by Alison Kent
She clenched around him, lifted her hips, and suddenly he didn’t want her bound at all. He wanted her hands in his hair, her fingers wrapped around his cock, her palms massaging the pressure points of his pecs.
“Sit up,” he said, getting to his feet and helping her up with a hand wrapped around her upper arm.
“I hope you don’t think you’re done,” she teased, turning when he urged her around.
“I’m done with not having you touch me.” He finished with the knots around her wrists, pulled the blouse off and tossed it on top of the pile of his own discarded clothes.
She stayed where she was, reaching back with one hand to find his erection and hold him. He tightened in her hand, pulsed and throbbed and wondered if he’d ever be able to take his time with this woman. Nothing but the simplest contact and he was ready to go off.
Turning then to face him, she lifted him free of his boxers, sinking to her knees and taking him into her mouth. She ringed her fingers around the base of his shaft and squeezed. Blood pumped at the constriction, engorging him fully.
He watched as she wrapped her lips around the head of his cock, as she swirled her tongue over the hard ridge and the seam beneath. He couldn’t even breathe for the longest time, caught between the visual candy of her mouth, her tits, her heart-shaped ass and the sensations rocking through him.
“Enough,” he finally growled, helping her to her feet. She pressed her body to his. “You’re making me crazy.”
“In a good way, I hope,” she mumbled, her mouth busy with his chest, her lips tugging his hair, her tongue circling one nipple before moving to the other.
He couldn’t think about anything but taking her. “Now that you’re naked, I have all these things I want to do. But the only one that matters is being inside you.”
“Then what in the world are you waiting for?” she asked and slipped a hand between them to rub the bead of moisture he’d released.
Hands at her waist, he held her, swiveled and took her with him as he fell back to the bed. They landed with legs and arms tangled, her knee on top of his thigh, her shoulder in the crook of his elbow. Their chests rose and fell until, laughing, Shandi scrambled on top.
The first thing he did was take down her hair. The long blond strands fell like rainwater, washing down her back and spilling forward onto his chest. So soft and sweetly scented, as if they’d fallen from the sky. He wrapped a lock around his fingers and used it like a rope to tug her down.
Her mouth was already open when she found his and eased her tongue inside. He cupped a palm to the back of her head and held her, kissing her while he reached for a condom, then for his cock to guide himself between her legs. She lifted her body and settled over him, sliding down the full length of his shaft until their bodies were flush.
She stopped. He groaned, pulsing inside of her as she held him in her warmth. When she began to move, she moved slowly, rotating her hips and grinding against him, raising up, coming down, repeating each step and setting a rhythm he couldn’t help but meet.
He pushed into her, pulled out, tore his mouth from hers to breathe against her neck where her skin was hot and damp. The buildup rose to a frantic, fevered pitch; bracing her hands on his shoulders, she sat up, closed her eyes and tossed back her hair for the ride.
The biggest mistake he could have made was to watch her, but that’s what he did. He watched her eyes screw shut. He watched her lips part and her tongue catch the edge of her teeth. He watched the thrust of her breasts, the pebbled tips harden, the flex of her abs.
It was when he glanced down to where her sex was spread open by his that he lost it. Seeing her beautifully pale skin, the pink flesh of her sex and all of it rubbing his dark hair and swallowing his cock was the straw on his camel’s very weak and very loaded back.
The moment he surged upward, she squeezed, crying out and coming around him. Her shuddering spasms vibrated through him. He dug his fingers into her thighs and let go. His release shook him, a powerful burst that left him drained.
She collapsed against him, and he rolled them both to their sides, their bodies still joined. A long time passed before the remnants of their tremors evanesced.
And he lay there for several more minutes, wondering why this woman had come into his life now when he was building his future so very far away.
“I LIKE YOUR FACE,” QUENTIN said once Shandi had climbed back into bed beside him after scrubbing away the paint. “The makeup was amazing, but it’s nice to see who I’m making love with.”
For some reason, the “making love” tag applied to what they’d done made her uncomfortable. Putting sex with Quentin into those terms gave the act an emotional weight with which she didn’t want to be burdened.
What they were sharing was fun, and she was looking forward to the week ahead. But she was also realistic and knew that once he’d finished the meetings for which he was here, that was it. They were done. Fini. Hasta la vista, baby.
Propped on one elbow, she cuddled up to his side. “You shouldn’t have to see me to know who I am.”
“Hmm.” He pillowed his head on one wrist and frowned. “Who are you?”
“I’m the woman trying to find out who you are. You are hardly very forthcoming, sir.”
“Sir. I like that. Say it again.”
She looped a lock of his hair around her fingers. “Wrong. This is my fantasy. I’m the lowly student bartender in bed with a rock and roll legend.”
He turned his head toward her, his gaze a harsh scowl. “There is nothing about you that is lowly. And trust me, being a legend is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
See, this was what she wanted to know. How he felt about who he was. How he felt about her in that context. It would explain so much about why she was the one here with him. “Then it’s the legend thing that’s driving you back to Texas.”
“I’m not being driven. I’m going back to Texas because I’ve been away too long.” He shifted to stare at the ceiling and captured her hand against him where now she was toying with the hair on his chest. “I need grounding. I’m starting to believe my own hype and I don’t like it.”
Interesting that he would judge himself that way, by the opinions of others. Or that he’d have made it as far as he had and still not feel he was grounded. “I’ve heard a lot of the hype. And other than the paternity-suit thing—” at the mention of that, he groaned “—none of it has been negative.”
“Even the cynical-bastard part?” he asked, his heart beating harder beneath her hand than it had been.
“I’m pretty sure those were your words.” She paused and, when he didn’t respond right away, pressed on. “But it does make me curious.”
“About?” he asked, the single-word remark hardly encouraging.
Not that she let that stop her. “Whether it’s believing your own hype that’s making you that way. Or whether it’s all the other things you’ve seen.”
“Call it a combination,” he said, dropping the obviously uncomfortable subject again.
She picked it right back up. “How so?”
At that, he closed his eyes, shook his head, turned from his back to his side to face her. When he looked at her again, she knew he was done talking. “If you let go of that bone, I swear I’ll give you another.”
She rolled her eyes and punched him in the shoulder before scooting up to sit at the head of the bed. “I’ve had enough of your bone for one night, mister. I’m not even sure I’ll be able to walk out of here.”
He reached for the ends of her hair, swirled them over her nipple as he would a paintbrush. “You can spend the night, you know.”
“I can’t. I need to sleep. I’ve got class in the morning and I’m having lunch with two girlfriends before work.” The look in his eyes—desire, disappointment, determination—was almost enough to make her give in.
It was a powerful emotion, this lust they shared, and she wished they had the time to explore where it might lead. “If I stay, I won’t be
good for anything tomorrow.”
“Hmm,” was the only sound he made.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m trying to decide if I’m more impressed by your priorities or by the wet spot you make.”
“Argh! Men!” She swung her legs around and hopped from the bed, searching for her clothes. “And you wonder why you can’t get a girl to stick around.”
He laughed, stacking pillows behind him as he sat to watch her dress. “I could ring room service and have a Mrs. Cyprus or two delivered.”
“Don’t you dare,” she said, zipping her skirt over her panties. “You want to stop believing your own hype? You can start right there. No one likes a show-off.”
His mouth twisted wryly while the twinkle in his eyes was pure fun. “And here I thought you were jealous.”
“Oh, I am. But I’m not naive, nor am I stupid.” She frowned as she fought her blouse’s buttons. “I don’t want to think about the women you’ll have after me any more than I want to acknowledge the ones who came before.”
When she looked back up, she found his gaze on her, his regard intense in a way that brought to mind his earlier statement about making love.
Her fingers shook as she propped a foot on the end of the bed and pulled on her sock. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it already.”
He shifted higher in the bed, the sheet across his lap dipping dangerously low. “What time do you get off work tomorrow night?”
She finished with her second sock and slipped into her shoes. “I’m scheduled until two. Why?”
“Spend the night with me tomorrow.”
Eyes closed, she breathed deeply. “I can’t. Thursday’s just as crazy as tomorrow.”
“Thursday night then. Take it off.”
“I can’t afford to miss a night of tips. Too many bills to pay.” Why was he insisting? And why in the world was she turning him down when this is what she’d been wanting since the first night they’d met?
She did what she could to finger-comb her hair and pull it into a French braid. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t stop by and watch me work.”
His gaze grew heavy lidded. His nostrils flared. Beneath the sheet, he pulled up one knee, and she didn’t have to wonder why. “If I do, are you going to wear a skirt so I can enjoy your legs?”
And on that note she headed for the door. “You keep that up and you’ll never see my legs again.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Shandi.” When she glanced back, he was sitting with his hands laced behind his head, the king of all he surveyed. “I might be a cynical bastard, but I can still tell the difference between a woman who’s faking it and one who’s having a good time.”
“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble figuring out that I’m not pulling your leg. First, second or that very impressive third,” she said, opening the door and walking down the hallway to the fading sound of his laughter.
6
FOUND IN BOTTOM OF POOL:
One pink, diamond-studded collar.
Does NOT belong to Eartha Kitty!
V.V. important to locate owner.
Look for man with matching leash!!!
(snicker)
ON HER WAY OUT OF THE hotel Shandi glanced toward the bar out of habit—only instead of her focus taking in Armand working the thinning crowd, she found herself caught by the unusual sight of Evan Harcourt drinking.
Unusual because he couldn’t afford Erotique unless she was there to comp his drinks.
Having washed away the smears of mask she hadn’t left on Quentin’s pillows, she didn’t feel too weird about being seen. Her outfit wasn’t any more outrageous than what was worn by a lot of bar patrons on the make—even if her blouse was a wrinkled disaster.
She climbed up onto the stool next to Evan. “Are you lost, little boy?”
He’d been staring down into his beer, a shock of dark hair obscuring his eyes, and he didn’t even move except to shift his gaze toward her. “Since when do you spend your night off where you work? Oh, wait. Banana man’s staying here, isn’t he?”
“Me being here isn’t the issue,” she said, changing the subject. “Why are you here? I figured with April gone you’d be out with the guys.”
“You figured wrong,” he mumbled. “I figured wrong.”
Uh-oh. “What did you figure wrong? How long have you been here? And, while I’m in interrogation mode, who’s been paying for your drinks?”
“You’re going to.” He chuckled. Chuckled again because he obviously thought he was funny. “I’m running up a tab in your name.”
“Gee, thanks.” His beer was almost empty. She reached for the mug and swallowed half of what was left. “Here, drink up and we’ll go home.”
“I hung up on April.”
Shandi frowned. “What? When?”
“Earlier. At home.” He threaded his fingers through the handle and palmed his mug. “I called her to see if she could get back tonight.”
“And she told you no,” Shandi said and sighed.
He shrugged. “That wasn’t why I hung up on her.”
She didn’t figure it was. He should’ve been used to April telling him no by now. “Then why did you?”
“Because she got bent out of shape about me critcizing her Daddy,” he said and downed the rest of the beer.
’Nuff said, Shandi mused, crossing her legs as she sat back against the bar chair’s inverted-triangular back. “Evan, how many times are we going to have this conversation? You either deal with April’s family or you don’t.”
“Right.” He wavered, caught himself before falling into her lap. “Deal with them when I don’t even know them.”
“I hope you’re not blaming April for that?”
He collapsed back, pushed his dark hair from his face with both hands, didn’t say a word.
And so she did. “You know, there’s nothing stopping you from going to Connecticut and introducing yourself.”
“Tonight?” he asked, glancing over at her with bleary eyes.
“Uh, no.” Shandi didn’t even want to imagine April’s reaction should Evan show up wasted at four in the morning. “Tonight you’re coming home with me and going to bed.”
“Bed, huh? What about banana man?”
She signaled to Armand for a pen to sign her tab. “Not to bed with me. I’ll sleep in mine. You’ll sleep in yours. Like always. We can talk about your trip over breakfast.”
“We don’t eat breakfast.”
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to be wanting to put anything in his stomach come morning. “That’s okay. I seriously doubt you’ll remember this conversation ten minutes from now.”
He swiveled his chair to the side, stared across the dimly lighted bar where clusters of patrons sat at the glossy black tables, seeming to finally focus on the Tamara de Lempicka painting hanging on the back wall. “I’ve wished so many times that April was more like you.”
She had to be careful here, her loyalties divided between her two best friends. “If she was, then she wouldn’t be the woman you fell in love with.”
“No, but she’d be independent. She’d be on her own.” His voice was clear and sober, his expression strangely the same. “Our relationship would be about us, not this twisted threesome that I can’t deal with.”
She’d never seen Evan this down before. She’d seen him drunk, sure, but never wallowing in his misery. And for the first time she found herself really and truly scared by what he was saying.
Scared because she didn’t know what April would do without him, what Evan would do without her.
That thought caused Shandi to think of Quentin and all his women, Evan with his one and to know that this was what she wanted—a man who felt so much for her that not having her was more than he could bear.
She wondered if Quentin had ever felt that way about a woman. Or if the cynical beast didn’t believe in love. Not that what he believed mattered—and why was she even thinking about the w
ord love? This fling might be the best time she’d ever had, but it wasn’t going anywhere.
The distance between New York and Austin was way too far. The distance between the life she wanted and Round-Up even further. Getting to her feet, she groaned, feeling all her sore and aching body parts, then schooled her face into a smile.
“C’mon, lover boy,” she said, grabbing Evan by the biceps and steadying him as he climbed down to join her. “Let’s get you home.”
“Home. Right.” He stopped as if he’d decided not to leave and suddenly sobered. “The place where I live platonically with you instead of with the woman I love.”
“So kick me out and invite her in.” She experienced a small flash of panic. She couldn’t afford to live on her own and would have to hurriedly rustle up a roommate if Evan gave her the boot.
“I do that, all three of us will be looking for a cardboard box. My grandmother’s not a word mincer,” he said with a bit of a slur, frowning briefly at the expression. “If April’s living at the apartment, I’m a goner.”
“Well, we’ll figure it out.” Shandi wrapped an arm around Evan’s waist and made for the door. “We’re just not going to be doing it until you’ve had eight hours, a handful of aspirin and a gallon or two of java.”
Shandi—Must schedule Saturday’s makeup session.
The fund-raiser’s at 8:00.
I need to be there at 5:00.
Can you do me at 2:00?
Kisses, Kit
WHEN SHANDI MET APRIL FOR lunch on Wednesday, it wasn’t at Amuse Bouche after all. Kit Prescott, Hush’s PR director and the best girlfriend Shandi had made at the hotel, joined them at Aquavit.
April had come home from Connecticut with what her father considered an allowance, what the rest of the free world considered a month’s income. She’d picked the restaurant because she was paying.
Shandi sat across the table from the other two. It gave her time to study the contrast of Kit’s blond hair with April’s brunette. Kit’s blue eyes with April’s that were the green of new spring. Kit’s unconventionally wild beauty with the delicate breeding of April’s blue blood.
