by Jane Kent
He was off the bed, grabbing the gun in his bedside table, pulling on his jeans, shoving his feet into shoes and racing for the door in the living room in seconds…
…where he stopped dead, his eyes glued to the fantasy in front of him through the glass-paned door.
PJ’s shapely ass, covered only by some kind of clingy, t-shirt material shorts, was directly in his line of sight. She was balanced on the balcony railing on her toes, clutching one of the uprights, her head out of sight and her body twisted awkwardly so she could see onto the roof.
She was wearing some kind of goofy, fuzzy slippers and her long smooth legs were bare. The bottom of the body-hugging, matching tank top to the shorts had ridden up until it barely covered her amazing tits and exposed inches of velvet-soft looking skin between.
“Come on, baby,” she crooned, her voice muffled by the door, and Bastian groaned. As if the sight of her scantily clad pinup girl body wasn’t enough! Now her words and tone of voice were sending signals straight to his cock and calling up erotic images, one after another, of the two of them naked and sweating, against the wall, on the floor, in the shower…
Bastian closed his eyes with another groan, and then swore a blue streak. He’d done some bad stuff in his youth, but bad enough to have to suffer this kind of torment as punishment?
Opening his eyes, he set the gun on the card table and reached for the lock on the door. He made as much noise as possible opening the door, wanting PJ to hear him and not startle her into a tumble onto the parking lot below.
“What in hell are you doing, PJ? Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Her head ducked down below the roofline and she blinked at him. “Oh, hi, Bastian. It’s Atticus. He’s stuck on the roof. He’s been crying for the last ten minutes but he won’t come to me.”
“Get down. I’ll get him.” But Atticus, hearing his new best friend’s voice, suddenly made a graceful leap and two-point landing—railing, balcony floor—to rub his head on Bastian’s shins.
“Faker. Little traitor,” PJ said.
“Come on, PJ, get down from there before you break your fool neck.” He wrapped his hands around her waist, and swung her off the railing, not even trying to resist the temptation to lower her softness down the length of his body in a slow, easy glide until she was standing in front of him.
Her tank top had ridden up and he could feel her hard nipples stabbing into his bare chest as he gazed down into her face. She stared back and he realized it was the first time he’d seen those stunning green eyes without a layer of thin glass in front of them.
PJ suddenly backed away, yanking down her top. She wrapped her arms around her midriff for warmth, making her breasts squeeze together, and he stifled a primitive, responding grunt. She was shivering, her skin covered in goose bumps, her nipples erect from the cold.
And they weren’t the only things erect on this balcony.
“I…um, I…” she stammered then stopped, her gaze slipping from his face to track over his bare shoulders and then slide slowly down his chest and abdomen to the top of his half-zipped jeans. He could almost feel that look, like soft fingers running over his body. But, shit, any further and she’d know, without a doubt, he wasn’t gay.
“Why the hell didn’t you put some clothes on before coming out here? It’s winter!” he said, springing into action. He grabbed one of her hands and hustled her toward his apartment door. “Get in here before we both freeze to death.”
Atticus streaked in just as Bastian was closing the door and disappeared into the bedroom. Bastian followed the cat, dragging an unresisting PJ with him. He snagged the quilt from the bed and wrapped it around PJ, then whipped the blanket off and swirled it over his own shoulders before gathering her into his arms and sinking down on to the bed.
“Jesus, PJ, what were you thinking? What if you’d fallen or the railing had broken?” He rubbed her back and arms through the quilt to get her blood flowing.
“You’d have a big mess to help me clean up,” she answered into chest, her voice muffled. It took him a second to realize she was parodying his words to Joshie and he smiled.
“You feeling warmer now?”
She nodded and raised her head from his shoulder, shifting on his lap. He knew the second she felt his erection because she stiffened and her gaze flew to meet his, green eyes wide, lips slightly parted.
And, in that second, he knew he was doomed.
The way he saw it, he had two choices. Make up some bullshit story about being able to get it up for a woman or damn the consequences and kiss those soft, full lips he’d been fantasizing about for weeks. And right now, a million dollars wouldn’t make him go for the bullshit story.
No contest. He was going for the kiss.
Sliding one hand up her back and neck into her hair, he grasped a handful of the silky strands slipping through his fingers and lowered his lips to hers, nibbling gently. She tasted minty and fresh and smelled like vanilla.
It took PJ a second to react and then her hands wriggled up from under the quilt, stroking up over his pecs and shoulders like he was some kind of cat and locking at the back of his neck.
She nipped at his lower lip and then sucked it into her mouth to soothe the sting with her tongue. And he lost it. His tongue followed his lower lip into her mouth, challenging her tongue to duel, a challenge she met with passion. He swept the sweet recesses of her mouth and smoothed his tongue over her teeth as he laid her back on the bed and covered her with his body.
His free hand glided up over the soft cotton encasing her ribcage, and then up further to fill his palm with one generous breast, his thumb strumming the nipple in a gentle caress, while he trailed his lips over her cheek and along her jaw line.
PJ moaned and he whispered into her ear, “Damn, PJ, you are so beautiful. You shatter every ounce of self-control I ever had.”
PJ froze, then shoved him onto the bed and flew up to stand over him, hands on hips, breasts heaving, the quilt barely hanging from one shoulder.
“You’re not gay,” she said and it wasn’t a question.
He lay on the bed, his breaths sawing in and out unevenly, staring up at the water stains he’d memorized earlier. Déjà vu. He let out a long, hissing breath. Now that the time was here, he was relieved and, at the same time, dreaded telling the truth. He sat up slowly and met her confused gaze.
“Uh, no.” Then he laid it out for her, the whole tangled story, beginning to end, while her expression got darker and darker, finishing with “I’m sorry, PJ. I wanted to tell you from the start but it was Rome’s call.”
The room was silent, PJ standing stock-still, glaring at him. He couldn’t stand the hurt and betrayal in her eyes and he looked away, feeling like a piece of shit.
“You lied to me,” she finally said and, again, it wasn’t a question but he still nodded bleakly.
“Is Rome paying you?”
“No! I’m part owner of the security company I work for. I took a leave of absence.”
She seemed at a loss for words, and then she said, “You son of a bitch.” She didn’t raise her voice as she said it and somehow that was worse than if she’d railed at him.
She ripped the quilt from her shoulder, flung it at him and walked from the room.
“PJ.” He followed her as far as the bedroom door, and then stopped. Because what was the point? She was right. He had lied to her. He should have gone with his instincts and told her the truth from day one. Now she needed time to absorb what he’d told her. And maybe cool off enough to speak to him again sometime this century.
PJ was cursing him, her brother, all men, and muttering something about lying, sneaking, lowlife scum and knowing better as she stalked across the living room. Bastian winced. She swept out the balcony door without looking back, slamming it so hard the glass rattled against the panes. And Bastian winced again.
He stared at the door for a full minute, his mind reeling, before slamming his fist into the wall.
“
Fuck!”
It was still too early to call Santini. Or Romeo. He might as well have a shower and get ready to face the rest of this cursed day. At least it wouldn’t have to be a cold shower. His overactive libido had definitely been dealt with for now.
Atticus was sitting in the bathroom doorway giving him a malevolent glare, a low growl emanating from his throat.
“Don’t even start with me, cat,” he growled back and Atticus shot under the lumpy sofa.
Chapter Four
“Dinner was a gourmet delight as always, sweetie,” Dave said, kissing PJ on the cheek. “Your gravy and stuffing beat even my mom’s. But if you tell her I said that, I’ll be forced to reveal your deepest darkest secret to all and sundry.”
“You don’t know my deepest, darkest secret,” PJ scoffed with a smile handing him, and then Jack, a doggie bag.
It was Christmas and the last guests from what Dave called her Second Annual Potluck Orphan’s Christmas Dinner were leaving. She’d hosted the first dinner last year when she’d realized the number of people she’d met in her new hometown who were alone for Christmas.
People who simply had no one to spend Christmas with or who had families living too far away, many of them elderly people. Like the children’s party, it had expanded, from the six last year to twelve people this year. People like Mrs. Minarcin who owned the pet shop next door came and old Mr. Evans who came into PJ’s store everyday to read his newspaper just for the company.
And Bastian.
PJ had started the day at dawn, getting the turkey into the oven and calling her parents and Rome to wish them a Merry Christmas. It was her first conversation with her brother since she’d yelled at him over the phone last week. She’d forgiven him, though she’d made it clear she still thought he was an ass for not telling her the truth from the beginning.
She’d gone to the morning church service, determined not to let worry over the threat against her and her family or thoughts of Bastian ruin her Christmas until she’d come down from communion and seen Bastian sitting in the last pew. Then, he was all she could think about eclipsing even the death threat from the murderous triads in her mind for the rest of the service.
She’d caught glimpses of him over the last week. Now that she knew why he was really here, he seemed to be everywhere she went. She supposed he always had been, but now he didn’t need to be secretive. They’d had one short, stilted conversation when he’d brought Marco Santini into the bookstore to introduce him. From then on, lucky girl, she’d had two shadows.
Bastian had waited for her outside the church, and when she’d drawn near he’d pulled the most exquisite crystal dove holding an olive branch out of his pocket and held it out to her. “Merry Christmas, PJ,” he’d said. “Forgive me?”
And she had. It was Christmas. And she really didn’t want to be angry with him any longer. After all, he’d only been doing what Rome, his friend, had asked. She would have done the same for Skye. And, if she was honest, she’d also forgiven him because she’d missed him desperately. She’d gotten used to the daily visits he’d made the week before and she’d missed them and the easy camaraderie they’d established.
“Thanks again, PJ,” Jack said now, pulling her back to the present. “Sorry I have to leave, but my ex will be waiting for me to pick up the kids.” He gave Bastian, who was standing beside her, a narrowed-eyed look. “I could maybe stay a little longer. Help with the dishes.”
“No problem,” Bastian said before she could answer. “I’ve got it covered. I live here, remember?”
“Across the hall,” Jack clarified. “For PJ’s safety.” He and Bastian seemed to be locked in some kind of weird staring contest, then Jack gave a quick nod and the strangely tense moment passed.
What the heck had that little bit of male…well, male whatever it was…been all about?
PJ closed the door behind Jack and Dave, then leaned against it and looked at Bastian. Dave and Jack had been the last to leave, Skye having left thirty minutes earlier acting as taxi service for those without cars.
Bastian smiled at her. “You have nice friends. They care about you.”
She smiled back. “Yeah, they do.” Pushing away from the door, she said, “You really don’t have to stay to help.”
“I want to.”
“In that case, thanks. You can start by collecting any dishes in the living room.”
They did the dishes, PJ washing and Bastian drying, amiably talking and laughing about their childhood Christmases. PJ found out Bastian had three brothers and washing the dishes after Christmas dinner had been one of their chores. Their mother, he said, wasn’t having any lazy, football-watching, helpless male couch potatoes in her house. “But it usually turned out like this,” Bastian said, flicking her butt lightly with the wet dishtowel. “And then we’d say ‘Oh, sorry my hand slipped’.”
PJ laughed, scooped up a handful of suds and threw them at him. “Oh, sorry, my hand slipped.”
He looked surprised for a second, then grinned and retaliated with his own fistful of suds. And the war was on, until Bastian captured her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, trapping her arms, both of them laughing. He turned her to face him, removed her soap-smeared glasses and polished them with the dishtowel, then gently wiped the suds from her face.
“Friends again?” he asked.
Were they? Is that what she wanted from this man? Yes! That, and, oh, so much more! She was already halfway in love with him and definitely more than ready to freefall the rest of the way.
PJ shook her head slowly as she took back her glasses and set them on the counter, the hope in Bastian’s eyes dimming slightly until she said softly, “More than friends, I think” and kissed him.
And it was every bit as amazing as she’d been trying not to remember for the last week.
Their tongues feinted and parried until Bastian pulled back, framing her face in his big hands, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks. He planted light butterfly kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, her chin and the tip of her nose. Then he brought his forehead down to touch hers as he looked into her eyes.
“You sure?” he asked
“Positive,” she answered, turning her head to kiss the palm of one of his hands. She reached for him, running her tongue up his neck and over his jaw, stopping to kiss the spot where his smiling dimple appeared, and moving on to his mouth, inviting him to share another deep, passionate kiss.
They tore at each other’s clothing still trying to kiss, cursing lightly when foreheads and hands and knees and elbows bumped. They laughed when PJ’s silk trousers caught on the shoes she was still wearing and joked about how good it was Bastian lived so close when PJ ripped the buttons off his shirt until finally, finally, PJ stood in nothing but her underwear and Bastian was down to his jeans.
Bastian ran smoldering eyes over her body, smiling slightly at first sight of her seasonal lingerie decorated with playful elves. But there was nothing fanciful or modest about the cut of the demi-cup bra or thong panties and the banked fire in his eyes ignited into live flame. “God, PJ, you’re gorgeous.”
And so was he. All smooth, golden skin over chiseled muscles. PJ leaned forward to lick a dark nipple, and then trailed her tongue down over his ribcage and flat abdomen, stopping at his unzipped jeans.
She sank to her knees and slowly pushed the jeans and his boxer briefs down until he kicked them off. Her hands stroked up his legs, around and over his tight butt and back around to draw one finger oh, so slowly up the length of his thick erect penis.
Bastian froze and the swift intake of breath he held as he followed the lazy glide of her finger with hot eyes encouraged her to go further. She kissed the bulbous head before rubbing her thumb over the drop sitting on the engorged tip and using it to lubricate back down the length.
Cradling the soft sacs behind in one hand, she lowered her head and took him deep into her mouth while her other hand lightly scratched the sensitive skin behind his testicles. She dragged her
teeth ever so lightly up, then swirled her tongue around the head and sucked. Bastian jerked with a long hissing exhale and she peeked up at him.
He was beautiful! Gripping the counter behind him, his head was thrown back, his face contorted in ecstasy, his eyes closed.
And she had done this to him!
She slipped her tongue down and up the length of his penis again, nibbling at the tip with her lips and Bastian opened his eyes, looking down to watch with a heavy-lidded gaze as she sucked him into her mouth again. His hands suddenly closed on her shoulders, pulling her up. “Stop, PJ, for the love of God! I’ve wanted you for too long. I’m not going to last,” he said, his voice hoarse.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, unsnapping her bra, pulling it out of the way as he deserted her lips to trail his mouth down over her neck to suckle and lave her breasts and over-sensitive nipples. He gave each equal attention, his hand toying with the one his mouth wasn’t devouring.
Then his lips were back on hers and his hand was pushing her whimsical thong over her hips until it dropped to the floor. His fingers delved into her wet softness, playing with her clitoris and checking her readiness.
Backing her toward the table, still kissing her, Bastian fumbled for his jeans, lying half on and half off the kitchen chair where they’d landed, and pulled away from her lips, cursing softly, when he didn’t snag them on his first try. He finally got his hand on them and withdrew a small foil packet from a pocket.
He kissed her lightly, his arms around her again, tearing open the packet behind her back. Sliding his hands up her arms, he pulled them from around his neck, then rested his forehead on hers as he put the condom in her hand and guided her hands to his erection. He laid his hands over hers and they rolled the condom on together.
PJ slid her arms back up around his neck as Bastian’s hands moved down to her butt and he lifted her. Her legs curled around his strong body, her ankles locking behind his waist. Bastian turned and she felt the cool surface of the refrigerator against her back, Bastian’s hardness teasing the entrance to her body. She whimpered, aching for completion, and Bastian smiled.
