Sweet Nothings

by Catherine Anderson

  She nodded decisively and resumed her struggle with the buttons. Never in Jake’s memory had a blouse had so many. One … fumble, fumble … two. She was killing him. His hands itched to rip the damned thing off her.

  Instead, he leaned against the door, crossing his arms and ankles. Waiting. The cotton slowly parted. Once in college, he’d gone to a strip show. All the other guys had whooped and hollered and made asses of themselves, tucking money under the performer’s G-string and copping feels. Not him. He’d found the entire display disgusting, giving him cause to wonder if he was abnormal. Not. He knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that watching a woman slowly, ever so slowly, remove her clothing could turn him on. She just had to be the right woman.

  Molly. God, how he loved her. He leaned more heavily against the door, thankful for the constraints of denim, which made his arousal less apparent. He could do this. It might be the death of him, but he could do this.

  Finally the damned blouse was unbuttoned. Her cheeks turned a painful pink as she peeled the cotton down her arms. Plop. The sound of the cloth hitting the floor went off in his head like a bomb. He hoped, prayed, that the bra would be next. But, oh, no, she reached for the waistband of her slacks instead, driving him nuts as she endeavored to unfasten the catch.

  What the hell was the hold up? She jerked and fussed, then bent her head. The girl had fifty thumbs. He could have had that fastener undone in a blink. He settled his gaze on the swell of her breasts above the lacy edge of her bra and damned near swallowed his tongue.

  After unfastening her slacks, she kicked off her shoes and bent to tug off her socks. His gaze dropped. He knew he was losing it when he got turned on looking at her toes. They were itty-bitty, the nails an iridescent pink. He imagined nibbling on each one.

  With a wiggle of her hips, the slacks slid down her legs, pooling at her ankles. She stepped away, giving the garment a little kick. Jake wondered what would go next, bra or panties. She looked like a vision standing there, her most feminine parts still covered with bits of white nylon and lace.

  He was a saint. No question. His shoulder blades had drilled holes through the door.

  Next she pulled down her panties. As the nylon slid past her hips, she sucked in her tummy. The moment the underwear puddled at her feet, she pressed a hand over the abdominal roundness she obviously thought was a less than attractive feature. Jake liked her belly just fine. He honestly did. But it was that nest of butterscotch curls just below that made his eyes feel as if they might part company with their sockets.

  “I, um …” Her voice trailed away, the sound reminding him of a tremulous note on a reed whistle. “My stomach is fat.”

  Jake’s stomach was somewhere around his knees. He stared at her well-rounded hips and thighs. Her skin was as flawless as cream, and her shape was what men’s dreams were made of—every inch of her soft and enticing.

  The bra. He wanted it off. But, oh, no, those gorgeous breasts were the last things she wanted to unveil. She lifted trembling hands to the front clasp of the undergarment. Jake’s brain snagged on the thought that there were probably four fasteners there for her to undo. His larynx was stuck at the back of his throat.

  Patience was a virtue, he reminded himself. The bra would come off—eventually. Never in his memory had a clasp proved to be so stubborn. She jerked, she twisted, her breasts jiggling with every tug. He was going to have a coronary. He stared hard at the crests of her breasts, wondering what color her nipples were.

  When the bra finally came open, she grasped either side of the front clasp, her body tense. A study in humiliation, she just stood there, not moving, her nipples still shielded by lace. Her eyes had gone dark. Bright slashes of crimson rode high on her cheeks. She looked so miserable, nearly naked, but not quite, her arms frozen in a torture of embarrassment.

  He felt ashamed of himself for ogling her. He never should have allowed her to do this. He stepped toward her. He was about to grasp her wrists and force the issue when warning bells went off in his mind. She’d come this far. He sensed that she needed to go the remainder of the way, that somehow it was important to her that he stand back and see her. Really see her.

  “Let me look at you, Molly love.”

  She gulped and stared at him. Damn, she was so pretty. How could she not realize that? In the faint light coming through the window, her skin shimmered like creamy satin. He wanted to kiss every sweet curve, every delicious hollow—to taste and nibble on her until she sobbed for more. In that moment, Jake could have killed Rodney Wells with his bare hands. The bastard. He’d hurt her so deeply, leaving wounds that still bled.

  His voice grated like sandpaper over a knife blade. “Molly, let me look at you.”

  The tendons along her throat stood out. Her shoulders went taut. He felt her struggle. Bless her heart.

  With a tug, she drew the cups of the bra from her breasts, and then she just stood there, trembling. Oddly, now that her lovely bosom was bare to his gaze, he hardly noticed the rose pink nipples he’d been fantasizing about for so long. How could he enjoy looking at them when she was cringing? Without the heat of passion to ease her shyness, this was awful for her.

  Jake wanted so badly to take her into his arms, to reassure her with whispers and soothing strokes of his hands. Even he might feel embarrassed to stand there naked while someone stared at him.

  But, no, comfort wasn’t what she needed from him right now. For her, these next few seconds—and his reaction—were pivotal.

  Instead of embracing her, he slid the bra straps down her arms and let the undergarment fall to the floor. Then, grasping her by the wrist, he drew her away from the bed so there was room for him to walk a full circle around her. When this was finished, he vowed, she would know that he had examined every inch of her and looked closely at every imagined flaw.

  And imagined flaws they were. She was exquisite sweetly ample, but perfectly formed. The curve of her back was smooth without a hint of ribcage to mar the effect, the layer of feminine flesh over bone just generous enough to give her a lush softness that made his hands itch to touch her.

  For the life of him, he couldn’t see why she was so self-conscious about her breasts. Granted, they were large and heavy. She’d never pass a pencil test, that was for damned sure, but few full-figured women could. For all of that, her breasts were beautifully shaped. If that downward dip was a sag, he’d take her, sag and all, and count himself the luckiest man on earth.

  Molly was dying. Each time she tried to draw breath, her lungs hitched. An airless pounding had started in her temples, making her afraid she might faint, a fear compounded by the violent slugging of her heart against her ribs. Her skin felt both cold and hot at once, pebbling from the chill air but burning wherever Jake’s gaze touched.

  When she could bear the agony of it no longer, she crossed her arms over her chest and forced herself to meet his gaze. He was staring back, only not at her face. She wanted to disappear. Under the bed, through a crack in the floor, anywhere, just so long as he couldn’t look at her like that. Much as his father had done the evening before, he walked a slow circle around her, making her feel like an object up for bid on an auction block.

  Coming to stand behind her, he lightly grazed a hand over the right cheek of her butt. “Dear God, that’s the cutest fanny I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  Molly squeezed her eyes closed. Cute? Oh, God. That fell short. She needed him to think she was pretty even if she wasn’t. Anything less simply wouldn’t do.

  He curled big, work-roughed hands over the sides of her waist, making her jump. His shirt grazed her shoulder blades. She felt his warm breath feathering over her neck just below her ear. He moved his hands down to rest them on her hips, his long, thick fingers pressing gently into her softness.

  He moved in closer, sliding a palm from her hip to her tummy, where he explored the swell she so detested. His fingertips lightly traced the roundness, making her belly muscles quiver and jerk. “Oh, Molly,” he murmu
red, “you feel so wonderful. Your skin is like silk. Are you this soft all over?”

  She gulped and a low mewling sound she couldn’t squelch came up her throat. He bent his head, kissing the line of her collarbone, his big hand pressing in hard against her abdomen to force her posterior against his hard thighs. The denim of his jeans felt warm and abrasive as he moved against her.

  He suddenly released her to step around and face her again. His eyes a blaze of blue in his dark face, he ran his gaze the length of her, ending at her toes. On the return journey back up her body, his attention lingered at her knees, and a slight smile slanted across his mouth. Moving up from there, he spent a moment appraising her thighs, one of her worst features. Next, he settled a burning gaze at their apex.

  When his eyes finally flicked back up to hers, he said, “Drop your arms, sweetheart.”

  They felt frozen across her chest, and Molly couldn’t have moved them for anything. He stepped closer, curled his fingers over her wrists, and forced her hands down to her sides. Moving back, he stared at her breasts, his eyes an intense, piercing blue that seemed to touch and caress in an almost physical way. Seconds crawled by. Molly tried to cover herself again, but he braced against her.

  “Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t.“

  She was shaking, shaking horribly. She wanted to stop, tried to stop, but her jerking muscles seemed to have a will of their own. With every shudder that ran through her body, her breasts jiggled.

  He said nothing. And she needed him to say something. Instead he freed her hands to slide his palms up her sides and cup her fullness. She jerked and mewled again when he circled her nipples with his thumbs, torturing the pebbled areolas with feathery passes but avoiding the sensitive, hardened centers. A throbbing ache filled her breasts. Her breathing abated to soft, shallow pants that didn’t reach her lungs. Her peripheral vision blurred until only his face was visible, dark and chiseled of feature.

  “Dear God,” he finally said in a throaty whisper, “you are so pretty, Molly. I knew you would be, but my imagination didn’t come close to the reality.”

  Tears rushed to Molly’s eyes. Her mouth suddenly felt as if it was all over her face, twisting every which way. Jake bent to kiss the quivering corners, every brush of his lips incredibly light.

  “Don’t cry, Molly love. Please don’t cry. I’m sorry this has been so embarrassing for you. You are so beautiful, Molly. So very beautiful.” He gathered her into his arms, his body taut, his hold vibrant with emotion and fiercely possessive. “There’s not a spot on you that isn’t perfect. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes, you’re glorious. I love those little dimples on your butt.”

  “You do?”

  “I do,” he assured her.

  “You don’t think I’m fat?”

  He grabbed one of her hands and shoved it between their bodies to press her palm over his fly. “Does that feel like I think you’re fat?”

  Molly felt throbbing hardness under the denim. Relief made her bones feel as soft as pudding. If not for the support of his arms, she felt sure she couldn’t remain erect. Pressing her face against his shirt, she said in a muffled voice, “No.”

  “I told you, I think you’re beautiful. I like the way you’re made, Molly. If I wanted a woman built like a railroad tie, I could go find one. That’s not what I want.” He cupped a hand over her bottom, squeezing and releasing. “I love the way you feel, so soft everywhere. And I love the way you look. You have gorgeous breasts, I love all your dimples, and I’ve never seen prettier legs.”

  He slipped his hands to her hips then embarked on a slow, burning journey upward from there to cup his palms under her breasts again. This time, after tormenting the areolas with feathery caresses, he drew his thumbs over her nipples, teasing the tips until they budded and throbbed. “I want to kiss those little beauties. Will you let me?”

  Molly was trembling—trembling so hard she feared her legs were going to buckle. All the way up the stairs and the entire while she’d been undressing, she’d imagined him turning way in disgust. Now, despite his reassurances, she couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t—or that he wouldn’t yet.

  “Are you sure you really want me?”

  “Am I sure?” he asked with a husky laugh. “Molly, I want you so much I’m about to die.” His voice was so low and throbbing it seemed to move clear through her.

  He flicked her nipples again and tickled the inside of her ear with his tongue. With every drag of his thumbs, fiery shocks ribboned through her breasts, making her whole body jerk. Low in her belly, her muscles turned to a quivery mass of heat that made everything tingle and ache. Oh, God, he made her want. She’d never in her life wanted anything so much as she wanted Jake Coulter.

  He trailed kisses down her neck. His breath wafted hot and steamy over the uplifted swells of her breasts. Molly moaned and clutched the sleeves of his shirt. With darting passes of his tongue, he traced the line of her cleavage, his dark hair whispery soft against her arched throat. Beneath her fingers, she could feel the bunched power in his arms, and his coiled hardness called together everything within her that was feminine to form a fiery, twisting ache at her center.

  Lifting one breast, he touched the very tip of his tongue to her nipple. The wet heat sent a jolt of sensation clear to her toes, and her breath whistled in her throat. “I want you so much,” he said in a gruff, imploring voice that hummed over her nerve endings.

  Molly locked a fist over his hair so he couldn’t get away. She wanted his mouth on her there. He licked her again, making her cry out. He moaned and blew softly on her moist flesh, the sudden shock of coolness making her crave his heat even more.

  He abandoned her breasts to catch her face between his hands. His long fingers stretched to her hairline, the padded tips pressing possessively against her scalp, his roughened palms warm on her cheeks.

  She struggled to focus on his burnished features. He rubbed the pads of his thumbs along her cheekbones. She felt him trembling slightly, and by that she knew he really did want her, and badly.

  “Oh, Jake,” she said shakily. In these moments of sensual respite, her head had started to clear a bit. She looked into his beautiful eyes and saw need burning in their depths, hot, raw, gut-clenching need. It was the first time in her life any man had ever looked at her that way. The most wonderful feelings coursed through her—a light, airy joy that made her want to laugh and dance about the room—a sense of relief that drained the awful tension from her muscles. “I want you, too. So much I can’t bear it.”

  “Do you, now?” He gave a low chuckle and moved his hands to her shoulders. Pushing her back a step, he said, “Well, never let it be said that I kept a lady waiting.”

  Molly really, really liked having him look at her that way. The front of his shirt teased her nipples, making her ache to have his mouth on her again. Her legs butted up against the bed just then. With a little push, he sent her sprawling. Before she could gather her wits, he’d followed her down to the mattress, his hands braced at her shoulders to suspend his upper body over hers.

  His face moved slightly closer. “When I’m done with you, lady, there won’t be a place on you I haven’t tasted.”

  Molly gulped. His shoulders were nearly twice the breadth of hers, the bunched muscles in his arms and chest stretching the cloth of his blue shirt taut to showcase his powerful build. His sable hair lay in tousled waves over his forehead. One dark eyebrow was arched in mischievous challenge. He grinned, the flash of his teeth against his coppery skin making her heart do a funny little jig at the base of her throat.

  Before she could start to feel truly nervous, he settled his mouth over hers. Moist heat, the brush of silk. His lips were soft yet firm, and he used them with mastery, forcing hers apart to gain entry with his tongue. With long, searching thrusts, he tasted the deepest recesses of her mouth, tickling the roof, grazing the inside of her cheeks, teasing her lips. Molly’s head swam. He shared his breath with her, slipping an arm un
der her waist to lock her against him. Jake. As had happened before, she forgot everything but how he made her feel. She arched against him, made fists in his hair, and trembled at the sensations that stormed through her.

  This time when he broke off the kiss to trail his lips to her breasts, she didn’t want him to stop. His mouth closed over a nipple. Her spine arched of its own accord, her breath snagged in her throat, and she cried out at the sheer pleasure of it. With every flick of his tongue, with every draw on her flesh, her muscles jerked and her toes curled.

  He loved her there like a starving man until he was finally sated, and then he stayed to lazily tease her with his teeth, catching her sensitive flesh in a gentle vise and tormenting it with laps of his tongue. Molly moaned. She cried out. And still he teased her.

  The need within her mounted, becoming an ache that bordered on pain. Only dimly aware, she wrapped her legs around his thigh and drove her hips against all that deliciously hard male muscle, mindlessly seeking release in a grind of passion as old as womankind.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” he whispered. “I’ll get to that little sweetheart later.”

  He reared up onto his knees to strip off his shirt. She stared at his chest and upper arms, her heart locked in a struggle to keep its rhythm, her lungs grabbing frantically for oxygen. He was so beautiful. In the dusky light coming in the window, his skin looked shades darker than usual, his eyes an intense sky blue as he looked into hers. She wanted to run her hands over the bulge of muscle in his shoulders, skim her fingertips down his powerfully roped arms, and discover the texture of his skin.

  “Jake?” she said tremulously. “I want you.”

  He flashed her a slow grin. She remembered thinking the first time she met him that he had the dark countenance of a wicked angel. He looked more than a little wicked now—a man who knew what he was about and had no intention of straying off course.

  He cast his shirt aside and bent his dark head to lap at her navel. The shock of sensation jerked Molly’s hips off the mattress. “Is there anything special you’d like—or anything in particular that you don’t like?”