by Holley Trent
He grinned. “Well, go on. I know you’re just dying to.”
I hate how easily he pegs me.
Normally, she would have walked away as if the idea had been the furthest thing from her mind, but who was she kidding? She opened the door and stepped into the dark room.
He followed her in and flicked on the overhead light.
He was right. It was spartan—just a heavy pine bed covered in a patchwork quilt in green tones, a wide dresser against the front wall, one battered nightstand, and a chair in the corner that had an open duffel bag dangling precariously over the edge.
“What do you think?” he asked as he leaned against the doorframe.
“It could certainly use a woman’s touch.”
“You available for the job? I can pay you either in booze or carnal favors.”
Carnal favors sounded nice. She perched on the edge of the surprisingly comfortable bed and brought the beer to her lips again. The cold, strong brew made her chest tighten on the way down and she could tell the resulting effects would show in the thighs she spent so many hours exercising. Alcohol wasn’t a match for her enhanced metabolism, but carbs certainly were.
He laughed from the doorway, shaking his head as she scraped her tongue against her top teeth’s edges. “Robust, huh? It’s kind of like drinking oatmeal.”
“Yeah, I was just sitting here thinking about all the calories I’m going to have to run off. You really like this stuff? I’d rather drink cod liver oil.” She brought it to her lips again and tried another sip. Nope. Still gross.
“Watch it, woman. That’s my favorite beer.” He pushed away from the wall he’d been holding up and strode to her in four easy lopes, hand extended.
She gave him the beer. “Be my guest.”
“There’s a huge variety of beer out there for you to try if stouts don’t do it for you.” He sat close at the bed’s edge so their thighs touched and brought the bottle to his lips.
Suddenly very tired, she leaned back against the mattress and fixed her stare on the wood paneled ceiling. It made the room seem very dark. If she had her druthers, that’d be the first thing to go during renovations. A nice coat of white paint would do wonders, as would getting rid of that god-awful wicker ceiling fan. “Why does it sound like you’re trying to convert me?” she asked.
He leaned on his right elbow, and stared at her face while sipping the remaining beer with his left hand. He was close enough that she could feel the gentle exhales from his nose tickling her forehead. “I’m good at my job. My job’s to keep people drinking. If they give up after the first beer that doesn’t do it for them, I won’t be able to keep them on their stool long enough to order one of my expensive hamburgers.”
“Savvy.”
“A guy’s gotta earn a living.”
“Maybe you can give me some tips. My business is in the black, but I’d like to buy a house at some point. I’m barely paying myself, and if I keep taking jobs for free…” She gave him a nudge. “I’ll be stuck in Apartmentland forevermore.”
“Dana, you’ve only been in business a couple of years. The fact you’ve got a staff of…how many?”
“Five, including myself.”
“A staff of five, yet you’re managing to turn a profit only two years in? You don’t need my help, sweetheart.”
She shrugged, or at least tried to. It was hard with her being horizontal. “I had a lot of start-up capital, though, from the class action suit and my unemployment claim after the police department canned me.”
“Still. The first couple of years are sort of make or break, and you’re hanging in there. This time next year I bet Shrew and Company will claim the largest market share for private detective work in the area.”
“Well, don’t go blowing a girl’s head up.” She laughed. “You hardly know me. Maybe I’m an awful boss and won’t retain my staff that long.”
When he didn’t respond, she turned her head and saw him frozen, beer at his lips, but not drinking. His eyes were locked on her cleavage which had slipped upward when she laid down. It wasn’t quite a peep show, but there was a lot of flesh showing at her collar. She cleared her throat.
He blinked and sat up. “Sorry. I think it’s the cat part of me. I’ve started fixating on things—wanting to pounce. When you laughed…”
“Oh.” Her adjustment period after the mutation was rife with awkward situations, at least on her end. She’d always reacted with her usual brash brush-off, so other people didn’t know the extent of how uncomfortable she was, but inside, she was crumbling. Patrick must have felt the same way, judging by the way his face reddened and he sat up to rest his elbows on his knees.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. For some reason, I think you’re usually a little more discreet with your ogling.”
“That’s a skill most teenaged boys learn in short order, so you’re right.”
She actually didn’t mind him looking. Liked it a little. And why not? Patrick O’Dwyer was gorgeous, industrious, intelligent, and like her—seemed to have a low bullshit tolerance. That meant hers, too. Being around him was refreshing.
Arousing.
He was the one man she might actually consider surrendering control to…at least for a little while. How would that feel? She wanted to find out.
As if on their own accord, her fingers found the base of his spine and made a gentle press of the ridges there, drawing his gaze to her face again. His eyes had widened, but whatever thoughts he had, he kept to himself.
She let her fingers dance up his strong back, making lazy, tickling circles that made him suck in air when she reached the middle, then continued to the top where his neck met shoulders. Her hand seized the back of his shirt collar and gave it a playful pull.
He set his empty bottle on the nightstand and turned his brooding gaze to her.
She pulled again. “Patrick?”
“Yes?”
“This is me giving you permission.”
That statement made him turn slightly to the right, putting his collar out of reach of her hand, but allowed him straight-on eye contact.
Amazing eyes. Old soul.
“Permission?”
She nodded. “Yes. I’m not generally so accommodating. I want you to know that.”
“I read that vibe.”
“Good.” Now she pushed up onto her elbows and tried to impart her consent with her expression, her gaze. Did she really need words for that?
Or would a touch do?
Slowly, she reached out and trailed the back of her hand along the stubble on his jaw, his chin, and dragged one finger along the crease between his soft lips.
He took her hand in his, kissed it front and back, and glided his mouth over the pulse point over her wrist, licking it with hot tongue and growling out his impatience as he pushed her cuff up her arm. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?”
“Same could be said for you, Paddy.”
“You asking me to strip?”
A grin pulled her cheeks and she knew even without seeing it that it was probably quite evil looking. “It’d be nice if I weren’t the first one naked for a change.”
“I see.” He dropped her hand, with some reluctance, and immediately clutched the bottom of his shirt.
Please don’t disappoint me.
He didn’t. The chest beneath that shirt was decorated not just with colorful, thoughtful tattoos, but with hard-earned muscles.
Her cheeks burned as he stood before her, his knees skimming hers through their pants, as he manipulated the fly of his jeans. Black fabric peeked through the gape when he let down the zipper, and suddenly she felt very young. Very inexperienced, though that wasn’t it. He certainly wasn’t her first, second, or even third, but this felt brand new, and the novelty of it—the heightened anticipation, was making her head swim.
She gulped and clamped her teeth together, hoping doing so would quash the quivering of her lips. “Slow down, lover. I want to see what I’m
getting.”
“I can go slow, sweetheart.” He dropped his jeans so all that was left were snug boxer briefs that left very little to the imagination.
Paddy O’Dwyer was hung.
The rock hard muscles of his abdomen shifted as he lifted one leg, then the other, out of his jeans and nudged them aside with his foot. He insinuated himself between her thighs at the bed’s edge and leaned her back once more. His hands pressed onto the bed on either side of her head as he hovered close. “Slow is fine, but how do I know you’re not going to get me naked and then change your mind? That doesn’t seem fair.”
She swallowed, his cock’s proximity to her making her aroused sex clench, yearning to be filled. “Uh, what do you want, a show of good faith?”
“That’s the way it worked during childhood, right? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
Oh, she wanted to see his. She blew out a breath and averted her gaze from the smug set of his lips, landing on the wood-paneled ceiling again. “Before this goes too far, you should know I don’t have condoms on me.”
He shifted, removing his hands from the bed near her face, and when she turned a questioning gaze to him, he was easing away from edge of the bed. She mourned his departure, wanted him back between her thighs and thought perhaps she’d thrown ice water on things with her statement.
No, he bent and picked up his jeans, patting the pockets until he found his wallet. “I always keep a couple in here.” He clamped the two foil packets between his teeth as he returned the wallet to its former location.
No excuses, then. She sat up and thought about good-faith gestures as she heeled off her boots. What would he like to see first? Breasts?
Too easy. Of course he likes tits.
Thighs, then. She locked her gaze on his green one as she slid her slacks’ fastener open.
That former fixation he’d had on her chest shifted to her waist, his lips pressed into a flat line, him standing very still as she unzipped. Someone could probably drop a bomb outside and he wouldn’t move. “Hey, Paddy? What color are my panties?” She held her hand over the flap, shielding his sight from a glimpse of her lace.
“Panties?” His eyes didn’t move.
“Yes, what color do you think they are?”
She watched a lump travel down his throat. When he didn’t answer, she dragged one socked foot up the inside of his leg and jostled his balls.
That woke him up.
“Panties, Paddy. What color?” Her big toe traced a circle around his sack and his lips peeled back as he hissed.
He wrapped one large hand around her ankle, stilling her. “What happens if I’m wrong?”
It was a good question, and one she didn’t actually have an answer for. Best she make something up. “If you’re wrong…” she mused, tapping her index finger on her chin. “I won’t let you peel them off me using your teeth.”
That earned her a scoff. “Sweetheart, with the way I’m feeling right now, you don’t want my teeth anywhere near you.”
The little wet spot at the front of his boxer briefs seemed good enough evidence of such. He must have been hard as steel and she wondered what he’d feel like inside her, probing deep things that hadn’t been stoked in who-knew-how-long.
“Why don’t you let me decide that? You up to date on all your shots, kitty?” She wriggled her toes, but his grip was too steady. Still couldn’t reach anything of consequence.
“You’re waiting on me to tell you that you picked something dull or predictable. White. Black. Nude.”
She stilled her face to a blank and tried for coolness, even as her heart pounded and blood pressure rose. He’d done it again. Read her like an open book.
“You like having little secrets. Things you never plan to tell anyone else, but that give you a little power because secrets are potent things.”
Funny, she wasn’t feeling so powerful all of a sudden.
He eased her foot to the floor. “I think you prefer solids over patterns, so that makes it easier.”
The small amount of personal space between them vanished as he leaned in over her, placing one hand at either side of her hips and grazing her left earlobe with his lips. “You may like your booze the color God intended, but I’d bet my pub your panties are shamrock green today.”
She swallowed and her vision—normally hyper-sharp—suddenly went a bit blurry. It took her a moment to realize she’d crossed her eyes.
One of his large, warm hands wrapped around hers and gently moved it from her zipper. With one little bend of the fabric, he confirmed his hunch. “It’s a good color for you.”
Somehow, she figured out how to breathe again. “Uh, thanks.”
“Now take it off.”
CHAPTER SIX
Patrick didn’t think Dana would actually comply with that request, but she did. In fact, she turned the tables on him so hard, he wasn’t sure which of them was the one leading the dance.
She locked that dark gaze on him and kept it there while she removed everything down to her bra and panties. She wasn’t going to give him instant gratification, though. She actually took the time to carefully arrange her pleated slacks over the back of the chair, and draped her sweater over them. Her trouser socks came off next, slowly, with her rolling them down from the tops and shimmying them off her small feet like some kind of 1950s bombshell posing for a pin-up.
And she could be a pin-up with those curves and that face.
She tried so hard to be austere—stern in appearance—but she was a woman who’d probably once been a really cute little girl, and still had traces of that cute. Sure, she was a beauty now, but it wasn’t a frigid beauty like women who stomped down runways had. It was soft. Sweet, even. He doubted she wanted to be told that, though.
“Do you need some help?” he asked. As much as he was enjoying the show, he wasn’t a man of limitless patience, especially not right then. It was like he’d been forced to fast for a day to have blood drawn and suddenly got pushed in front of a buffet he couldn’t touch. It hardly seemed fair.
She blinked. “Do you?”
He hissed as her fingers dragged up the inside of his leg and traced a circle around his balls. She grabbed them.
He clamped a hand around her wrist, and wheezed, “I’m perfectly capable of undressing myself. Been doing so since I was two.”
She released her grasp and leaned back onto her elbows with a self-satisfied grin. “Good. Have at it, Paddy.”
With the way her push-up bra barely contained her full, round breasts, the only thing left to imagination up top was whether her areola would be chocolate- or coffee-colored. He guessed chocolate. Milk chocolate, and slightly sweet.
His gaze trailed down her taut belly to where her thighs joined. As far as underwear went, they didn’t cover very much. Why even bother with them? Women.
“Paddy?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you waiting on me to give you permission again?”
He dragged his tongue over his dry lips and planted his hands on her thighs. Just open them a wee bit, love. “Permission?”
“To take off your boxer briefs.”
Oh. Those. He eased them down, giving his cock some clearance as he worked the waistband past his crotch. Once on the floor, he shoved them away with his foot.
She didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just stared.
He scoffed and lifted one of her hands, turned it over, and placed a condom in her palm.
Her fingers wrapped around it, so she was at least subconsciously aware of its existence, but otherwise she remained frozen. Fixated.
Who’s the cat, here?
He cleared his throat.
Finally, she righted her gaze and stood. He was so close that as she came erect, her body grazed the front of his—her breasts, in particular, briefly meeting his erect cock.
Fuck.
She turned her back to him, and now it was the swells of her ass that made contact with his skin. They pillowed against the fron
t of his thighs as she moved her hair from her neck.
He wanted to palm her cheeks, knead them, but that didn’t seem to be what she was asking.
“Why don’t you unhook my bra for me?” she said.
“Of course.” All it took was one flick of his finger, and it sprang open.
She worked the straps down her arms and he leaned in, pressing his lips to the hot, sweet crook of her neck and kissing out toward her shoulder. It was a nice view from there, what he could see of it. She’d tried crossing her arms over her naked chest, but he’d wrapped his fingers around her forearms and guided them down to her waist, holding them there while he kissed and took in the sight of her.
Milk chocolate peaks, already beaded and aroused that he wanted to trail his tongue around. Plenty of time for that, though.
He kissed some more, now behind her ear and over to her cheek as his hard cock pressed against the small of her back. It was taking all the willpower he had not to bend her over right there and sate himself, and of course there was the small matter of her panties being in the way.
“What’s your favorite position?” he whispered.
“I don’t have one,” she said, voice breathy. She actually wriggled her butt against him, urging him on.
He stopped kissing. “Everyone has a favorite.”
“It’s all the same to me.”
That insanity made him spin her around by the shoulders. “What?”
She shrugged. “Really, it all feels the same.”
“Then whoever you’ve been doing it with hasn’t been doing it right.”
She seemed to consider it, but made no verbal affirmation. In fact, she tried wrapping her arms over her breasts again, but before she could, he picked her up by the bottom and deposited her on the bed.
He shimmied her panties down her thighs—taking just a moment to appreciate her impeccable grooming—and tossed them after her bra. If she thought it was all the same, no matter how it was done, well…she hadn’t really experienced pleasure. It came in so many different shades and nuances, and he’d learned even the slightest change of angle or application of pressure could make the lovemaking an entirely different experience.
