Shielding His Baby (Deuces Wild Book 3)

by Taryn Quinn

  God, she couldn’t decide if she was too dirty for him or if she wanted to dirty him up.

  “Are you coming out or are you going to sit there all night?” he asked through her open window. Patience oozed from his tone, and he looked absolutely unwrinkled after their two-and-a-half-hour drive.

  She couldn’t imagine him fucking. She fucked. He probably communed with the physical plane through his hips in slow, perfectly orchestrated movements. Three thrusts, a hip swivel, tidy, non-sheet-staining orgasm. And pillow talk probably stayed in the cordial range.

  Good night, Marge. Make sure you have a good breakfast with lots of fiber.

  Good night, Sterling. Hope tomorrow’s board meeting goes well.

  “What do you call a blowjob?” she blurted.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sure you don’t call it that. It’s too lowbrow. So, you know, what do you call it when you ask a woman to polish your knob?”

  He choked. “Polish my knob?”

  “Yeah.” She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. “See, I knew it. You probably don’t even accept blowjobs. That’s a classless activity. You also probably don’t like servicing a woman in a similar manner.”

  His lips twitched. “You mean polish your knob?”

  “My knob is much tinier, but fine, if you will.”

  “Are you vetting me before we go inside? Should I offer you my sexual dossier?”

  “Yes. Offer me it.”

  His smile faded. “A blowjob is a blowjob no matter what you call it, and now that you mention it, I probably haven’t gotten nearly enough of them.”

  Uncomfortable images were taking over her brain. The kind that involved her tugging down his tailored pants and licking him stem to stern until he lost every shred of that fabled control in her throat. “Is that because you’re stingy on the flip side?”

  “No. I quite like pleasuring a woman.”

  Her cheeks flamed, but not because she was embarrassed. She quite wanted to be pleasured by that wicked tongue. Now. In the driveway. Her stretchy-waist pants would provide easy access. “Then why haven’t you had enough BJs?”

  “Because sex isn’t something I do lightly, nor have I carved out enough time in my schedule for it.”

  “That’s like saying you don’t have enough time to ride all the rollercoasters at Disney. You make time. You squeeze out other activities by any means necessary.”

  It was his turn to incline his chin. “I don’t like rollercoasters.”

  “Because they mess up your hair?”

  He laughed and shook his head, stepping back. “Pop your trunk and get out of the car, Thumbelina. Time’s wasting,” he added lightly.

  “You can’t call me that while we…” She cleared her throat. She still couldn’t believe she was even considering this. That he was. It felt weird in every possible way. There had to be a limit to what extreme, loin-clenching horniness would cause a rational person to do. Boinking old family friends had to be it.

  “What would you prefer me to call you?” That silky tone was back, the one that made her belly rock in the best way.

  “Angelina.” She popped her trunk, grabbed her purse and made herself get out of the car. Hiding in its dark interior all night wouldn’t solve her problems.

  “Not Ang?”

  She couldn’t help softening at how he said her nickname. “You can call me that too.”

  “Good. I feared I’d entered enemy territory.” He flashed her a panty-incinerating smile and lifted the trunk. Then he made a noise of disgust. “You really have been living out of your car. Jesus, Thum—” He broke off, sighed. “Does the current time count as pre-sex?”

  A laugh erupted from her so fast she didn’t know it was coming. “You’re good until we cross the threshold. Then it’s on.”

  He held her gaze for a beat longer than was necessary. “Is that so?”

  She nodded with more enthusiasm than she felt. The closer she got to his welcoming front porch, the more she wanted a pint of chocolate ice cream, a hot bath and a nice, long sleep. In that order. Not because he wasn’t smoking hot—he so was—but she was worn out from stress and driving and thoughts of ruining her life with sex. Again. None of those things were conducive to torrid lovemaking, even if she’d been able to coax it out of Sterling.

  Plus, she really had to pee.

  Without commenting, he shouldered two of her heaviest bags and commanded her to leave the others be when she started to reach for one. “You can take the carry-on.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  His piercing glance quelled her urge to smile at his heavy-handedness. “You can’t call me that. I’m not that much older than you.” Then after a moment, he added, “Am I?”

  “No.” Now she did smile. “Eight years is practically nothing.”

  “Try nine. I’m thirty-one.” He didn’t look pleased about the age difference. Either that or he was wilting under her heavy bags.

  So she wasn’t a light traveler. At least none of the stuff she was carting around included dirty laundry, since she’d availed herself of Brandy’s facilities.

  Speaking of Brandy, she needed to tell her she’d found other accommodations. She’d call her. Later. After all the hot sex.

  “I’ll be twenty-three next month.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  Still, she couldn’t resist a bit of a tease as she walked up the steps behind him. “Do you make a habit of shagging younger babes?”

  He cleaned his feet off on the utilitarian straw welcome mat and fit his key in the lock. “No.” He pushed open the door and gestured her inside. “You’ll be the first.”

  A shiver overtook her, and she took longer than necessary to cross the threshold. “You prefer older women?”

  When he set her bags down without replying, she walked into the hall and pushed the door closed with her foot. Then she whirled around and bit her lip at the scuffed footprint on the distressed cherry door. She would’ve knelt to buff it off with her fist if he hadn’t chosen that moment to kill the moment entirely.

  “Yes. To be honest, I do. I’m not looking for games, and younger women, unfortunately, seem to be masters at them.”

  She dropped her bag to the high-polished hardwood floor and turned to face him. “Like your sex-obsessed ex?” Perhaps mentioning his ex would remind him of his probably-a-lie and the stakes of taking things, um, all the way. Especially since Ang was one of those young chicks he abhorred. “What was her name?”

  His jaw locked. “Tricia. I’d be happy to show you to your room now.”

  “Hang on a sec. Where would I find the powder room?”

  “Off the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” She headed to the half bath, took care of business and spent five minutes analyzing her reflection. Unfortunately, she seemed to have skipped the glowing part of pregnancy and shot right into the worn-out stage. Even teasing Sterling had sapped her energy.

  Maybe it was a good thing she seriously doubted he’d ante up on any sex, hot or otherwise.

  When she exited the bathroom, he was waiting in the same place. “Your room is this way.” He headed up a curving flight of stairs before she had time to look around at the surprisingly homey place—or to check her anger.

  Granted, she knew she had little reason to be mad, but logic rarely dictated her emotions these days. He was offering her the use of his home when she was in a jam. The usage of his body—well, clearly he wasn’t fully on board with that. But she understood, because she wasn’t either. Although she had a feeling they were approaching the subject from vastly different poles. She had too many feelings for him to spread her legs and pretend it wouldn’t matter. He probably thought she was a vapid kid who didn’t know how to discriminate when it came to her sexual partners.

  She stomped up the stairs after him. Oh yeah, her motor was humming on high now.

  “Top of the stairs, second door on the left,” he called down.

  Her teeth clamped together. “No kiddin
g it’s top of the stairs, Sherlock.”

  It annoyed her to find herself winded from the climb. What annoyed her more? That the lovely room he gestured her into absolutely called her name. The soothing blues and greens made her feel like she’d slid into the warm, bright cocoon of the ocean. Lacy curtains framed the large window, and the bed had been piled high with pillows. So high that she wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep this whole confusing day away.

  “This is nice. Thank you.” She gave in and smiled. “I really appreciate you helping me out.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” He set down her bags in front of a tall dresser topped with a stem vase of real roses. With freaking baby’s breath. He must have some housekeeper, since she really couldn’t imagine him changing flower arrangements on a weekly basis. “I’ll go get the rest of your luggage and leave you to it.”

  “Glad that we’ve tabled the sex in favor of unpacking. You must’ve heard the call of my socks.” She waved off his narrow-eyed look. “Don’t worry, I understand that I’m not your type. Too young. Too tatted and pierced and brash—”

  “You want sex?”

  Despite his cool, clipped tone, her body was back to sending signals to her brain that consisted mostly of hell, yeah and bring it on home, stallion. Maybe she should say no, but she’d never been real good at denying her needs.

  Also, she had to see what he would do next. She wasn’t only horny, she was curious.

  “Um, yes. I do.”

  He moved so swiftly that she didn’t have a chance at reacting before she found herself hands flat on the bed, bent over it in a wholly unflattering way. At least when she was feeling gritty and tired and in desperate need of a shower. But then he tugged on her pants, baring her thong, and she forgot all about anything but his rapid intake of breath. Actually, it sounded like he needed to be hooked up to oxygen, stat. He traced the line of fuchsia fabric between her butt cheeks and she flushed, caught between squirming away and squirming into his touch. His strokes whispered over her flesh, kindling heat through her belly.

  “Sterling?”

  “Shh.”

  She shh’d. His tentative caresses shouldn’t have inflamed her to this extent. He was probably just doing this to distract her from arguing about why she was there. Little did he know she was too exhausted to fight about anything at the moment. She also couldn’t shove down the attraction she’d harbored for him since what felt like the beginning of time.

  Gripping the plush, sea-green comforter, she tried to turn her head, to say his name. His hand between her shoulder blades pressed her down farther, gently but firmly. He didn’t even pull up her shirt. From above the waist, she remained fully dressed. Not that she minded getting right down to brass tacks, but she had tacks due north that also would’ve appreciated some attention.

  She might’ve said that had he not silenced her by slipping his finger beneath her panties and arrowing down into where she’d become wet in a heartbeat. She made a helpless noise against her fist, biting it as he started to explore with those same airy touches. Barely moving yet inciting a firestorm in his wake.

  His fingers were wider than she’d realized. Their blunt tips probed her, skirting over her swollen lips and along her folds. Finally sinking inside her for the briefest of moments before gliding away to circle her clit. She rotated her hips, her impatience growing. She didn’t get why he’d pushed her facedown—why couldn’t she look at him?—or why he didn’t want her to speak, but if his idea was to get her off quickly, she didn’t mind helping him out. Apparently she could use the stress relief. Big time.

  But the more he touched her, the more her ardor cooled. It shouldn’t have. Even this weird non-body-touching position was hot, in a sort of disconnected way. She should’ve been revving at maximum speed. Instead every time he skated away from her clit, the heavy pulse of need in her belly dulled.

  A phone rang and he cursed, long and low. She blinked and glanced over her shoulder, surprised to hear such inventive expletives from his mouth. But he wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were closed and his forehead had compressed with lines that spoke of pressure more than pleasure. If this act was arousing him at all, he wasn’t thrilled about it. Then again, why would he be? She wasn’t giving him anything in return. If she tried, she suspected he’d just shut her down, so she didn’t bother.

  She wasn’t going to come. Not now, not here. Since that seemed to be his express purpose, their maiden journey on the Hot Sex Highway would soon be dubbed a big, fat failure.

  Perhaps she should tell him to stop. She sure didn’t want to have an orgasm like this. Each time he slipped inside her and those slumbering nerves tried to wake, she bit her knuckles to hold back her arousal. If he thought he could get her off as impersonally as a sex toy, he had another think coming.

  She ached to look him in the face. And unknot that sexy silk tie of his, maybe use it to bind his wrists so that he couldn’t fight her while she undid the buttons of his shirt. While she ran her palms over his hot, bare skin…

  His thumb brushed her clit roughly and she cried out, squeezing her eyes tight. He was pushing in harder now, and she was getting wetter, her core starting to spasm whether or not she wanted to climax. She wouldn’t capitulate that easily. She couldn’t let him think this behavior was acceptable.

  “Oh yes. Yes. That’s perfect.” The lie left her lips as easily as wetness pooled in her core. Guilt tried to roll over her, right along with the desire she couldn’t quite kill, but she wasn’t giving it any room. “Uhh…yes.”

  He grunted and the guilt climbed higher. He’d started breathing heavily again and she couldn’t help rolling her hips into his hand, trying to get him to plunge into her harder. Faster.

  “Yes. Oh, so good.” She added a moan that wasn’t entirely fake, and her brain groaned in concert the closer she came to release.

  No. No. Noooo.

  He pinched her clit and a jolt of white-hot urgency speared between her legs, making her gasp. She had to get this over with. Now. “Oh, I’m coming. Yes. Oooh. Oh baby.”

  Okay, the oh baby might’ve been overkill. He made a sound of his own, deep and needy in his throat. Her belly clenched and another random spasm overtook her as his large fingers filled her for one last stolen moment.

  Then he was moving back and she uttered a silent prayer of gratitude into the knuckles she’d nearly bitten raw in frustration. Somehow the whole oddly arousing and embarrassing ordeal had ended without an orgasm, though she’d nearly given in.

  Her pussy was still quivering. So was her heart.

  As hungry as she’d believed she was for Sterling-centric sex, this didn’t qualify. His fingers were awesome and all, but they might as well have had motors. This hadn’t been about them. It had been about accomplishing a goal he clearly wanted as little to do with as possible.

  Her eyes stung. But she wasn’t hurt. Nope, no siree. If she had been, the fact she’d just faked a climax with the guy had most likely evened the score. Or else she’d just kneed her already shaky karma in the nuts.

  Probably the second one.

  He pushed her thong back into place and tugged up her pants, patting her bottom like a child who deserved a treat for doing her homework.

  “Make yourself at home,” he murmured.

  Make yourself at home? She stood, ready to chew his ear off. What the hell was that?

  But by the time she turned around, he’d already gone.

  Chapter Four

  This sucked.

  Ang lay back on the pillowtop mattress in Sterling’s guest room and contemplated the luggage strewn across the floor. While she’d taken a quick shower in the en suite bathroom, the rest of her bags had miraculously appeared.

  Hands that had brought her to near-climax before vanishing. She might’ve hurried them along by faking it, but still. He could’ve employed more effort. Sterling wasn’t a fifty percent kind of guy. Except, apparently, when it came to proffered sexual contact.

  “Ugh.”
She flung her arms over her head and shut her eyes. “Why me?”

  More to it, why had she even mentioned hot sex in her text? She’d been trying to make a point that she shouldn’t be staying in his house unless they were lovers. At which point he was supposed to say, “You know, you’re right. Never mind. Go your own way.”

  Fleetwood Mac songs weren’t going to help at this juncture. Nothing was.

  She’d caused this mess. She should have seen his sex offerings as simple manipulations to get her where he wanted her—safely ensconced in his beautiful, charming home. Which was a bad thing because…

  Thinking. Still thinking.

  She slipped her hand into the waistband of her pajama pants and absently stroked her still mostly flat belly while she let her gaze drift around the room. Wide built-in bookshelves held a selection of hardback classics beside the cozy sitting area in front of the window. A wicker chair and coffee table were perfect for dawdling with a book, and two tall dressers offered plenty of storage to go with the large closet. The en suite bathroom had a shower big enough for a pair of linebackers, done in glassy black tile. And the bed…oh, the bed.

  So, yeah, she supposed the whole “staying with Sterling” thing wasn’t so bad.

  In all the years she’d known him, they hadn’t had a whisper of anything the least bit physical between them. True, she’d been in high school not that long ago, and an upstanding member of the community like Sterling wouldn’t have been caught dead even looking at her inappropriately. But what about during her college years? They’d seen each other around. He’d been at her graduation party and a couple of brunches at her parents’ house before she’d left for Europe in late June. He’d had opportunity, if not motive. So what had changed? He did have a highly competitive nature. Perhaps once she’d mentioned sex in any form, he’d decided to do whatever necessary to close the deal of getting her in his house. It was for her own good, after all.

  And possibly his own, if that story about Tricia could be believed. The jury was still out on that one. But naturally, protecting her from herself came first.