Crazy Cool

by Tara Janzen

  Easing her leg up around his waist, he fitted himself to her, tested her, then slipped inside all the way, just to feel her surrounding the whole length of him. There was nothing like it, not on this earth. The slick, heated warmth of her seeped into him, starting at his cock and radiating out to the very nether regions of his brain. God, she made it hard to think.

  He opened his mouth wider over hers, pulled her tighter, felt her softness consume him, and he kissed her—long, and wet, and deep, over and over, making love to her mouth, to her tongue, and her lips, and her teeth. He just wanted her, wanted all her wet softness, all her sighs of surrender. He wanted the smell and the taste of her, the feel of her against him, and it was all more than was good for him. He knew it, and he still indulged, pulling out and thrusting into her as slowly as he could possibly manage, just to feel the magic of her body wash over him—again, and again, and again.

  A guy could die doing this, and not give a damn. It felt so good.

  “Mmm, Kat,” he groaned, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, grazing her with his teeth.

  Her hands were all over him, sliding up under his arms and then back down over his torso, caressing his skin in rhythm with his thrusts, her fingers moving down between his thighs.

  He opened his legs wider and whispered in her ear, then felt her hand slide back around and come up from underneath, cupping his balls, gently kneading him, tugging on him—so lightly, her fingers so delicate.

  He bit her neck, sucked on her. Oh, yeah, this is it. Perfection—and they’d slipped back into it effortlessly.

  He didn’t even want to come. He wanted this to last forever, for them to stay in this hazy, erotic limbo, where his mind was fogged with the heat of her body, with the pleasure rolling through him, with her soft bites to his shoulder, the glide of her tongue over his skin and the rhythm of her hips moving to meet his.

  No, he didn’t want to come. He wanted to fuck, like this, for as long as they could make it last—utter, mindless sensation. It was so sweet, and hot, and healing, a place out of time. He licked the inside of her mouth and softly bit her lips, then sealed his mouth over hers again, sealing them together with the same breath.

  KATYA felt like she’d fallen into a fever-dream. Her world had gotten so small as to have almost disappeared. There was only him, the weight of him holding her down, his thrusts making him a part of her, fueling needs that had been denied since the last time she had been like this, naked in his arms, being consumed. He filled her, not just with his body, but with his pleasure and the sheer power of his desire. His hands were on her, gliding over her skin, holding her, strong and sure, leaving no part of her untouched. He’d known exactly where he wanted to go, and he had taken her there with him.

  It was all so achingly lovely, to just feel him inside her, on her, all over her. She slid one hand down his chest, her fingers tunneling through the soft, dark hair that covered him to his groin. She loved the way he felt, all hard, lean muscle moving on top of her, each flex and thrust of his hips pushing him deep inside her.

  She knew him, knew this could go on endlessly, until they transcended conscious thought, until they reduced themselves completely to taste and touch, sight and sound and scent. It was eroticism poured into her skin. It was stamina and otherwordly delights. It was strength and the willingness to surrender. It was amazing. It was the reason she had called him Superman.

  Long minutes flowed into each other, sliding across the day, until she no longer existed outside of him. His heat was hers, infusing every pore. The taste of him was the taste of her. She moved, and he moved with her, as one, until he tightened his arm low around her hips and pulled her up against him. All movement stopped then, except for the slow slide of his other hand up the middle of her torso and between her breasts, until his hand came to a stop at the base of her throat. His palm was so hot, pressing her back into the bed. It was a brand; it was bondage. It was dominance of the most primal kind imaginable, and it demanded submission. His gaze held hers, dark and glittering, his hair falling down on either side of his face as he pulled her even tighter against him.

  Oh, God—oh, God—oh, God. He pressed down from inside her, and heat flashed across her body. Sweat broke out on her upper lip and brow. Oh, God. He pressed again, and a tremor started deep, deep inside her. He felt it, she could tell by the darkening of his gaze. A feral smile curved his lips, then his eyes drifted closed and his head went back. He moved her against him, pumped into her, his teeth bared, a low growl coming from deep within his chest, getting her hotter, making her wilder. She wanted him. She wanted this, all of it, desperately. Her legs tightened around him, and with his groan echoing in her ears, she felt the first pulsing jerk of his release, his cock so hot and hard inside her. Molten heat pooled in her groin, and when he thrust into her again, she was with him, drowning in ecstasy, suffused with pleasure so deep, she felt it in her bones, down to her soul, so full of him, he was a part of her.

  An hour later, she roused from sleep again, this time fully and completely cognizant of her situation. She was in love. In love with the same man she’d always been in love with—God save her.

  He’d fallen back into a sound sleep beside her, and she didn’t want to wake him, so she didn’t touch him—but she looked.

  Looked her fill, he was so beautiful. The rain had stopped, and the sun was shining in the huge windows, heating up the loft. He’d kicked all the sheets off his body, leaving himself open to her gaze.

  She remembered the first time she’d ever undressed him. Her hands had been shaking. They’d been kissing on the couch in the suite at the Brown Palace, something they’d ended up doing almost every night since the night he first saved her. He’d even made her laugh a few times, and twice he damn near stopped her heart—once when he slipped the strap of one of her summer dresses off her shoulder and put his mouth up near the top of her breast, and once when he slipped his hand up under her dress and came close to doing what he’d done last night—but not close enough.

  He’d been very gentle, very leisurely about everything, and when he’d stopped kissing her, stopped touching her, and just held her, she’d been filled with a sense of loss. It hadn’t been enough, not of him.

  She’d run her hand over his arm, tracing the dark lines of ink that ran along his skin, trying to figure out how to tell him she wanted more.

  “Where did you get this?” she’d asked instead, following the curve of one line with her fingertip.

  “A place to the south of here,” he’d answered with only the slightest hesitation. Then he added, “Would you like to see the rest of it?”

  The question had been simple enough, but somehow, she’d known that seeing his tattoo was going to be one of the great adventures of her life.

  She hadn’t been too far off the mark. By the time she’d helped him get his shirt off, she was definitely in uncharted territory. She’d known he was in very good shape, but she hadn’t realized he was totally ripped, until she saw him without his clothes.

  “They’re . . . wings,” she’d said, surprised by the realization. The dark lines snaking and curling up his forearms had not fully told the picture. From the back, with his arms outspread, she could see that the lines made feathers, not all of them perfect. Some were curled on the ends, or lifted with an arch, as if a wind was blowing across him, literally ruffling his feathers.

  She was headed to California in the fall as a fine arts major, and she knew art, body or otherwise, and his tattoo was exquisitely done. The black, open line work was very graphic, rather than realistic, but the design was definitely a pair of wings. She could actually tell which way the wind was blowing across his body: from left to right.

  “This is amazing,” she’d said, sliding up behind him on the couch and taking hold of his hand. She’d lifted his arm again, stretching it out, suddenly oblivious to the fact that he was half nude. All she could see was that he was beautiful, his body a work of art layered under a work of art, the wings enhancing the
sculpture of the muscles beneath his skin. And he was muscular, lean and highly defined.

  She’d moved her hand over him, along his arm and up over his shoulder, then down the smooth, hard muscles of his back—until she came to the rather abrupt barrier of his pants.

  “Oh,” she’d said, and nearly pulled his pants out a bit to see down inside. “There’s more.” Curiously, he didn’t seem to be wearing any underwear. She didn’t know what to think about that.

  “Some,” he’d agreed, turning back around.

  Her reverie had instantly ended. He wasn’t a piece of sculpture, he was a man, or nearly so, and she’d been rather forward sliding her hands all over him, even if it had been in the name of art.

  “But . . .” He’d shrugged, and she’d known exactly what he’d meant. She probably shouldn’t go looking down his pants, not anytime soon, for if the back of him had elicited a purely art appreciation response, the front of him made her think purely and solely of sex again.

  He was gorgeous, not just his face with his rather elegant nose and chiseled cheekbones, and that mouth, which she so wanted to kiss again and again, but his whole body, his chest covered in fine dark hair, his abs the proverbial six-pack. Just looking at him was enough to make her mouth go dry.

  She wanted to touch him, nuzzle his neck, lick his skin—get into him, get onto him—and she was at a loss in knowing how to make that happen, or in judging how dangerous giving in to those desires might be.

  He took her hand in his again, his so large and dark compared to hers, the veins prominent across the back and easily traceable up the whole inside of his arm.

  Oh, how she wanted to kiss him—everywhere.

  “This isn’t about sex,” he’d said, startling her with his frankness. “This thing with you and me.”

  “It isn’t?” She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or not.

  “No.” He’d shaken his head, then glanced up at her from under the swath of silky dark hair falling over his eyes. “This is about trust.”

  “Trust,” she’d repeated, not quite understanding.

  “I can get sex anywhere—”

  Yes. She nodded her head. She believed that. He probably had girls and women lined up outside his bedroom door, taking numbers—oh, damn.

  “But I’d like something different with you.”

  Uh-oh. This had all the signs of being the “Gee, I like you as a friend” speech.

  He glanced away, and she could’ve sworn a soft flush of color had washed over his cheeks.

  “I don’t have any problem with taking my pants off for you.” He’d looked back up, capturing her gaze with his own, and she’d been riveted to her spot on the couch. Stripping was definitely not part of the let’s-be-friends speech. “But I don’t want you getting in over your head.”

  Too late. She’d just lost her breath. He was going to take off his pants, and just the thought was enough to get her wet. She could feel it, and the sensation damn near paralyzed her. It had never happened to her before, not like this. Oh, he was way too late. She was in way, way over her head.

  His smile had returned then, a flashing curve of white teeth and wry self-awareness.

  “I’m already drowning over here,” he’d confessed, his smile broadening, and she’d wondered if she was ever going to get another breath. “All I have to do is look at you, and I’m slain, princess, but I can handle it. Nothing is going to happen here that you don’t want, and I don’t mean maybe want. I mean nothing’s going to happen tonight that you don’t really, really want.”

  He had a good point, but she didn’t think there was any “maybe” about what he made her want, and nothing could have surprised her more. She’d never considered herself particularly sensual or sexual, but she could smell him, almost taste him, even from a distance, all warm and male, and it was doing crazy, crazy things to her imagination, like an aphrodisiac-laced pheromone. She was half on fire and half on slow simmer, and if he didn’t kiss her soon, she might just die from wanting it so badly.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen here, and neither do you—”

  No. She shook her head. No, she didn’t. He was absolutely right about that.

  “—but even if . . . even if I was inside you”—and here the blush of color had come back into his cheeks—“and you said no more, go away, it would be over. Right then. I can promise you that.”

  Inside her? A soft, deep flash of heat exploded under her skin and washed through her entire body. Had he really said that?

  Boys didn’t say things like that. They just groped, and pawed, and complained when they didn’t get what they wanted, or they looked hurt, which was even worse.

  “I’m a virgin,” she’d all but blurted out for reasons she could no sooner explain than she could explain the theory of cold fusion—which she couldn’t, not at all.

  “I feel like one,” he’d confessed, a slow grin curving his mouth. Then he leaned down and kissed her again. “I won’t hurt you. I know how to be careful.”

  And he had known. By the time he’d carried her to the bed, she’d been so ready for him, needing the taste of him in her mouth, the heat of him inside her.

  She still needed him. The reasons hadn’t changed. He was Hawkins, and she’d needed him from the first moment she’d ever laid eyes on him.

  And now she’d gone and done it, really done it. Whatever bond had been broken thirteen years ago had now been reforged, even stronger for knowing what the loss of it had cost her.

  So if love was supposed to be the answer to all life’s problems, why did she feel so doomed?

  “You’re thinking too hard again,” he mumbled into his pillow, not bothering to open his eyes. “I can hear the gears churning in your brain.”

  “Can not,” she countered.

  “Can, too. It’s what woke me up.” He rolled over onto his back and stretched.

  She swallowed softly. God, he was beautiful.

  “I think we need to talk.”

  “You want to do it in the shower?” he asked around a yawn.

  “No. No, I—well, I think we should get dressed.”

  “No,” he said, adamant, opening his eyes and pinning her with his gaze. “We’re not getting dressed and having a talk. If you want to talk, we’re either doing it in the shower, naked, or doing it right here, naked.”

  “You can’t set rules like that for a talk,” she said, exasperated. She did not want to talk naked. She was already too vulnerable, and he was . . . nothing but trouble when he was naked.

  “Rule one—we do it naked. Rule two—nobody leaves the bed, until we’re done talking.”

  “Oh, for pete’s sake. I’m trying to be serious here.” She shot him an irritated glance, but then wasn’t quite able to pull her gaze away.

  He was watching her, watching her like a hawk.

  “I am never more serious than when I’m naked, babe.”

  She knew that. He’d proved it to her again and again, all night long, and then again an hour ago.

  “I didn’t mean we needed to talk about . . . sex.” He was impossible.

  “And I think that’s the perfect place to start.” He rolled to his side and propped his head up on his hand. “Sex. With you. I like it, a lot.”

  With effort, she stifled the huge sigh welling up in her throat. He was completely impossible. She was struggling with all sorts of feelings and the whole mess of falling in love with him again, if she even dared to call it that, and she couldn’t just be a one-man band and sort through all of it without him.

  “There’s got to be more than sex,” she said, feeling like she’d already lost control of the conversation and not knowing where to go from here.

  “And I think you’re underestimating what happens between us when we make love. It’s not a simple thing, Kat.” He was damned serious. She could tell by the tone of his voice and the unflinching steadiness of his gaze.

  “No, it’s not simple. It’s—are you sure we have to do this na
ked?”

  “Being naked is the compromise, Kat. You want to talk? Fine, we’ll talk. If it’s up to me, we get up, get dressed, preferably after a long, hot shower we take together, and then we spend the day moving all your stuff in with me, and from there, we just go on living our lives, except we live them together, instead of apart.”

  “Just like that?” She couldn’t help but sound skeptical.

  “Just like that.”

  “And how long does that last?”

  He took his time in answering, took a deep breath before he did answer, but his gaze didn’t waver from hers, not once. “It lasted thirteen years without us even seeing each other. Being two reasonably intelligent adults, I think we should be able to do better than that with a little effort.”

  More than thirteen years? His plan sounded more like a marriage proposal than an offer to shack up, and she truly didn’t know what to make of it.

  “Maybe we should go back to talking about sex.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “We’ve moved on.”

  This was her cue to run. She could feel it, feel the need twitching in the muscles of her legs. She needed to get out of that bed and run like hell, or she truly, truly was doomed.

  But she owed him the truth.

  “I can’t breathe.” That was the truth. She was starting to hyperventilate.

  “Ah, hell, Kat. Sit up,” he said, sitting up himself and giving her a hand. “You know, you’re not much help here.”

  She knew. He couldn’t pick a worse person to live with. Given a choice, four days out of seven, she wouldn’t live with herself, which was actually an improvement. There had been years when seven days out of seven she hadn’t wanted to live with herself. She just hadn’t been able to get away.

  “I’m a mess,” she told him—more of the unvarnished truth.