by Tessa Bowen
“What you have is a problem personality.”
She seemed unaffected by his insult. He expected her to toss her head in annoyance or do that thing where she screwed up her forehead and then massaged it afterward. Instead, she stared intently at his mouth.
“I find myself strangely…aroused by you, Mr. Johnson.”
He laughed then—he couldn’t help it. “You’re cracked, lady. You hated me a second ago.”
“That’s true, but I’m not sure when I’ll have another opportunity like this. A good round of meaningless sex might set me straight.”
“Sex?” he repeated the word with raised eyebrows. “We’re talking about sex now?”
“Naturally,” she sighed impatiently. “Why else would I bare my bosom to you? It’s not as though I need to be fitted for a new brassiere.”
“You’re not wearing a brassiere.”
“Well, I’m glad you bloody noticed. Now, you simply must drive Trevor Barrington from my memory with a good tupping.”
“Oh, must I?”
“Yes, if you won’t allow me to ride, that is.”
“Maybe I’ll let you saddle up after all,” he said dryly. “In fact, I’ll let you ride to the moon and back, how does that sound?”
“Oh, do stop playing coy games, Mr. Johnson,” she snapped. “It needn’t be intimate. I just require the searing penetration of your male body. I’m not asking for sweet kisses and caresses. You won’t even have to lay your hands on me. In fact, I don’t want your hands on me.” She wrinkled her nose. “They’re too…hot.”
“Wow, you really know how to sweet talk a guy, Slim.”
There it was. That funny thing she did with her forehead. She scrunched it up tight, so those striking dark brows of hers collided. He would have expected nothing less. She made that expression every time she was thwarted. And he supposed she made the same face when she was offended or angered or when she set her mind to something.
He knew he was in for it when she dropped her hands to her sides and made a start for him. He had just enough time to take a defensive stance before the pale satiny length of her rushed him. He knew she’d hurt herself, crashing against him like that. She’d been hurt enough in the last few weeks falling off that horse, so he let her take him down, stumbling toward the pile of soft hay next to the stall instead of the hard metal door. He gave in because he was tired and going to bed was starting to sound better than standing there taking potshots at her.
And why not let a half-naked beautiful woman topple him to the ground, even if he couldn’t stand her. Part of him wanted to feel the press of her body against his. Was there any heat in her? Or would her sublime tits shatter like frozen crystals against his chest. He’d let her make a drunken fool of herself a little while longer then he’d lift her off him and call it a night.
Jack let out a loud grunt when she pushed him flat with one hand and straddled him with her long legs. She gripped his flanks tight with her thighs as she ripped open his shirt.
“Jesus, you really want to do this, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I guess if you’re that desperate for sex...”
“I’m not desperate,” she objected. “I could have any man.”
“I guess Sir Pitt wasn’t available on such short notice.”
“You’re convenient is all.”
“I’m so flattered.”
She raked her nails over his bare chest, seeming entranced by what she found there. The muscles of his stomach rippled in response. He loved when women did that—ran their nails across his skin. Especially if they were grinding against him like she was. Her breasts hung over him like tempting teardrops. Jack cursed the dumb animal within him for growing hard.
She purred as his body lengthened and stiffened beneath her. “I see you are not impervious to my charms after all, Mr. Johnson.”
He growled and brought his hands up to cup her breasts. “I don’t find you remotely charming.”
The Baroness brushed his hands aside, then leaned back so she could get at his belt buckle. She yanked the leather strap free with the same ferocity she’d used to shred his shirt. The zip of his fly went down with a jerk. She spread apart his pants and pulled the elastic waist of his briefs low. His dark pubic hair was exposed but the rest of him was not. She made a little sound of annoyance as she tugged. He assisted her by lifting his hips. She gave another tug and the weighty mass of his cock sprang free.
Her eyes widened at the sight of it. He would have laughed again if he hadn’t been so achingly rigid. She looked like a kid in the window of a candy store.
“Oh, my…”
“Is something wrong?” he teased with an arrogant smirk.
She shook her head. “No, nothing.”
She grabbed him around his long shaft, squeezing him tight. This greedy kid had made her selection. It seemed the Baroness was in the mood for a fleshly sort of treat—a very male sort of treat.
Jack went for her hips, meaning to switch positions with her. He wasn’t sure how much farther he’d take this, but he planned on flipping her and pressing her back into the straw. She didn’t feel cold at all. Her hand was warm around him and the heat of her feminine core seeped through her slinky dress, beckoning him.
She stopped him by pushing him down again and positioning herself over him. She’d hoisted up her skirts, not that he could see anything past her knees, but he knew what she was doing when she slipped her hand between them, shoving it up high to pull her panties aside.
“Guess the lady likes to be on top.”
And just like that he was inside her.
“Jesus Christ,” he hissed when she repeated the motion of impaling herself on his erection.
She’d strategically positioned the head of his cock when he’d tossed that last dig at her. Jack didn’t have a chance to resist much less breathe when she slid down the length of him, taking him all the way to the hilt in one lash. She wasn’t a frigid cave of icicles at all. She was a warm glove—soaking him in her slick juices. Her gash felt like a velvet box of honey. Everything about her was expensive and high-end, and so was her pussy evidently.
“How can you be so wet,” he marveled. “I haven’t even touched you.”
“I told you before that I was aroused. You have a very fine physique,” she informed him on a little gasp. “In fact, every aspect of your anatomy is...pleasing.”
The compliment only made him harden more. He had to sink his teeth into something quick or he’d come. He reared up and covered her breasts with hungry sucking bites then nibbled his way higher, licking a path over her clavicle and up the side of her graceful neck. Her pearly skin was insanely smooth. He tasted the curved shell of her earlobe, filling the delicate crevice with his tongue.
She shuddered then tangled her fingers into his hair, jerking him away.
“You don’t like that?”
She didn’t answer him, nor did she meet his searching gaze. She began to ride him, rocking back and forth in a practiced rhythm. When he placed a hand on the back of her head to tilt her face for a kiss she stiffened.
“No kissing, remember?”
Now it was Jack’s turn to stiffen “Why the hell not?”
“It would be too strange.”
“And this isn’t?”
“Well, yes…but…”
“I generally like to kiss the woman I’m having sex with. I didn’t know that had fallen out of style.”
When he tried again, she pulled away, stopping her gyrations to glare down at him.
He glared back. “Oh, that’s right—snakes don’t kiss. You just want a nameless screw, so you can forget your boyfriend. Is that it?”
“Yes,” she rasped, shutting her eyes tight.
“Fine.”
He grasped her around the hips and guided her back into her previous rhythm. His fingers slid on the silk of her gown so he fisted the fabric in his palms until it was bunched around her middle.
She faltered
when his hands brushed her bare abdomen. “And…touch me as little as possible. We don’t know each other well enough.”
“You’re kidding, right? You’re sitting on my cock, lady.”
Her eyes fluttered open. He could tell she was shocked yet again by his graphic speech. Shocked and stimulated too, because the dark pupils in the center of her moss-green eyes dilated and color rose on her chest and cheeks. He would have thought this lovely if she wasn’t acting like such a bitch.
Even though he had just agreed not to touch her, his hand went to her hair next, disentangling the tight knot at the base of her neck.
“Leave it,” she hissed.
“It’s a little hard to get off with a chick who’s wearing a librarian bun.”
“It’s a chignon, you horrid man. And I’m not a librarian—I’m a bloody baroness.”
They squabbled and griped at each other as they conjugated, shifting and fidgeting, grumbling and swiping at each other to get somewhat comfortable, or as comfortable as two people could be who detested each other but found their sexual organs mutually involved.
“I don’t suppose I need to tell you I quit.”
“Quite right, you’re fired.” She said as she picked up the pace, posting over him with excellent posture.
“Your heels are digging into my thighs,” he complained. “I hate your fucking shoes.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Take them off, goddamn it.”
His hands slid into the pumps, grabbing her under her delicate arches. She bucked and screeched and he immediately withdrew his hands.
“Mr. Johnson—I’m terribly ticklish!”
She broke into a fit of spasmodic giggles. He cracked up too at the ridiculousness of the situation.
Jack had almost forgotten they were having sex. All the arguing had thrown him off course, but their shared laughter had relaxed things. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her smile. She’d stilled her rocking hips and her hands came to rest on his shoulders. His attention was brought back to the lavish feel of her body around him, the feminine scent of her and the way her cat-eyes grew luminous when she was more at ease.
“Let’s start again,” he suggested softly.
She nodded slowly. “All right.”
The Baroness slid her hand down his chest, doing that thing with her nails again. Then she dragged his jacket and shirt off his broad shoulders, caressing the corded muscles of his biceps. He wondered why it was ok for her to touch him, but not the other way around. He supposed he was touching her where it counted and this became evident when she began her undulating rhythm once more. Her intimate muscles tightened around him, staking her claim on him in a drenching wet vice-grip.
Jack let out a ragged groan and a smug smile curved her lips. Languorously, she tilted her head to the side, as if putting that long white neck of hers on display. Her superb breasts bobbed ever so enticingly with each rotation of her pelvis. They looked like a delicate French dessert. He was reminded of those white Parisian cream puffs with the raspberries on top, or smooth white custard jiggling on the back of a spoon—champagne cake and Chantilly cream filling his mouth. Now he was like a kid at the sweets counter. Her tits were a sumptuous feast to be sure, full and high. It was just like her to stick them in his face but declare them off limits. Her itched to touch her, hungered for her taste, but knew if he broke their bargain it would start a competitive battle of wills. Still, it seemed wholly unnatural to keep his hands to himself. She seemed entranced by what she was doing, rolling her hips and grinding his stick like that.
Maybe she wouldn’t notice if he…
His hands moved under the billowing skirts in a second attempt, each inch he pushed the fabric higher revealed a bit more of her legs. They were toned and perfectly formed like the rest of her—they seemed to go on for miles.
And miles.
He wanted to see the place between her legs, that heavenly silk purse that now caressed and held his body, but he knew she’d flip. As it was, he felt lucky he’d exposed this much of her without getting his eyes scratched out. He’d pushed the dress so high he could make out the bruises on her hips where she’d fallen. He couldn’t touch her there—it would hurt her, but if he took her around her waist he could lift her just a bit so that he could thrust into her more deeply. Her body felt amazing, but he wanted more. He wanted it for her too. They’d both get off this way for sure, and it was all quite civilized and polite, but he wanted to make those eyes of hers widen in surprise. He wanted her to look at him, really look at him, and know that it was him inside her. Their bodies were joined but she was somewhere else altogether. If she wanted to use his body to forget her precious Trevor, fine, but let her remember the man who helped her forget.
He broke their agreement and encircled her naked midsection with his hot hands. Her eyes snapped open as if coming out a dream.
“What…what are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.
“You want to forget him, right?”
She nodded even as a cry of shock ripped from her throat. He lifted her so that he could get some leverage with his hips, then drove deep, thrusting up as he brought her down. Now she was forced to hold on tight around his neck as he maneuvered her. Her breasts raked his chest (a sensation which was divine for both of them) and their breaths mingled in a near kiss.
“I can’t…bare it,” she gasped, her eyes squeezing shut again.
He wasn’t sure what she meant. She couldn’t face the truth that she’d lost her love, or she couldn’t come to grips with the fact that she was letting him take control.
“Yes, you can,” he ground out. “You can bare it.” He punctuated the words with hard shoves, pushing deeper and deeper. “Now open your eyes and look at me.”
Her lids quivered and he found himself staring into shining jade orbs. “You’re not Trevor,” she uttered in bewilderment.”
“No,” he rumbled. “I’m not.”
Her eyes had turned a vibrant green, framed in hysterically flapping inky lashes. Her eyes were beautiful like this. Her body was beautiful too, even marked with the ugly evidence of her angst. All in all she was a damned beautiful woman, this twisted and conflicted ice queen who fought the fire within her. And there was fire in her—he could see that now, and he could feel it too. Any second she’d snuff it out, return to her chilly safe place. But for now, there was heat in her eyes, an electrical charge burning behind the earthy shade of her irises as he pumped into her.
Her arousal had nearly reached its peak, as had his. Her forehead crumpled in on itself. It turned out the Baroness made that queer face just before she climaxed too. Strangely, she seemed to be fighting the pleasure instead of embracing the release to come.
“You…you don’t have to pull out when you…” she stammered huskily. “It’s safe…I’m on the pill.”
He liked the sound she made each time he drove into her. It wasn’t the lazy moans of before, these feminine whimpers were sounds of submission, but Jack wanted the ultimate surrender from her.
“You first,” he told her, nestling a hand between them.
He left his fingers on top of her dress, so that the damp fabric was a shield between them. Still, she bit down on her lip and bridled a bit.
“Oh, what are you doing?” she lamented even as she quaked with pleasure.
He increased the driving force within her. All the while his fingers danced circles over her heated flesh. “Making you come, you stupid woman.”
She let loose then, as though she needed his permission to do so. She rode him with fury and abandon, a climatic scream ripping from her throat. Her body fell apart in fits and bursts. The feel of her clenching him again and again sent him into his own orgasmic rush. Jack spent himself deep inside her with ragged cries of his own. When their combined shudders and quakes subsided, a heavy silence fell. Jack was the first to speak as he wiped sweat from his brow and blood from his cheek.
“That was one of the strangest sexual encounters I’
ve ever had. I’m not sure if I just had a roll in the hay or a barroom brawl.”
He’d meant to lighten the awkwardness of the moment, but cringed when her spine went rigid.
“I’m sorry if you didn’t enjoy yourself, Mr. Johnson.”
She rose off him and began to straighten her clothing. He hated that her hands shook. Had he upset her, or was she just coming down from the booze?
“I didn’t say I didn’t enjoy myself.” He put himself back together, zipping his fly and buttoning his shirt. “I was just joshing.”
“I don’t usually act like this, claws drawn and all. I don’t know what came over me. I suppose Scotch whisky and I simply do not mix. I regret the wound on your cheek. I hope there won’t be a scar. You must think I’m a beast.”
“Guess you were overdue for an oil change.”
Jack cringed again. Why was he acting like a dick—lashing out at her? What did he expect? A woman like this wasn’t going to give him a nice post sex back rub. She hadn’t even let him kiss her.
“I’m quite mortified really.”
Mortified was she? Some women would have said satisfied.
“Why, because you fucked a man below your station? And in a dirty stable no less.”
“My stable isn’t dirty.”
“Now it is.”
Her forehead crinkled, brows becoming angry slashes. She immediately put her hand to her head, as if brushing away the creases. “Oh, I’ve got to stop doing that,” she fretted.
“Doing what?”
“Making that face.”
“Why?” he asked, making one last stab at tying this up nicely. “It’s sort of cute.”
“Wrinkles aren’t cute on a woman, Mr. Johnson.”
She was getting more uptight with each passing moment. The rigidity returned to her posture and she began to smooth her already smooth hair in a nervous gesture.
“Every strand is still in place,” he assured her. “And you don’t need to worry, I won’t talk—I’ll keep your dirty little secret. We’re never going to see each other again, so you have nothing to fear.”
She gave a little shiver and clasped herself around her bare shoulders. “Thank you, Mr. Johnson, for being discreet. And… thank you for fulfilling my odd request.”
