Shayla Black - [Wicked Lovers 01]

by Wicked Ties

  Once. Just once, whispered a voice in her head. What could it hurt?

  Soon, with any luck, this business with her stalker would be behind her, she’d be back in L.A. taping the next season of Turn Me On. Jack Cole would be a hot memory she could drag out on a cold night when she needed to warm herself. That simple.

  “Jack . . .”

  “You want something?” His voice taunted her as his fingers glided like a ghost over her abdomen, her hip. Those dancing dark eyes, that playful mouth teased her without mercy.

  She and her resistance were toast.

  In answer to his question, she grabbed his hand and placed it right over her mound. He swiped a hot finger through the swollen folds and swirled around her clit once, twice. She gasped, assailed by an urge to spread her legs wider for him.

  “If you want something, cher, drop the towel. I want all of you, and I want you bare.”

  Morgan refused to stop and think, to reconsider again. Plenty of time for that later. Instead, she tugged at the towel. It fell to the floor in a quiet rush, leaving her covered in goose bumps—and nothing else. She shivered—but not from the cold.

  Jack looked his fill with hot eyes that promised mind-shattering pleasure. “I can’t wait to get inside you, so deep you’ll never forget it.”

  His mouth covered hers in a searing kiss. No, he did more than cover her mouth. He devoured, consumed, possessed. Morgan opened to him, accepting the hungry thrust of his tongue, which delivered the spice of his taste and the heat of his need in a devastating dance of seduction. Her knees weakened in seconds. His passion had the kick of cayenne pepper, balanced with the sweetness of honey, caged in control of steel. Unique. Intoxicating. She moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the hungry sound.

  Jack’s hands fell to her hips and grasped her, fitting her right against his jeans-clad erection. He gave her a nudge in the right spot, and her need spiked. The ache in her sex built. He pressed against her again, compelling Morgan to lift her leg to wrap it around his waist, opening her body to him in a silent plea.

  He accepted immediately, taking her thigh and anchoring it over his hip, bringing him in perfect contact with her clit. Morgan grasped his bare, steely shoulders, hanging on while she felt dizzy with need.

  Had she ever been this aroused? No. Ever wanted so badly, she thought her blood would boil if he turned and walked away? No.

  It was torture. It was bliss.

  He continued to eat at her mouth, small nibbles of her lips, long swirls of his tongue against hers. Jack left no part of her mouth without his attention, his flavor. In desperation, she rubbed her breasts against the hot, hard wall of his chest, threw her arms around his neck, and pressed deeper into the kiss.

  When he eased his lips away from hers, she clung to him in protest. He lifted her arms away from him and anchored them to the door with a warning stare.

  Their gazes connected, his dark with broiling need, compelling her to accept whatever came next. Her body too ravenous, her mind too entangled in his spell, to refuse. The breath seesawing in and out of his chest was her only indication that he wasn’t perfectly in control.

  Pushing her flat against the door, Jack leaned in, his cock grinding against her clit again. But now he bent to add a totally new sensation to the mix: his mouth around her nipples.

  Morgan arched up to Jack, not just eager to give him more, but aching to. He started with skillful suction, a teasing lick.

  “Jack,” she protested softly. “Jack.”

  “You know what to call me,” he warned, thumbs and fingers pinching her sensitive nipples. “Until you come, I don’t want to hear my name fall from your lips again, cher.”

  “Yes, sir,” she chanted. Anything to get her nipples back in his mouth.

  He rewarded her with hot suction over the peaks of her breasts, first one, then the other. Back and forth. Over and over. Hot, swirling tongue, then tender bites that had her gasping and clawing.

  For the first time ever, she could actually feel the blood filling her nipples, swelling them.

  With a last lick, he pulled back to look at his handiwork. “Very pretty. I should keep them like this always, slightly tender, a rosy pink, standing up and waiting for just one more touch.”

  He closed thumbs and fingers around them again in a pinch that made her catch her breath. Then he twisted, just enough to make Morgan cry out—as the moisture gushed between her thighs in a fresh rush. Lord, she’d never been so sensitive, never felt as if she might actually orgasm just from having her nipples toyed with. She’d read it was possible but never believed it. Until now.

  “Are you slick and hot for me?” he asked, his hot breath teasing her neck.

  “Yes,” she gasped.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jack swiped a pair of fingers down the valley between her breasts, dragged them down her abdomen, her mound, then dove right into her wet heat. He grazed her clit, and she moaned against his mouth.

  “Touch me,” she moaned.

  “You don’t give the orders, cher. You take what I give you. No matter how I give it to you.”

  “But—”

  Jack unwrapped her leg from around his waist and took a step back, ending all contact. Morgan stared, wide-eyed. Bastard.

  “We either do this my way, or we don’t do it at all. How is it going to be?”

  “Damn it, you’re arrogant,” she said between gritted teeth as the ache and sizzle smoldered inside her.

  “We’ve already established that. How is this going to go down, cher? Your choice.”

  In the end, Morgan was too far gone, too curious about the heights he could take her to, to consider saying anything except, “Your way . . . sir.”

  “Good girl. Spread those pretty thighs.”

  Leaning against the door, Morgan stepped wide. Jack trailed his fingers over her puffed, wet folds, toyed with the tip of her clit, trailed moisture down her thighs. Her breathing climbed higher, along with her heartbeat. Amazing. Jack knew just where to touch, when, and for how long to keep her on edge, to grow her want but never fulfill it.

  Soon, she felt a flush suffuse her skin all over. She was one giant ache, whimpering, dying for him to fill her, conquer this monstrous need he’d created in her. Morgan ran greedy hands over his hard shoulders, the incredible lines of his pectorals, his ridged abdomen. He amazed her. Flesh so hard everywhere, but skin so silky soft.

  He lured her close to the edge of restraint with talented fingers, an occasional nip at her breasts. His long, fevered kisses made her moan, arch, silently plead. He toyed with her, inciting her higher and higher until she became dizzy, delirious, willing to do most anything for him to end her torment.

  In desperation, she trailed her hands down his stomach and grabbed the ridge of his cock through his jeans. Huge. Thick and like iron, he could give her what her body needed. So why wasn’t he?

  With a hiss, Jack grabbed her wrist and anchored it against the door, near her head.

  “You didn’t ask to touch me.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” she panted.

  “You thought you’d strip my self-control, Morgan, so you could get what you want. Non. You touch me when you’re told, not before.”

  Restless, beyond needy, she shifted from one foot to the other. He kept her thighs spread with his feet between hers, so she couldn’t clench them together. His fingers toyed again with her nipples, now slightly sore. And somehow that tiny hint of pain only made his every touch more vivid, shot every caress straight down to her clit.

  “Please, sir . . .”

  “Please what, cher?” He pinched her nipples and murmured the question against her lips. “You want me to fuck you?”

  She’d never said those words to a man in her life. Never imagined saying them. But now, she couldn’t imagine saying anything else. She needed Jack now—hard, fast, pounding.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Fuck me.”

  He hesitated, dark b
row raised expectantly.

  “Sir,” she added hastily, panting. “Fuck me, sir.”

  In reward, he slid a pair of fingers over her clit and rubbed tiny, torturous circles around the hard nubbin. Morgan had thought that, surely, her arousal could not climb any higher. She’d been dead wrong, she thought with a moan.

  So close now, Morgan’s every breath was audible. A drag in, a rush out, air filled her lungs but never made it to her head. There was only her heartbeat, drowning out everything except the need to feel him deep inside her.

  “Unzip my pants.”

  Morgan didn’t hesitate, didn’t tease. She rushed to pull the zipper down and shove the hated jeans down his hips. He wore no underwear, so his cock sprang free into her waiting hands.

  She rubbed him. Her technique was fast and inexpert, she was sure, driven totally by a need to touch him, feel the man who would soon be inside her. Fists wrapped around him, one on top of the other, she stroked his thick length and gloried.

  Until he grabbed her wrists and took her hands away, shoving them against the door again.

  “You’re not following directions, cher. I said to unzip my pants, not to take them down, not to stroke my cock. Fail again, and you won’t get this fucking.”

  She bit her lip, trying to find patience, and nodded. “I understand . . . sir.”

  Her clit pulsed just from saying those words. God, what was wrong with her? She was too far gone to care. Later . . .

  In silence, he extracted a packet from his pocket and shoved his jeans down to his knees. Seconds later, he ripped open the foil square and sheathed the purple head of his cock, then rolled it down his long length. Slowly. Too damn slowly. Morgan resisted the urge to help him or hurry him up or tap her feet in impatience.

  Suddenly, he bent, lifted her by her hips, and wedged her body between his and the door. “Put your legs around my waist.”

  She hesitated. Could people really have sex standing up? She’d never tried anything more exotic than woman on top.

  “Do it.” His voice was edged with steel.

  Without another pause, Morgan lifted both of her legs and folded them around his hips. Moments later, he rewarded her with the feel of his cock probing at her entrance, all thick and ready. Breath held, she clung to his shoulders, on the razor’s edge, waiting.

  He eased his tip inside, and even that hard bit of him felt like heaven, like the magic elixir to cure the ache currently roasting her alive.

  “Say it again,” he demanded, voice strained. “Tell me what you want.”

  Morgan never considered holding back. “Fuck me. Now!”

  With that, he pushed her hips down as he thrust up. Tissues unused to such invasion protested at first, unable to accommodate his girth. She cried out.

  “Relax,” he ground out. “Open to me, cher.”

  Morgan did her best to loosen her muscles—hard when she was dying a slow death by desire. Jack kept pushing his way inside, the blade of his flesh cutting through her like soft butter, probing past nerve endings with the wide head of his cock, awakening them, leaving tingles screaming in his wake. He made her need soar, and it seemed like forever until he was buried to the hilt. Oh, God, she needed to come.

  She’d never taken a man this big, this deep. She could feel him in the back of her tonsils. The width of him stretched her until her flesh burned. But it wasn’t enough.

  That hint of pain fueled something inside her. Her blood raced, perspiration burst across her skin. The ache made her hyperaware of being alive, of the pleasure roiling beside the sting.

  “More!” she demanded. “Please . . .”

  Without warning, he withdrew nearly all the way, then eased back in, much gentler than before. The pain faded, but it had charged up the tissues in her sex as never before. She swore she could feel every inch, every vein of his cock rasping across suddenly sensitive flesh inside her.

  Jack brought agonizing pleasure with every slow stroke, every rub of the swollen head of his cock right over the flesh inside that had her panting. Gasping, burning need took over. Everything else receded but the feel of him, her need for him.

  “Cher, tu sens si douce,” he murmured in her ear as he thrust inside her again. “You feel so sweet.”

  She tried to hold on, hold out against the pleasure threatening to sweep away her sanity. But with those words and the next hard stroke of his cock, orgasm engulfed her like a raging hurricane—swift, strong, unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  “Jack!” she screamed, nails biting into his shoulders.

  Morgan knew then that her first instinct was right; she was never going to be the same again.

  WITH Morgan’s scream ringing in his ears, Jack surged into the silken heaven of her pussy one more time and lost control of the orgasm he had held onto by a bare thread.

  The explosion originated low in his belly, driving pleasure out through his cock. It burst out across his body, suffusing bliss everywhere. A wave of dizziness crashed over him. His toes tingled. The pulses of Morgan’s second climax fluttered around him, milking him of every last drop of semen, leaving heavy satisfaction in their wake.

  When had anything ever felt so good?

  Struggling to catch his breath, he opened his eyes to her flushed face, her swollen mouth, the relaxed set of her shoulders.

  Did she look like this after a night in Brandon’s bed?

  The thought slammed Jack from out of nowhere. Anger and denial sluiced through him in a shock, as if he’d jumped into an icy stream. He stilled.

  Anger? Yes, that Brandon had touched her. That she belonged to the bastard.

  Ah, but you fucked her, he reminded himself. Revenge is sweet.

  True, but his gut, that gnawing spot that had festered like a wound in acid for three years because of Brandon’s betrayal, wasn’t whooping with elation. Instead, he fixated on the feel of Morgan around him, on her raspberry scent. He’d just come inside her and already he wanted to do it again.

  Not smart, Jack.

  He’d lured her in to fuck her as payback. First mission objective accomplished. End of story.

  Jack forced himself to withdraw and set Morgan on her feet. She looked at him with wide eyes that simultaneously asked for reassurance and wondered what was next between them.

  He couldn’t answer either.

  Stifling a curse, he turned away, tore off the condom, and tossed it in a nearby trash can. Why he should be pissed off all over again, he didn’t know. Because he liked Morgan and she didn’t deserve to be used? Maybe because he’d wanted to believe that she wouldn’t betray the man she’d agreed to marry by spreading her legs for another.

  Stupid him.

  He zipped up his jeans and turned to Morgan again. Her lower lip quivered. Her posture had gone from satiated to guarded in seconds. Something deep in his gut wanted to reach out to her, reassure her. Another part was scared shitless at the magnitude of his reaction to her.

  “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” he tossed out, then turned away.

  Jack strode to the back of the house, to his private domain. Fishing the keys from his pocket, he unlocked the door.

  Go in. Shut it. Don’t look at her.

  Impossible.

  Jack turned to face her. Across the length of his cottage, he could still see the shock on her face, along with the rosy marks of his whiskers on her bare skin, the swollen nipples so sweet and succulent they made his mouth water, and the fiery hair covering the slick utopia of her pussy.

  His gut clenched. Again. Cross the room, lay her out, fuck her again.

  Ignoring the voice, he slammed and locked the door, then stalked toward the computer desk in the corner. He plopped down in his chair and booted up his machine. But the thoughts and impulses pounding at him were unlike his mundane actions. His instinct told him he’d just made a big mistake by turning his back on her. If he’d been thinking beyond his desire to fuck her and the shock of his frenzied reaction to her, he’d have realized that
if he wanted Morgan to leave Brandon, he had to keep her sated and enthralled. Constantly. Nothing else would ensure that she willingly walked away from his former pal. And if he had any sense, he’d get on his feet, march back in there, carry her to his bed, and tie her to it.

  But Jack hesitated. Morgan had been like a match on the tinder of his control. He needed a breath to recover, to think. She and her feelings weren’t important; only the fact that he’d achieved the first part of his revenge was. Deciding how to achieve the other half, the part where she left Brandon . . . that ranked up there.

  Instead, dangerous fantasies of him laying her out on his bed and having a leisurely feast assailed him. He’d kill to work his mouth from the lush heat of her lips, down that silken throat, to the sweet treats of her berry nipples, over the sleek plain of her abdomen . . . all the way down to her wet, clenching little pussy, which he knew would be like ambrosia.

  Damn it, he had to get his mind off his dick and remember that Morgan was the means to an end. She’d cheated on her fiancé—not the kind of woman to get tangled up with. Been there, done that. He had the scars to prove it.

  To top it all off, she still had a stalker who wanted her dead. She was scared out of her mind, and he’d promised to protect her and get her some answers. It was the least he could do. Repayment for using her. He needed to focus on keeping her safe, not dwell on the feel of her around him. Not on how challenging she would be to truly tame.

  He’d find some way to convince her to leave Brandon that didn’t involve sinking his cock into her body over and over until they were both too sated to move.

  A quick glance at his watch told Jack it wasn’t quite seven in the morning. Too early to call Deke, his business partner, or anyone else. Deke had a million connections, from senators to janitors. He’d know someone who knew something about her stalker. But until then, all Jack had to focus on was Morgan or revenge.

  Okay, revenge. He’d think about that, focus on how sweet it was going to be to pay Brandon back for his perfidy. He didn’t feel elation, at least not yet. Likely, he wouldn’t until Morgan left the bastard. But he’d known at the start there was a potential flaw in his plan: If Morgan didn’t tell Brandon about her indiscretion, Jack had no way of ensuring Brandon found out. No way of proving it. And proving it—that was important. Everything, in fact.