Anthology - Bad Boys With Expensive Toys

by user

He leaned forward. He watched her breasts rise and fall as she breathed, watched the patch of preserves. The scent of strawberry was as sweet as summer. He put his lips to the spot and sucked the jam into his mouth.

  She laughed. "What are you doing?"

  "I'm cleaning you up. I like to do a very thorough job," he promised her. He was thinking he'd get her mind off her troubles for a while, but the minute he got close to her, he was lost.

  He looked down, and where he'd pulled part of her cotton shirt into his mouth, he'd left a crinkly round wet spot. There was still a little jam left, so he leaned forward and this time pulled more shirt into his mouth, and sneaky devil that he was, he managed to get her nipple this time.

  There was some kind of flimsy bra there as well, but he still made the most of his position, using his teeth gently but firmly to be sure she felt him through all that fabric. She sighed and pushed forward against him, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him tighter against that wonderful round flesh. He smelled her laundry soap, and her skin, and strawberries.

  He launched himself at the other breast until he'd made another patch of wet blouse and bra, and another nipple was hard on his tongue.

  When he pulled back, he was breathing heavily, and so was she. Sunlight spilled through the window, tossing bars of light across the sturdy pine table, the food, and the woman laughing at him breathlessly. Suddenly, he was filled with a lust so strong it was more need than desire.

  "I want you," he said.

  "I know." And she did. He could see his own desire reflecting back from her. Beneath the wet patches on her shirt her nipples were rock hard in the wet, wrinkled fabric—almost shocking against the elegant and unmussed rest of her.

  He scooted closer and kissed her mouth, thrusting his tongue deep in his frantic need. She licked at him, nipped him, took over his mouth as he made short work of the buttons down her front. He managed her bra by feel, then kissed his way down to her still-damp breasts, the centers puckered and her beautiful, sensitive, coral-tipped nipples luring him until he took one into his mouth.

  It wasn't enough. It didn't seem like anything could ever be enough with this woman. He wanted all of her, now. His hands were under her skirt, reaching. She gripped the seat and lifted her hips so he could strip off her panties.

  Crazed with lust, he stood and shoved their breakfast to one end of the table. He heard a thunk as something crashed to the floor, but he didn't much care. In the other room one of the dogs let out one muffled bark at the sound, but neither came to investigate for which he was grateful. He didn't want a crowd watching what he was about to do.

  He pulled Sophie from her seat and hoisted her to the edge of the table. She clung to his shoulders, reaching up so she could kiss him again. He could taste her urgency, feel her mounting desire, and it fueled his own. Or his fueled hers.

  He bunched her skirt around her hips, then decided he needed her to be naked. So he took the extra few seconds to strip her of her skirt and then pushed her gently to her back until she was laid out on his table like a feast. Her skin was honey-toned in the warm light, her nipples dark coral. As she drew in a shuddering breath, he watched her rib cage rise, then the slight swell of her belly.

  She was surrounded by the remains of their breakfast. The fruit, some bread, the jam, his squeeze bottle of honey . . ,

  As he reached across her, she reminded him he was fully dressed still by grabbing his T-shirt and pulling.

  One hand on the honey, the other reaching behind him, he yanked the thing over his head, put down the honey beside her raised knee, and then slipped the shirt off his arms.

  Sophie rose to her elbows and without a word looked significantly toward his crotch. Some things could be communicated in any language, he realized, as he obligingly stripped out of the clothes he'd dressed in less than an hour ago.

  He stepped between her knees, thought about parting them, then looked down at her, so glorious, the dark triangle of hair in the shadow cast by her raised legs. He wanted the sun on it.

  "Open yourself for me," he said softly.

  A tiny sound came from her throat. For a second she didn't move, and then she parted her knees with enough slowness to torture them both.

  "All the way," he whispered, waiting until her thighs rested on the table, her knees hanging over. The sun turned her hair glossy, her thighs impossibly pale. He could see the faint line of a blue vein and followed

  it higher to where she was glistening with her own desire. Wet and plump and so very open for him.

  If he went down on her now, which he wanted to do quite desperately, it would all be over far too quickly. He wanted to draw out their pleasure. So he picked up his bear-shaped squeeze bottle of honey, leaned right over her, and squirted a golden drizzle onto her right nipple, then drew a lazy line to her left.

  "It feels cold," she gasped, when he trailed the honey down, between her ribs, across her belly, filling her belly button with a golden pool of honey. Where he drizzled the honey goose bumps sprang up. He thought it the most erotic sight. He stopped just below her navel, and her hips jerked a little, in frustration, he guessed. Good. He wanted her on edge.

  At least as on edge as he was himself.

  Back to her breasts, and he licked at the honey, swirled it around with his tongue, rubbed his lips until they were smothered with it, and kissed her mouth, covering her with sticky sweetness. He lapped at her lips, making her giggle, lapped his way back to her breasts, and tongued her until he no longer tasted sweetness, then continued to follow the sweet path he'd drawn. As he tracked his way south, her body began to tremble, and her sighs turned into quick pants.

  As he dipped his tongue into her navel, he saw her hands grip the sides of the table. She never closed her legs, though. She kept herself completely open to him, and he loved her for it.

  Her eyes were tightly closed so she never noticed when he picked up the honey bottle again. As he drizzled the thick, golden liquid into her curls and over her pulsing clit, she cried out.

  She was wet, and sweet and sticky. Her own musky scent mingled with the honey, and he salivated as he closed in on her. The minute his tongue touched her she cried out. He felt the shudders already beginning; her intimate flesh was plump and sweet with her desire. As much as he wanted to make this last for both of them, she was too close, and he couldn't hold himself back. He lapped at her gently, until she tipped her hips up and pushed against him. Then he cupped her hips in his big hands and licked and sucked greedily. Her panting was growing harsh, her own wetness outpacing the honey, and then, when neither of them could wait another second, he sucked her clit into his mouth and tongued her hard.

  A cry seemed torn from her as she climaxed against his mouth. Her torso rose as though she were climbing a rope— literally trying to climb out of her own skin, he thought smugly.

  He heard anotherMon Dieuand then a lot of other stuff that sounded earthy and exactly the kind of thing a woman should say in the throes of orgasm. Especially as he caught his own name in there.

  He kissed his way back up her body, leaving sticky honey mixed with essence-of-Sophie lip prints along the way. When they kissed, she wrapped herself around him, pushing herself up so they ended with her sitting on the edge of the table, her legs wrapped around his hips. She was still hot and wet, and he felt

  the little aftershocks against his own needy nakedness.

  A small, firm hand grasped his shaft and guided him to the opening of her body. Once more he cupped her hips. She clung to his neck, and they never stopped kissing as he thrust, hard and deep inside her.

  Oh, she was so exquisitely, absolutely right. Tight and wet and so very hot. He was pumping, she was pumping, their tongues were mating, the honey was doing its best to seal them together, and then suddenly her head fell back. He wondered for a second if he'd deprived her of so much oxygen she'd passed out, but she drew in a great shuddering breath, and then he got it. Her lower body clenched him as she used that breath to cry out her re
lease. He managed to get her all the way through her climax, while his cock felt like pure fire. He couldn't hold on, couldn't hold it, and suddenly it didn't matter; the fire poured out of him, into her while he shuddered his heart out.

  He found that his legs were trembling, so he had to hold on to the edge of the table for support. He dropped his head to her shoulder and kissed the damp, soft skin of her neck.

  Then, because he felt like it, he lifted her, still joined to him and walked them both into his shower. He'd never been so glad that he'd renovated the bathroom to suit his oversized frame.

  Between the shower, her begging him to let her cook him the world's most complicated meal, more sex, and time to sit and talk, the hours passed. If her safety was never far from his mind, he didn't let on, and Sophie never once made noises about leaving his apartment.

  She even decided to trust him with her shopping list, sort of.

  "I must have some moules," Sophie decided suddenly. She'd begun making noises about dinner, and rude comments about his lack of kitchen supplies. She glanced at him sternly.

  "Mules?" he asked, wondering if she meant those girlie slippers with heels. He hoped she didn't mean the beasts of burden. That's all he needed in the apartment, more animals.

  "Moules, mussels." She made a sharp gesture, a flick of her wrist, and an opening of the fingers. "And they must be fresh."

  He blinked at her.

  "For dinner. Yes? You like mussels?"

  He had a feeling she could cook road kill and make it taste delicious. Or mules.

  She opened cupboards and started muttering to herself in French. Mimi wagged her tail at the sound and sighed daintily through her black button nose.

  While Sophie wrote him a list that included a separate list of ingredients for the dogs' dinner, he collected leashes and decided to take the dogs with him.

  While Mimi and the Doberman did their thing, he kept a sharp eye out for trouble, but his neighborhood seemed as peaceful as it ever did. He got everything on her list, including the mussels which he was assured twice were fresh.

  He returned, and things went fine until Sophie, in the middle of cooking dinner, suddenly said, "You have no cardamom."

  He felt like saying,well, duh . Vince considered himself a liberal-minded man, but he secretly suspected that a single guy who stocked cardamom, whatever the hell that was, also wore pink golf shirts and subscribed toHouse and Home.

  Nothing wrong with that, of course, but Vince wasn't that sort of man. Mind you, he had to admit that a man who gave Mimi house room might as well grow a cardamom tree in his living room. If they grew on trees. Jeez.

  While he harbored these reflections, Mimi snoozed on his favorite chair, and the Doberman sat at Sophie's feet watching the dinner preparations with unblinking brown eyes.

  "Imbecile!"Sophie said, after she stepped backward and almost fell over the dog."Que tu es bete!"

  "He doesn't understand. English," Vince said with deep appreciation as the dog wagged its tail while

  Sophie insulted it.

  "He must move."

  "Probably he's hungry."

  "He's always hungry, this one."

  "I think there are some dog cookies in the cupboard," Vince said. "They came with Mimi's things, but

  she won't touch them."

  He moved around behind Sophie, giving her a wide berth, since he was not keen to be called imbecile

  and the like unless strictly necessary. He reached into a cupboard and brought out a seriously embarrassing looking can with hand-painted poodles all over it. A custom job, no doubt, like the collar. He eased open the lid, and inside were bone-shaped cookies that had to be handmade. Probably from some specialty poodle boutique.

  He tossed one at the Doberman, who caught it in midair and wolfed it down. He tossed a second, and

  that went the way of the first. To be fair, he walked over to where Mimi snoozed and waved one under her nose. She didn't even open an eye, just scooched her body a bit so her nose moved farther away

  from the dog cookie.

  "Finicky," Vince said, replacing the tin.

  "Cardamom I must have," Sophie insisted. "I know where you can buy it."

  "Yeah, well, so do I," Vince lied. "You keep cooking. I'll get it."

  "Are you sure?" She looked doubtful.

  "Sophie, I'm a college-educated man; I can manage to buy cinnamon."

  "Cardamom!"

  He grinned at her. "I know. I was joking."

  She threw her hands in the air and started muttering. Sometimes, he decided a language barrier wasn't such a bad thing.

  He glanced at the dogs, but they seemed engrossed in their various activities. Sleeping on his chair and supervising the dinner preparation. Seemed a shame to bother them. Besides, they'd be some protection for Sophie in his absence, and he'd be a lot less noticeable without them. If the insane chef was hanging around, he hoped to surprise him.

  So he headed off alone. He checked out the perimeter of the building, and the adjacent areas, but everything seemed okay. It took him three stores to find cardamom. He was about to pick it up when his cell phone rang. It was Sophie, and she sounded frantic.

  "Vince," she cried, "come quick."

  Nine

  He was already running, his steps keeping time with his pounding heart.

  That bastard must have waited until he was out of the way to try to get to Sophie.

  "I'm two minutes away," he yelled into the phone. "Did you call 9-1-1?"

  "9-1-1? But they can't—"

  "Whatever you do, don't let that bastard inside."

  "Vincent, he's already inside. Oh, I must go to him. Hurry!"

  The phone cut out, and he shut every distraction from his mind, focusing on only one goal. He had to save Sophie. She was alive, and somehow she'd been able to call him. She was smart and brave. If she could hold Gregory a couple more minutes, he'd be there. Sprinting up Eleventh Avenue, he bashed a

  few shoulders, leaped over a couple of dogs on leashes, and nearly lost an arm when he dodged around

  a mailbox and turned onto Forty-fourth at a dead run.

  He was breathing hard when he entered his apartment building. He had a split second to decide between the elevator and pounding up seventeen flights of stairs when he noticed the elevator was empty and on the ground floor. He sprinted inside and cursed its slowness as he rode up, realizing he'd left his gun in

  his bedside drawer.

  Fool!

  Well, he had his bare hands and hopefully surprise on his side. He'd make the best of them.

  Once he reached his floor, he noted that the door wasn't kicked in or damaged in any visible way. He used his key and slipped inside as quietly as he could. He didn't have to search for Sophie; she was right there, bending down at the edge of his living room.

  "Sophie," he gasped. "Thank God you're all right."

  She rose and turned to face him, looking pale and shaken. "But he is not."

  As she turned back to her previous pose, he saw a heaving heap of black-and-brown fur. It took his adrenaline-soaked brain a moment to register that her panic call had nothing to do with the chef who

  liked to take pot shots at his ex, but with the Doberman.

  The dog's flanks quivered, and Vince heard the rasp of labored breathing. He rushed closer and noticed that the dog was shaking all over.

  "What happened?" Vince asked, dropping to his knees beside the prostrate animal.

  "I don't know. He threw up twice and then..." She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. "And then he sort of fell to the ground."

  Sophie stared at him in appeal. Standing at the top of the Doberman's head, Mimi gave him the same look. She leaned forward and licked the black trembling head.

  "We'd better get him to the vet," Vince decided, thinking the poor old Dob wasn't looking good at all. "Let's go."

  He hefted the not inconsiderable bulk of the Doberman in his arms. The dog whimpered a little, but otherwise made no complain
t. He carried the dog down and walked the block to where he garaged his SUV, hoping they could make it in time.

  Sophie sat in the back, and he laid the dog on the seat beside her, with its head pillowed on her lap. She murmured soothingly and stroked its head.

  Fortunately, Vince had lived in this neighborhood long enough that he knew the immediate area intimately. Mimi's fancy vet was in Chelsea, but too far. There was a vet only a few blocks away. He drove like a maniac, heavy on the horn, heavy on the gas, double parked outside the vet's front entrance, and once more lifted his burden.

  He wondered if they had a chance of saving the dog. Even in the short time it had taken to travel here,

  he could see the poor mutt's condition had deteriorated. His eyes rolled in his head, and he was barely breathing.