He sucked in a breath, breaking their kiss and leaning back. His eyelids were heavy with desire, but he smiled as though he’d stumbled across a secret. “So this is what fills the pages of those naughty books of yours,” he said, husky and breathless.
She matched his smile and his intensity. “And more.” It was a silly line, not the best she had ever written.
He didn’t seem to mind. His arms were around her again and his hands exploring her overheated skin before she could think of something better. Their mouths met as if the world would explode if they were separated for too long. She pressed her body against his, loving the hard planes of his chest against her breasts and tickle of just enough hair.
He broke away from her, blinking as though he needed to tap out for a second, chest heaving. Jo mewled in protest, not entirely an act. He responded with what could have been a moan or a laugh, then bent to pull off his shoes and shuck his pants.
Jo took advantage of the pause to kick off her jeans and shoes and to lose her panties. The distracting sight of his full, and not inconsiderable, package wiped all other thoughts from her mind. He straightened and she reached for him, sliding her hand along his length, as he caught her arm between them in an embrace. A groan rumbled from his chest as he kissed her, encouraging her exploration by grinding against her palm.
“Do all romance novelists know how to touch like this?” he panted against her ear, kneading her breast.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had sex with a romance novelist before.”
She felt his smile against her lips, felt his laugh vibrate through her. It touched something within her—deeper than the thrill of the moment. He ground his hips harder, his shaft pressing against her eager hand. It worked for her. She could have played with him all day.
“Just a second.” He broke away from her and rushed around the corner of the bed to a small table. As he opened the drawer and took out a condom, Jo helped herself to yank back the bedcovers and slide between his sheets. Feather-soft, grey cotton sheets that touched her hot skin like a cool breeze.
“Here, let me.” She slithered across the bed to him with her best seductive crawl, and plucked the condom out of his hands as he unwrapped it. He stood tall above her now as she knelt on the bed. Trying to stay in character and not giggle at her ridiculousness—or at the insane level of lust that pulsed through her as she looked up and up and up at him—she flashed a sultry look at him from under her lashes. It was a shame she had to break eye-contact to fit the condom over the head of his penis. His expression of amused delight tensed, and he held his breath as she rolled the condom down, meeting his eyes again, then stroked back up his length to tease the crown. A second too late, she cursed herself for not sucking him first. Too late now. Maybe next time.
Ha! Next time. As if moments like this came alone every day.
She slid her hands up over his chest to his shoulders, then tipped forward to flicker her tongue across one of his nipples. That was a taste she could get used to—warm, salty skin. A more primal scent now mingled with that of his cologne. It made her hungry beyond belief and fueled the fantasy she was determined to play out.
“Play time is over.” He pressed forward, bending her back until her knees buckled. The weight of his body closing in over top of her—his hips wedging between her legs, her bent knees blocking her from moving—had her gasping for more. He scooped an arm under her back and heaved them both further toward the center of the bed. Then he shifted above her and dipped down to kiss her like a lion on the prowl.
The urge to let every heroine fantasy she’d ever committed to paper come out and play was too much. She arched her hips to writhe against the heat of his erection. He responded with an appreciative hum, and moved with her. The intensity of his kisses left her aching for more. But when his hand inched down to explore between her legs, all bets were off.
“God, you’re wet!” he panted. He spread her legs further with his knees and slipped two fingers inside of her.
She went dizzy with lust, squeezing his fingers as they went deeper. His thumb found her clit and rubbed. As much as she wanted to play the game and make it last, she couldn’t. She burst into an orgasm right there, with his fingers inside of her and his eyes watching her. It rocked through her with surprising intensity. She played up her cries of pleasure, but it didn’t take much exaggeration. No man had ever made her come so fast.
“Well, that was easy,” he teased, low and sensual. His lips were tight in a smile as he kissed her jaw and neck. His hand withdrew to caress her side.
“That?” She feigned nonchalance, still throbbing. “That was just the first act.”
A ripple of energy coursed through his muscles, and he laughed against her shoulder. “Theater speak?”
“Writer speak,” she answered.
“Really?” He lifted his head, arms supporting him on either side of her shoulders. His hips were restless between her legs. He was deliberately tormenting her by grinding close to her aching entrance without pushing in.
“Oh yes.” She played along, reaching a hand down to caress his backside and urge him on. Multiple orgasms? It could happen. “We write using the three-act structure.”
“So what happens after act one?” He nibbled at her shoulder, one palm rubbing over her breast, her nipple hard.
“Act one sets up the plot.” She managed to breathe through the exquisite sensations he was causing in the most obscene places. His warmth and scent were all around her. “It introduces the hero and heroine. Act two puts obstacles in their way.”
“I love obstacles,” he murmured. The rocking of his hips against hers without heading for home was driving her crazy. He trailed a hand down over her side and hip to caress her bottom and thigh. Any second now he was going to thrust, she could feel it. “How do they overcome the obstacles?” He kissed her neck, tongue flickering.
She heaved a vocal sigh. Sweat prickled her skin. She wanted him inside of her so desperately she couldn’t think. “By having sex in every possible position,” she answered, hoping to prompt him to penetrate already.
“I think I could get used to a world where people solve their problems with sex.”
He followed his comment by plunging in at last. She cried out with the glory of it. He filled her to mind-numbing fullness. Either she’d misjudged his size when she’d stroked him or it had been so long since she’d been in this position that he seemed enormous. It didn’t matter. As he started moving in her with undulating strength, she lost complete track of everything but the pleasure.
“God, you feel good!” he sighed. The suave control was gone from his voice. He moved slowly, with deep, powerful strokes as if trying to pace himself and enjoy every second.
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” she panted, barely able to form the sentence.
“Did I?” He lifted above her, still thrusting with deliberateness, and met her eyes.
Her body tingled with rough sparks. Watching him watching her as he surged into her over and over was amazing. The flush spreading from his face down his neck to his shoulders, the fierce light in his eyes, the magnificent smile that curved his reddened lips, all of it was heaven. He looked at her as if he’d never wanted any woman as powerfully as he wanted her.
“You’re so big.” Stupidest thing to say ever, but his smile widened.
He relaxed on top of her, torso shaking with laughter. Even that felt amazing and spun her faster toward the edge. He recovered by kissing her neck and nibbling her earlobe. He reached her lips and kissed her with a long, slow pull before his thrusting resumed. A deep sigh escaped from him as he sped up, moving with bold, deliberate strokes. She lost control over the moans of pleasure spilling from her with each rocking plunge. It was so good, he knew so well how to fill her.
Still committed to her fantasy, she clasped her arms around his back, holding tight and digging her fingers into his flexing muscles. It wasn’t enough. She squeezed her inner muscles around his length as th
e friction of his thrusts brought her close to another orgasm.
He growled, “God, that feels so good!” in pleasured surprise.
She squeezed tighter. He crossed the breaking point. She felt him give up any thought or intention beyond primal mating. His whole body tensed as every ounce of his effort went into frantic thrusting. It was amazing, mind-blowing, to feel the suave, elegant man she had flirted with in the coffee shop let loose. She had done that to him. She had. The knowledge sent her over the edge in a wild orgasm that had her crying out for more.
He joined her cries as he hit his limit and came. She could feel it through his whole body. He let it take him fully, holding nothing back. It was big, powerful, and when it wore him out, he collapsed on top of her, spent in the romance novel sense of the word. It was far and away the best moment of Jo’s adult life.
Ben rolled to his back, out of breath and stunned. He was hot, heavy, and sated. His entire groin still throbbed with the bliss of the release he’d experienced. His mind had a hard time settling back in his skull. If you had told him an hour ago that he was about to have the single best sexual experience of his life with a woman possessing no outward glamor, and who had nothing to do with his world, he would have laughed. He wanted to laugh now, for entirely different reasons.
“And that,” Jo spoke beside him, stretching her delicious body like a cat, “is romance novel sex.”
Her oddball confidence plucked at strings that reminded him he had a heart.
“I like it.” Understatement of the year, but he had an obligation to play it cool.
He stretched himself, rubbing his eyes and settling on his side to look at her. Josephine Burkhart, Romance Novelist. She was beautiful. Not gorgeous, not hot, not sexy and glamorous, like most of the women in show business tried to be. She was simply beautiful. Her long hair was a natural brown with a handful of white hairs winking through. She didn’t wear a stitch of make-up, but she glowed with pleasure. Her skin was pink and peppered with freckles. Her breasts were more like peaches than melons, her nipples a lovely shade of rose-brown. She smiled at him with genuine delight—the kind you couldn’t fake.
“You came twice, didn’t you?” He teased her with a wink, then scooped a hand around her waist and pulled her against him, stomach touching stomach. If he had to guess, he’d say she was a size eight. His hand caressed the real flesh of her backside.
“I did,” she hummed, returning the favor of touch.
She was artless, genuine, and lovely. Everything he wasn’t used to. He stretched across the pillow to kiss her out of sheer impulse, expecting nothing, nothing expected of him. She responded without hesitation, without conditions, without demands. Yes, that cold, hard thing in his chest was in danger of thawing out, damn it.
“So what happens in the third act?” he asked, eager to know.
“Simple. The hero comes to realize that the heroine’s goals supersede his. He makes a sacrifice, they defeat the antagonist, and they live happily ever after.”
He laughed. “So that’s what women really want? For men to give up their goals to fulfill yours?”
She shrugged, poise itself. “In novels, yes. But secretly we all know that there’s more to it.”
“Oh?” He stroked a hand up and down her back. Were they still playing a game or was this a genuine conversation? “What more is there?”
She hummed and tickled her fingers up to brush the hair back from his temple with her nails. Such a simple gesture, such a devastating effect. His heart thumped against his ribs.
“Life tends to get in the way.”
She transformed before him. In a moment, the honest siren morphed into a vulnerable woman. Instinctively, Ben’s arms tightened around her. She met his eyes, and his heart clutched in his chest, emotions running riot. Splayed naked underneath him as he fucked her, she was as confident as any ambitious starlet. Speaking one tiny sentence of truth exposed her vulnerability. It caught him off-guard, gripped him.
He let her go long enough to tug the used condom off, rolling to discard it in the trash beside the bed. When he twisted back to her, he took her in his arms and settled her on his chest as he sprawled on his back, holding her as if she needed him—an absurd notion.
“How could life possibly dare to get in the way of a romance novelist?” He pretended they were still playing as his heart thumped harder.
“You’d be surprised.” She traced her fingertips across his chest.
“Yes, I would be,” he muttered before saying, “Not enough virile heroes prowling the streets of New York looking to set aside their goals for you?”
Fortunately for him, she laughed. “Okay, I’ve made a terrible impression.” She propped herself up on one arm so she could look down at him. Soft brown hair spilled around her. It was a lovely view.
“Believe me, you haven’t.” He tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.
What was he doing? The sex had been phenomenal, but it was over. Time to send her on her way. Every second that ticked by now was dangerous, insane. But he couldn’t bring himself to call an end to the moment yet.
“I’m trying to be smooth,” she laughed. “Everyone accuses romance novelists of not having a realistic idea about love and relationships, but I can assure you I do.”
He shrugged. “Everyone assumes that people in theater have very little grasp of reality.”
“Don’t they?” She blinked, the picture of innocence.
His smile widened, charmed. “All right, actors maybe. Not the good ones, though. And if you’re in a technical position you have to be so conscious of reality at all times that it can be downright depressing.”
“Interesting. Tell me about it.” She shifted to rest her palms on his chest, her chin on her the backs of her hands, watching him.
“What, tell you about theater?” She nodded.
Stop talking, Benjamin. Get her washed, dressed, and on her way. Go on with life.
He couldn’t. Not yet.
“It’s a big topic.”
“So is writing, but I’ve told you a bit about that.”
Fair enough. “Well, theater has a reputation for being a tough business. That reputation is well-deserved.”
“Sounds familiar.” Her smirk did fabulous things to her rosy lips.
“It’s impossibly difficult work that involves shaping the ghost of an idea into a concrete production. And contrary to popular belief, shows have to make money, even the non-musicals.”
“Do you direct musicals?”
He winced, an all-too familiar feeling of pressure slithering down his back. “I’d like to. I have plans. Funding is an issue.”
“Interesting.” She nodded, the fingers of one hand grazing over his nipple. “I know all about that.”
“Really?” Of all things, hope flared in his chest.
“Contracts, book deals, you know. I’ve finished the books for my current contract, and the one they have now is only optioned by my publisher. It’s not a done deal.”
He blinked, the serious talk at odds with the disjointed, post-coital glow he usually enjoyed. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting them to publish anything you write,” he said, though he honestly had no idea how publishing worked.
She grinned, but kept her lips pressed shut, holding back.
A new kind of urgency threaded in with everything Ben’s already overloading system was trying to process. She was a woman he’d picked up at the café to pass a rainy afternoon with, for Christ’s sake. He shouldn’t be itching to hear all her problems…and solve them.
“So if you’re having trouble with funding, how do you pay the rent on your bachelor pad?” she asked, humor glowing in her eyes. “Does anybody really go to the theater these days?”
“Ouch.” He laughed.
She had the good sense to blush at her comment. It made him want to roll her back and try to make her come two more times.
“I’m sorry. I mean, how many people go to the theater these days?”
“Plenty,” he defended his profession. “This is New York. It’s known for its theater. People come from all over the country, all over the world, to see shows. Every good New Yorker knows that.”
“Ah, but I’m not a New Yorker.”
The tightness in his chest clenched to something almost like loss. “You’re not?”
“No.” She smiled and lifted to look directly at him again. “I’m from Maine, remember? I was just in the city for the day, to meet with my agent. But her assistant put me on the calendar wrong—or so she tells me, though it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been shoved to the back burner—so the meeting had to be postponed until tomorrow.”
“Lucky me.” He grinned. Extremely lucky.
“No,” she went on. “I live in the woods, about forty-five minutes from Portland.”
“Portland?” A rush of excitement pulsed through him. He tried to push it away, but couldn’t stop himself from blurting, “I direct for the television show Second Chances now and then.”
“I know.” She laughed, sending distracting bursts of pleasure through him, threatening to make him hard. “You told me in the coffee shop, remember? And I said you film about twenty minutes from my house, at Twin Pines Senior Living Center.”
Had he really paid so little attention to her as a person? The dismal implication of that warred with a warmer longing. Ben’s heart pumped harder. So maybe we could see each other again when I’m up there.
No. No, she was a diversion, a walk-on. The last thing he needed right now was a leading lady.
“Where do you live?” he asked the most innocuous question he could think of.
She took a breath, adjusting to a more comfortable position on top of him and sending his senses reeling in the process. “I live in a twelve bedroom estate in the woods, built in 1891 by my great-grandfather.”
A shiver of something not unlike intimidation sizzled through him. “So you’re the wealthy one, then.”
“No.” She laughed, too much regret in her lowered eyes. “Great-grandfather may have been loaded, but three generations later, the family fortune is diluted to say the least. It’s all my brother, Nick, and I can do to pay the mortgage and keep the place from falling down around us.”
Catch a Falling Star (Second Chances Book 3) Page 3
