by Lori Foster
“I’ve never seen evidence of that.” He glanced at her arm, then brazenly slid his finger down one of her veins until he came back to her palm. “Every woman I’ve been with has shown some sign of wanting to go beyond sex, even if it’s a hesitation as you kiss good-night.”
“Did you ever take them up on their willingness, subtle as it might be?”
“No.” The word grated out. Then he grinned. “That’s where the liaison ends, when someone gets ideas. Cut it out before she gets her heart broken, I say.”
“I agree.” She really did. Absolutely.
“Sounds like you think the rule doesn’t apply to you. That you can escape unscathed after sex.”
“I can.”
“Bullshit.”
Fiona shook her head. “Poor guy. You operate under some fearful misconceptions.”
“You’re telling me that, after having sex with a man for, say a month, you could leave the affair without…”
“…becoming possessive or territorial? Yes, I can. I have.”
He laughed again, combing his other hand through his dark blond hair, the strands sticking up, ruffled and boyishly attractive, contrasting with the darkness in the center of his irises. “If you hadn’t lost every bet we initiated tonight, I’d wager that, given one month with me, you’d become emotionally attached.”
Her heart chopped against her ribs, and her hand inadvertently fisted around his busy finger. “Well, that’s damn arrogant.”
He cast a pointed glance at the intensified contact, and she let go.
But even after a second, she missed the feel of him. His callused skin. The way he was big enough to hide her fingers in his grasp, cradling her. Just holding her.
“Wouldn’t you love to see me lose?” he asked.
Yes, she would, so much she could almost do a victory dance right now. And she could win. No problem. She’d spent the past few years being emotionally distant, if not physically warm and willing, after sex.
“If we embarked on such a philosophical experiment,” she said, “what would the winner get? Wait. I’d love to go to the Caribbean. It’s time for a vacation.”
“Sounds good. A Caribbean getaway of the winner’s choice, all expenses paid by the loser.”
“This is getting interesting, because I could kick your ass in this bet.”
He seemed grandly amused, his full mouth tilted at an angle, half-hidden by the scruffy drifter’s stubble surrounding his lips. “You’d be in love with me before you knew it.”
Though his comment came off jokingly, Fiona wasn’t so sure he didn’t mean what he said. Then again, hadn’t he mentioned he ended his affairs before they went too far?
Not that it mattered. Fiona didn’t do love. Wouldn’t happen. She had this wired.
“So,” he said, “how will I know I’ve won the bet?”
She laughed low in her throat, a hint of the purr he’d promised her earlier. “You’ll see it in my eyes, Mac. The fact that you’ve lost, I mean.”
“Then we do this scientific eye check after every time I’ve been inside you?”
She could almost feel him now, filling her, slipping in and out while the sheets got torn off the bed corners. “That’s logical enough.”
Silence, punctuated by another jukebox Doors song. “The End.”
Which should have told her something.
A wave of yearning stretched Fiona out of the booth, bringing her to her feet. She started to walk away from him, slowly, zinging that extra sway into her stride.
She glanced over her shoulder, discovering his gaze on her derriere. The naked desire in his look turned her blood to steam.
“The bet starts now,” she said, crooking her finger at him in summons. “Game on.”
She turned around, moving away, knowing he was going to follow.
THEY’D TAKEN A TAXI to his rented place off Melrose Avenue because she’d requested they go where he lived.
He understood her reasoning, because he liked to go to his lover’s place, as well. It gave a person control.
Done with the sex? Hey, I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow, time for me to leave.
The visitor dictated the schedule.
But, with Fiona, Sean didn’t mind. He wanted her in his bed as soon as possible, no matter the location.
Hell, he’d have taken her on the way to his home if he hadn’t wanted to make a point.
To show her he had patience and would win the bet.
Yeah, the wager was a good way to get Fiona to do what he wanted. And, no, he had no intention of making her fall for him. As usual, the second he saw emotion, he’d stop the affair.
A sultry midnight mist had fallen over the streets, lamps casting a bourbon tinge over the sidewalks. Jazz music—heavy on the drumbeats—beckoned from the open windows of a neighbor’s house. When they walked through the gate to his Spanish Renaissance Revival home with the palms and Birds of Paradise plants lining the sidewalk, Sean tried not to rush through the door. Instead, he took his time, allowing her to walk in front of him, her hips ticking back and forth like a pendulum, counting down the moments.
She sauntered up the steps, leaning against the stucco wall near the door, waiting for him to unlock the iron grating.
They hadn’t said a damned word all the way here, and the silence ate at him.
He pulled open the iron, then pushed in the heavy wood door. His pulse thudded in his ears as she glided past, the swish of her black, airy dress coaxing him to follow her inside.
As he reached for the lights, Fiona grasped his wrist, pulling him away from the entrance, bolting him against the wall. The door slapped shut, darkening the room further. But the sheer-gold moonlight allowed him a peek of her while she pressed against him, body to body.
White curtains billowed away from his open window, the linen flirting, dancing over her dusky skin. Her eyes wide, black as a dreamless sleep, she asked, “Ready for me, Mac?”
Tousled voodoo hair. Jazz drums. The smoldering aroma of her mango-scented skin reminding him of lush breezes and oceans lapping at the sand.
In response he planted a hand in her loose curls, tightened gently, guided her mouth to his in a searing kiss.
She moaned against his lips, opening, rubbing, nipping at him. And, as he devoured her in return, he slipped a hand to the small of her back, tracing the curve of spine, trailing downward. His fingers sketched over her fruit-plump ass, palming it under the cheek and thrusting her against his growing erection.
Damn, he was hard—too ready and willing. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to spill himself all over the carpet like a twelve-year-old on his first date with a Playboy centerfold.
Sean slowed the pace. Tilting Fiona’s head with his other hand, he eased his tongue into her mouth, running it over the edge of her teeth, circling, tasting a memory of champagne sweetness.
She came up for air, leaning her head against his jaw. “Your stubble burns,” she said. “But in a good way.”
“I’m not about to stop and shave it off.”
“Even if I asked you to?”
“You really—”
She pounced, cut him off with her lips.
They sipped at each other, chafing against the wall, knocking into end tables and anemic wooden chairs.
The force of their kiss heating up again, he whipped her around, gently yet firmly placing her against the wall now. Raising her arms above her head, he stared down at her.
“You’re a damn good kisser, Fiona,” he said around the holes of his breathing.
She panted, too. “And vice versa. I like a good, old-fashioned lip lock. Did I leave that off my list?”
The list. Images of her skimming her lips down the length of him shuddered an emergency alarm through every cell of his body.
Unable to hold back, he rocked against her, urging his cock into the crevice between her legs.
Her arms lost their bone structure, melted down until they rested on top of her head.
Sei
zing the opportunity, he roamed south, thumbs dragging over the pounding column of her neck, over her swollen breasts, the softness of her stomach, to her thighs. There, he slid upward, under her dress.
Garters. He should’ve known she’d be wearing thigh-high stockings and a belt. A woman with fire like Fiona’s wouldn’t settle for less, not even on a weeknight.
Sean leveled out his breathing. Take it easy, man.
With hard-won deliberation, he unsnapped one garter. Then the other. Lifted her skirt so he could glimpse the retro-sexy lingerie.
Oh, yeah. Dark lace and long legs.
“Men are so visual,” she said on a sigh.
“And you use that to your advantage.”
He pushed the dress to her waist, slipped a thumb between her legs to slide against her damp panties. He pressed against her clit, massaging, daring her to explode before he did.
She sank against the wall, biting her lip as she smiled and squeezed her eyes shut. As he exerted more pressure, Fiona started to move her hips, swaying in time to the stimulation.
How was he going to last? Already moisture was building on the tip of his penis. He could feel it.
With something close to a groan, he stroked his fingers into her underwear, eased them inside of her. In, out, faster, thumb working her, moaning, sliding…
She embraced him again, bit his ear, making him dizzy, disoriented. His lobe was his Achilles’ heel.
Without warning, she’d forced him backward, and he held on to her, backing into a chair. She pushed off with a triumphant gasp, and before he knew it, he was seated, pulse pounding in his crotch.
He laughed, intrigued by this tug-of-war. “The wall wasn’t comfortable enough for you?”
Her smile echoed his mirth. Instead of answering, she plucked off her ankle-strap heels, propped her foot on the chair’s arm and slicked off one stocking, dangling it in front of him. Moonlight filtered through it, clouding his vision. She allowed the silk to shiver to the ground.
He stretched in the chair, accommodating her stripteasing, wishing she’d get on his lap so he could thrust himself inside her.
When the other stocking was done for, she wiggled out of the garter belt, kicking it behind her. His hands itched for her to join him on the chair, but she pulled another fast one by turning around, shimmying, glancing over her shoulder.
“Get over here,” he said, the words graveled with raw need.
She sent him a saucy glance, resting her chin on her shoulder as she appeared to unbutton the front of her dress. A faint jazz-drum tattoo accompanied her, lending a laconic sensuality to her undulating hips.
Encouraged, Sean unbuttoned the top of his pants. With a teasing laugh, she reversed onto his lap, smoothing her rump back over his thighs until he had his chest near her spine. Her legs were spread apart, straddling him.
“Ever had a lap dance?” she asked.
The breath whooshed out of him. “You think I’m a monk or something?”
“Do you like lap dances?”
He muttered a frustrated curse, hating and loving her playful pokes at seduction. With one smooth scoop, he had her flush against him, one leg over the chair’s arm, his fingers tracing the inside of her thighs.
“Wanna tease me some more?” he asked, urging her back against his arousal. It beat against her rear, pounding out its demands.
She wiggled in answer, exciting him to the point of bursting. But he controlled himself, wanting to win this power struggle, wanting to end the contest while enfolded in her spasming, slippery heat.
As she gyrated, grinding up, then down his lap, reaching back to caress his hair, his face, he held on to her hips, working them to and fro. She arched away from him, causing him to reach up, cup her lacy-bra-bound breasts, feel her nipples harden between his fingers, under his thumbs.
One last brush of her ass against his crotch, and he’d had enough.
He picked her up, laying her face up on the floor. “I’m taking over now.”
“So you think.”
With skillful finesse, he delved inside her dress, undoing her bra, freeing her breasts. He took one in his mouth, sucking, tonguing it.
“Dammit,” she said, threading her fingers through his hair. Pressing herself to him, she wrapped her legs around his body.
He’d imagined the cage of her legs, the strain of their bodies absorbing each other’s sweat. And fantasy wasn’t nearly as good as this.
They kissed again, pausing only to tear Fiona out of her dress, panties and bra, to pull him out of his shirt and pants. Bare naked, both of them.
She breathed into his ear. “Got a—?”
“—Yeah.”
He attacked his pants pocket, fought with his wallet, took out the condom.
She tugged it away from him, running a finger under his cock, making him grab for the carpet with the lightning-flash electricity of her touch. Then she paused to rub her thumb over the tip of him, spreading the beads of semen that had accumulated.
“You’re gonna feel so good, Mac.”
Her fingers traced his balls, and he tilted back his head, fighting for restraint.
She pushed him backward, until he lay prone on the carpet, then slid the rubber over him with a single, smooth caress.
Legs encasing him, she rested her hands on his shoulders, using her nails to abrade him. Then she sat on his belly, her nether lips opening over his skin, sticking to him with her juices. She moved her mouth up to his head, slicking down his body with the laziness of a summer cloud traveling the sky. Her dark hair rained over his face, his chest, his lower stomach.
He shuddered deep within his belly, and the violence of his reaction spurred him into motion. He grasped her hips, urgently leading her onto his shaft, impaling her.
She sucked in a breath, bending back her head, body waving to and fro. Then she flipped her hair, leaned forward, furling and unfurling over him, working him to a frenzy with increasing thrusts.
While she pulsated against him, he watched her breasts move with every thrash, her hair swing and mingle with the sweat on her shoulders, her arms and chest.
He tore into her, their bodies drumming and stretching to the saxophone rhythm of a July night, skin misted, slick, sensitive. Inside, she was hot and fluid, a vortex of fluttering muscles that swallowed him in a roar.
But he held back, straining for control, as she moved on top of him, churning, grasping for satisfaction.
He plunged deeper, watching her face, the silent o of her mouth, the lazy roll of her neck. Fascinated, he added the play of his fingers to her mounting orgasm, working her, delving between her wet lips. Pressing, on, off, around, up, feeling the base of his cock as it slipped in and out of her. Getting even more turned on by the thought of disappearing, being enfolded by her heat, being sucked in and out.
In.
Out.
She shuddered, arched backward until her long hair winged over his legs, then she groaned, a long, sated signal of fiery contentment. After a jagged breath, she prowled back over him until she lay flush against his length, eye to eye, predator to predator.
It was all he could stand.
A growl wrenched from his lungs as he turned her over, her back on the carpet. She laughed and circled him with her endless legs. Beyond restraint, he hammered into her, hearing her breathe a soft, instinctive “oh” every time he drove home. Deeper.
They were a tangle of arms and legs. She bit into his neck, climaxing again and spearing an aching spasm through his dick.
“Oh, yeah,” she said, grinding hard against him, encouraging his own implosion. “Come on.”
He burst, spilling himself into the rubber in a swirl of mindless light, filling the condom. Filling her.
He was spent, but he didn’t want to leave. She was holding him there, wrapped around every aftermath throb. It was the only kind of embrace he could bring himself to accept, and Fiona seemed to understand that as she held him inside her, their muscles clenching, unclenching, weakening
. Letting go.
They lay side by side, panting, skin-slicked and intimate, watching each other. He’d found a perfect partner, hadn’t he?
Sean smoothed back her hair, peered into her eyes with taunting exaggeration.
He froze. Did he see a flicker, a flame?
Whatever it was, the warmth was doused in an instant.
Sighing, she shut her lids, turned away her face. “The bet.” She blinked open again, all of a sudden coy, playful. “What do you find, Sherlock?”
Now? Nothing but a wink and a smile. Nothing more than he’d asked for at the bar. “A whirlpool of emotion,” he said, trying to play it off as if it didn’t matter.
And it didn’t. That tiny seed of disappointment in his belly, growing among the awakening aftershock shivers, didn’t mean anything. He wanted it this way. No attachment, no bonding.
But wasn’t she feeling anything? Hadn’t he seen something?
She rose to an elbow, her breasts moving, tempting him to regroup and go another round with her. But she was having none of it, apparently, because she got to her knees, reached for her clothes.
“That was amazing,” she said, chipper as a Girl Scout who’d just gotten a badge for creating rug burn.
Maybe too chipper?
Shifting position, he felt the carpet beneath him stroke his tender backside. He’d pay for this later.
He murmured an agreement to her “amazing” comment, leaning his head back into the cradle of his arms.
She was actually leaving.
Her efficiency was astounding. She called for a cab, then started to get into her clothes.
“Since you haven’t won any Caribbean vacations yet,” she said, “when do we try this again?”
In a half hour? “Whenever you want.”
“Okay.” She finished dressing. “I’ll catch you bright and early tomorrow at work. We’ll see what happens afterward.”
She swept one last look over his sweat-decorated body then made for the door. There, she hesitated, and he propped himself on an elbow, waiting.
