by Maggie Wells
Her lashes fell and she bowed into him as he stroked the side of her neck. Her breath hitched and held when he pressed the pad of one finger to the pulse in her throat.
“Soon? Are you going to kiss me soon?” she asked without opening her eyes.
“Soon,” he promised.
But instead of making good right away, he slicked her hair from her face, using both hands to gather the slippery strands. They escaped his grasp lock by sleek lock. As attractive as he found decisive, no-nonsense Monica, he found himself drawn to this side of her, too. She clung to him. Soft. Pliant. The slightest bit needy, but only in a physical way. This woman wasn’t in the market for a rescuer. He wasn’t here because she thought he’d be the answer to her troubles. Monica invited him into her home because she wanted him in the barest, most basic of ways.
Her style of raw, unspoken honesty turned him on.
His own breathing grew shallow when she tipped her face up, offering herself up to him. She wore gloss on her lips. A pinkish-red color that looked like it might taste like strawberries. He hoped it did. Mesmerized, he slid his thumb over her lips, smearing the sticky lipstick onto her cheek. The streak of pink sparkled on her creamy skin. He leaned in and pressed his lips to the corner of her mouth. A groan caught in his throat. He’d been wrong. So wrong. The gloss tasted like raspberries, and Colm knew he’d been a fool to hope for anything else.
She turned her head in an attempt to steal a real kiss. He chuckled at her head in his palm. He let her take what she wanted, controlling the kiss by giving her the lead. If only for a moment. Monica parted her lips and he didn’t hesitate to take her up on the invitation. The kiss was hot, sticky, and sweet, flavored with fake fruit and fevered woman. Her tongue swirled around his, demanding a response he was all too happy to give. She slid her hands into his hair. He loved it when she dragged her nails along his scalp. The way she stroked his nape. She was a cocky woman, and she thought she could tame him. Hard not to admire her confidence. He gave her a minute more to taste, test, and tease. He could afford to be generous for a little longer.
But not much longer. His dick was so hard he ached. He slipped one hand between their bodies and made a quick adjustment. The new positioning both alleviated the ache and provided an alignment far more pleasurable for both of them, if he interpreted Monica’s throaty moan correctly. He moved against her, letting her kiss him as hot and deep as she wanted, but leaving absolutely no doubt where this encounter would end.
At last, she broke the kiss. “Upstairs.”
Colm gave the change in locale all the consideration he could muster, but it wasn’t much. He’d thought he could savor her. For those few blurry moments when their mouths first met, he thought he had this in hand. All he wanted was Monica pinned against the wall. Or on the table. And his dick inside her.
He glanced at the staircase, and down at her, shaking his head all the while. He’d been waiting too long, thinking too much about her, to give any plan that didn’t involve burying himself balls-deep in her as soon as humanly possible the old heave-ho.
“No? You don’t want to come upstairs?”
Confusion puckered her brow. He pressed his lips to the crease between them and peeled his body from hers, needing a bit of space to regain his powers of speech. He watched as a hectic red flush crept up her throat. Color stained her cheeks a pretty peach and set the tips of her ears aglow. He was so enthralled he didn’t realize Monica was twisting her shoulders, trying to wrest herself from his hold.
Desperate to make his intentions clear, he held fast as he swept the nearly empty foyer with an assessing glance. The only furniture was the table holding her mail and the pretty glass bowl. Sliding a hand into her hair, he gathered the silky locks in his fist and gave a tug. She stopped squirming, which was both a relief and a disappointment. He’d liked when her chest and hips brushed against his, enjoyed the feel of long, lean muscles tensed for flight, and relished the way she surrendered a chunk of her pride to have what she wanted. She wanted him, and he didn’t want to wait one minute longer.
“How much do you like that bowl?” He practically growled the question, giving her hair another tug to draw her attention as he nodded toward the table.
She wet her lips. The gloss was long gone, but they were red with raspberry stain and swollen from his kisses. “I like it a lot. I bought it in Italy.” Her voice was warm and rough-edged, like she’d been doing shots of whisky all night. Her blue eyes gleamed with speculation as she surveyed the table. “Maybe we could just…” She twisted away from him, and this time he let her go.
Heart lodged at the base of this throat, he watched as she stepped over to the table, slid both hands under the delicate piece of glass, and carried her treasure into the first room off the foyer. Leaning to his left, Colm craned his neck to catch a peek through the open doorway, but spotted only a wall of built-in shelving. Living room? Dining room? Hard to tell. Some of the shelves were fronted with glass. Most of them held one or more pieces of china, glass, or pottery. His brain assessed the potential for wreckage. By his calculations, collateral damage could be significant. She reappeared, a smug smile curving her well-kissed lips.
“There.” Flashing a brilliant smile, she grasped the hem of her sweater and whisked the soft knit up over her head. She used the ball of expensive wool to sweep the stack of mail to the floor, give the already gleaming table a polish, then tossed the sweater aside like a rag. Leaning against it wearing nothing but a lacy black bra and jeans barely shy of painted on, she lifted a challenging brow. “Better?”
Colm appreciated the sentiment almost as much as the view. “Much.” Taking a step closer, he hooked a finger under the top button of her jeans. “Take off your shoes.”
Monica continued to smile her sunny smile as she stepped out of the flats she wore. “Is that all you want me to take off?”
Her nipples pressed against the nearly sheer fabric of her bra. Hard. They’d be so hard. But soft. Lowering his head, he cupped the slight curve of her breast as he captured one taut point between his teeth. The fabric was rough against his tongue, but he caught hints of the silken sweetness of the skin beneath. Yes, her breasts were small, but God, they were sensitive. Monica writhed, her long, sinuous body moving to some spellbinding tune only she could hear. He sucked her deep into his mouth, drawing a moan straight from the very core of her. The button on her jeans gave way under pressure from his fingertips. The rasp of her zipper matched their ragged breathing.
“Right here.” He punctuated the words with a graceless tug on her jeans.
Thankfully, Monica wasn’t the type of woman who shrank from a challenge. Pressing the tips of her fingers to the center of his chest, she looked him dead in the eye as she pushed him off. Those blue eyes remained locked on him as she shimmied out of her jeans. Colm swallowed hard, dying to peek, but reluctant to break the connection between them. He could almost see the bolts of electricity arcing through the air. Hear them sizzle and pop. Feel the voltage pulsing through his veins. His whole body jerked when she looked away. He glanced down in time to see her jeans slide across the polished floor, a scrap of black lace tangled in the wad of denim. When he looked up, she was reaching for the clasp on her bra.
“No. Leave it.”
Monica blinked, clearly surprised by the urgency in his tone. “Leave it?”
The flicker of uncertainty in her eyes gave him all the confidence he needed to take hold of the situation again. He also took hold of his belt buckle. “I’m gonna use it.”
Interest flared hot and bright in her eyes. “Use it?”
He held her gaze as he opened his jeans. “Makes you crazy when I tease you, doesn’t it? The lacy stuff rubbing your nipples. Drives you nuts when my mouth is on you, but not really on you. Doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He loved the way she answered without hesitation or shame. Loved the smile she wore as she
bent at the waist, completely unself-conscious about her nudity. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why she needed her purse. Now, of all times.
Pausing with his thumbs hooked in the waistband of his briefs, he stared at her, incredulous. “Please tell me you’re not checking with the sitter. I’d hate to have to punish you for breaking the rules.”
“Nope.” She pulled something out of her bag, but it wasn’t her cell phone. “Doing my part to ensure our mutual safety,” she said, a smug smile curving her lips as she held up a foil-wrapped condom.
In one shove, he pushed his jeans and briefs down to his thighs. “You are one hell of a woman.”
Monica propped her hips on the edge of the table and braced her long legs wide as she tore the wrapper. “Don’t you forget it.”
He stared at her as she rolled the condom over him, breathless as a teenager getting his first grope. A lump of red-hot need burned low in his gut. He rested his hands on the subtle flare of her hips and stepped closer. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else all week.”
His confession seemed to fluster her. Colm liked flustering her. As much as he admired her confidence, the unexpected flashes of vulnerability were what kept him hooked. “I’m going to make this so good you forget to count.”
She gave a short laugh. “I never lose count.” Her hair curtained her face as she glanced down. “I’m not sure this will work.”
Colm followed her gaze, noted the height disparity between him and the mirror-like surface of the table, and set his jaw. There was no way in hell he was going one step further without having her first. Slipping his hands to her thighs, he pressed them wider. She moaned, and he slid his palms under her.
“I’ll have to make it work.”
His arms quivered with exertion as he lifted her off the table, but she was quick. Thank God she was quick. And nimble. And every bit as needy as he was. In the space of a heartbeat, she’d wrapped her long legs around his back, pressed her palms into his shoulders, and surged up until she hovered above him. The sleek smooth strands of her hair cascaded over her shoulders as she slid down. The tip of his cock nudged the hot crease of her sex. He bit off a groan as he shifted his hips to find her sweet spot. He let the sound loose when she sank onto him.
Her head bumped the mirror mounted above the table. Colm met his own heavy-lidded gaze in the reflection. Monica’s thighs flexed and her nails bit into his shoulders as she pushed up again. He could only see from mid-chest up, but the visual worked for him. Not only was he inside her again, but he could watch as he fucked her. The thought almost drove him straight over the edge.
“Christ.” He gripped her by the nape and pushed her down hard, burying himself so deep inside her he could feel the thrum of her heart. Or maybe because she was wrapped around him like a monkey on a tree. The sight of her slim, pale back shouldn’t have been so mind-blowing. Hell, he was only looking at her back. Not even her ass. Certainly not the good parts. But the sight made him hot. She curled around him. Holding him buried deep in her molten heat.
“Go fast,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m close.”
Moving his hand down to grip the soft globes of her ass, he spread her wide, letting his fingertips play along the crevice, knowing the tease would push her further faster. He thrust fast and shallow at first, letting the slick shaft of his cock drag over her clit. But the second he felt her tighten around him, all bets were off. Desperate, he turned and braced her against the wall, plunging into her, driving hard as she came apart in his arms. Soon she was reduced to nothing but panting moans and delicious spasms. He let her ride him, losing himself in the wild bucking of her hips against his.
She said his name.
It was barely more than a whisper, but the creak in her voice broke him. His knees buckled and legs folded under him. He lost his grip, his hands sliding to her thighs, grappling for some purchase as she slid down the wall. He braced his feet wide, grateful he hadn’t taken his shoes off. Finding traction again, he pistoned his hips, hell-bent on getting off.
Monica was determined to do her part as well. Hitching her legs up, she dug her heels into his ass and plunged a hand into his hair. He yelped when she yanked, pulling his hair until she could look him in the eye.
“Come.”
One word and the woman completely unraveled him. Biting his lip, he closed his eyes and emptied every bit of loneliness and longing built up over the week into her. But even after the initial rush passed, he couldn’t stop. Her thighs felt like satin sliding against his hips. Her toes tickled the backs of his calves. Moving inside her, he bowed and yanked the straps of her bra down her arms, trapping them there. He claimed one breast and gently abraded the distended nipple with the lacy barrier.
Pressing his forehead to hers, he exhaled long and loud. “We’d better find someplace more comfortable, because I plan on doing this all night long.”
Monica tipped her face up and their lips met and held for a moment. “Bed. Now.”
He grinned, grimaced, and slowly disengaged. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter 7
Colm Cleary was a man of his word.
The second time around, he made her come and come so hard she almost screamed. Almost, but not quite. The guy really was an expert at dishing out the most exquisite kind of torment. He was talented, but not too cocky about his prowess. Strong, but secure enough to surrender the lead. And giving. So, so giving.
Monica couldn’t remember the last time she slept with a man so utterly selfless about getting her off. Oh, he liked to get his, no mistake. But she had a feeling he got as much of a charge out of pushing her limits as he did in ringing his own bell. She’d had one lover who’d made a point of keeping tabs on how many times he got her across the finish line. Not because he demanded quid pro quo, but as a matter of pride. He’d wanted bragging rights to her orgasms, and Monica wasn’t sure she wanted to give him full marks. After all, there was more than a little effort on her part involved.
She could understand a man wanting tit for tinglers, too. She had a competitive nature and wouldn’t allow the scales to tip too far out of balance in order to satisfy her own sense of fair play. But Colm’s generosity sprung from something more. Something fueled by passion, not ego.
He liked getting her there. She’d actually felt him get harder when the grips of her climax coincided with her grip on him. And his passion…his dedication to achieving excellence in fucking. Well, she was on the verge of ordering him a plaque.
She jerked when Colm’s fingers stopped their lazy slide through her hair, caught up by a snarl. He managed to work them free with a minimum of fuss and no loss of follicle. Something she considered a minor miracle. In her experience, most guys tugged, yanked, pushed, or shoved at obstacles. Not Colm. He was the type to work through every roadblock he encountered thoughtfully. Methodically. And most arousing—logically.
He didn’t get worked up or give in. Whether he was facing babysitting logistics, parking hurdles, or the fact her hair turned into a friggin’ bird’s nest during sex, he remained unfazed. His brand of patience must come with the parental territory, because she sure didn’t have a supply of her own.
He didn’t hurry. Sure, they went at each other fast and furious a couple times, but they weren’t rushing to glory. Their frenzies were more along the lines of not being able to hold their horses. Either way, he never skimped on the kissing, licking, stroking, or squeezing. His diligence alone showed a level of appreciation that put him a notch above many of the men she’d known. Nothing worse than a man who claimed to be a connoisseur but tried to skip courses. She was a firm believer in people living up to their full potential. And, so far, Colm had exceeded her expectations in most every way.
Maybe she should order a plaque after all. Or maybe a trophy. A nice dick-shaped trophy with a little engraved plate lauding him for knowing what to do with his.
&n
bsp; “You okay?”
Oh, yes. The pillow talk. Colm had mastered basking in the afterglow without smothering. He asked simple questions. The kind she could answer with a yes, a no, or something more expository if her mood allowed. Monica appreciated his flexibility. He also had a gruff, grumbly thing going as they basked in the wreckage. Like he’d swallowed a bag of rocks and had to work each and every word out from cracks between them. Sexy as hell.
“I’m perfect,” she replied, punctuating the sentiment with a feline stretch. “You?”
“I think you’re perfect, too.”
She chuckled and rubbed her nose in the patch of curling hair surrounding one flat nipple. “Someone’s going for a triple-header tonight.” She pressed a chaste kiss to the circlet of pale brown flesh. “I love a man with ambition.”
No sound came out when he laughed, but his chest shook. “Ambition and limited free time.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a contender.” Shooting him a flirty look, she kissed her way down his ribcage.
He pushed his hand into her hair and urged her head up. “I’m highly motivated, but I have to confess, I think I need a little down time.”
She grinned and planted a lingering kiss on his hip bone. “Something cold to drink?”
“Please.” He sighed as she disentangled herself from him. “Maybe a snack?”
Monica answered with a short laugh. “Unless you’re into yogurt, I’m not going to have much to offer.”
“That’s right, you don’t cook.” He made the statement in a matter of fact tone. No judgement. Maybe even a hint of envy in there.
She watched as he ran his hand over his stomach, lazily roughing the line of hair she found so tempting. “No, I love to cook. I don’t grocery shop, remember?”
“Ah, yes.” He flashed a half-smile. “You got eggs?”
“Possibly.” She shrugged as she tried to recall the last time she actually inspected the contents of her fridge. “I think I have crackers.”
