Bombshell

by Jody Gehrman

  “You’re killing me,” he groans.

  I turn, still moving with languid care. I keep my eyes on his and let the dress drop in one final whoosh to the floor.

  “God,” he breathes. “You’re so beautiful.”

  I think of the paycheck I blew on my Agent Provocateur lingerie. I felt guilty at the time, but right now it seems like the best investment ever.

  Keeping my shoes on, I raise one foot and rest it on the edge of the couch. With deft fingers, I undo the clasp on my garter and roll the stocking down one inch at a time. I sneak another look at him. He’s leaning forward now, riveted. I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, another unexpected stab of tenderness shooting through me from out of nowhere. I slip off my shoes and pull the last bit of silk over my bare foot.

  “Would you like to do the other one?” I ask softly.

  His eyes find mine, and he nods with the eagerness of a little boy, which makes me giggle. By the time I’m standing before him, though, his face inches from my panties, my foot resting lightly on his knee, I’m not laughing. Until now, I’ve been getting off on my own daring. Now, seeing his lips so close to my damp sex, fierce desire tears through me. I feel a little dizzy.

  We both watch as he unclasps the garter and carefully eases my other stocking down. When it’s just below my knee, he places a reverent kiss on the pale exposed skin of my inner thigh. I close my eyes as a shiver runs through me.

  “You’re a very naughty girl, aren’t you?” As he says it, his mouth draws closer, until it’s touching the lace of my panties. I throw back my head and sigh.

  “You are.” He tugs the elastic a little lower, kissing my hipbone. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take you in hand.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Everything.” It comes out a low, tantalizing growl.

  He yanks my underwear farther down, lets the lacy fabric drop to the floor. As I step out of them, he runs his hands over my hips and gazes at my naked sex. He looks half-starved, delirious, and still he holds back, taking his time. Gently, he parts my lips with his thumbs, examining my glistening wetness with rapt fascination.

  Go on, I scream inside my head. Taste me! Touch me!

  He breathes in deeply, like a wine connoisseur trying to detect every note, every nuance in a rage vintage. I can feel my cheeks burning. It’s so intimate, so sexy.

  His eyes meet mine. “Do I embarrass you?”

  “Not really,” I murmur.

  “Then why do you blush?”

  “I just,” I hesitate. “Nobody’s ever...looked at me so closely. Nobody’s ever...”

  “Ever what?” he whispers, his eyes locked on mine.

  “Smelled me.”

  “That’s a crime, Bettie. This.” Very slowly, he sinks two fingers deep inside me; his thumb brushes gently across my clit. “Is the most beautiful cunt I’ve ever seen.”

  I gasp as the feel of his fingers inside me sends tremors of hot pleasure through me. “Really?” I squeak.

  “Really. And the smell.” He leans so close that his nose presses against my damp flesh. “Intoxicating.”

  I spread my legs a little wider, so turned on now I can barely keep myself from straddling him, forcing him inside me, riding him until we both come so hard we see stars. He’s holding back, though, taking his time, and I have to admit the slow burn is incredibly delicious. Every guy I’ve ever been with tended to hurry through sex as though it was some urgent, dirty task we just had to get through. I know I probably read too much into it, but sometimes it made me feel like I was a shameful secret. I always wondered if my body embarrassed them as much as it embarrassed me since sex usually happened in the dark, under the blankets, quickly and without much care. Now, watching his fingers move in and out of me with such languid grace, his eyes moving from my wet pussy to my face and back again, it occurs to me that being the true center of someone’s attention is the greatest aphrodisiac of all.

  “Do you like that?”

  “Yes,” I pant, leaning my hips toward him.

  “Would you like me to kiss you?”

  For a second I’m confused. I mean, yeah, kissing’s great, but right now my focus is decidedly elsewhere. Then he looks pointedly at my clit, and I understand. “Yes, please.”

  “Are you sure?” he teases.

  I groan in frustration. Then I shock myself by begging. “Yes. Kiss me. Please!”

  His grin looks so satisfied I almost want to smack him. But then he takes my clit into his mouth, tonguing me so deftly, so lovingly, I can’t contain a shrill cry of pleasure. His lips devour my pussy and his tongue slides over me like he really is kissing my sex—a long, deep, French kiss that’s so fucking intimate. Watching him, I feel raunchy and obscene and tender all at once. I can feel the heat gathering, the electricity building inside me with such intensity I’m afraid it will shatter my bones. I don’t care, though. I press myself—no, grind—against his face, all thoughts of propriety completely abandoned. When I come, I have to bury my fingers in his thick, dark hair to keep from falling in a boneless heap to the floor.

  “That was very naughty,” he chides, planting a trail of kisses down my juicy, glazed thighs. That’s how they look to me right now—not fat, but juicy. “I didn’t say you could come yet.”

  A husky laugh bursts from my lips. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I push him back against the couch. His eyebrows arch in amusement as I sink to my knees and unzip his fly. “Yeah.”

  His slow, wicked smile turns even more wicked as I free his hard cock from his silk boxers. The skin is soft, a dusky hue, and as I grip the base I feel the heat of his body, the tension coiling inside him like a spring. He’s not circumcised, something I’ve never actually seen before, and for a second I just stare at it. When I meet his eyes I see a hint of pride there. It’s not surprising. Size isn’t everything, but it’s something, and it’s easy to see he’s quite confident in that department.

  With good reason.

  “Did your pinup girl suck your cock?” I ask in a sweet, innocent voice.

  He looks like he’s having trouble answering. “Sometimes. Yes.”

  “Like this?” I run my tongue along the length of his shaft. He tilts his head back and moans quietly, one hand resting against the back of my head.

  I wait for him to answer, keeping my girlish, wide-eyed expression in place.

  “Uh-huh,” he murmurs finally in a tight, strangled voice.

  “Or was it more like this?” I put my lips around the head and inch my way down to the base, taking him into my mouth slowly and deeply. To my delight, he buries his fingers in my hair and half growls, half groans. The sound makes my whole body thrum with pleasure.

  I don’t get to demonstrate my pinup girl blowjob skills for long, though. All at once he lets out a determined grunt, yanks his pants up, scoops me up from where I’m kneeling on the floor, and carries me across the suite. I’m not exactly light as feather, but he shows no sign of effort.

  The bedroom is barely lit in a soft, warm glow. I laugh as he hoists me onto the bed; the mattress bounces slightly beneath me. It’s a four-poster canopy with plum-colored silk drapes, a delicious blend of Arabian Nights and Pottery Barn. Lancer, the devilish rogue, has my bra off in a heartbeat. He shoves the silk duvet aside and I find myself naked and squirming against the cool satin sheets.

  He kneels above me, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he sees.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. You’re just the sexiest creature that ever lived.” His accent’s thicker now, his voice husky.

  He pulls his pants off, unbuttons his pale linen shirt. I swallow as I get my first real look at his nearly naked body. His muscular, hairless chest and washboard abs make me sit up on my e
lbows, staring openly. Fuck. He’s got that perfect, sculpted musculature—bulging pecs that are toned but not scary. His shoulders and arms ripple as he moves. One of his biceps sports a tattoo, a Celtic knot with a beautifully rendered raven at its center.

  “Why a raven?” I ask, reaching up to trace a finger over it.

  “Old Celtic symbol.”

  “Of what?”

  “Secrets and mystery, among other things.”

  I smirk. “That’s fitting.”

  My eyes move lower to the fine trail of dark hair that snakes down from his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his boxers. With a grin he shucks them off and lies down beside me, his perfect body set off by the gold satin sheets. He kisses me, tenderly at first, then with more passion, until we’re both panting with desire. I savor the feel of his soft lips against mine, his tongue probing my own, his hot hands fondling my breasts. He seizes my waist and suddenly I find myself straddling him, easing my weight down onto his hot, rigid shaft, taking him inside me. We both cry out at the same time.

  “Fuck, yeah,” he groans.

  I throw my head back and writhe against him, savoring the feel of him filling me up. I slide up and down, taking him into me and clenching hard, delighting in the dizzy look of pleasure on his face. Though I know I could come again easily, I want to savor the power I have over him now, the helpless look in his eyes.

  “Is this how your pinup girl does it?” I ask.

  “Yeah.” His hands grip my waist and he pulls me down. “Oh, yeah.”

  “Is it how you always imagined?”

  He grabs one of my breasts and takes my nipple into his mouth. Though I’m trying to stay in control, I moan and writhe against him when I feel his tongue circling my nipple—warm, wet circles that send a rush of fire through my body. He pulls back and looks up at me, his face so unguarded, so naked.

  “You’re exactly what I imagined. Except much, much better. “ And then he wraps his arms around me and kisses me with such ferocity I can hardly breathe.

  Chapter Nine

  Postcoital

  “You hussy!” Wanda cries, delighted.

  Our waiter hovers uncertainly. “I can come back.”

  “Yes!” She treats him to one of her dazzling smiles. “Give us a minute. I need to berate this whore a little longer.”

  He smirks and fills our water glasses before gliding off to another table. It’s Sunday, close to noon, and we’re at Café Bovolo. My hair’s still wet, I’m famished and my body’s sore, but I feel divine.

  “Tell me everything!” she demands.

  “No!” I stare at my menu. “That’s all I’m going to say.”

  “That’s all you’re going to say? Seriously? First you tell me it was the wildest, most erotic night of your life, and now you’re clamming up?”

  I shrug. “It’s private.”

  “Private?” she practically shrieks. “Are you insane? If it weren’t for me, fantasy matchmaker extraordinaire, you wouldn’t be sitting there with that shit-eating grin in a state of postcoital bliss.”

  I slap my menu down. “I will say this: you’re onto something.”

  “Right?” She nods emphatically.

  “The whole goodbye-small-talk-hello-fantasyland thing? Definitely a step in the right direction.”

  “Kapow!” She punches the air. “I knew it! God, I’m a genius.”

  “I felt like a completely different person.”

  “Tell me more. I can write brunch off as a business expense.”

  “It’s like we had total permission to let go of our everyday hang-ups and surrender to the moment.”

  She tilts her head, looking suddenly misty-eyed. “Oh my god. I’m so proud of you.”

  The waiter comes back, his expression so tentative we both burst out laughing. He takes our order, winks, and hurries off.

  “Anyway,” I say, pointedly changing the subject, “what about you? Did Professor Sexy Pants call?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

  “And...?”

  “And nothing.” She sips her water, avoiding my eyes.

  I crane my neck, forcing her to look at me. “Are you ignoring direct orders?”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “I know you like him. I demand that you go out with him.”

  She folds her arms across her chest like a truculent child. “He’s seriously not my type. Way too intellectual. Cerebral. Analytical. Ew.”

  “You got all this from a phone call?”

  “I have excellent instincts,” she replies defensively.

  I study her. She’s gone from triumphant to petulant in record time. Something about this guy really gets under her skin.

  “Wanda...” I begin cautiously.

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you got over Professor Bayliss?”

  Her head snaps up, her expression suddenly fierce. “That’s ridiculous! Why would you even—?”

  “Just because Bayliss broke your heart doesn’t mean—”

  “Stop, okay? You’re full of shit.”

  Our coffees arrive, and this time there’s no carefree laughter, no winks or banter. Our poor waiter, stuck with the moodiest table ever.

  Wanda concentrates on stirring sugar into her cappuccino. I watch as the pretty leaf pattern swirls and disappears.

  I try to catch her eye, but she refuses to look up. “Just because you didn’t finish college doesn’t make you inferior to someone like Ethan.”

  She huffs impatiently. “I don’t think that!”

  She’s not being honest, I can tell. All the guys she dates are variations on a theme: always artsy, no formal training, sexy shiftless drifters.

  I decide to change tact. “Okay, what attracted you to Jayce?”

  “Jayce?” she looks surprised. “I don’t know. He was hot as hell, for starters.”

  Jayce Moore was the last guy Wanda dated. He was a beautiful musician from New Orleans who was on the road constantly. When he left for a three-month tour of Asia, Wanda broke up with him. She said the whole relationship had gotten too unstructured, even for her. These are the kinds of guys she goes for, though—artistic types who live in the moment and frankly aren’t that bright.

  “What sort of things did you guys talk about?” I ask.

  She looks annoyed. “I come to you if I feel like over-analyzing everything. Boys are built for fun.”

  “Meaning you and Jayce didn’t really talk?”

  “Not extensively.” She sips her cappuccino, looking around the restaurant.

  “So, just to be clear: you’re not giving Ethan a chance because you think he’s too intellectual?”

  “I’m not attracted to him.”

  “I so don’t believe you.”

  She sighs and studies her fingernails.

  “Go out with him once,” I suggest. “See what happens...”

  She growls. Actually growls. I’m definitely getting on her nerves, but I don’t care.

  “What’s your point?” She nearly knocks her water over in her agitation.

  “You avoid guys who are your intellectual equal because you’re intimidated by them.”

  She just stares at me in shocked silence.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  She leans back in her chair, looking disgusted. “Great! I get you laid, and how to do you repay me? With cheap psychoanalysis.”

  I notice, though, that she doesn’t tell me I’m wrong.

  Chapter Ten

  Surprise!

  Monday morning, I wake up to Nero head-butting my hip.

  “Hey!” I push him away, still half-asleep. “Why the violence?”

  He blinks at m
e with a supercilious air, like get your lazy ass out of bed and feed me, bitch.

  “It’s still too early. Go back to sleep.” I reach for the clock blearily. When I see the numbers there, I sit bolt upright, my heart hammering. “Nine? Holy shit, nine?”

  Nero licks his paws. Not my problem. Need breakfast, though. Chop-chop.

  I spring out of bed, swearing profusely when the rug slides out from under me. I manage to right myself before breaking something, but barely. In record time I get dressed and feed Nero—never mind that he’s stealthily devoured every crumb from my compost bin. I grab a taxi to my office since there’s no way I can wait for the bus. When I arrive at my desk, panting, I see the place is practically abandoned. I haven’t had a shower, my hair’s scraped back into a messy ponytail, and my system is both food and caffeine-deprived. Not pretty.

  I see Carrie speed-walking down the hall.

  “Where is everyone?” I ask, trying not to sound as panicked as I feel.

  She runs a critical eye over my disheveled appearance. “The conference room. Colin Wright’s here.”

  “Colin Wright?” I echo stupidly. Oh, sweet Jesus, Colin Wright! The email from Felicity. She said he’d be visiting today. After my disastrous Reply All, I blocked out that crucial piece of information.

  Carrie grabs a notepad from her desk. “You better get down there. Felicity’s not happy.”

  My stomach twists violently. It’s a good thing I didn’t have breakfast; if there were anything in there right now it would definitely stage a revolt. I grab a legal pad and a pen, grateful at least that I’ll be able to sneak in with Carrie. Maybe nobody will notice; they’ll think I’ve been there all along. Right! And Felicity probably morphed into my fairy godmother over the weekend.

  When we reach the door to the conference room, Carrie casts one dubious glance over her shoulder in my direction. She seems reluctant even to enter the room with me. God, do I really look that bad? I pat self-consciously at my ponytail. Carrie opens the door and I slip into the room behind her, trying to stay hidden in her wake.