Just Say (Hell) No (Escape to New Zealand Book 11)

by Rosalind James

  Nyree. Standing in front of a huge canvas that was twice as large as the flower paintings, in the corner of the room. She was right there, but she didn’t see him.

  She wasn’t looking at the painting. She was frowning at her phone, those straight dark eyebrows drawn together in fierce concentration. Wearing the ice-blue nightdress he’d last seen on a hook on her garage wall. Thin blue ribbons over her pale shoulders, silken fabric dropping into the valley between her full breasts, skimming her hips, covering not much at all of her thighs, and ending in a delicate edging of lace. Dark hair falling around a square little face set in lines of concentration. And the music playing on, every note falling into him like molten wax, liquid and warm.

  He didn’t move. He couldn’t. She looked up anyway. Alerted by his scent, maybe, or his color, or the feel of him. He knew when she became aware of him, and he watched her changeling’s eyes widen.

  No makeup. No games. Just Nyree.

  The guitar played on, a driving force, with a subtle clapping of castanets adding a rhythmic accompaniment, making her need to move. The screen in her hand nearly pulsed with the words.

  I know it’s hard to take that leap. But there’s more than one kind of courage, too.

  That’s how the cards fall.

  Marko was gripping his duffel in one of those big hands, his enormous frame filling up too much space, his dark-red presence taking up too much air. At least, she couldn’t breathe.

  In a different reality, the woman she’d never be was saying, I need to talk to you. Clearing the air, talking about options, about honesty, about Ella. The woman she was, though, had thrown away her parachute. She was leaping over a cliff into the dark, falling free through that star-spattered night sky, down and down through all the colors of the Aurora Australis. Pink and red, green and purple, glowing rich, pulsing warm, lighting up the cold dark.

  Marko dropped his bag with his jacket, and then his backpack. First one hand opening, then the other, and the whoomp as everything hit the floor in the silence between songs. And then a new piece starting up over the speaker. Wild and free and passionate. Flamenco.

  It wasn’t some other reality. It was this one.

  She didn’t know who took the first step. All she knew was, he was closer, and then he was there, and her hand was at the back of his neck, pulling his head down. His arm was around her, and she wasn’t on solid ground anymore. He’d lifted her straight off her feet, and his mouth was covering hers.

  He wasn’t rough. He didn’t bruise. But he held her like he couldn’t let her go, and he kissed her like he needed to do it. His lips moved over hers, her mouth opened, the kiss got deeper, and the pleasure curled like smoke low in her belly. Or maybe that was the iron-hard arms around her or the big hand beneath her, lifting her up to him. It could be the fingers of his other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. It could be the whole package. It could be Marko.

  When he finally let her mouth go, she wanted him back. But then he kissed his way across her cheek, his mouth as gentle as it was insistent, and buried his face in her neck. When he started kissing her there, not quite so gently, she may have changed her mind, because that was… good.

  She heard a sound through the buzzing in her brain, and realized it was coming from her. That Marko’s lips and teeth were sending electric pulses straight to her core, and that she was whimpering. His red was enveloping her, sucking her down into the fire.

  She needed more. She needed him. Her hand was under his T-shirt, and his skin burned hot, the muscles bunching under her palm.

  “Bloody hell,” he said, and then he was dropping with her, his hand behind her head, cushioning it as he followed her down onto the mattress. He had a hand on her thigh, was shoving her nightdress up, and she needed him to get there. Right now.

  He didn’t receive her signal, apparently, because his hand stopped, and he dropped to one elbow and kissed her mouth again. And this time? Being kissed that deeply, with his big body over hers, took her breath away.

  “Touch me,” she said when his lips were finally moving down her throat and she was tugging his shirt up his body, because she needed her hands on his skin. His hand still wasn’t any farther up her thigh, though, and she needed it to be. If she had to direct traffic, that’s what she’d do. “Come on.”

  He stilled for a moment, and then he was on one elbow again. “In a hurry, eh,” he said, the fingers of one leisurely hand pushing the ribbon strap of her nightdress slowly off her shoulder before he bent to trace its path with his tongue and made her eyes open wide. “Could be I’m going to disappoint you,” he whispered into her ear, then put his tongue there, making her shiver some more. “Because I’m not planning to hurry. Patience is a thing. Seems you need some help with that.”

  His hand was drifting down her arm, circling her wrist, and pulling it up and over her head as he kept kissing her neck, and she was burning up. “Ella,” she managed to say.

  “Beach. Shh.”

  She needed to talk to him first. But the music had slowed down, and so had Marko. He’d pulled both her hands over her head, and she wanted to touch him, but that felt so… The other strap of her nightdress had gone the way of the first, and he had a hand tracing around the edge of the bodice, dipping into her cleavage, and his mouth following it. And when he dragged the silk down beneath her breasts and finally put his talented mouth to work? She cried out with the pleasure of it.

  “Mm,” he said, and then, instead of moving on like any other man would have done, he put in even more effort right where he was. Still gentle. Still slow. Unbearable. She didn’t want gentle and slow. She wanted hard and hot. She needed to tell him so. She…

  His other hand was moving up her thigh again, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hand went straight to where she needed him, and she all but leaped off the bed.

  “Ah.” He sighed. “That’s nice. That’s gorgeous, eh.” He was stroking, probing, playing, and still in no hurry at all.

  She’d never been a patient person, and she wasn’t starting now. She got both hands under his T-shirt, pulled it up his torso, and got her hands all over him.

  It was anatomy class. It was the best figure drawing session ever. Every muscle of his chest, his back, his arms was fully defined, revealing itself to her through her fingers. She felt him, she learned him, and she wanted more of him. But his hand. His mouth. He was traveling a glacially slow path south, pulling her nightdress down as he went, licking and kissing his way over everything he uncovered, and she took the opportunity to pull his T-shirt higher. But she couldn’t get it off.

  “Give it to me,” she said.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, a laugh in his voice. “I’m trying.”

  She couldn’t laugh, not when he had her feeling like this. But she did anyway. “Your shirt. Oh. That’s… Wait. Oh. Do that again.” Her hips had started to rock under his hand, and then he was pulling her nightdress all the way down her legs and kissing his slow way back up her thighs, which made her need to open them up for him even more. That was… sneaky. “But take off… your clothes,” she managed to say. “I need a… turn.”

  If there was a better feeling than a man smiling against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh… Then his mouth shifted again, and oh, yeh. That was a better feeling.

  Now or never. She pulled herself out from under him, and he rolled to his side and glared at her. She wanted to laugh again, and she wanted to lie on her back and let him please her until she cried out loud. Until her hips were rocking, her head was banging against the mattress, and she’d lost her words and lost her mind. Instead, she pulled his T-shirt over his head, then shoved him onto his back and pulled off everything else.

  If she’d ever wondered if she’d be disappointed, she wasn’t wondering anymore. And she wanted it. She knelt between his thighs, her hands on his chest, and started to kiss him, to feel all the hardness of him. This time, she was the one whose hand was wandering. And when it closed around him, he leaped
into her like he’d been made just for her.

  Oh, yeh.

  He said, “If you’re going to put yourself on your knees for me…” Which sounded good, but did he lie back and give her a chance? He did not. He slid out from under her and shoved her shoulders gently down until she was on her hands and knees.

  Wait a minute. She couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t get hold of this thing. She should…

  He didn’t give her time to start. Instead, he kissed his way slowly down her spine while one hand spread her wide and started that exploring again. But this time, she couldn’t see him. Her excitement kicked up another notch, and she’d forgotten every single thing about what she should do. Her breath was coming hard, and she was rocking back into his hand.

  He got to her bottom, had one palm running over it, and she was tingling just from that. And then he bit her there. Hard. At the same time, his other hand found the perfect spot. Unexpected almost-pain, a fierce rush of pleasure, and she was crying out. He rubbed the tender place on her bum with his hand. His other hand, because he was still working her over with the right one. He must be kneeling behind her, but she couldn’t see.

  “Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he said with a sigh. “Felt so good.”

  She wasn’t talking anymore, because she couldn’t. She was too close. She said, “I… more. Do it more.”

  His hand left her, and she tensed. But then he was lying face-up under her, and the next thing she felt was his hands pulling her down into his mouth. He had her hips in both hands, and he dove straight in and started to feast. She needed to rock, but his hands were so strong, all she could do was press herself into his mouth. That was… it was…

  Helpless. Invaded. Over the top.

  She was going to come, and he didn’t want her to. Not yet.

  When he let go of her hips and slid back out from under her, she stayed where she was for a moment. Her whole body shaking, her hair hanging down over her face.

  “Wh-what?” she said. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t.”

  He gave her a slap on the bum, because it felt so good to do it and because he could. She jumped, and he kissed her again, right there on that delicious curve, because he could do that, too, rubbed his hand over all her wonderful roundness, gave her a couple more lazy strokes over and around all that warm, wet pink to keep her going, and said, “Hang on. I’m coming back.”

  “Wh-what?” She turned over and got on her elbows, which was good, because she had some of the prettiest breasts he’d ever seen, and he wanted to kiss them and hold them again, but it was sad, too.

  He needed a mirror. He wanted to watch every bit of her, and every bit of what he was going to do to her. He was a greedy bastard. He wanted it all, and he wanted it now.

  “Oh. Condom,” she said, still sounding deliciously shaky, and looking that way, too. “And you spanked me. You bit me. I should hate that.”

  He pushed her down by the shoulders, levered himself over her, and indulged himself by kissing her wonderful mouth some more. Deeper than ever this time, his tongue exploring, letting her taste herself on him. She had her hands around his head, pulling him into her harder, so it was working for her, too.

  He managed to leave her mouth at last and said, “No blondes, though, remember? Sad for me, of course, but there you are. Somebody told me she wouldn’t like it. Got a condom in my bedside table, though, waiting for you. And about that other thing—it didn’t feel to me like you hated it. I think you loved it. Made you wet as hell. Makes me wonder what else you’d love.”

  Because he was over her, he could watch that shiver move all the way from her shoulders to her knees. If he pulled her thighs apart right now and talked a little dirtier, he could watch the next shiver go everywhere. He could make her come without even touching her. He knew it. But that wasn’t good enough.

  “Then go get it,” she said. “I can’t wait anymore.”

  He smiled. Bloody hell, but he loved her like this. “I’ve got an idea, though,” he said, threading his fingers through those dusky curls, something else he’d waited too long to do. “Going to make you wait for it until you can’t stand it anymore. Until it’s the best you’ve ever had.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. Yes, she did. He was as turned on as he’d been in his life, she was naked beneath him, all the ivory and pink and gorgeous brown of her, and she was waiting for him to come back and do it hard. Do it right. And still, she rolled her eyes.

  “You think I can’t,” he said. “That just makes me want to do it more.”

  “Then come on, boy. Get started.” She took hold of him again, levered herself up on one palm, and gave him a long, slow lick that made him stop smiling.

  “I’ve… started,” he managed to say. “You’re not helping me keep my focus here.”

  “Could be,” she murmured from down where he needed her, “that I don’t want your focus. Could be I want you wild.”

  “Could be,” he said, “that I’m going to give you exactly what you want.” And then he went and got the condom.

  He wasn’t seventeen anymore. Everything was better when you had to wait for it. And making her wait? That would be nothing but wonderful.

  Did she have some time to think about the inadvisability of proceeding at this particular time, without a certain conversation? Not to mention a few other conversations, like the one about boundaries? She did. Did she make any move whatsoever to have those conversations? She did not.

  Her body was aching for him in a way she’d never felt. If it got any worse, she was going to… well, it was going to be unbearable, that was all. She needed his mouth on her, or she needed him inside her. One or the other. And anything else he might want to do, too. She needed it now.

  Just as she thought it, he came back. With a fist full of supplies, and having lost absolutely none of his… appeal.

  She sighed in a purely aesthetic way this time. Well, almost. “You’re beautiful,” she told him. Shoulders. Chest. Those incredible arms. Abs. Thighs. And absolutely everything else. He looked like a sculpture of a Greek discus thrower. Like he was cast in bronze, bigger than life size. “I need to touch you. Over and over.”

  “Not this time,” he said. “Turn over and get on your knees. Head down on the mattress. Arms over your head.”

  He didn’t look gentle now. He looked hard. Tough. Nearly ferocious.

  Whoa. She should so not do this.

  She did it anyway. That look of his? It was getting her there all by itself. And just moving into that position, feeling his palm come out to rub her bottom, then dive between her legs, was making her tingle and shift and moan. He took his hand away, and she heard the rustle of foil packaging. Part of her thought, Wait. No. I need to come first. I need to come NOW, while the other part thought, Oh, yeh. Take me by surprise. The helplessness of it… she was squirming already.

  “If you don’t want something I do to you,” he said, “say so.” And she thought, What? But then he slid inside her, she felt his entry all the way up her body, and she may have moaned. And when he switched the tiny vibrator on, touched it to her, and started to move it in big, lazy circles that made her bones melt? She felt it more than that. He gave her one slow, hard thrust, then another, and she was almost there already.

  He dropped the vibrator, and she cried out in protest.

  Slap. It had come without warning, a stinging strike on the flesh of her hip that surprised more than it hurt, and she cried out again.

  Slap.

  Oh, my God. He was spanking her. And she was going to come.

  He was rubbing her skin, taking the sting away, moving in her so slowly, then touching her with the vibrator again, picking up the pace. She started moving with him, but the second she started to call out, he took the vibrator away and stopped the deep, hard thrusts. The ones that had been filling her better than she’d ever been filled in her life. Didn’t he know she needed that?

  He spanked her again. Three swats this time. They wer
e getting harder, and she was jumping.

  “Be quiet,” he said, his voice thrillingly rough, “and you won’t get spanked.”

  He started everything up again, and she had to moan. Which meant that all that wonderful friction stopped, and that he was going to spank her again. She tensed for it, and he did it. The sequence, over and over, and she was going up faster every time, knowing he wouldn’t let her get all the way there and not knowing exactly what was coming next. One swat, or two, or three. Keeping her on edge.

  She was tingling. She was burning. She was on fire in the very best way, and pretty soon, she was sobbing out her frustration and her need.

  Little by little. Higher and higher. Impossible pleasure, and the sweetest almost-pain, just this side of the line. She knew in some corner of her mind that he was being careful, keeping it good for her, driving her up slow and high, then interrupting the climb, all to make her release that much stronger, but she couldn’t think about that. Not now. She could only feel.

  She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t stand it. She wanted him to stop. She couldn’t bear for him to stop.

  She was begging now. Her cheek pressed to the mattress, her arms stretched out along it, her hands clutching at the velvet spread, and his hands all over her. Touching her between her breasts with the vibrator, then moving it on down. On her inner thighs, making her want to spread them farther apart for him. Finally, when she couldn’t stand it a second more, he set it to her, not quite touching the best spot, but making everything else light up, the concentric circles of desire start to narrow. Then he began to move faster inside her, like he’d finally got serious. Or like he needed to let her know that he was in charge of this, and that she was his.