Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  “I gave myself the same lecture.” She grinned. “So much for cautionary tales.”

  “I’ve never been cautious. I don’t know why I thought I could be with you.”

  “Arthur was a deterrent for me. Oh, dear, I’ve gone and ruined it.”

  Ignoring the sudden jolt of conscience, Bobby lifted his brows faintly. “Let’s not talk about Arthur.”

  She grinned. “Ever?”

  “That might be easier for me than you.”

  “Or maybe we could just not talk at all . . .”

  His flashing smile warmed the entire room, perhaps the universe, she thought; and his physical beauty aside, she understood why he never lacked for female company. Wordlessly, she drew him along, taking him through her cavernous living room, past the vacant dining room, skirting the kitchen decorated with her card table and chair, and led him down the hall past closed bedroom doors until they reached her bedroom that overlooked the terraced backyard and creek.

  Moonlight poured in the windows, illuminating the large room, spotlighting her canopied bed in a silvery light like a perfectly arranged stage set. Her pale yellow coverlet seemed to glow, and the spiral bedposts soaring upward to the lacy canopy were gilded in moon beams.

  “Sorry about the mess on the floor.” Her discarded clothes were impossible to miss.

  “Mirrors,” he said, as if she’d not spoken, his gaze on the wall of mirrors fronting her closets.

  Men could be so focused, her inadequate housekeeping skills ignored. And for once in her life she embraced the concept.

  He’d moved into the room, his broad shouldered form silhouetted against the light from the windows. God’s gift to women here in her bedroom. For her. “Undress for me,” she said.

  Perhaps Willie’s talk of female power had provoked her request. Or maybe sexually deprived for so long, she simply wanted to contemplate a beautiful, male body. More likely she was responding to Bobby Serre with unprecedented lust like every other woman who set eyes on him.

  It took a millisecond to overcome his resistance to the peremptory note in her voice and another millisecond for his brain to race through the cause-and-effect-equals-reward equation before he reached behind his neck and, turning around, jerked his T-shirt over his head. Kicking off his sandals, he pulled down the zipper on his shorts, stripped off his shorts and boxers, and stood before her in all his glory, tanned, lean, muscled, and ready for sex.

  Cassie’s breath caught in her throat. There were aphrodisiacs and aphrodisiacs and the whole beautiful package with—that . . . it, that enormous, really huge, upthrust erection was breathtaking. Swiftly sliding off her jacket, she shimmied her skirt upward, too aroused to take the time to unzip and discard her skirt, wanting her panty hose off now, this instant, for immediate access to what was sure to bring her incredible pleasure.

  Selfish?

  You betcha.

  Single-minded.

  After seven and a half months of celibacy, no actual thought process was required.

  He was walking toward her. Ohmygod it was coming closer. She was going to hyperventilate. She was going to faint. She was going to come just looking at it.

  “Hey.” A low calm voice. “Relax.”

  His hands covered hers, the rough warmth of his palms spilling over on her hips, the spiking pleasure she felt out of all proportion to the casual point of skin-on-skin contact. “I’m not sure I can wait,” she breathed, desire a hard, steady throbbing inside her.

  “Then we won’t,” he murmured, kneeling before her, his hands sliding down her legs, pulling her panty hose down. “Up,” he gently urged, lifting one foot, slipping her shoe and stocking off. “The other,” he said, repeating the procedure, then sliding the backs of his hands inside her thighs, he eased his forefingers along the cleft of her cunt, opening the pouty lips and, bending his head, tongued her pulsing clit.

  She gasped, softly moaned, slid her fingers through his silky black hair, and held on for dear life because he knew exactly—as in the hottest spot in the universe exactly—where his tongue should go and stay. He knew it better than she knew it herself, and she’d had years of practice.

  Which really made her wonder what he could do with the giant rest of him when he was so good at this. Which made her wetter than she already was and made her vulva swell even more so he had to search a little harder for her primary pleasure center. But he wasn’t an ace bounty hunter for nothing. She was really, really glad she’d thrown caution to the wind. She was even more glad when she climaxed a second later.

  When she opened her eyes after a time, looked around and remembered where she was, she smiled down at him. “Thanks. Really. Sincerely. From the bottom of my heart.”

  “No problem.”

  His hands slipped away from her hips, and she realized he’d been holding her up.

  “Either you’re spectacularly good or I needed that more than I thought.”

  “You said it’s been a while,” he modestly said, coming to his feet. “Why don’t you sit down,” he added, lifting her onto the side of the bed. He grinned. “Just in case.”

  “I suppose women faint on you all the time.”

  “Not really.”

  “So I’m the only pathetic one.”

  “Or maybe you’re the only go-for-broke, hotter-than-hot one.”

  “You’re smooth,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Just waiting.”

  “For your turn?”

  He half smiled, his dark brows lifting in the most charming diffidence. “If your schedule allows.”

  “If you can repeat what you just did to me, you might end up my sex slave, although that would mean I’d have to go grocery shopping to keep up your strength.”

  “Or we could have food delivered.”

  She grinned. “Apparently you’re not averse to being a sex slave.”

  “Depends on the woman.” He tipped his head. “So?”

  His calm expectation was a self-confirming sort of candor. Without vanity or arrogance. Unlike—she ripped the image of Jay from her mind. “So let me get the rest of my clothes off,” she said, coming back to the reality she preferred, sliding off the bed.

  “Turn around. I’ll give you a hand.”

  Strange how his voice soothed her, touched her senses, did the most curious things to her libido that had been out of commission for months. The tenor was almost hypnotic, velvety, a tantric massage of her mind.

  And when she turned around, he unzipped her skirt, slid it down her hips, let it drop to the floor, and, holding her at her waist, lifted her away. Setting her down, he unhooked her bra, and slid it down her arms with an unaffected naturalness. “Nice,” he murmured, his gaze on the mirror before them. Reaching around, he cupped her heavy breasts in his palms. “Really nice . . .” He gently lifted her breasts, raising them slightly, her soft flesh forced upward into high, ostentatious mounds.

  She could see him, too, his tall, broad-shouldered form behind her, a half smile on his handsome face, his hands, fingers splayed, large like the rest of him. His size was tantalizing, provocative; she shivered in anticipation.

  “We’ll have to warm you up,” he murmured, misinterpreting her shiver, brushing her nipples with his index fingers, watching her nipples spring to life. He gently stroked the rosy crests, his touch gossamer light, a lazy indolence to his actions as though he were capable of waiting.

  When she wasn’t so sure. His erection was pressed into her back, his hips moving faintly so she could feel the entire length and breadth and delectable tensile strength velvety and warm against her skin. He was so incredibly large, larger than she’d ever seen—or felt. A frisson of excitement flared through her senses. Would he fit? Or wouldn’t he?

  Her body was prime, he thought, and silicone free . . . almost a novelty in his world. Like a Titian nude come to life, she was curvaceous and lush, with gorgeous tits and sinuous hips and the most breathtaking legs that went on and on and on until they reached the wettest, tightest l
ittle cunt he’d seen in a long time. Why any husband would look for greener pastures was beyond him. But he was grateful. Really grateful.

  “Turn around for me, Hot Legs,” he whispered, wanting those legs wrapped around his back and hanging on tight, wanting to feel himself slide into her welcoming cunt and bury himself hilt deep.

  The pet name uttered in that soft, husky murmur shimmered through her senses, his voice curiously possessive, his unruffled calm additionally intriguing—like he’d done this once or twice before and was good at it.

  He eased her around, gentlemanly and polite, as though they weren’t naked and virtual strangers. As though he’d been here before—or maybe not here but other places like this. “I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he murmured, cupping her breast. And bending his head, he took her nipple into his mouth with enough pressure to send instant messaging of the flame-hot variety to the heated core of her body. She moaned softly, pressing her thighs together to contain the rush of pleasure, hot desire washing over her in a lustful deluge while he sucked lightly and then not so lightly, licked and teased—making her wetter and wetter still.

  “Now the other one,” he whispered, his breath warm on her flesh, turning his attention to her other breast. “I wouldn’t want you to feel deprived.” He brushed the tip with his tongue and looked up at her from under the fringe of his lashes. “Lucky I came along.”

  Lucky didn’t begin to describe what she was feeling. She was frantic for him, for it, for consummation. Slippery wet, aching for the feel of him, not inclined to wait, she reached out and captured the object of her lust, her hand closing around his erection—or almost closing . . . he was too large. But she measured the glorious size, her grip moving up and down his turgid length, the pressure gentle at first and then less so, her hips undulating as her body warmed to fever pitch, as her sleek cunt throbbed in eagerness.

  Her soft breasts spilled over his palms. He could practically taste her longing, her little erratic whimpers sweet in his ears as he savored her sweetness. He debated letting her come again. Her lower body was writhing in that convulsive, on-the-brink way, and her eyes were half shut. He wasn’t sure she was in any condition to wait. But a mirror glimpse of her luscious pink tush swaying to some inner, needy rhythm abruptly changed his mind.

  He wasn’t so unselfish.

  He wanted to bury his cock in that delectable cunt—real soon.

  Dropping his hands, he stood upright.

  Instantly bereft, she whimpered, her little breathy sounds adjunct to the wanton rhythm of her hips.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered. But eyes shut, she seemed not to have heard. “Hey,” he softly said. “Look at me.”

  Her eyes opened slowly, like they had to be levered up.

  “Talk to me.” He wasn’t sure she was in the same time zone.

  Her green eyes suddenly took on a clear and rational lucidity. “I sure hope you’re not saving this.” She slid a fingertip over the engorged head of his penis. “That would be really disappointing.”

  Apparently she was capable of rapid transitions. He smiled. “It’s yours whenever you want it.”

  “About ten minutes ago would be fine.”

  “Where would you like it?”

  “Anywhere at all so long as I don’t have to wait.”

  His dark brows rose faintly.

  “Actually the bed would do nicely,” she said, not sure it was query, censure, or temper behind that cool look. “Do I have to apologize?”

  She was quick. He had been considering various options when she’d said anywhere at all in that particular tone of voice. “No, you don’t have to apologize.” In his current state of arousal, he wasn’t about get into any actual conversation. “Why don’t you get up on the bed, and we’ll deal with your time issues.”

  She grinned. “Remind me to send Arthur a thank you note for sending you my way.”

  “With Arthur’s penchant for gossip, I’ll have to think about that.” He smiled and nodded toward her high bed. “Do you need a hand up?”

  “How veddy English,” she said, as she moved toward her bed. “Will we be playing horse and rider?”

  “We’ll play whatever you want.”

  That simple sentence said in that low, velvety voice was enough to make her reconsider all those S&M fantasies in, say, The Story of O. Maybe with him they’d actually work. Then again, she hated pain—even a hangnail required a painkiller. “Let’s keep it simple,” she quickly said, climbing up on her bed, thinking perhaps she’d been a bit too suggestive, not quite sure what went on in a high-priced bounty hunter’s world.

  He’d caught the tremor of unease in her voice. “I’m not into games. But it’s up to you.”

  She met his gaze. “No games, please. I mean it.” After all, she barely knew him, and God knows what went on in Budapest or wherever he’d come from. On second thought, she reflected, watching him approach, every overwrought nerve in her body focused on his beautiful upthrust erection, maybe she could be just the tiniest bit open to new experiences. Provided no whips were involved.

  But on reaching the bed, he stretched out beside her, put his hands behind his head, and gave her a bland look. “What’s your middle name?”

  Jeez, where did that come from? “Why?”

  “You seem nervous. I thought maybe we should get to know each other better.”

  “Besides my recent orgasm you mean?”

  He ignored her mockery. “What are you anxious about?”

  He was naked. He wasn’t carrying a weapon. What did she have to lose? “I suppose I don’t know what you expect—what with starlets and models, and probably the sex and drugs and limos that go with it.”

  He shrugged. “You set the pace, then. I’m easy.”

  He hadn’t denied his rock-star lifestyle. But she was in charge. Good. Perfect. That was safe enough. On the other hand, once a man reaches a certain stage, they don’t always think too clearly. “Can you vouch for him?” She pointed at his erection. “He doesn’t look easy. He doesn’t even look like anyone’s in charge.”

  “He’s under control.”

  “Wow. Can you do that Chinese pillow book stuff where you don’t come for like hours?”

  He smiled. “No.”

  Maybe he really was normal despite his unruffled calm and world-class equipment. Maybe living with the rich and famous whom everyone knew were into kinky stuff hadn’t rubbed off on him. Maybe she was crazy to even have reservations with that prize-winning cock just waiting to meet her clit. As it turned out, it wasn’t a long debate, what with him having something she wanted really, really badly. “My middle name’s Hollyhock. Holly for short. Don’t ask. Pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand.

  “My middle names are Andre, Charles, Clovis. My father insisted. A pleasure to meet you.” And taking her hand, he hauled her on top of him and gave her a roguish smile. “Did I pass muster?”

  “You had a few things going for you,” she said with a lift of her brows. “You’re not really a Bobby, are you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s Robert—French pronunciation.”

  “Very European.”

  “I guess. But I’m mostly Bobby Serre. All the other stuff is family shit.”

  “Don’t talk to me about family shit. As you saw firsthand tonight, my sister is always telling me what to do.”

  He grinned. “Does that mean I can’t be boss if I want?”

  “Maybe next time,” she said. “After I find out what a man with four names is like—”

  “In bed?”

  “Sort of.” She smiled. “Look, I’m a small-town girl.” But lordy, lordy, he was hard and muscled, sexy and hot, and the hardest, most spectacular part was pressed into her stomach and turning her on like crazy.

  “Fine. We’ll take it slow and easy. Missionary position. No surprises. Kind of like a get-acquainted afternoon tea.”

  She laughed. “Does that require any special dress?”

  He lo
oked up at her from under his dark lashes, amusement in his gaze. “Maybe you can dress up for me later if everything’s satisfactory. If the tea’s not too hot and the cucumber sandwiches are to your liking.”

  She knew what cucumber she was in the market for, but she wasn’t about to voice anything so hokey.

  “So are we on for tea?”

  It was the sexiest look she’d ever seen. “I’d love it.”

  He rolled her under him with an effortless grace and lay between her legs, braced on his elbows, his dark, ruffled hair framing his face, the most beautiful smile on his lips. “Slow and easy now.” And he nudged her thighs wider. “You can stop me any time.”

  Her green eyes were tropical sun hot. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she gently said and, raising her legs, she twined them around his hips and raised her pelvis in the most fantastic, supple way so the head of his cock met her slick cunt and then her legs tightened on his back. It was one of those no-hands kinds of entry—smooth as silk and riveting.

  She was slippery wet, sweetly eager, and apparently agile as hell as if he needed any more incentive to do what he was doing. As if he hadn’t been thinking about doing this since he’d met her.

  Ohmygod, he was huge, but accomplished as well—invading her by slow degrees, her flesh yielding little by little, his enormous cock filling her and filling her, the hot, slippery friction, the aching pressure of his penetration racheting up all her frenzied nerve endings, making her desperate for more. When he finally reached the deepest depth, when he whispered, “Are you okay?” and then pressed just a short distance more, she could only nod, carnal pleasure overwhelming her brain.

  Relieved she’d responded because he wasn’t altogether sure he could stop what he was doing if she wasn’t, he stayed where he was.

  She didn’t move. She barely breathed, delirium bombarding her senses for what seemed endless, glorious moments.

  Gauging her response, he politely waited and then waited some more until his libido—never one to settle for sensational feeling when overload was possible—initiated a languid withdrawal as prelude to another downstroke.

  She said, “Now,” real emphatically, which suited him just fine because he was already moving back in, and, before long, they were matching up their personal criteria for thrust and withdrawal in a fierce, ardent flux and flow.