by Lia Riley
“Oh. Right. Of course. I just had it.” She glanced around, careful to avoid glancing anywhere in the vicinity of his package.
“It’s right here.” He plucked it off the top of her head in a deft gesture.
Derp.
“I know you saw what happened to me.” His voice deepened. “Earlier.”
Her throat tightened, the walls closing in fast like a booby-trapped cave in Indiana Jones and the Awkward but Necessary Air-Clearing.
“Come in,” she said, gesturing at the door.
“You’re sure?”
“I’d like to keep out cold air and creeps.”
He rocked on his heels. “When you rubbed on me—”
She reached out and pressed her fingers to his lips. They were warm. Of course. He was a living, breathing man. Why would they ever be otherwise?
But still, she hadn’t expected them to be quite this warm. And with an intriguing softness to boot.
“I wasn’t rubbing on you. That was a massage. That was professional.”
“You were. I wasn’t.” When he opened his mouth to speak, his inner lower lips grazed her fingertip, the faintest trace of wet.
She fought against the instinct to flutter her eyes.
“It’s no big deal. I promise. Bodies are bodies. They do all sort of stuff.”
“Do you find me attractive?”
Out of all the possible thing to come out of his mouth, this one made her choke.
He bowed his head. “That a no?”
“No!” she gasped.
“Never mind.” He moved to step away but she grabbed his wrist.
“Wait. I meant no as in yes, and—”
If someone had told her that Patch Donnelly was going to cup her chin, search her face like she had the secrets from the Mayan calendar tattooed between her eyes, mutter “fuck it” and then crush his lips to hers, she’d have said they were likely indulging in Colorado’s recreational marijuana dispensaries.
She didn’t even have time to close her eyes.
Worse, he didn’t either.
They gaped at each other like two Nibbleses in opposing goldfish bowls. His breath hot on her skin.
It wasn’t that he was a bad kisser. There was no tongue-shove down the throat. No slobber. He wasn’t twisting his palms over her boobs as if waxing his car.
The problem was that he wasn’t doing much of anything. His lips were whisper-light and not even fully covering hers. They dipped to the side. He’d frozen as if unable to believe he’d done it.
Well he had. And since he was here . . .
She had to admit to being a little curious.
She leaned into him, twining one hand up the back of his neck, clutching his hair, and in doing so felt herself tiptoe to the edge of a thing she didn’t understand, gripped by a vague sensation that she was in danger of falling a very long way. The shock was disconcerting, but thrilling in its way. Like standing at a window at the top of a skyscraper watching the world crawl by below and wondering what it would feel like to let go and fall.
She wanted to do this. To kiss him.
An angel popped up on her shoulder giving her a stern wag of the finger. What about her resolve not to mix business and pleasure? What about her long-standing aversion to gingers?
But then her devil put in an appearance, wearing fishnet stockings and a crimson bustier. Of course her personal devil was a sexy devil. “Who has to know?” it whispered. “And as for red hair, you used to like it. A lot.”
And the devil was right. She spent the four years of high school crushing on Chad Taylor, wide receiver for the football team. But after she lost her virginity in the back of his Tundra, word had spread faster than a speeding ticket. It didn’t take long before the entire gang in Jock Hall taunted her every passing period. Even Chad.
Scratch that. Especially Chad.
Chad, who’d told her she was “beautiful,” “such a cool chick,” then went and made up the nickname “Eager Beaver,” bragging about how she loved to gnaw his wood.
Chad with the red hair that put her off from gingers forever and ever amen.
Screw Chad. Screw the past.
She’d made it a point never to feel guilty about pleasure. And she wasn’t going to start now.
“Come on,” she said, tugging his hand as her invisible angel did a face-palm.
“Where?” His question was barely a whisper.
The hammering in her chest grew. “My bedroom.”
“I can’t,” he said, just once but it was enough. He meant it. He withdrew his hands.
“What’s wrong.” She stepped back as a growing horror took hold. “Wait. Oh God, you have a girlfriend, don’t you?” Shit. She’d just kissed a guy as the other woman. Her worst nightmare. After her dad’s cheating antics, infidelity was an unforgiveable sin in her book.
“Girlfriend?” His face darkened. “No.”
Now she was lost. “Then what’s the problem? You were the one who just kissed me. Or at least half kissed me.”
“I don’t do this,” he said in a flat tone. “You got to understand something. I never do this.”
“What? Kiss?”
“Yeah.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
He paused. “I don’t kiss women.”
She peered into his midnight blue eyes. The shadows beneath them were pronounced. His harsh features seemed to be even more severe, more brutal. “So you’re . . . gay?”
“No.” He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “I’m—”
“Bi. Aro. Ace.”
“A virgin.” Patch snapped his lips shut, swallowing hard. “I’m a fucking virgin, all right?”
“Oh.” Her body stilled, her heart maintaining an even, steady thump. “I see.” Later she would marvel at the fact. The fact she kept her cool, didn’t betray even a slight hint of surprise.
He could have announced that he slept in a tinfoil hat and believed the president was an alien lizard disguised in human form and she would have been less dazed.
“No one knows either. No one but you.” His look turned defiant, proud even as his fingers drummed against the side of his thigh in agitation.
“Why?”
“Long story.”
“I have time.” She narrowed her eyes. “I mean why me? We just met. Why trust me with this kind of a secret?”
“Don’t know.” Again his eyes searched her face with that peculiar intensity. “Guess I’m self-destructive. Isn’t that why I’m here? Because I’m out of control? Making bad decision after bad decision. Here’s yet another example.”
She involuntarily licked her lips. His gaze honed in on her tongue.
“Yeah? Are you sure it’s not that you wanted me to take you in my room and make you a man?”
“I’m man enough already.”
Her stomach gave a quick, giddy shiver.
He wasn’t bragging. She’d seen the size of his big bulge, and her nose remembered his chest’s crushing strength. The image of that chest sheened with sweat as she dug her nails into his pecs and threw her ass into the grind . . . her breath quickened. Good lord, she needed smelling salts.
She’d had her fair share of one-night stands. That cute bartender at The Watering Hole. Gael—the hottest surfer in Baja. A guy she picked up at a concert. The rock climber in Colorado Springs. The idea wasn’t to be denied on principle.
“Now that you know, you aren’t interested.” He didn’t ask a question. It was a statement of fact.
“Look,” she hesitated. “I’ve never taken a guy’s virginity. It feels like a responsibility., as if I need to prepare you for a lifetime of emotionally rewarding and physically satisfying sexual experiences.”
“I got an idea.” He rubbed his hand over his chin. “Reserve the urge to punch me until after hearing me out.”
Chapter Eight
Margot listened to Patch stumble through his idea without getting her knuckles bloody. In fact . . . far from it. After he
quit talking and waited for her answer, lungs threatening to explode, she’d said okay.
Shit.
Talk about being careful what you wish for.
But wasn’t this the same way that he’d gotten out of Southie? By wishing? Wanting? Having faith?
Faith.
There’s a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. Then today of all days, dangling at the end of a rapidly fraying rope—out of luck and out of options, he’d come across this woman, and was gripped by this unshakeable sense that he was meant to meet her. That there was some mysterious plan and promise to their paths crossing.
This was the first time in his life that he’d ever felt the passion everyone else seemed to think was normal. The moment that he set eyes on her, he had a moment of cellular recognition, like his atoms went, “Ah. It’s you. You’re the one.”
He couldn’t explain the phenomenon, but that didn’t make it any less real.
All he knew was that he was going to stand here on the side of Margot Kowalski’s pretty bed, covered with a blue quilt and light green pillows, and give thanks for this unexpected miracle.
“Can I try and pleasure you?” is all he had said. He’d never been with a woman. Anywhere. Any way. And if he was going to start, this seemed like the smartest way.
He’d never believed in the idea of “the one.” The concept had seemed about as cliché as finding a needle in a haystack. And yet here he was, with his needle, and she pierced his defenses with a single look.
She raised her brows a fraction, enough to wrinkle her brow. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
“I like looking at you.”
“Do you now?” A pleased smile tugged the corner of her mouth.
“Never seen anything like you before.”
“Flattery gets you everywhere.” Her chest shook with a shaky breath. “Especially when you stare at me with those eyes. Those are some baby blues. My compliments to your genetics.”
He inclined his head. “I’ll pass along the memo.”
Their banter faded.
“You sure you want to do this?” she asked.
He nodded. “I want to start by giving. Not taking.”
“With that mindset, I think you’ll do just fine.” She lifted herself up on her elbows. “A few tips. One. Start by teasing the lips. Two. A little thigh play is always in order. Light touch, but not too ticklish. Then clit to tongue and—”
“I might not have done this, but I have an idea how it works.”
She looked amused. “Oh really?”
He didn’t back down from a challenge. “Hey, I might be a virgin, but I’m sure as shit not a monk.”
“So you’ve been with women, just not all the way.”
“Nope.” He crawled onto the bed. The mattress creaked under his weight. “I have one hell of an imagination.”
The air in here smelled warm and sweet, like brown sugar and vanilla, and the fragrance only intensified the closer he got to her.
She still wore her black leotard and the leggings with the cats.
“I didn’t dress for the occasion this morning,” she whispered, glancing down. “No easy access.”
“Take everything off,” he ordered, a slow, insidious heat making its way over his sac. His cock felt warm and heavy.
She pushed down the right shoulder of her leotard and bared one creamy shoulder and the strap of a dusky pink bra.
Then the left side.
Then the whole damn thing came off, cat leggings too.
She was a vision in her satin bra and matching thong. Her thighs were slightly parted and the dark wet spot in the center of her whisper-thin pink panties hinted she wasn’t unaffected by this encounter either.
His throat constricted as he slid his big hands up her thighs, the calluses on his palms rough against her soft skin.
She was like an exotic flower petal, all satin and silk. He couldn’t stop rubbing, testing, and everywhere he explored she was the same. Smooth. Perfect.
His heart did its best jackhammer impression.
“Kiss me.” She laced her hands with his, giving her bottom lip a little lick. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how.”
“I want to,” he said. “I want to kiss you everywhere. Map your skin with my mouth. Memorize every last part.”
“That’s the spirit.” She grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged him close. It hurt but in a good way. The best kind of way.
And there they were again. Her lips. But this time they weren’t mashed against his mouth in stunned surprise. They were opening, sweet and hot and there was the slick slide of her tongue, pressing against his, the rhythm slow and lazy, a pace he could follow. She trembled, her hands dipping down to clutch at his shoulders, urging him closer.
He was making her feel good, and the knowledge made him greedy. He wanted to make her feel better.
Whatever he did must have been right because the sound of her moan radiated to the root of his cock.
He closed his eyes. During the best times in his life, it was as if he’d watched a movie of himself. When he’d gotten a full scholarship to Boston College. When the Hellions had won the championship once and then again.
Now this.
It was like the part of his brain that should be able to comprehend happiness, or feel a moment deeply, was defective. Or worse, broken.
He’d mentioned this fact to Sully before, and his friend said it was a defense mechanism, that on some level he felt that if he dropped his guard to feel the good in life, he’d also more acutely feel the bad.
But maybe it was a good thing, keeping mental distance. Because this right here, was him at his most self-destructive. He wasn’t throwing his fist into some mouthy asshole’s face. No. Worse. He’d gone and admitted his Achilles’ heel to an absolute stranger and put himself at her mercy.
She broke off the kiss and lifted her hips, not much—a few inches. But it was a quiet demand to get on with it.
In for a penny . . .
Her vanilla scent clouded his senses like a sweet drug. He moved before he could overthink any more of his actions. Her thong slid down by her knees and there was . . .
Everything.
She kicked the silk scrap off her ankles and her stomach went concave, the delineations of her ribs visible for a moment.
He knelt and studied. She had hair. He liked that. It was a rich chestnut and he trailed his fingers over the sleek curls. When he traced his index finger up the pale pink inner seam, a slippery polish slicked his skin.
He drank in the sight, how wet she was. How wet she was for him.
She gulped for air, her nipples stiff. A fierce flame of pride sparked in his belly, a burn that razed back the first line of his mental defenses.
He slid his finger back and stuck it into his mouth, sucking hard. He wasn’t sure why she gasped at that. Maybe that wasn’t what guys normally did? But fuck it, he needed a taste. And as her honey hit his tongue, his defense was eviscerated as he drew his finger clean, not willing to waste a drop.
He only knew one truth. If he didn’t have his whole mouth on her sweetness by his next heartbeat, he would die.
He crawled forward and dropped low, spreading her open with his thumbs. She looked so feminine and delicate in contrast to his big hands, knuckles scarred from years of abuse on the ice.
He felt her stare and glanced up. She watched him, riveted. “I’ve never had anyone want to spend so much time seeing me.”
What was wrong with other men? He’d never be able to look his fill. “I see you all right,” he growled. “I see heaven on earth.” He lunged forward, ready to devour, to feast, but paused an inch from his goal.
She sucked in a frustrated breath. “The biggest thing to remember is just to relax. Don’t force anything. If you get uptight it won’t happen.”
“How do you want it?” he asked gravely.
She made a soft small sound, almost a purr. “Think of licking an ice cream cone.” Her laugh was more a hitched g
asp than anything. “Go slower than you might think, and don’t be afraid to use your tongue. After a while go for the clit, but no flicking around. Move with intention. And add fingers. I like two or three.”
Before he could move she squeezed his shoulder, halting any advance. “Wait. One more thing. While this isn’t normally my recommendation for a beginner, but if the feeling moves you, consider adding teeth. I mean, don’t be a beaver building a dam, but—”
“A few soft nips wouldn’t suck.”
Her pupils eclipsed her irises as her thighs trembled. “Exactly.”
He swept the flat of his tongue over all that flushed pretty pinkness, taking his time, not willing to cut a single corner. He hadn’t waited twenty-five years to do a rush job. He was going to damn well taste every silken inch.
She whimpered. But it didn’t sound like she wanted stopping. Especially not when she fisted a tight handful of his hair, slammed him closer, groaning, “Holy shit.”
This was holy all right. It was some kind of communion.
He latched his lips around her clit and sucked hard, grazing the hood with the edge of his front teeth while plunging a finger into her heat.
This time he groaned along with her. How could anything be so soft? So wet? So fucking perfect?
His finger sank deeper, past the knuckle. Imagine pushing his cock in there.
Into her. Into Margot.
“Yes. God yes. You’re amazing.” Her toes curled as she draped her thighs over his shoulders.
And just like that, he slammed into the present, existed fully in the moment. The force of the realization that he was here, drinking the pussy of the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen, stripped away every lingering defense.
He might as well be the one naked.
He didn’t realize what was happening at first, when her body bore down, the walls of her slick sweetness milking his fingers in pulsing compressions. He was taking her there. Giving it to her and she wanted more. He knew it because that’s what she kept whimpering. “Yes.” “More” and “Oh God.”
And damn if he didn’t feel like a god in this moment. Invincible. Powerful. Capable of anything. Because he’d done this incredible thing, given this gift to a beautiful woman.
