His mouth went dry.
“Eat from what?” She kicked off her sandals and slipped out of her shorts.
She hadn’t worn panties, either. Dark curls hugged her mound.
He reeled.
She padded to him, naked as the day she was born.
His heart slammed into his chest.
“Go on and undress.” She cradled his sweaty cheek. “It’s okay. It’s hot in here.”
Chapter Five
Clover had never been as warm. Her condition had nothing to do with the oppressive temperature. Yearning filled her, her need deep enough to hurt and make her bolder than she’d already been with him. She hadn’t planned to strip or come on quite as strong as she did now. Somehow it seemed right.
Given her background and upbringing, ditching her clothes certainly wasn’t unusual.
She stroked Van Gogh’s achingly soft lips.
His lids fluttered. A rough groan poured from him, the sound glorious. What she hoped would mark an end to her loneliness and wanting. Unable to stop herself any longer, she dove in for a kiss.
He stilled, then slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, cut
ting off escape.
She wasn’t going anywhere else tonight.
They sagged to the bed. Their dinner spilled on the floor, the bags smacking, paper crackling.
Pressed close, he plunged his tongue inside her mouth. Taking, not asking. Using. Pleasuring.
No way was he shy. He freaking rocked this.
Thrilled, she suckled him deep and held tight, his shoulders hard as stone, muscles bunched. So damned masculine they stole what scant breath she had.
He angled his head right then left, seeking deeper penetration. Filling her as no other man could. Proof how perfect he was, right up there with the gods. If she could have made a sound, she might have squealed. Surrender became her only option. His hair brushed her cheeks in a gentle caress. His stubble scoured them. She welcomed the biting rasp and clasped his skull, keeping him at his task.
Their kiss grew frenzied. They rolled from side to side.
She wrapped her leg around his.
He ground his cock into her mound and grabbed her breast.
There wasn’t much for him to hold on to but he cupped the small globe, flicking his thumb over her puckered nipple.
Riotous pleasure tore through Clover, pulling soul-deep desire from her core, where she’d hidden her feelings for too long. Not anymore. This was their night to enjoy, indulge, and begin a journey she couldn’t wait to take. One she hoped wouldn’t end.
She gripped his hair and crushed her mouth against his, her teeth cutting into her bottom lip. A small price to pay for such delight.
He grunted and rolled them over, her on the bottom, him on top, pure caveman. There wasn’t a bashful bone in him now. Loving it, she devoured his mouth.
He pulled free with surprising ease, her strength no match for his.
Their panting collided with noise from the oscillating fans, vehicles rushing past, stereos playing, passersby’s laughter and conversation.
“More.” She claimed his mouth.
He tore away and gulped air. “Not now.”
“You don’t like to make out? You’re a rock star at it.”
“Yeah?” He grinned. “You are, too, but there’s other stuff we should enjoy.”
Hopefully, he wasn’t talking about dinner. “The food?”
“What? No. You. Me. This.” He ground his hips against hers.
“Get naked.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Too much to do first.”
No kidding. She was more than ready and then she wasn’t, having forgotten something. “Hold it.” She clutched his hair. “Wait.”
He lifted his head from her boob. “Why?”
She jabbed her finger at the floor and spoke quietly. “Alice. She’s right downstairs with those late customers. Until they all leave, we wouldn’t want them to hear anything they shouldn’t.”
Van Gogh turned fifty shades of red.
To keep him from retreating into his quiet mode, she kissed him hard to restoke his lust, then leaned across the bed to the nightstand and turned on her CD player. Taylor Swift’s latest hit poured out. There were other selections after it to mask carnal sounds for at least an hour. After that, she’d let him pick the next CD for their wanton encores, just in case Alice remained in her office doing the books or whatever. Once the volume was where Clover wanted it, she gave him her sexiest look and stroked his fly. “What are you waiting for?”
Grinning rakishly, he scooted down and latched onto her nipple, his mouth deliciously hot, tongue sweeping.
Delight pulsed deep within, creaming her pussy. She arched her back, offering herself.
He suckled her nipple gently then hard, both actions spectacular. His breath glided over her, delivering pleasure. His lips caressed. Nothing could top this.
He stroked her belly.
New bliss flowed to her cleft, heated waves that pulsed deep within her sheath, preparing her for his rigid rod. Finished with her nipple, he gorged on the other and stroked her slit.
So many nerve endings fired, she bucked.
He stilled. “You okay?”
“No. You stopped. Why? Don’t. Please.”
He thumbed her clit.
Feelings she couldn’t describe rocketed through her. She shuddered and lifted her hips, giving him greater access.
He had an artist’s hands, his touch precise, firm, assured, miraculous. With more skill than she’d ever owned, he teased her nub, alternating between feathery whisks and unyielding strokes.
Her poor pussy didn’t know what to make of it, her climax rushing close then scurrying away.
She twisted the bedspread. It was either that or bitch at him for not delivering immediate relief, playing with her when she wanted to come. Except she didn’t. She enjoyed how he revved her like an engine then let her idle, encouraging her mounting passion. Already he knew her better than she did herself. She braced for the ride.
He brushed her clit and traced her puffy folds.
Perspiration ran down her throat. Her fists and jaw ached from clenching them so tightly. She hauled in a much-needed breath.
A car horn blared.
She flinched, taut with expectation.
“Still okay?”
“Yeah, don’t stop.” She would have added “ever” but didn’t want to spook him with her overwhelming desire for them to be together. A couple everyone would envy and no one could come between.
He rubbed her where it mattered most, quick, hard, tirelessly.
Her orgasm steamrolled over Clover and hit with hurricane force. She trembled and thrashed, her clit too sensitive to endure his relentless stimulation.
He doubled down, going at her like tomorrow might not come.
She gasped but pressed into him, wanting more even when she didn’t, totally messed up.
The room spun faster than a carnival ride. Giddy, she yielded to his intimate strokes, her legs bowed outward, defenseless against him.
His smile widened. He explored her with his gaze and touch, at times playful then intense.
She lazed in their mutual pleasure, happy to give him everything she could.
At last, he finished.
Her turn to do him. Unfortunately, her hands proved too heavy to manage and dropped to the mattress, useless in getting him naked. “Take off your clothes.” She coughed and panted. “Now.”
“Later.”
Maybe he was shyer than Lauren and Jasmina had claimed or imagined. Damn, that would suck. “Why?”
“This.” He settled her legs on his shoulders and pressed his face to her furry mound.
She whispered her approval. Using her remaining energy, she eased her fingers through his hair, as Delilah had probably done with Samson. Van Gogh was certainly as strong, yet tender, too. He tugged her curls lightly with his teeth.
She giggled. “I like that.”
“Yeah?” He rubbed his nose over her mound and sniffed.
Oh wow. Van Gogh smelling her was better than anything she might have imagined. Wonderfully intimate. Decidedly tender. She needed to take in his wondrous scent, once he undressed. The wait might kill her.
He licked her cleft.
Then again… If they had to do something in the interim, she would have definitely voted for this. “More.”
He spread her cheeks, stroked her anus, and tongued her nub.
Shocking pleasure deluged her. She stiffened, collapsed, and came. Just. Like. That. “Damn.” She beat the mattress. “I wanted to hold off this time.”
“You did for a second.”
“Crap.”
“Hey, relax. There’s more.”
If there wasn’t, she’d die. Impatient with him doing all the work, she pulled her legs off his shoulders and struggled to one elbow. “Undress. I mean it.” She grabbed his thigh, surprised at the bulge there. Definitely not his cock. It was on the other side, huge and stiff, pointing toward his knee. “What is this?” She poked the mass.
Van Gogh’s face flamed again, but he didn’t go ba
shful on her. He hitched up his tank top.
A foil packet peeked from his pocket. Nobody had to tell her what that meant. “Whoa. Bad boy.”
He returned her smile. “You’re not pissed?”
She pulled out the first string, six condoms in all. There were more in his other pocket. “Color me impressed. Let’s use every one. Did you stick some in your back pockets, too?”
“I’m horny, not Superman.”
“That remains to be seen. Why are you still wearing clothes? Are they glued on? Is it against your religion to undress? Are you afraid I’ll go blind if I see you naked?”
He tossed his top on her face.
She filled herself with his sumptuous scent then clawed the cotton away, not wanting to miss anything. “Don’t rush. Give me a show.”
Even his taut belly turned red. “Seriously?”
“I stripped for you.”
“Faster than the speed of light. You could have gone slower and given me a heart attack in addition to a stroke.”
He liked what she’d done. A gift with no equal. “I was hot.” She stroked his chiseled abs. Her mouth watered at his incredible brawn. “Surely you have more control, being so strong and big in all the right places.”
He laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“You are.” She stroked the prominent veins on his biceps and cradled his sculpted pecs.
His muscles twitched.
Her pussy went nuts. New moisture seeped from it, needing him inside. “Expose yourself a little at a time. Make me wait. Make me want.”
He pointed. “No snickering or this stops.”
“Cross my heart.” She licked his finger. “You didn’t laugh at me.”
His features slackened. “How could I? Why would I? You’re amazing. No one on Earth has skin like yours.”
“Lifers in solitary do. They don’t go out in the sun, either.”
“It’d be a crime if you did and screwed yourself up. You shouldn’t mess with something so flawless.”
His compliment stopped her dead. No one had ever used that word to describe her, not even her parents, who thought she was pretty great. She grinned. “Thanks. I don’t know about perfect, though… I’m surprised you even noticed my complexion.”
He blushed. “Why? Stuff like that doesn’t get past me. I’m an artist.”
