Play Dates

by Maggie Wells

  “Off,” she panted, planting her heels on the mattress and arching up to meet each stroke of his tongue. “Take them off.”

  He caught a bit of the thoroughly-wet lace between his teeth and gave a playful tug. “No.”

  Monica moaned, her fingers tightening in his hair until he feared she might tear it out from the roots. Pleasure. Pain. His scalp prickled. His dick throbbed. Actually throbbed. He’d probably end up with some kind of contact burn from humping her sheets, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not until he made her come at least once. He had to get there before he allowed himself to do anything else, or he’d pop off like a teenager. And the second those panties were gone, he was going to be inside her. Deep inside her. So deep. His self-control slipping with each passing thought, he hooked a finger in the leg of her panties and yanked them aside. Damp light-brown curls glistened with her arousal. She spread her legs wider in the kind of bold, blatant invitation a man would have to be dead to resist. And he had a helluva lot of life left in him.

  He drove her up fast and furious, each kiss, lick, and nip calculated to push her straight over the edge. He slipped a finger into her hot, tight wetness and groaned as she closed around him. Using the single digit to ground him, he focused all his attention on her clit. Flying high on her moans and whispers, he drew the sensitive flesh into his mouth, alternately swirling and sucking until, at last, she spasmed around him.

  He opened his eyes and lifted his head, not wanting to miss a moment of watching cool, confident Monica Rayburn’s unraveling. She rode his hand hard, taking him in short, swift strokes, matching the staccato pace of her breathing. Christ, she was incredible. Every bit of her. Peachy-pink skin. Summer-blue eyes. Tumbled brown hair. Her pretty panties were twisted obscenely to the side. He could see where the tension caused the waistband to cut cruelly into her hip and stomach, but she seemed oblivious. Thank God. He didn’t want to do anything to detract from her absolute pleasure. The second her jerky movements slowed, he pulled his hand away.

  She whimpered gratifyingly, then hissed a breath of relief when he stripped the mangled panties down her legs. Sitting on his heels, he took two long, hopefully steadying breaths. He ran his hand through his hair, massaging the tender spots on his scalp. He gazed down at her sprawled on the bed, all loose-limbed and flushed.

  “I got a little carried away,” he confessed, his voice so husky he barely recognized himself. He drew her underwear down her legs and tossed them aside. “But I’m not sorry.”

  A feline smile spread across her face as she shook her head from side to side. The gesture was a lazy nope and a shrug all wrapped up in one beautifully satiated package. Pride hit him square in the chest and exploded, flowing through him like the contents of some kind of sexual water balloon. He’d done this to her. He was the guy who turned this poised, purposeful woman into a rag doll.

  “Not sorry, either,” she murmured. “Do some more.”

  He crawled up over her long, lithe body, keenly aware of how perfectly they matched up. His shin slid along hers. Smooth, pliant thighs pressed against his, urging him to settle in the spot he wanted to be more than he wanted his next breath. But one of them had to be sensible. He planted his hands on either side of her head and pushed up even as she tried to drag him down. His dick grazed the soft, wet curls between her legs. The minimal contact was all he needed. The red-hot flow of lust her order unleashed swept away the last vestiges of his control.

  “Condom,” he managed to grunt.

  Monica jerked her pointy little chin toward the nightstand and shot him a sly smile. “Drawer.”

  He lunged for the handle, ignoring the tickle of her fingernails running down his spine. Her hands closed over his ass as he located his quarry. She squeezed, and he tore the box nearly in two. With a combination of fumbling fingers, sheer determination, and the help of his teeth, he managed to separate a package from the string and tore the wrapper open. The condom landed with a soft thunk on Monica’s collarbone.

  “Talented man,” she cooed, recovering the coveted ring of latex. “Need some help with this?”

  He plucked the condom from her fingers. “No!” Squeezing his eyes shut, he inhaled through his nose. He had to blink twice to bring her into focus. “I can’t. I’m so…if you touch me—”

  Monica interrupted him by lifting off the pillows and kissing him square on the mouth. “Let’s bust your cherry again and get it over with.”

  “My cherry?” he asked, mortified.

  She fixed him with a grave stare. “If you were a woman, we’d call you born again.” When he failed to come up with any kind of response, she laughed and kissed him once more. “Stop worrying so much. We’ll take this one as a mulligan, and you can impress me with your skills again later.”

  Wetting his parched lips, he searched those clear blue eyes for signs of mockery. “Really?”

  Her smile softened. “Really.” Relaxing into the nest of pillows, she sighed as she ran her hand down the center of his chest. “Trust me, I’m not nearly through with what I want to do with you.”

  Biting down on his bottom lip, he looked anywhere but at her as he stroked the condom into place. Eyes locked on one of the spindles on the headboard, he settled into the cradle of her hips with a long exhale. Monica trailed her fingers from his ass to the nape of his neck, cradling the back of his head in her palm. Finally, she reached between them to guide him home. She lined him up at the entrance to her slick, sweet channel, then drew her hand aside, leaving the next move entirely up to him.

  He claimed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, and pressing them into the pillow beside her head. Bracing his weight on his elbows, he dredged up the courage to meet her eyes as he pressed into her.

  “Jesus, Monica,” he whispered when the heat of her enveloped him.

  He managed to sink the rest of the way without completely losing his shit. Seated deep inside her, he took a moment to draw a shuddering breath, but pausing did no good. Her muscles tightened around him, and he was shredded. Toast. A mindless machine stuck on full speed ahead. She raked her nails down his back, and he almost howled. Or maybe he did. He made some sort of noise when his balls drew up tight, but he wasn’t exactly sure how the groan came out. In his head it was more of a roar, but he’d lost all connection with reality the moment she squeezed his ass and pulled him in deeper.

  “Oh, Christ, I’m coming.” He ground the words out from between clenched teeth, half-hoping he could hold off, but knowing he couldn’t. His climax hit him like a freight train. He started to come, and kept on coming. So hard it almost hurt.

  Almost.

  It felt so incredibly good to be fucking an actual honest-to-god woman instead of his fist. The orgasm packed a punch. Almost over the edge into punishment. But pain was impossible to quantify when he was buried so deep inside her. Monica. The woman who didn’t bat an eyelash over his son playing with a doll. One who drank Chilean chardonnay and flirted outrageously with plump little chefs.

  And she was a mom, so she knew exactly how hard an evening with no kid talk could be on a parent. A mom who understood why he wouldn’t be staying for breakfast. He’d found possibly the only woman in the world with no expectations beyond one incredible night where they could both be unencumbered, unfettered, uninhibited adults. Best of all, she’d kissed him sweetly and promised him a mulligan, because she bought a whole box of condoms and wasn’t nearly done with him yet.

  This had to be the luckiest day of his life.

  Chapter 4

  Monica blinked up at the ceiling. Her cleaning service was getting lazy about dusting the corners. The room was covered in cobwebs.

  “Are you okay?”

  Jolted by the deep voice coming from the pillows beside her. She blinked once. Twice. Huh. What do you know? Her ceiling was clean as a whistle.

  Turning her newly sharpened focus on Colm, she let a lazy smile curve
her lips. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”

  He chuckled and turned onto his side facing her, one big hand splayed across her belly. She glanced down at his fingers, startled by both the intimacy of the gesture and how very right the caress felt. The heel of his hand rested in the hollow of her hipbone. The very tip of his middle finger traced the line opposite. His palm was warm and soothing.

  Meeting his eyes again, she lifted a lazy brow. “You?”

  He collapsed as if she’d left him boneless. “Couldn’t be better.”

  She stared at him, feeling more than a little smug about the sheer masculine beauty stretched out beside her. His cheek pressed against the impossibly pale skin inside his bicep. She almost growled with territorial jealousy when he wrapped his forearm over his head and buried his fingers in his own hair. She’d mussed his hair until it reached this level of rumpled perfection. Monica batted his hand toward the headboard and performed a minor contortion to claim the thick, dark waves again. “Oh, I bet you could,” she murmured, finger-combing those waves until they rippled over his ear.

  A crease appeared between those inky black brows. “Bet I could what?”

  His frown gave her the strength to overpower the part of her brain mired in post-coital stupor.

  “Be better.” Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, she fixed him with a pointed stare. “You said you couldn’t.”

  This time, he laughed. Not a chuckle or rumble, or even a chortle. This was a full-on belly laugh. She loved hearing him let loose. Even more, she loved the way his contentment inspired him to trace slow, sensuous little circles over her own belly.

  “I realize you made a massive investment in latex, but give a guy five minutes.”

  He flipped onto his back, taking his deliciously warm hand with him. The bastard.

  “I’m only making sure you’re prepared to live up to your…promises.”

  She must have struck a sore spot because he turned to look at her, his green eyes clear and his expression sober.

  “I always keep my promises.”

  Carefully treading into what appeared to be a touchy area, Monica decided to keep things light by being a bit touchier in her own way. Without breaking eye contact, she marshaled the power of her yoga-pilate’d core and rolled up onto him. “I like that in a man.”

  Colm sucked in a sharp breath. “I, uh, I need to take care of old business before we can move on to a new round.”

  One hand planted beside his head, she swooped in and stole a soft, sucking kiss. “Hurry.”

  She struck what she hoped was a semi-alluring pose as he walked away. The second the bathroom door closed behind him, she stole a glance in the mirror above her bureau and groaned long and low. Unless the guy had a fetish for Medusa-haired chicks who got their make-up tips from copying old pictures of Courtney Love, the chances of pulling off either sensual or alluring were somewhere between slim and none.

  She gave her hair a quick rake and ran a dampened fingertip under her eyes, hoping to wipe away the worst of the mascara smudges. The sound of water running in the sink caught her attention. This was her house. Her bathroom. A few feet away, she had every weapon a woman needed to repair even the worst ravages. Casting a longing glance at the closed door, she ran her tongue over her teeth and cringed. She needed to move fast and decisively.

  The second the door swung open, she sprang from the bed. “Back in a sec,” she murmured, hiding behind her hair as she ducked past him. Three minutes later, she emerged—hair combed, teeth brushed, and make-up smudges removed.

  The second she slid into the bed, Colm hooked one arm around her waist and hauled her flush against him. “I appreciate the effort, but I really liked the way you looked.”

  Giving her lashes an innocent flutter, she asked, “How’s that?”

  He dipped his head and captured her mouth. The kiss started slow and sweet but ended so mind-bendingly hot, she wondered how she’d ever thought the word “sweet” could apply. He gave her a half-second to catch her breath, but no more. This time, his tongue swept into her mouth. Demanding its due. When he relinquished her at last, her breath came in short, soft puffs. They bounced off him and washed over her, tantalizing her damp lips.

  “You looked like you’d been fucked,” he whispered against her damp lips. “But that’s okay.” He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat. When he reached the base, he nuzzled the little notch between her clavicles and dipped his tongue into the hollow. Her breath caught and held as he lifted his head to look her straight in the eye. “This time, I’ll make sure you look like you’ve been well and truly fucked.”

  His crude language both shocked and thrilled her. Fisting her hands in his hair, she pulled him to her mouth once more. Lips, teeth, tongues. Within seconds, her entire body was inflamed. She ground against every hard bit of him, and there were a lot of those. Thighs. Hips. The rock-solid ridge of his cock. There might also have been a moment when she humped his arm, but neither of them felt the need to acknowledge the act of desperation.

  His hands were everywhere. Big and strong, gentle but coaxing. He covered every bit of her body, stroking, shaping, and testing. Ticklish spots were noted. The ones that made her moan and writhe exploited. And where his hands led, his mouth followed. By the time he wedged his wide shoulders between her thighs, she was already a quivering mess of do-me-now-damn-it, but, Lord, there was no way she was about to tell him to stop. Not when he was nuzzling and kissing her. He was the type of man who appreciated women even in those messy, undignified, not-so-perfectly groomed moments. Exactly her type. He brushed the tip of his tongue over her clit as she cried out.

  “Yes?”

  The husky question struck a chord deep inside her. The simplicity reverberated through her. Yes. God, yes, she wanted this. Wanted him. Couldn’t conceive of a world where “no” might be an option. But she could barely muster a grunt, much less a definitive answer. He flicked the sensitive flesh with his tongue again. He looked up at her, hitting her full force with his glass-green gaze.

  “Say yes, Monica, because I don’t plan to stop until I make you come again.”

  She wet parched lips. “Then I can have my turn again?”

  “Greedy?”

  Was there anything hotter than being challenged by a hot man? Hell no. And like the gambler she was, Monica had every intention of getting the most out of the winning hand she’d been dealt. Smiling, she groped through the tangle of sheets until she unearthed the string of foil-wrapped condoms crackling beneath them. “I’m in an overstock situation.”

  He snatched the string from her grasp. “I think I can help with reduction, but I can’t promise an inventory blowout.”

  “I could promise a blow out,” she suggested.

  Colm groaned and lowered his head. Warm lips grazed tender skin. He traced the crease of her thigh with a long, lazy stroke of his tongue. “Promises like that won’t help your overstock issue.”

  Wrapping her hands around his biceps, she gave an ineffectual tug. “Perhaps we can combine the warm-up activities.”

  Almost immediately, his level of resistance dropped. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She flashed a saucy smile as inducement to surrender to the tug. He needed a little more encouragement. Opportunist that she was, Monica ran her hands over every rippling muscle she could reach as he levered himself over her. She pressed her fingertips to his flat nipples, running her hands down his ribcage. The contrast between the crisp hair on his chest and the unspeakably smooth skin stretching down his sides and around his back was mesmerizing.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  His voice was thick and more than a little raspy. Knowing she could turn him on like this intoxicated her. Emboldened, she slid one hand down to encircle the stiff length of his cock. His stare was intense. Desire wafted off them like waves of heat rising from summer-scorched pavement. She licked her lips. Slo
wly. Deliberately. Unabashedly proud of the way his eyes darkened and grew heavy-lidded. She bushed a kiss over the dusting of golden freckles on his collarbone, then gave his shoulders an I-mean-business shove.

  “On your back, big guy.”

  The moment he complied, she shimmied up to the head of the bed and swung a leg over. His long-drawn groan of appreciation only added fuel to her fire. He grasped her hips, trying to pull her down to his mouth, but she resisted. She mustered every ounce of womanly pride she had, and gave herself a little pep talk. She was on top. This was her show, and she was going to enjoy every second of this interlude. And to her way of thinking, she definitely won out in terms of the better view.

  His torso was lean and hard, his hips narrow. His cock jutted from a nest of inky-black curls. The man was a study in contrasts. Diamond-cut planes covered in soft, supple skin the color of fresh cream. Black hair, white skin. Big, masculine beyond a doubt, and a little rough around the edges, but unflinching in his defense of his little boy’s right to love a doll.

  He was also funny, modest, quick-witted, and gave off an air of competence that made a woman want to curl up in his lap and let him handle all the pesky details of life. All in all, he was dangerous. Very dangerous. Because Colm was the kind of man any woman with half a brain would fall for hard and fast. If she was the type to fall at all. Plus, she had a whole brain and a big, fat lie of omission hanging over her head.

  “For the love of God, you’re killing me,” he said, jerking her out of her thoughts by giving her hips another, more forceful, tug.

  “Oh. Sorry,” she said, a nervous laugh escaping her. Her cheeks flamed as she ran her hands down his chest, over his hips, and gripped the taut muscle of his thighs. “I was admiring the view.”