Wicked Women Whodunit

by Davidson, MaryJanice

  Not that he wasn’t hoping, of course, watching Lanie daintily dip a French fry into a puddle of ketchup before sliding it into her mouth. He hadn’t consciously tasted any of his meal, because he kept wondering what her lips would taste like instead. Lanie Burke was smart and funny, and that head of riotous dark blond curls had made his fingers itch to touch them since she’d walked into the bar, looking a little bit lost and a whole lot interesting. He’d never wanted to take care of a woman as much as he wanted to sleep with one, but Lanie had managed to inspire both urges. Churchville wasn’t crawling with cads or serial killers, as far as he knew, but still, when he looked into those funny hazel eyes—green and brown and gold all at once—he was much too glad he’d been the one she’d dripped on.

  He stretched his legs out and propped himself up on one elbow, biting back a grin as she twirled another fry in the ketchup and then washed it down with her wine. After the week he’d had, Lanie Burke was a very promising answer to a question he hadn’t even known he’d been asking. She wasn’t local, she was flirting back, and he’d reached the end of his rope sometime between Vic Landry’s drunken threats and Jill Manetti’s clockwork come-on. His life wasn’t action-movie material—which was the way he liked it—but lately it had begun to feel a little too much like a rerun. The same people, the same sights, the same old routine. He’d spent a few days in Boston this week with his college roommate, and even that had been a big yawn—he went up there every year at this time, and they always went to a Red Sox game, had fried clams and seafood chowder at No Name, and spent at least one afternoon in Harvard Square fantasizing about the Radcliffe undergrads. Boring.

  Yeah, spending the evening with Lanie—and her wild curls and that funny little upturned nose and hopefully the rest of her—was exactly what he wanted. And the only way to find out if he would be spending it with her in the bedroom was to gently remove her wineglass from her hand and kiss her.

  Lanie shivered as Will’s hand slid to her nape, tugging her toward him. Here we go, she thought, hoping he didn’t mind ketchup breath and immediately not caring if he did. She’d been staring at him for what seemed like days in the warm glow of the firelight, and somewhere in the last half hour, he’d begun to look like dessert. When his finger had slid over her lower lip earlier, she’d had to fight to keep herself from nibbling it.

  This morning, while she was packing her bags and trying out a new hair color, digging into a new book had seemed like a reasonable way to de-stress. This morning, her hormones had apparently already been on vacation.

  She leaned forward, wondering what Will would taste like, but she didn’t have time to think about it for long. The pressure of his lips on hers was gentle, then firmer, then lingering, savoring, tasting her until she opened her mouth and met his tongue, letting him explore.

  She sat back, breathless and disappointed, when he broke away, but he was only stripping off his heavy sweater and coming around the coffee table to lower her onto her back in front of the fire. She didn’t argue. At the moment, every nerve ending and hormone in her body was in agreement: Will DeMaio knew how to kiss.

  So far, there wasn’t anything he didn’t know how to do, she thought, stroking her open palms over the back of his T-shirt as he kneeled over her, his lips teasing her cheekbone, her jaw, the side of her neck. Will DeMaio and his fabulous mouth felt much too good to worry about potential consequences. It was against all her rules to fall into bed with a guy on the first date—and hot tea in a crowded bar, with subsequent takeout food, hardly seemed like an official “date,” anyway—but her life lately, to be completely blunt, sucked. In a way that definitely called for a capital S.

  She deserved this. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman perfectly capable of making her own decisions, even if most of them lately had been just this side of disastrous. She was overdue for a night—hell, an hour—like this, and with Will doing such incredible things to her collarbone with his tongue, this was no time for standards. She shivered as he licked toward the base of her throat, one of his hands, warm and strong, cradling her head while the other delicately unbuttoned her shirt.

  She had to fight the restless urge to slap it away and do it herself.

  “Patience,” he murmured, and she blushed. So much for her poker face.

  Even his voice was delicious, low and slightly gruff, a gentle rumble against her skin. Which was wide open to him now, chest to belly, since he had reached behind her to unhook her bra, and was even now sliding the sheer pink material toward her throat so he could kiss her breasts, teasing her with each soft, introductory brush of his lips.

  Oh, yes, this was much better than an evening with Miss Clairol.

  And there was more, she realized with another shudder of anticipation. He hadn’t even seemed to notice that she existed below the waist yet, and there was still his body, beneath his T-shirt and well-worn jeans, to explore.

  Well, there was an idea whose time had come. She tugged the worn white cotton out of his waistband, eager to feel the broad expanse of his back, and suddenly heard a warning voice in her head.

  Bad and Luck, it whispered. Your new middle names. You’ve had too much of a good thing already tonight. Will probably had a third nipple or a cult tattoo or—she swallowed hard—parts missing altogether. Important parts.

  “Disappointing” was going to be a completely inadequate word if that was the scenario. Hands frozen on his lower back, she realized she had stiffened in dismay when Will raised his head and caught her gaze.

  “Stop talking to yourself and kiss me,” he whispered. “I don’t bite.”

  Her shaky laugh was equal parts relief and embarrassment. “What if I want you to?” she whispered back, squirming in pleasure as he shifted over her, his thighs parting hers.

  “In that case, I think we can work something out.”

  She arched her back as he took one nipple between his teeth, lightly, until it stood at attention. Will obviously wasn’t going to give her one spare moment to second-guess this situation, because—oh, God, yes—he was far too busy reacquainting her with every sexual desire she’d ever had. If a hazmat team did end up crashing into the picture, she was pretty sure she’d be too limp and sated any time now to care.

  But still ... maybe they should know a little more about each other. Maybe she should throw a few details out there, just to be polite.

  “I work for a magazine,” she murmured to the top of Will’s head, trying to concentrate on what she was saying over each zing of pleasure. “In the art department. As a designer.”

  He raised his head to look at her, a vague smile on his lips. “Uh huh.”

  “I just thought you should know. What I do, I mean.” She lifted her naked shoulders in a kind of apology, suddenly very sure he was going to pat her on the head, grab his sweater, and head out into the snow. And now her mouth was opening again. Oh, God. To hell with bad karma—apparently she was going to sabotage this all on her own. “Since I know you’re a ... carpenter. Or a contractor. Or whatever it was you ...”

  He was staring now, without even a shadow of a twinkle. Perfect. She angled up on one elbow, biting her bottom lip, waiting for him to tell her she was crazy, or maybe just annoying. Or, possibly, both.

  “I’m going back to kissing you now,” he said, and she heard amused laughter behind his words. “If you want to tell me more about your job, you just keep going. But I’m hoping you’ll tell me later instead.” He kissed the valley between her breasts lightly, then ran his tongue up her breastbone to the hollow of her throat. “Actually,” he murmured, “what I’m really hoping is that in a few minutes you won’t even remember anything that isn’t happening on this rug.”

  “That ... sounds like a plan.” She hitched in a ragged breath as his hand ran over her hip and down her thigh, then inside it to stroke up toward her crotch, which was already too hot to be humanly possible. “Pants ... off.”

  God, now he was making her incoherent, with just one teasing pass below the wais
t. She didn’t care, she wanted out of her still slightly damp pants, and she wanted him out of his. Now. And as she caught his gaze, a hot dark blue, like the heart of a flame, she realized that everything that had been playful just a moment ago had become something else—something much more serious, maybe even a little bit dangerous—and it took her breath away.

  He wanted this, too, and her sudden demand had just kicked slow and languorous up to fast and hot and right now.

  He pushed up and away from her, kneeling, and his hands were just rough enough to be exciting when he yanked at the zipper on her pants and tugged them away. She wiggled out of them, feeling a flush of purely female satisfaction when he got a look at her panties. Pink, sheer, and on clearance at Bloomie’s, they were obviously not what he’d expected to find beneath her plain khakis, if the shuddering breath he drew was any indication.

  But they were history a moment later, along with her shirt and the matching pink bra she’d forgotten was tangled up around her collarbone, and she was scrambling to her knees, too, sliding her hands under his T-shirt and pulling it off, then fumbling with the zipper on his jeans. Beside them the fire snapped as a log fell apart, and she shuddered at the sudden blast of heat on her naked skin.

  Will shifted to kick off his jeans, and she reached for his briefs, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip when her hands found the hard curve of his ass. He grunted and grabbed her, rolling onto his back and pulling her on top of him, his erection nestled between her legs, thick and solid and deliciously hot. Nothing missing there, no sir.

  “Condom ... ,” she managed, her elbows shaking as she raised herself off the rough expanse of his chest, but he only nodded, muttering, “Soon,” before he fastened his mouth around one nipple. Wet and smooth, his tongue pushed at its bottom curve as he suckled hard, and she groaned out loud.

  “Now ... ?” It was barely a word—more like a primitive plea. Her body was rushing ahead, trembling, impatient, one great big demand, but he wasn’t listening. Damn it, why wasn’t he listening? Why was he rolling them over again?

  “In a minute.” His voice sounded as ragged as hers, but his hands were doing a much better job keeping it together as he slid her legs open, the carpet vaguely itchy beneath her thighs and her back. The heel of his hand pressed gently against her, and she wriggled, wanting more. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him admiring her, the light from the fire throwing crazy shadows against the side of his face. His fingers splayed through her curls; then he opened her with his other hand, one long, firm finger stroking through the wet, circling, exploring the swollen knot of flesh there, and it was too hot, too much. She bit her bottom lip, torn between the hypnotic, delicious pleasure and the sharp jab of need that wanted more, now, to make that wonderful sliding sensation double and triple and break wide open as she slid over the edge.

  “Will, please ...” She thrust up with her hips, but he wasn’t making her wait any longer—his finger had worked its way inside her, deep and deeper, pulling out only long enough for him to add another, and she shuddered when they hit the sweet spot on the far wall.

  No more fooling around, she wanted to yell. Unless what she really meant was, Much more fooling around, please, please, please! She propped herself up on one shaky elbow and reached for his cock, learning the solid, heavy shape of it, reaching beneath it to stroke the taut sacs. He grunted when she traced the velvet tip with one finger, then fumbled on the rug for his jeans.

  She took the foil-wrapped packet when he handed it to her—Extra Sensitive! some distant part of her brain noticed—and ripped it open, rolling the slippery latex over his erection. When she looked up at him, his eyes were glittering with need, and that was the last thing she knew before he nudged her onto her back, parting her thighs with his knee.

  Then everything was heat and contact, the length of his body pressed to hers as he entered her with one sure thrust, making her gasp as she opened for him, her legs suddenly wrapped around his waist and her fingers digging into the solid knot of muscle that defined each of his shoulders.

  Oh, so very, very much better than Miss Clairol ...

  She found the pulse in his neck with her lips and kissed it, and he groaned when she let her mouth wander higher, taking his earlobe between her teeth, teasing, licking, clinging to him at the same time. Then she let go and threw her head back, pushing up against him, thrust for thrust, unable to focus on anything but the dark, wet heat where they were connected.

  She almost never came this way, but it didn’t matter, it felt so damn good, Will felt so good, the whole heated, delicious length of him, this curiously sweet-sexy guy with his twinkle and his scrumptious ass ... and his incredibly hard, perfectly shaped penis thrusting into her ...

  She gasped when his teeth grazed her jawbone, and opened her eyes. The twinkle was gone again—instead his gaze was an intense, hot blue, as deep as his cock inside her, and she shuddered when he whispered, “Look at me, Lanie.”

  Like she could look away now. He thrust harder, his thighs solid and rough between hers, and as her mouth fell open, he kissed her, his tongue as wet and hot as she was inside, and then she didn’t know anything but the fact of them sliding together, pleasure rippling outward from that sweet, fiery spot where he was deepest, now and again and again and ... oh, God, now ...

  She held on as she came, breathless with each shuddering wave of it, quivering down her legs and curling her toes, and he answered with a deep, guttural groan as his thighs tightened and he rocked into her one last time. His forehead met hers as his orgasm shuddered through him, and she breathed in the spicy tang of sweat and heat slicked over them both.

  “So you were saying something about your job,” he murmured, rolling to his side and taking her with him. He was still buried inside her.

  She nestled into his chest, licking away a bead of sweat and dropping a light kiss on his breastbone. “Oh. Oh, yeah,” she whispered. “I, uh, have one.”

  “That’s good. Me, too.” He kissed the top of her head, then pushed her away to sit up. “I think I hear the bed calling. Wait ... yup, there it is. Lanie, it says, come on in, and bring that guy with you.”

  She giggled, and let him take her hand and pull her to her feet, shaky in the best possible way, boneless and light-headed and just a little bit—damn it—in love. Will DeMaio was an unexpectedly dangerous temptation for her heart, but she trusted him, too.

  She really did, she thought as she lay on the wide, comfortable bed a moment later, not even bothering with a polite protest of the “your turn” variety when he crawled between her spread legs and licked his way up the inside of her thigh. Who said there were no really nice guys left? And who said nice guys couldn’t be a little bit bad where it counted?

  Stupid people, she told herself, shivering as his tongue found the slippery heat of her clit and swirled against it. Anyway, Will was more than nice.

  At the first deliciously shivery pulse of another orgasm inside her, she decided he was damn near perfect.

  Four

  In the morning, he was gone.

  Lifting her head from the downy warmth of the pillow, Lanie blinked and stretched, pleasantly sore and wondering why—until she recognized the cozy bedroom of Jess’s cottage, and remembered where she was.

  All alone, apparently. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she pushed away the tangled mess of the comforter and sat up, sighing.

  It figured. She should have known better than to believe the gods of fate or karma, or whatever they were, would give her a night like the one she’d just spent and offer a morning-after bonus, too.

  But it didn’t mean she wasn’t disappointed. Sometime late last night, when Will had made her laugh so hard she was weak with the combination of giddiness and sexual bliss, she’d let herself imagine this morning—a little preshower snuggling, then the two of them together under a hot, pounding spray, wet and soapy and starting all over again ...

  Tossing the covers to the foot of the bed, she swung her legs
over the side and stood up, shivering. It was a lot colder in this cottage without Will’s body wrapped around hers. Without the best parts of Will’s body inside hers...

  No more pity party, she told herself, flinging open her suitcase and pawing through it for a pair of jeans and a sweater. She was just lucky he hadn’t been the proverbial axe murderer mothers everywhere warned against. Or a bondage junkie with the only key to an S&M dungeon. It had been stupid enough to invite a complete stranger into her bed for the night—it had been stupid of monumental proportions to even fantasize that a few hours of really good sex would lead to something more.

  Even if the only “more” she’d really been counting on was the physical, “oh, yes, more, please” kind.

  Pulling her hair into a loose ponytail and tugging the thickest socks she could find over her feet, she wandered into the kitchen, avoiding a look at last night’s takeout containers and wineglasses on the coffee table. The aroma of wood smoke still lingered in the room, but she ignored it and dug into the small bag of essential groceries—coffee, filters, sweetener, and, of course, chocolate—that sat on the kitchen counter.

  By the time she’d brushed her teeth, brewed a pot of coffee, and fished her sneakers out of her suitcase, she was restless. It was far too quiet, and none of the radio stations came in without static. It was still snowing hard, and the coffee was only making her jittery. She cleaned up, finally, noticing with surprise an empty bottle of Jack Daniels under the sink, and an overflowing ashtray on the windowsill overlooking the backyard. Jess didn’t smoke, and neither did Dave, so that was weird, but even weirder was the fact that Jess obviously wasn’t the neat freak Lanie had always believed she was. For a second, at least, the thought made her happy.

  But with the remains of dinner taken care of, she was left once again with nothing to do. The appeal of hair coloring had long since worn off, and there was no way she was going to be able to concentrate on a book, not when she could still smell Will on her skin and in her hair, when she could close her eyes and taste his tongue on her lips, feel his big, slightly rough hands on her breasts ...