Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  There were pluses and minuses to his statement, depending on whether she was going to go with her feelings or give lip service to the law of the dating jungle—you know, the one that said you can’t look too easy or you’ll end up on the wrong side of that Madonna/whore balance sheet. “It looks like you’re at least thinking about sex,” she said sweetly, reaching over and measuring the length of his erection with a brushing stroke, figuring she’d go with her feelings and worry about male idiosyncracies about piety at some later date.

  “I’ve been thinking about sex from the moment I met you.”

  “Sounds good,” she whispered, gently squeezing his erection, watching it surge upward, feeling her body open in response—their sexual yin-yang still as fine-tuned as ever.

  “Hey,” he said on a soft exhalation. “If you don’t stop what you’re doing I’m going to have a mess on my hands.”

  She instantly released her grip. “So if I want satisfaction,” she murmured with a smile, “I’m thinking maybe it’s my turn first.”

  His grin flashed in the dimness. “Don’t be shy.”

  “Why would I want to be shy?”

  His smile broadened, remembering what he liked best about her. “You have to be quiet, then.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Okaaay. What the hell, he didn’t know any of these four other people. Reaching over, he began to unbutton her blouse.

  “Not in here,” she hissed, brushing his hands away.

  Like there were some rules of decorum. Fine. He was adaptable. No foreplay. Smoothly shifting his focus, he slipped his hand under her short denim skirt and did what he was told. Not that he minded. She could tell him to do this anytime.

  Slipping his fingers between her panties and silky curls, he buried two fingers in her hot, wet cunt and instantly wondered if he was going to be able to keep from coming. It had been way too long, and he wasn’t a man who had any practice with celibacy. Jesus, she was slippery wet and panting already as though she wasn’t planning on waiting. As usual, he thought, glancing around to see who was looking, although he was fast approaching the point of no return when he didn’t give a shit if anyone was looking or not.

  Like. Right. Fucking. Now.

  It was going to be both their turns, he decided, or, to be perfectly honest, his cock decided.

  Unzipping his shorts with his other hand, he freed himself for action then swung her out of her seat.

  She gasped, realizing what he was going to do, but not likely to resist with such a heavenly trade in the offing. Oh, oh, oh—actually in effect, she reflected, sighing with pleasure as he lowered her down his cock with finesse. Not a fumble anywhere; really, he was amazing. Of course, it helped that he was muscled like a stevedore and capable of making her feel light as a feather—a powerful aphrodisiac rarely mentioned in those lists of aphrodisiacs. Or maybe they just were made to fit together superbly—that yin-yang thing. Maybe in all this world, they’d found the perfect match, the perfect sexual wavelength.

  He was thinking the same thing, although it was up to him to fine-tune the wavelength so he wouldn’t come before she did.

  Luckily, he’d had lots of practice.

  Ohmygod, ohmygod—was this nirvana or what? She wasn’t going to be so crass as to actually consider the word soul mate, but primal birds and bees mating as in the animal kingdom was for sure undeniably true. And right this second she had the feeling she was on an out-of-control roller coaster going downhill full speed ahead.

  Her climax swamped her a second later, and she screamed just like on a roller coaster; but he was prepared, having been a Boy Scout, or maybe it was the number of times he’d heard her scream that tipped him off. He covered her mouth with his just in time and then allowed his own orgasm to blast off.

  He came and came and came, gasping for breath at the end as though his body was drained of everything, including air.

  She collapsed on his shoulder, panting, the wild tumult of her orgasm slowly melting away in a blissful glow. “Tell me—no one—saw,” she gasped, her breath warm on his throat.

  He glanced up to see four moviegoers staring at them. “No one saw,” he said, perjuring himself willingly. “Everyone’s watching the movie.”

  “We should go . . . as soon—as I—can walk.”

  “Want me to carry you?”

  “God, no. Everyone—would notice.”

  They were way past anyone noticing them, but in a situation like this, lying was the only recourse. “Who cares?”

  “I do. I live here.”

  “You come here often?”

  “No, but I might.”

  He laughed softly. “I’m going to lift you back on your seat. If you can find that Kleenex, we’ll clean up and get the hell out of here. And if I want to carry you out, I will.”

  She felt a delicious little shiver at the brusque authority in his tone as he set her back in her seat and all her female power principles packed their bags and went on vacation. Only temporarily and for a very good reason, she told herself, as a sop to her social conscience. “What if I were to say you can’t?” It was a teasing, flirtatious query very unlike a female concerned with female power. Those vacationers had hit the road running.

  “It wouldn’t matter.”

  Ohmygod, ohmygod, she was going to come again just from the luscious brute command in his voice. There was no excuse for her feminist principles. When those ripples of longing were heating up her cunt, she had trouble remembering the word principle. Call her a pushover for a big, strong, take-charge kind of man in bed or, in this case, a very public venue. But at the moment, even the venue was going to lose to her very determined psyche who wanted and needed, really needed this big strong man to fuck her.

  And now was definitely not the time to question unimportant, teeny, tiny little details like why he was here or whether it was strictly proper to be—well . . . so eager or even if it might be illegal to do what they were doing when she was totally overcome with lust.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  He was all rearranged and decent, while she hadn’t moved. “Do we have to?”

  He recognized that plaintive tone. He also took note of the final scene of Casablanca Delhi-style being played out on the screen. “The lights are going to be coming on. How about the car?” he offered, looking for some compromise to outright indecent exposure.

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely.” They were in sync there.

  He nodded at the screen. “They’re on the tarmac, babe. There’s not much time.”

  Quickly wiping up, she straightened her clothes while Bobby picked up all the Kleenex and popcorn napkin residue and tossed it in a popcorn tub. Then he stood and waited for her to pass by him and move toward the aisle. Following in her wake, he took note of the other viewers’ rapt interest in the final good-bye scene, thankful for their benighted taste in movies and thankful most for his own particular movie pleasures—no actors required.

  Cassie knew the way to the back door that opened on the parking lot. Once outside, she stopped, blinking against the sun, half-blind after hours in the dark. “Where’s your car?”

  “Over there.” He pointed to his rental. “But if you could wait a few minutes, I’d like to take a shower. I’ve been on the road since last night.”

  She made a small moue, and he wondered if they were going to have to use his smoky rental. Her car was out of the question. He’d throw out his back.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so demanding. I should be polite.”

  He didn’t know where this was going, but he was thinking rental car.

  “Would you mind if we did it in the shower ‘cuz I’m really impatient.”

  “No problem,” he said with a smile, having a feeling this was going to be one of his better Fourth of Julys. “I’ll follow you.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  HE PULLED IN BEHIND HER IN HER DRIVEWAY, reached in the backseat for his carry-on bag, and turned around to see her leaping o
ut of her car and flying toward the house like she was jet-propelled. Dropping his bag on the front seat, he jumped out of his car and took off after her.

  She was already at the door, shoving it open and screaming.

  As he raced after her, he saw the red Porsche parked at the curb. Recalling some comments about her ex-husband’s Porsche, he almost stopped, wondering if he’d be better off not being involved in what looked to be a God-awful scene.

  On the other hand, his jealousy meter was swinging into the red zone, and all he could think of was Mr. Red Porsche had better not touch her. That accelerated his pace and brought him into the living room only two steps behind her.

  A blond man and woman were standing there, looking fashion-magazine put together in summer casual clothes bearing a distinct Fourth of July red, white, and blue theme. Bobby’s brain registered a moment of shock at such modish ostentation, and he wondered if she dressed him or he dressed her. Their fucking clothes matched. It was Barbie and an older Ken celebrating the holiday in their own glossy way.

  The man was holding a painting. A rocky shore, pine trees, a gray-blue lake, and a couple cabins tucked into the trees.

  “Damn you, put that painting down!” Cassie’s scream echoed in the empty room. “Put it down, or I’ll call 911 and report a robbery!”

  “It’s mine,” Jay growled.

  “Really, Jay, let the bitch have it,” the patently siliconed Barbie said, her perfect breasts holding up a sequined facsimile of the Stars and Stripes on the front of her T-shirt. “It’s nothing. I’ll buy you another one.”

  “It’s my favorite painting,” he snapped.

  The Barbie doll looked startled for a second and then pursed her red glossed lips. “I don’t like that tone.”

  “Please, baby, go out in the car,” he said, silky smooth and conciliatory. “I’ll be out in a few seconds. Be a sweetheart, now.”

  The blonde shot Cassie a malevolent look, her blue gaze flinty hard. “I don’t know why you ever married her,” she said petulantly, offering her intended a pouty glance. “She’s old.”

  “Give me five minutes, baby,” Jay soothed. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Tami Duvall stood on tiptoe to kiss Jay on his cheek, then turned on her red, white, and blue sandals, puffed up her chest under her sequined American flag, and huffily walked away.

  One down, one to go, Cassie thought, that staged kiss that said he’s mine and not yours close to bringing up an afternoon of junk food. She swallowed hard, forced her voice to a calm she wasn’t feeling, beat down the shriek in the back of her throat, and said, “Give me the painting. And then get out of my house.”

  “Better do it, mister,” Bobby said, irritated by the bitchy remark about Cassie. That blonde wasn’t worth a second look.

  Jay gave Bobby’s ponytailed, travel-rumpled image the once-over. “Who the hell are you?”

  “What’s the difference? Do what the lady says.”

  “Lady?” Jay snorted. “Not unless they grow them in corn fields.”

  “Listen, prick, give up the painting and get the hell out.”

  “Or what?” Jay measured Bobby with his hard, gray eyes.

  “Or I’ll throw you out.”

  “You and who else?”

  “Jesus, Jay, get real,” Cassie muttered. Jay had never hit anyone in his life.

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Hey,” Bobby growled. “Watch your mouth.”

  Jay glared at him and then began walking toward the door—with the painting.

  “Jay, damn you, don’t you dare take that—”

  Bobby stepped into his path. “Drop it.”

  Jay stopped, but steam was practically coming out of his ears, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Stay out of this. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “It does now. You’re bothering Cassie.”

  “Don’t do anything foolish, either one of you!” Cassie exclaimed. “Jesus, I can’t believe this is happening!”

  “If you’d given me the painting like you were supposed to—”

  “You wouldn’t have broken into my house and stolen it, you jerk?” Cassie snapped. “And this isn’t the first time. I saw your car pull away last week just as I was driving up. You don’t give up, do you?”

  “It’s mine!” Since his company that manufactured putters had become successful, Jay had increasingly become the little tyrant.

  “No, it isn’t!”

  “Damn right it is!”

  Bobby could see this going nowhere and punched Jay hard, once, in the gut, and as Cassie’s ex crumpled to the floor, gasping for air, Bobby scooped up the small landscape and handed it to Cassie. “Put it away somewhere safe,” he calmly said. “I’ll help him out to his car.”

  Hauling Jay up from the floor, he half-carried, half-pushed him out the door and down the sidewalk to the curb, where his fiancée was waiting impatiently, swinging her shoulder bag in a jerky little arc.

  “Jay!” she cried on seeing him. “What happened?”

  “He fell,” Bobby said. “Nothing serious. He just has to catch his breath. He’ll be fine.” Propping Cassie’s ex-husband against his turbo-charged Porsche, Bobby turned away and walked back to the house.

  * * *

  CASSIE WAS WAITING in the doorway.

  Bobby smiled as he reached her. “I’d put away that painting for a month or so, just in case he’s stupid enough to try again. He seems to think it’s his.”

  “A small disagreement in the divorce settlement.”

  “I figured. He’s gone for today at least. It takes a while to get over one of those gut punches. It kinda rocks your balls, and not in a good way.”

  She tried not to smile. “You shouldn’t have done that. Knowing him, he might sue.”

  “Nah. No guy wants to admit he was down. It was time for him to leave; he didn’t want to go. I just helped him along.”

  “Thanks—really . . . thanks,” she murmured, not sure it was politically correct to feel this good after what happened to Jay. But he deserved something for trying to steal her painting, and it was out of her hands. Right?

  “My pleasure, babe. He was a real pain.” He didn’t say “What the hell did you see in him?” because he’d married Claire; he was the last person in the world to talk about making mistakes. Easing her inside, he shut the door. And locked it. “I’m taking a shower, okay?”

  “Hey.”

  “What?”

  “That’s it? I’m taking a shower?”

  “I thought you were in a hurry.”

  “Tell me why you did that?” She didn’t have a knight in shining armor in her house every day. She needed to talk about this, dissect it, maybe revel in it.

  “Don’t know. Seemed like a good thing to do.”

  Jeez, that male nonanswer. But she figured she wasn’t going to get any more because he was already walking away in the direction of the shower. Running after him, she said, “What if I needed a guard for my painting—say, for a month or so?” You couldn’t fault her for trying, when a really perfect man in every sense of the word walked back into your life. There was no point in being a Jane Austen heroine.

  “Reporting for duty, ma’am,” he said, turning to her with a grin.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I started getting hungry up on that mountain.” He smiled again. “And not just for food. What do you think about meeting my parents?”

  She opened and shut her mouth about ten times before the pathway from her brain to her tongue was cleared of debris from the shock. “You mean it?”

  “Of course I mean it. I’m not in the habit of taking women home to meet my parents. Could we continue this discussion in the shower? We both really smell of sex.”

  Two really fabulous things had just happened to her. One—she was going to meet his parents when he said he didn’t usually do that, which caused that Vera Wang gown to wing its way back into her consciousness. Very
juvenile for a grown woman who was seriously thinking about taking yoga someday. But nevertheless, freaking wonderful! And two—they’d smelled of sex in front of Jay. She’d never even thought about it . . . but how sweet was that? Because as anyone could see, Bobby Serre was without a doubt God’s gift to women. So let her enjoy her spiteful, harboring-a-grudge sort of vengeful quid pro quo. She deserved it after what Jay had done to her.

  Really, she was beginning to think there actually was justice in the world.

  “Don’t go to sleep on me, babe. I’ve got plans.”

  Looking up, she realized she’d followed him into the bedroom without noticing, although she did notice—wow . . . he was lounging against the bathroom doorway, buck naked with the most beautiful hard-on.

  “The shower’s running,” he said softly.

  And she knew he was talking about something else entirely.

  “Hurry. I’ve got a lot of time to make up for. It’s cold up in those mountains.”

  She undressed in record time while he watched her kick off her sandals, practically rip the buttons off her blouse, and wiggle out of her skirt and panties. He was smiling the whole time, one of those sexy, I’ve-got-what-you-want kind of smiles.

  “Are you going to let your hair grow?” she asked, flinging away her clothes.

  “Whatever you want, Hot Legs.”

  His voice was husky and low, and she quickly discarded such superfluous issues as long or short hair. “Maybe we could talk about it later.”

  He winked and held out his hand. “Good idea.”

  One never knows if the stars are going to be perfectly aligned like this for long, she thought, placing her hand in his, but what is happening here right now is a no-brainer and I am going with it for as long as it lasts.

  Because she was happy, really happy.

  Who could ask for anything more?

  “Where do your parents live?” she asked, not completely capable of jettisoning every last spec of female curiosity even in the throes of Hollywood-style, happy-ending bliss.

  “Nantucket at the moment. We’ll fly out tomorrow,” he said, opening the shower door and holding it for her.

  Ohmygod. They were flying out tomorrow!!! Only movie stars could afford those last-minute tickets. They cost a fortune! Pinch me. Am I in Hollywood? But almost immediately, the universal female fear surfaced even in the midst of this fairytale perfection. “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said.