“You said ‘fuck me.’ I’m choosing to take it literally.” His eyes flew open with delight or shock or a little bit of both. She dared to press a kiss to his agape mouth before pulling back and sauntering toward her closet to get into some proper clothes. “I’ll fuck you when you’re ready, and not a moment sooner.”
TEN
“CAN I SEE your dick room?”
It was the first complete sentence he’d been able to speak since their tonsil jockeying. She’d asked him a few things while she dressed in the privacy of her closet, mostly if he was hungry, which he wasn’t yet, and if he wanted a tour, which he did, but those had only required one-word answers. Which was good, because he was busy convincing his cock to be less granite, more pudding.
Or, not pudding, but something softer than granite. Like butter left on the counter for an hour.
Or Jell-O.
Or maybe a sock full of lumpy mayo.
Yep, that does it. Boner is on its way out.
She reappeared a minute later, thankfully more covered than she’d been in that pink robe. A crinkly teal skirt fell to her ankles. A simple white tank top with a long orange, turquoise, and silver necklace covered her top half. He could still see plenty of cleavage, and he thought about diving between those things and suffocating to death with a smile on his face, but then he remembered the sock full of lumpy mayo and desire as he knew it ceased to exist.
“Of course! That’s a few floors down, though. We’ll do a proper tour.” Maddy brushed by him, her fingertip gliding over his chin as she passed. He was halfway tempted to bite her, but he figured if any part of her ended up in any part of him, or vice versa, a whole lot more of him was going to end up in her, and he’d like to at least make it through dinner first.
She took his hand, wrapping her long, slender fingers around his thick, callused ones, and led on. They started on the upper deck, which was lovely. He looked longingly at the pool, wishing he could dive in, but the hole in his arm said he was denied anything but sponge baths for a week unless “absolutely necessary.” The concept of one-handed washing all six foot something of his person in a sink left a lot to be desired, so he figured he’d take a bath sooner rather than later, but even then he’d promised to wrap his wound with plastic wrap to keep out the water—and by association, infection. A pool was out of the question until further notice.
The deck bar seated eight but had room for more to mingle. The Jacuzzi for twelve was as tempting as the pool. The lounge chairs looked like sunburn breeding grounds. They went downstairs, to floor two, Capulet’s kitty domain. The walls of her enclosure were glass, so at any given time he could see flashes of the enormous loping cat as she hunted a medicine ball bigger around than he was, her sleek body traipsing through the tropical-looking trees and shrubs that were real, as far as Darren could tell. At the opposite end of the room, past the tiger wading pool—because tigers liked to swim, according to Maddy—was a sitting area with two low-to-the-ground, overstuffed couches positioned around an area rug.
Tiger print, of course, because what else would you have in a tiger playroom?
“It’s two-way glass,” Maddy said, a beatific smile blooming on her face when Cappy pounced on and then rolled around with her ball. “We can see her but she can’t see us. It’s for her comfort as much as my amusement.”
“How big is this?” Darren glanced behind him at the hallway. There was a single closed door that looked like it might lead to a room, but every other direction was glass walls and jungle.
“Around four thousand square feet? We knocked out the walls on two suites. The one behind you got renovated into a supply room for her toys, food bowls, and grooming station.”
“Grooming station? Your tiger gets groomed?”
“Have you ever smelled a stinky tiger, dove?”
“This sounds like either a mystic riddle or a really bad come-on.” Darren smiled at her and she matched it, squeezing his hand with her own. He hadn’t realized that they were still clasping on to each other, but he didn’t mind it, either. Maddy was comfortable to be with, even if she was leading him down three flights of stairs to see a penis gallery.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I’m actually looking forward to it. Better not say as much, though. Talk about a dick room once, that’s curiosity. A second time, you’re a pervert.
Along the way, she brought him to the kitchen and introduced him to the chef, who was a short, pale boy with dyed platinum hair and a T-shirt that read Not Your Sassy Gay Friend tucked into his blue jeans. His feet were bare like Darren’s. There were hemp bracelets all along his arms, and on the top of his left foot was a tattoo of a scorpion. He stopped chopping romaine lettuce to wipe his hands on a dish towel and offered Darren a hand, his eyes wandering over Darren’s landscape with obvious appreciation.
“Madeline. You’ve outdone yourself. I’m Tobin. Welcome aboard.”
Maddy broke away from Darren’s side to nose through the refrigerator, pulling out two cold bottles of sparkling water. “Tobin’s T-shirt lies. He’s totally my sassy gay friend.”
“Yours, yes, but I don’t want any skanky bitches thinking I want to help them pick out window treatments. I’d rather stick my dick in the garbage disposal. Hungry, hot stuff?”
Darren couldn’t follow Tobin’s whirl long enough to answer him, but Maddy saved the day by stuffing a water bottle into Darren’s hand and guiding him toward the door. “Not yet. Eight all right? We’re off to check out the rest of the ship,” she said.
Tobin winked at Darren. “Top deck or private quarters?”
“Top deck,” Maddy replied. “The lights on the water are pretty at night.”
Tobin grinned. “Yeah they are. All right, if you’re not eating, get the hell out of my kitchen. And don’t let that one get away, Maddy. He’d put pretty babies in you.”
I would?
Darren felt the heat rising in his cheeks. If Maddy noticed, she was kind enough not to say anything. Instead, she led him out of the kitchen and down the hallway, her flip-flops clapping with every step.
“I love Tobin,” she said, leading him down yet another stairwell. “I poached him from one of Ramsay’s restaurants. The one in Dubai, I think. Anyway, it’s seafood casserole tonight. I hope that’s all right. I love fish. Eat it all the time, and that’s not even a pussy joke.”
“I . . . wait.” He stared at her profile, she tittered, and that was all it took for him to bust out laughing. “That didn’t even occur to me, you filthy thing.”
“Well, it should have. A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste.” She sashayed her way past two closed doors to another door requiring security clearance. Not all rooms had the security rig—his, for example, locked from the inside—but Maddy’s main suite, the tiger room, and now this room required a thumbprint ID to enter.
“Are the pieces so valuable?” he asked.
“Some, yes. The historical ones, definitely.” She swung the door wide and stepped inside and then aside, allowing him to see dicks. Everywhere. A veritable dickapalooza of dicks.
The gallery was larger and more formal than he expected. There was a wall of glass cubes to his left, each a foot tall, a foot wide, and a foot deep, with spotlights in the cubbies to highlight the displayed pieces. She’d organized them by material, glass first, each exhibit looking like a colorful marble someone had shaped into a penis. Folded placards with ornate script detailed the media used to create the dick, the date it was made, the artist if known, and any interesting factoids, like Was in Madonna Once.
Not that he saw one that had been in Madonna, but he wouldn’t have been shocked.
“This was all brought on by a surplus of sex toys?” he asked, drifting from glass to wood to clay, metal, and finally “miscellaneous” penises, which included a phallus composed of chicken wire and spray-painted cotton balls.
“For the most pa
rt. Me and boredom don’t blend.”
Darren perused the rest of the room. There was art on the walls, some by artists he recognized, some by artists he didn’t, all featuring the penis in some guise. He’d expected a seediness that simply wasn’t there. It was art. Art of a sexual nature, yes, but it was art, and Darren liked art.
Even sausagefest art, apparently.
“You expected a sex dungeon, didn’t you?” Maddy giggled. He turned his head to look at her. She was sitting in a chair five feet away that was, unsurprisingly, covered in dick print, but it was classy dick print, done up in brocade. Beside it was another chair with genitalia carved into the wood. This chair had a glass casing around it, preventing anyone from touching it, never mind sitting in it. The bronze plaque on the front explained why:
BUILT CIRCA 1750. RUMORED TO BE PART OF CATHERINE THE GREAT’S SEX-THEMED FURNITURE COLLECTION.
“Maybe? I don’t know.” He balanced the bottle of water against his chest so he could screw off the cap and take a swig. “I hope that’s not insulting.”
“Not at all. I had a sex dungeon once. On this ship, in fact. I turned it into a library last spring. Catch one of your staff using your Sybian saddle without permission, you start to rethink pretty much every life decision you’ve ever made.” She snickered and pushed herself to her feet. He watched her saunter toward the door, her hips doing a rolling thing that was damned near hypnotic.
She really is a lovely woman. Graceful.
“Finished?” she asked.
“What?”
“Are you finished in the gallery, dove?”
Of course that’s what she meant. She did not at all mean am I finished looking at her ass. Because the answer is no. No, I’m not.
He cleared his throat. “I think so. Oh, by the way, I meant to ask, do you use climate control to keep the salt air from oxidizing the pieces?”
She blinked at him. “Do I wh— Oh you beautiful dork. I haven’t the foggiest, but I can find out.”
Darren followed her into the hall. The gallery door closed with a resounding thud and a beep from the security system. “It’d be good to ask. Don’t want to keep a good dick down, you know.”
She laughed, that joyful, boisterous sound that was so contagious. When Maddy was happy, the world was happy, and he liked that. He liked her and he liked listening to her. She was ridiculousness incarnate and he needed that in the wake of Kelly’s bullshit.
She was still giggling when he tossed his water bottle in the garbage and reeled her in, looping his arm around her middle and pulling her close, until her soft, curvy body yielded to his hard, muscled one. He didn’t kiss her right away, just stared into her smiling, pretty face, examining her fine features and the way her dark hair curled at her temples and around her ears. Her teeth were so white they gleamed in the track lighting. He liked all of her parts, including the impertinent nose with the upstart lift at the end. He pressed his lips to it and then ducked lower, to find her mouth.
“I’m a dork and you’re weird as hell,” he murmured, nipping at her bottom lip. “It’s a good match.”
“I’m not weird!” She wriggled in his grasp, her long skirt tickling the tops of his bare feet as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m eccentric.”
“You have a thousand and a half dicks, a tiger wading pool inside of your tiger playpen where a real live tiger lives, and you converted your sex dungeon into a library because your staff wouldn’t get off your commercial-grade vibrator. You’re weird.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive!”
“I suppose not.”
She laughed again, and again he captured her mouth, muffling her with lips and tongue and teeth. He’d meant it to be gentle, but she opened right up for him, wanton and willing. Her fingers slid into his hair and pulled his head to her, and then she let loose with a sexy little whimper that reminded him of her mewls when she’d been working herself over on the chaise. Thoughts of lumpy mayo were rejected in favor of pushing her against the wall, his legs trapping hers, his hand sliding from the small of her back down to a meaty curve of her ass and gripping.
It was on.
ELEVEN
THE MAN KNEW how to kiss. She’d give, he’d take, and then he’d demand more. Every time she led somewhere, whether it was to deepen the kisses, slow them down, or move into a frantic tongue fuck, he met her, and never by half measure. His big body held hers hostage but she didn’t care. In fact, there was no place she’d rather be than pressed against him, tingling with anticipation. She’d never have known he was a man limited to one hand because that one hand was everywhere—on her ass, on her hip. It glided up her side, over her tank top to brush under the curve of her breast. Her nipple pebbled, the friction of her silk bra cup against the nub a small torture. He stoked the flames, his fingers moving to trace her throat, the pads pausing against her pulse to feel how it jackhammered.
She undulated in front of him. She couldn’t help it. She’d already decided she wanted him; every second he kissed her, every slide of his tongue against hers or suck on her bottom lip fed that desire. Her body had never felt more alive, her skin practically itching with need for his touch. She would have been content to drop down right there in the hall, to pull down his fly and stuff his cock in her face and suck him off, but she couldn’t, because he wouldn’t let her.
He had her where he wanted her, against the wall.
And I like it.
No, I love it.
He tore away from her mouth, but only so he could skim his lips along her jawline and down to her throat. His hand fisted in her hair and pulled, tilting her head to the side so he could better rain kisses across her flesh. He paused at the tender hollow between neck and shoulder, sucking on it hard enough she thought he would mark her.
She was usually the one to leave a mark, not the other way around, but it didn’t matter. With him, it did not matter.
She grunted and closed her eyes, her breaths coming heavy, her left foot looping around his calf. She was doing everything in her power to get their bodies close, cursing the clothes separating their skin. Her hands were all over him: in his hair, over his broad, muscular back, and down to an ass so firm it could double as an anvil. He growled every time she touched a new place on his body, so she made sure she touched lots of new places.
His hips. His chest. Her hand slipped up under his T-shirt to slide over hot, firm abs.
Glory be.
Her head was swimming. Her body was made of jelly. She didn’t think she could possibly feel better than she did, but then he rubbed it against her and she let loose with a whimper. He was so very hard. Her hand that had been mapping out every inch of a calendar-worthy six-pack slid down, over a cold, metal belt loop, over denim that was coarse against her fingers, and to the front of his jeans.
He’s fucking huge.
Her eyes flew open as her hand flattened against a cock that had no business stretching as far down his leg as it did.
Dear God in heaven. Praise be to Allah and Yahweh and the Goddess and any other deity that might have smiled upon me this day. He’s hung like a pony.
Darren Sanders was proportionate. He was over six and a half feet tall and he was proportionate. Some women couldn’t or wouldn’t appreciate the fact that he packed that much iron, but Madeline Roussoux was not some women. She was a proud, card-carrying member of the Size Queen club, and she’d just found her ten-inch-long Prince Charming.
I’m going to die. Possibly impaled on his cock. I don’t even care.
“I want—” she started to say, but he cut her off with an “I know” before he kissed her again. His hand abandoned her hair to sweep down to her skirt, fisting in the side. He started tugging it up but she did the work for him, brushing him aside so she could shove the damned thing down until it fell to the floor with a swoosh. She stood there in her tank top and a pair of tiny
red lace panties. Anyone else, she would have shoved his hand to her crotch, but not him. She’d vowed to let him go at his own pace. To let him . . .
“Oh my fuck,” she gurgled.
He’d cupped her through the lace, his thumb resting against her clit, his long fingers wedged up and in between her legs, the ends tapping against her hole. His mouth was busy making its acquaintance with the sensitive shell of her ear as he squeezed her pussy, not delving into any of her delicate crannies, simply pressing against them so he could feel her heat.
And wetness.
“You’re so warm,” he murmured, his pointer finger dancing over the elastic at the edge of her underwear and gently tugging it aside.
“Not warm. Hot for you, dove. So hot.”
“Yeah, you are.”
He found her mouth again, claimed it, his lips nestling against hers, his tongue delving in to taste her as his finger slithered up and over her sensitive folds. He caressed back and forth, from clit to sodden recess, but he never ventured in. He was teasing her, working her up into a frenzy, when all she wanted was for him to stuff something—anything—inside of her. But that wasn’t how he wanted to do it. He wanted her quivering with want, and he tap-tap-tapped at her while he swallowed every one of her hungry moans. She’d let go of his cock to drop her skirt, but with his fingers tantalizing her, she rubbed him through the jeans again, loving how hard he was. Loving how that beast of a thing strained against the denim.
“What do you want, babe? Tell me,” he said against her lips, not so much breaking the kiss as scaling it back so he could get words out.
“To come all over you. For you. Have me, dove.”
He liked that answer, met it with a low moan, and his finger parted her, easing between her lips to find her clit and graze it. The muscles in her legs furled at the contact, her body going rigid, her thighs parting wider. He moved the finger up, not abandoning her clit but finding her hood and stroking her through it. She gasped and her head thunked back as it struck the wall. He rubbed her, slow at first, but insistently, like he knew exactly how to touch and how much pressure to exert.
The Queen of Dauphine Street Page 8
