by Lori Foster
Unable to hold back, he came into her, rocketing forward, groaning with the thrusts, the fallout. She held fast, taking him deeper and deeper, nails cutting the backs of his thighs, as he experienced wracking shake after wracking shake.
He couldn’t think. Couldn’t focus. Could only hold on to her for dear life.
Neither of them moved. Not for a while. They just panted, recovered.
In the relative stillness, she got to her feet. Planting one final kiss on the side of his neck, she gasped against him, finding the throb of his jugular, and singeing the skin with her obvious sense of victory.
“Done,” Fiona said, backing away. Watching him with a naughty, hot gaze, she wiped at her mouth.
Sean stretched his arms over his head, keeping a bead on her as she left the room. “Not quite.”
“Gimme some food to refuel this fire, and we’ll see about that.” She turned around, still in her nightgown, still fully armored.
One last sparring tremble seized him from the inside out. One last strain of clenching fulfillment.
He peered at the empty doorway, barely seeing it through his half-closed lids. Barely able to move.
He’d manage the upper hand. Even if it took the rest of the night, he’d get to her.
Chapter Eight
THE SHAKING NEEDED to stop, thought Fiona, as she wandered into the kitchen and headed straight for the refrigerator.
She took a few deep breaths, calming herself, making sure her fingers hadn’t turned to butter, before she whipped open the door. A flood of light and coolness claimed her, plastering itself against the stickiness of her skin.
But she still couldn’t stop those trembles. The deep belly-jiggering lack of control.
She focused on the food. God, Mac was such a guy. A package of ground beef, way past its due date—so he really wasn’t a cook. Three six-packs of Corona—better. A mysterious take-out box that she didn’t even want to touch. A jar of maraschino cherries with the stems still attached…maybe that meant there was ice cream in the freezer. And a jar of marshmallow cream with the lid half off. She didn’t want to venture a guess as to what that was all about.
There, see? Now she was calmer. Back to her search.
Fiona wasn’t picky when it came to after-sex sustenance. She usually just wanted to get the taste of her partner out of her mouth, to fill up all the untouched places.
She ran her tongue over her lips, tasting salt. Him.
“Any specific hankerings?” Mac asked.
Half ignoring him—good game plan, especially since he hadn’t put on a stitch of clothing—she left open the fridge and checked the freezer. No ice cream. Drat.
“What do you eat to survive?” she asked.
When he didn’t say anything, she turned around to find him shooting a devilish glance at her body.
The sight of him hit her where it counted, all over, including the lacings of her heart. Those long muscled legs, a penis that could only be described as, “Yow,” ridged abs, a brawny chest.
And that face. Chisled from something she couldn’t name.
She hardened her resolve, gave a soft, “humph” and turned back to the refrigerator, thankful for the distraction. “Man does not live by copulation alone, you know.”
“Says who?”
“Oh, would you just get over here and fix me a marshmallow sandwich or something?”
He ambled across the kitchen floor, gunslinger footsteps thudding on the linoleum.
Gun. Slinging.
Fiona heaved out a trembling breath.
He reached over her, chest to back, the hair of his under-arm tickling her shoulder. She stifled a moan of yearning, biting her lip instead.
She’d meant what she’d said about him smelling so good. And not in an artificial designer cologne way, either. Mac had something primal about him—earthy, leathery, like chaps or…
“I could whip up some surprise burgers,” he said, touching the package of graying meat.
“Try again.” She swallowed as he shifted, his “Yow” nestling between the cheeks of her derriere.
“Beer?”
Was he doing this purposely? Trying to prod her, to slip into her open spaces? His penis had slid downward, inside the backs of her thighs, impeded by the nightgown.
Just for good measure, she wiggled, causing him to start, to nip at her shoulder.
“I guess I should get some drink in me,” she said, grabbing two Coronas, moving away.
She heard him take something from the fridge, then shut the door.
“Bottle opener?” she asked.
He accessed a drawer, then handed her the device.
Don’t look at him, she thought. You can still escape without damage tonight.
If she wanted to.
The beer gasped as she opened one, then the other. The sounds were accompanied by a jar top being screwed off, the metal lid gyrating on the counter.
His voice rode over the noise. “Is the beer what you really want?”
“Sure.” She turned around, offered one to him.
He took it, leaning against the counter. He’d already opened the maraschino cherries. Maybe he liked to snack on them? Maybe they gave him a sugar rush?
After she took a step away, creating a space bubble, he chuffed. Took a swig of beer.
Then, he said, “I guess I meant to ask… What do you like to drink? Really like?”
Okay. He was an after-sex talk guy. He didn’t seem too keen on the during-sex part.
“Let’s see,” she said, resting the tip of the bottle against her lips, playing with it. “I adore a nice Moscato Bianco.”
“Wine.” He took a cherry by its stem, twiddled it between thumb and forefinger. A drop of thick juice fell to the floor.
She paused, glanced up from the splash, then back at him. “Do you have a favorite cocktail?”
“I’m not particular.” He took another drink, then set the cherry on the jar’s lid. “How about food?”
Fiona crossed her arms over her chest, beer forgotten. “Chocolate. Steak. Potatoes. Why?”
“Just making small talk. Any spices you prefer?”
“Mac.” She held herself closer, arming herself. “What’s this all about?”
He shrugged. “Ah. Nothing really. We’re allowed to talk about this stuff, right?”
Finally, she sipped at her beer, buying time. What was he up to? More unfair techniques to win the bet?
She came up for air, the beverage’s cold bitterness quenching her thirst, spinning her head. “I suppose we can chat. But these are weird questions. Even for you.”
He took a step toward her, hit a flow of moonlight washing through the window. Faded lipstick kisses decorated his hard body.
They needed to be erased.
But she didn’t dare touch him. Instead, she opted for the barred-arm position again.
“Fiona.” Soft, low, terrifying in the dark of midnight. “I think you’re shyer with your clothes on than off.”
“It’s all those questions.” Sure, Fi. Sure. “They’re invasive.”
He was right in front of her now, all strained power, temptation. What if she could just lean her head against his chest and close her eyes?
What would happen?
She tightened her arms.
“Don’t get all worked up,” he said, chuckling. “Lakota and I dropped by a perfumery today. Did you know they’ll mix a scent that belongs just to you?”
“Sure.”
“Hell, I had no idea.”
“So you and Lakota were getting in some quality time?”
He lifted a rugged eyebrow.
“Strictly a business query,” she said, putting him in his place with a grin. “I noticed a definite…change…in Lincoln today.”
Suspicion drew his mouth into a line. “Yeah?”
Like she was going to blab Linc’s love secrets to Mac, Lakota’s keeper. “I think things will improve from here on out. He’s not going to mess up anymore.”
>
Mac put down his beer, faced her straight on. “Same with Lakota.”
He hooked his index fingers under her nightie straps, lifted, drew them away from her shoulders.
Fiona gulped. “Well. Then we won’t need to worry about those two clowns. Will we?”
“That’s optimistic.”
With lethargic purpose, he positioned her straps just so, then let go. The material fluttered downward, caught by the tips of her breasts. The lace scratched against them, pinpricks of sensual delicacy.
“Mac…”
“You chickening out?” He knuckled over one nipple, and it contracted.
“Never.”
“Game on, then.” He bent, taking her earlobe into his mouth. Sucking on it, he caused her to clumsily abandon the beer, to abandon all pretenses.
Why not indulge herself a little longer?
He guided her backward, until she hit a stool with the backs of her thighs. At her sharp intake of breath, he lifted her, hefting her on top of it. Pushing up her gown until it gathered around her hips, he pressed on the inside of her thighs until the air throbbed over the naked center of her, leaving her open. Vulnerable.
She anchored herself, bracing the arches of her feet on the most convenient rungs, struggling for balance. He glided his lips to her throat, lightly plucking at her neck veins with his teeth and tongue, traveling down, over her chest, between her breasts.
A strangled mew wrenched from her throat.
She pushed against him, but he urged her farther against the stool, the wall. Through the gown, he licked a nipple, wetting the material, and making her suck in much-needed oxygen between her teeth.
Mac had the upper hand, and he knew it. The thought spurred her into action.
She squirmed away from his mouth, laughing. “What’s your favorite spice?”
Stalemate.
His breathing rasped against her shoulder, and he backed away, snarling.
Pumped to go.
It looked as if he’d consume her whole if she gave in. His chin was lowered, his hands curved by his sides, his posture stiff, ready to prowl.
Oh, the power. The knowledge of having a man by the short hairs because he wanted her so much.
She almost hated herself for basking in the feeling.
Hated the feeling altogether.
But she couldn’t help it. His frustration stoked something inside her. Something she lacked.
His steel-band shoulders rose with every violent breath. “Why the hell do I put myself through this?”
Fiona flexed her torso forward, watching a muscle tic in his jaw. “Because you’re an addict?”
Even if he was aroused, she could feel him mentally pulling away. That wouldn’t work. She was here to win.
With a slow, tortuous tug, she pulled up her gown, gathering it until she was open to him again.
Posting her foot against the side wall, she got comfortable, skimming her fingers over the inside of her thigh.
“See something you like?” she asked.
He thunked against the counter, watching.
Her fingers sought the folds of her sex. Even at this point, just with the banter, she was hot and sleek for him. Pressing a finger to one side of her clit, she applied pressure, getting off more from the rapt expression on his face than the actual act of touching herself so shamelessly.
She crooked the finger of her other hand at him. “What are you waiting for?”
His only response was to slide the cherry and jar down the counter, nearer. She knew exactly what he had in mind, and she pulsed with the anticipation of it.
He dipped two fingers into the jar, stood over her.
She pushed on her mons, the added weight making her restless. Dammit, she wanted it to be him, rubbing, building her up. Him.
Silently, with only the hum of the refrigerator to accompany him, Mac stroked the cool juice over her, fluid strums guiding her hips in time to his patient demands. The syrup felt sticky, heavy.
Then he took the cherry in his other fingers, an outlaw’s grin on his lips. Holding it by the stem, he hovered it over her mouth. She went for it, but he jerked it away.
Who was in control now?
Her conscience skipped over itself, repeating the question.
He bent to his knees, placing one of her legs over his shoulder. The back of her knee stuck to his skin.
As he fastened his mouth to her inner thigh, he watched her, nibbling, playing his fingers over her pounding clit. Then, once inside of her, making her ready for bigger and better things.
She thrashed, rocked against his hand, threatening to upset the stool. He held her steady, chuckling.
“Come on,” she said, hanging on for dear life.
“What’s your favorite music?” asked his muffled voice.
“Mac.”
He drew away. “Answer.”
She winced. “Um. The Police.”
“Ah. A connoisseur of the eighties.” He returned to the task at hand. “Good girl.”
When his tongue connected, laving away the syrup, Fiona cried out. He circled the most sensitive part of her, sucked until dizziness drew her down.
He took one of her lips between his, let go of it with an insouciant slurp. “Favorite flower.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. Damn—” Was that a sob? “Just…”
He moved an inch backward.
“Wait. Flower.” She couldn’t think. What were those things called again? “Roses. That’s it. Roses.”
She could feel his shoulders lift in a shrug. So it’d been a clichéd answer. Big deal.
It was good enough, she supposed, because he was back where he belonged. This time thrusting his tongue inside her, warm, mobile, swirling. Then…something else.
She convulsed, jamming her chin against her shoulder. He’d put the cherry between her folds, was eating it, licking, nibbling, consuming.
Heat flushed over her, poising her on a shuddering breath. He held her hips as she whipped from side to side, agitated.
She cried out, banging her head against the wall, devoured by a flare of stillness, then a surge of crashing sensation. She grasped at it. Pulsating waves pounding from the inside out, tearing her apart, ripping every shred of emotion and turning it into a physical nerve.
She muffled a cry. Still, his mouth was on her, driving her toward a red wall. Closer, closer, farther, closer…
It shattered as she smashed into it, ramming forward, backward, again and again. Pinpoints of release tingled her skin, moistening it with beaded sweat.
She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t grasp onto anything. Lost, broken…
Oh. There.
Satiated.
She didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want to expose how much she wanted him. Yearned for him.
Breathe. Control.
Finally, she pulled herself together, then chanced a glance. Good thing she’d waited, because he’d been observing her, one hand still between her legs, the other covering her up with the nightgown. He had something in his mouth, and when he took it out, Fiona couldn’t help a contented smile from arching over her lips.
He offered the cherry stem to her. It was tied into a knot, just like she used to do in college at the bars, impressing all the boys.
“Done,” he said, cocky as ever. Then he went back to his beer, saluting her with the bottle, as if nothing had transpired from point A to point B.
The shakes started up again.
“Done?” she gasped, sliding off the stool. “I don’t think so.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, after he’d driven into her, spilling himself into a condom time and again, Sean had finally drifted off to sleep. A deep sleep, for the first time in…ever?
He rolled over the TV room carpet onto a blanket, where they’d ended up after a bout with her propped on the kitchen counter, a session in the bed and one in the hallway.
Groggy, he sought her out. Finding her. Drawing her against him because it felt so damned good
.
Even though he hadn’t bothered to open his eyes, her image was still imprinted on his mind. He didn’t have to look to see her. Feeling her bare breasts against his chest was enough.
Content, he must have drifted off again because, when he did officially awaken, it was because the phone was ringing. Sunlight streamed through the windows as he woke up. Something feathered over his face.
He opened his eyes to find Fiona stroking his cheek, watching him.
As the phone screeched, he shifted. She jerked back, creating distance, especially in her dark eyes where he could’ve sworn something mysterious lingered.
Quick as summer lightning, she turned on the Cruz charm, hiding behind a sexy come-hither expression.
Bitter disappointment filtered his vision, making him glance away. What was his problem? He didn’t want a woman gleaming onto him, choking him.
It was time to let her go, wasn’t it?
The words “you lose” were busting his teeth, trying to get out. But he couldn’t say them. Didn’t want to, because if he opened his big mouth, the bet would end. Done. No more sizzling sex. No more pretending that neither of them gave a crap.
And that’s what made being with Fiona so much easier.
“The office is calling, sleepyhead,” she said. Raising her arms up, she gave him an agonizing view of her curvy torso, her full breasts.
So she thought she’d gotten away with it. Emotions. But what did he know? Maybe he was wrong, and she’d been waking him up for another go-around.
But what about her eyes? That look?
Sean braced himself for the terror, the urge to flee, but it didn’t happen. Instead, he wanted to see the softness again.
Or was this just that after-glow bullshit he’d heard about?
The answering machine picked up the call as they both sat there. Fiona leaned back on her elbows, casual, careless. He rolled over to his stomach, burying his face in his arms.
Damn, he was sore. And it felt great.
“McIntyre,” barked Louis Martin’s voice. Luckily the boss man had the machine to guard him, or else Sean would have busted the guy against a wall.
“It’s Saturday morning,” said Fiona, all sing-songy. “Tell me he’s not expecting you.”
