She almost said yes. The word hovered on the tip of her tongue for a dangerous moment, enticing them both with the possibility of flagrant debauchery. And then Tom put his hands on her shoulders, jerked her away from the door, and turned her around. “Get the key, Slim, and open the damned door.”
Roxanne fumbled for the key, fumbled as she fit it into the lock, fumbled as she turned the doorknob and stepped over the threshold. She should be aghast, she knew. Ashamed of her lack of control. Appalled at her willingness to make a public spectacle of herself. Yesterday, she would have been. Maybe tomorrow, she would be again. But right now, she wasn’t. Couldn’t be. Right now, she was on fire, burning up from the inside out, trembling with desire. The only thing on her mind, the single driving thought in her head, was the overwhelming need to assuage the heat, to quench the aching desire, to find sweet release with her good-looking, dangerous cowboy.
And then the door crashed closed behind her, and his arm encircled her waist, and he spun her around, crushing his mouth to hers, and she ceased to think at all.
He propelled her backward toward the bed, his mouth fastened to hers, feasting, his hands moving over her body, frantically molding her breasts and back and the sweet, subtle curve of her bottom through her clothes. Her kisses were as greedy, as wildly intemperate as his, her hands as frantic, touching him everywhere she could reach. The backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed and she tumbled onto it, pulling him down on top of her. They bounced once, sending the cowboy hat she still wore somersaulting over the edge of the mattress to the floor. Entwined like tangled kudzu vines, they rolled across the bed and crashed into the headboard. It banged against the wall and they rolled away, mouths still hotly fused, hands still moving frantically, bodies pressed together, legs entangled, hips grinding together. Tom’s foot hit the rickety bedside table, causing the equally rickety bedside lamp to wobble on its base, sending shadows flickering precariously across the walls and ceiling, counterpoint to the intermittent flash of red neon from the motel sign pulsing through the slanted blinds on the window.
Neither one of them paid it any heed. Neither of them would have noticed if the lamp had gone crashing to the floor. The only thing that registered was the searing wildfire need that ricocheted back and forth between them, the only thing that mattered was satisfying that need.
Immediately.
Now.
Tom shoved both hands under her tiny denim skirt, pushing it up to her waist, and curled his fingers under the low-slung waistband of her leopard-print panties. And then he paused, still on the thin edge of control, and stared down into her wide, whiskey-colored eyes. She stared back at him, her gaze avid, unwavering, and unabashedly eager, without coyness or equivocation, primed and ready for whatever came next.
“This first time is going to be a fast, hard ride,” he said, his voice low and guttural. “If that’s not what you want, say so now.”
She bent her knees, planting her boot heels on the edge of the mattress, and lifted her hips. “It’s what I want.”
He yanked her panties off, tugging them past her raised hips, dragging them down her legs, wrestling them over her boots, and tossed them on the floor. His hands went to his fly, his fingers working frantically at the metal buttons to free his erection as he slid his body back up between her legs. He grasped her bare thighs, his strong callused fingers digging into her flesh as he spread them wider, meaning to drive himself into her, hard and fast the way they both wanted, to take her with elemental, unthinking fury.
But something about the way she lay there, her minuscule skirt pushed up around her waist, her bent knees splayed, her soft, hot, woman’s body open and vulnerable to his every desire, had him suddenly gentling his approach. She was so pretty and fragile there between her legs, all plump and pink and glistening, with the feeble light from the bedside lamp glinting on the smooth pale skin of her thighs, and the red neon pulsing like a heartbeat, giving her an all-over rosy glow. The soft blond hair between her legs had been waxed or shaved or whatever it was that women did, into a narrow little rectangle that barely covered her mound. It was rawly sexy, and inexplicably, elegantly refined. Just as she was.
He softened his grip and slid his palms down the inside of her thighs, slowly, caressingly, until his thumbs just touched her vulva. Her body jerked beneath him, a tiny involuntary movement that could have signaled rejection or acceptance of his intimate invasion. He raised his gaze to her face again. She stared back through the frame of her splayed knees, her lips moist and parted, her cheeks flushed, the expression in her eyes as soft, as hot, as open and vulnerable as her body.
Slowly, still holding her gaze with his, he slid his thumbs down and then up, then down again—once, twice, three times—gently skimming her most sensitive flesh. Her body undulated, like a field of ripe wheat rippling in the wind, and she uttered a breathy little sound, half moan, half sigh, that shuddered out between her lips.
“You’re wet.” His voice was low and caressing, his gaze voracious and admiring. “Hot and wet and slippery.”
“Yes.” She didn’t blush. Didn’t look away. “I am.”
“I want you wetter. I want you—” he moved his thumbs inward a fraction of an inch, pressing down, closing in, capturing her distended clitoris between them in a sensuous little squeeze play “—dripping.”
Her body tightened, straining, and the sound she made was definitely a moan. A deep, throaty, on-the-edge moan.
He eased his thumbs back a teasing fraction of an inch from her slick swollen center and watched her eyes flare wide in mindless entreaty, watched her bite her lip against protest and plea. Her desire was palpable, her anticipation a living, breathing thing between them.
He knew exactly what she wanted.
Needed.
Had to have.
In another mood, he might have made her say the words, might have teased her—and himself—by making her ask for what she wanted. Instead, he slid his hands under her hips, slid his body down off the bed until his knees were on the floor and his shoulders were wedged between her thighs.
“We’ll save the hard riding for later,” he said, and buried his face between her legs.
Roxanne nearly levitated off the bed at the first heated, silken stroke of his tongue against her throbbing clitoris. Her back arched like a bow. Her hands clutched at the worn chenille bedspread, gathering it into her clenched fists. Her booted heels pressed down into the edge of the mattress. She moaned. Loudly. And then more loudly still as he brought his fingers into play again, opening her more fully to his lasciviously talented tongue.
It felt as if every nerve ending in her body began and ended in that one tiny nubbin of sensitized flesh between her legs. She throbbed. She ached. She vibrated with need. And, then, in a blinding, incandescent blaze of sheer primal lust, she came. It was gut-wrenching. Breath-stealing. Mind-blowing.
Sublime.
“More,” she demanded, when her breath finally shuddered back into her lungs and she could breathe again. She released her death grip on the bedspread and reached down, fisting her hands in his dark, silky hair, pressing him closer, straining for another peak. “More.”
He acquiesced with satisfying gallantry and greed, with no hint of hesitation or resistance, as if continuing to pleasure her with his mouth had been his intention all along. And, maybe, it had been. She was sweet and tender, so incredibly hot and responsive that it was pure, unadulterated pleasure to give her what she wanted. Because it was what he wanted, too.
Making her scream with ecstasy had been high on his list of priorities since the first moment he’d seen her in the bar. He’d thought to do it by pounding her into the mattress. He still meant to do it that way. Later. Right now, he was determined to tease those screams of ecstasy out of her with his tongue. She’d uttered that one, long, shuddering, gasping breath when she came the first time; he wanted a full-throated scream the next time she went over. He slipped his hands back under her bare squirming bottom to hold he
r more securely, and set about getting what he wanted with the same single-minded focus he applied to everything.
In minutes, he had her writhing between his hands. Her hips undulated against his mouth in mindless entreaty. Her head thrashed against the bed. Her breath came in throaty little whimpers and panting moans, interspersed with disjointed pleas and fragmented demands.
“Oh, God… I… Yes. Oh, yes. There. Oh, please. Yes. Right there. Yes. Yes. Yes!”
The last yes came out as a strangled shout, a muffled scream that barely echoed off the thin walls of the motel room.
Satisfied with that, Tom lifted his head and pressed a soft kiss to the soft crinkly hair that covered her mound.
“Inside,” she demanded raggedly, nearly delirious with need. She yanked on his hair, trying to pull him up her body. “I need you inside me. Now. Right now.”
Tom didn’t have to be asked twice. He levered himself on top of her with a supple shift of his body, sliding up between her splayed thighs. His engorged penis nudged her slick folds, seeking the entrance to her soft, hot woman’s body. It took every ounce of his considerable willpower to keep from plunging into her. Instead, calling upon his last reserves of control, he pushed himself up onto his knees and reached for the top button on her blouse.
“The condom.” The words were gritted out between clenched teeth. His hands were trembling. “Where’s the damned condom?”
Roxanne pushed his groping hands away to retrieve it herself. “I’ll do it,” she said, curling the foil-wrapped packet into her fist when he would have taken it from her. “I want to do it.”
“Then do it,” he ordered. “Quick.”
With hands that were surprisingly steady given the raging storm going on inside of her, she peeled the two halves of the foil wrapping back, tossed it aside, and reached down with both hands to sheath him. His penis was incredibly hot to the touch. Incredibly hard. She curled her fingers around his steely, latex-shielded length and guided him into her.
“Ride me, cowboy.” The words were a demand. A plea. A prayer. “Ride me hard.”
He drove himself into her with all the finesse of a sex-crazed adolescent mounting his first woman. His body was tense and quivering, muscles straining, hips pistoning wildly, madly, almost violently. Pounding into her, taking her, possessing her, riding her. Hard. Roxanne cried out, a feral sound of surrender and triumph both, and drove her hips upward, meeting him thrust for thrust. It was hot and wild. Untamed. Uncivilized. Out of control. Damp flesh slamming into damp flesh…breathing hot and labored…long callused fingers digging into soft giving flesh…long red nails pressing into hard straining muscles…lips parted, gasping for air…eyes closed tight to better savor the battering maelstrom of sensation…relentlessly driving each other to completion.
The mattress creaked beneath them, counterpoint to each powerful thrust. The headboard banged against the wall. The lamp wobbled on its stand. And still they hammered at each other, striving, straining, battling toward the ultimate peak of physical sensation.
And then all of Roxanne’s small inner muscles began to spasm. Hard. Fast. Unstoppable. Inevitable. The movement spread outward, tightening the muscles in her belly and back and thighs, drawing her nipples into stiff aching buds, arching her body up off of the bed until she was as taut as a quivering bow. Tom thrust into her twice more—deeply, powerfully, heavily—deliberately pushing her over the edge. She fell with a high keening cry, trilling her satisfaction and pleasure with the same lack of restraint she’d shown in going after it in the first place.
With a hard convulsive shudder, he let go and went over himself. The feeling began between his legs, pulling everything tight and hard, nearly painful in its intensity, radiating outward in pulsating waves that curled his toes inside his battered Tony Lamas and nearly caused his eyes to roll back in his head.
They collapsed onto each other, into each other in a boneless heap, trembling and damp, wrung out, replete, utterly satisfied. Several minutes passed in silence as they lay there, panting, still entwined, still intimately joined, and waited for the world to right itself around them.
Roxanne surfaced by slow degrees, the sensual haze clouding her mind dissipating bit by bit as she came back to herself. She could feel the hard round shape of his belt buckle pressing into the soft flesh of her inner thigh, feel the pearl snaps on his shirt pressing into her breasts and belly through the thin cotton fabric of her eyelet blouse. His breath was hot against her neck. His hands still cupped her bare bottom. His penis was still snug inside of her. He was a dead weight on top of her, a hundred and eighty pounds of exhausted, hard-muscled male, but she lay there quietly beneath him for several long contented minutes, her body deliciously relaxed and sated, and deliberately took stock of the situation.
Common sense would dictate that she should be feeling ashamed, or guilty, or at least foolish about what she had just done. Instead, she was absurdly pleased with herself. Good-girl Roxanne Archer had picked up a good-looking, dangerous cowboy in a tacky honky-tonk, taken him back to her tacky motel room, and had wild, raunchy sex with him. Nobody back in Connecticut would believe it. She could hardly believe it herself. And, yet, there she was, spread-eagled and flat on her back beneath said cowboy, still wallowing in the afterglow of a monumental, toe-curling, mind-bending orgasm—and thinking about doing it again as soon as humanly possible. Or as soon as they both got their breaths back.
She smoothed her hand down the long damp curve of his spine, under the pale blue shirt he still wore, to the hard swell of his bare buttock. “I don’t mean to complain, sugar.” She patted his fanny lightly, appreciatively. “But you’re smashing me flat.”
He grunted, a purely male sound that delighted her feminine soul, and levered himself up onto his elbows to relieve her of most of his weight. His head hung down between his shoulders, as if it were too heavy to lift just yet, his face still buried in the curve of her neck. She could feel his eyelashes, soft as butterfly wings, flutter against her skin as he opened his eyes, and then he raised his head and gave her a slow, sexy, self-satisfied smile.
“You get the license number of the truck that hit us?”
Roxanne smiled back, pleased and gratified by the implication that she wasn’t the only one who been broadsided by the big O. “What truck was that, sugar?” she said playfully, and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“Big ol’ eighteen-wheeler roarin’ down the highway at ninety miles an hour, at least. Knocked the stuffing right out of me.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You still feel pretty—” she made a little thrusting motion with her hips “—stuffed to me.”
Tom’s smile widened into a teasing, lopsided grin. “You’ve got your anatomy wrong, Slim. You’re the one who’s—” he countered the teasing movement of her hips with a quick thrusting movement of his own “—stuffed.”
Roxanne’s appreciative chuckle turned into a low throaty moan. Her hands tightened on the cheeks of his butt. Her back arched.
And, just like that, he was rock-hard again, as hot and horny and hungry as if he hadn’t just exhausted himself between her thighs. His teasing grin faded. The lazy glow in his eyes sharpened and focused. He pushed himself up onto his hands, pressing her hips more deeply into the mattress, and stared down at her, incredulous and amazed. He was thirty-one years old, for God’s sake! He wasn’t supposed to be ready for Round Two so soon.
“This is crazy,” he murmured, fighting the urge to begin thrusting like a wild man again. “We’re crazy. You know that, don’t you? Completely crazy.”
“Yes.” She tightened her hands on his backside, trying to press him closer, deeper. “I know. Crazy.”
“We’re both of us still half dressed.” He gave in to temptation, and the silent demand of her hands on his butt, and rotated his hips, grinding his pubis against hers. “Still got our boots on.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Boots. We should take our boots off and— Oh! Oh, yes.” The word was a long drawn-out hosanna of
inarticulate appreciation. “Do that again.”
“I don’t even know your name.” He made another small, deliberate grinding motion. “You don’t know mine.”
“I know your name.” The words fluttered out in little panting breaths. “Your name is Tom Steele. And mine is Roxan—Roxy,” she corrected, catching herself. “Roxy Arch— Oh, yes! Again. Please.” She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her booted ankles at the small of his back to keep him inside her when he started to withdraw. “Again!” she demanded.
He did it again.
And then again.
Very slowly.
Very deliberately.
Very gently.
Roxanne bucked beneath him, her hips pistoning as she tried to increase the pace, and the pressure. “Faster,” she panted. “Harder. Oh, please. Harder.”
He gave in to one demand and resisted the other, pressing down harder, while at the same time restricting the movement of her hips with his until they were barely moving at all.
“Take it easy, Slim.” The words were low and soft, gritted out through clenched teeth as he struggled to resist her passionate demands and the inclinations of his own body. He wanted it to last a good long while this time, and that wasn’t going to happen if he let go and started thrusting like a madman. “Real slow and easy,” he murmured, suiting words to action as he ground his pelvis against hers. “Let’s make it last this time.”
Roxanne uttered an inarticulate protest and strained against him, her legs clamped around him like a vise, her thighs and belly taut and quivering, her back arched, her teeth clamped over her lower lip as she fought to take what he held just out of her reach.
“Easy,” he said, and ducked his head, brushing his mouth over hers, skimming his tongue over her abused lip. “Take it easy. Just let go and take it easy. We’ll get there.”
Good Time Girl Page 5
