by Unknown
Jude sat back on the couch and watched as Esme danced to an old Incubus song. He was feeling content, sipping on this third Scotch. What straight man wouldn’t be happy, watching Esme Esterbrook dance in a pair of leather pants that cupped her thighs and ass like a tight, supple glove?
He was feeling pretty damn envious of that leather at the moment.
An obnoxious ringtone started up yet again from Esme’s purse on the bed. He nodded significantly toward her bag.
“Don’t you want to answer it?” he called over the music.
“Nope,” she told him, never breaking the rhythm of her dance. He felt the curve of her grin in his crotch.
He realized she was drunk. Not rip-roaring drunk or anything. Still…feeling no pain. It wasn’t because she was dancing or singing along to Certain Shade of Green at the moment that made him think she was intoxicated. Esme liked to dance, always had. Get one drink in her, turn on the stereo, and bam: You had a front row seat to a premium floorshow. He’d first learned that fact of life when they’d stolen a six-pack from her dad’s garage fridge when they were kids. Clive Esterbrook had inevitably discovered their theft and informed Grandpa Joe. Jude and Esme had been put on restriction during prime snowboarding weather. They’d bitterly resented the punishment, imagining themselves cruelly wronged. They’d grumbled and hissed about it over phone conversations while they were imprisoned in their respective houses during a boarder’s dream Sierra snowstorm.
No, what convinced Jude at the moment that Esme Esterbrook was drunk was that she was doing some serious flirting while she danced.
She opened a pair of huge, hazel eyes and focused on him, giving him an impudent grin, as she swung around her long, tousled golden brown hair and gyrated that little butt of hers. He held up his glass in a half-amused, half-mesmerized toast. How could someone so tiny and delicate be such a cyclone of power? Ilsa and Clive had named her Esmeralda after a favorite great, great aunt of Clive’s. Aunt Esmeralda had supposedly been some titan of women’s rights back in the day. It was an ugly, dramatic, ridiculous name. But Esme made the name Esmeralda mean rebel princess: fierce, just-dare-me-to-do-it, girl-warrior. No one, no one Jude could imagine on this earth, could carry that name off like Esme did. And she did it in spades with her exquisite face and stunning eyes and perfect, tight little gyrating body.
She turned her back, looked over her shoulder at him, and slapped her leather-covered ass to the driving beat of the music. He gave her a dry look of amusement.
But his cock jumped like it was a puppet, and she’d just jerked the strings.
His lust for Esme was hardly an unfamiliar reaction on his part. Nor was defending against that reaction. His cock had been perpetually doing that jerky dance, his balls seemingly eternally blue from the second he hit adolescence, living next door to the Esterbrook girls. Ursa was too young to be on his teenage radar, but Esme and Sadie were a constant pull on his attention. The two older girls were stunning, with their shining long hair, flawless skin, perfect breasts, long, toned legs and graceful athleticism. Jude also had Ilsa Esterbrook to contend with on a daily basis. Imagine being the hormone-ridden, jerk of a kid who just happened to find himself living next door to three world-class gorgeous females.
He remembered looking out his window and seeing Sadie and Esme laying out in bikinis on many a hot summer day. The Esterbrook pool was always kept at a comfortable warm temperature in deference to chilly Tahoe nights, and Clive and Ilsa’s love of a night swim. So Sadie and Esme had a sprinkler ready for when they really needed to cool off. He vividly recalled the sound of their shrieks drawing him to his bedroom window, the vision of water beading up on their oiled, smooth skin, how their nipples pressed tight and hard against the thin fabric of their bikini tops.
As a result of that almost daily teenage agony, he’d become an expert at suppressing his lust…at least when it was directed at the Esterbrook females.
He’d broken that rule once, and lived to regret it to this day. All because of one intoxicating, bewildering afternoon with Sadie the summer before he went off to college.
Not just Sadie.
His best guy friend Mat DaRosa had been there, too.
Not that he and Mat had been together, but they’d both been with Sadie…Jude to a lesser degree than Mat.
It all started out innocently enough, with Jude acting as a conduit between two good friends, both of whom were so in love with each other, and so self-conscious, they’d never been able to connect. Introduce lots of vodka into the scenario, the out of control hormones of eighteen-year-old boys, and Sadie Esterbrook, one of the most beautiful girls in existence, and you had the formula for disaster.
What a hot mess. To this day, he still winced in regret when he thought of it.
He remembered Ilsa and Clive had taken his grandfather, Stephen and Ursa to Sacramento that weekend for a concert, and Esme had been away at art camp. Mat, Sadie and he had both houses to themselves.
The thought of anyone witnessing what happened at the Esterbrook pool that afternoon killed him a little.
Especially the thought of Esme seeing it.
They’d all been toasted out of their minds, of course, but that was no excuse. He sensed Mat and Sadie’s shame and confusion over what had happened, even though none of them had ever spoken of it to this day. Mat and Sadie’s guilt wasn’t identical to Jude’s, but it was there, nevertheless, tied up with what they’d all done. And despite his good intentions, the only thing Jude had accomplished that afternoon was to ruin the possibility of Mat and Sadie finding any happiness together.
Ever.
The real world had dawned the next day, clear, harsh, inevitable and guilt-drenched. Jude had resolved to double his efforts to stay a safe distance from the Esterbrook girls.
But as he sat there twelve years later in an anonymous hotel room, watching the familiar, bewitching sight of Esme dancing, he felt his defenses weakening. She was incredibly beautiful to him in that moment, pumping her hips and giving him that fun, hell-raising-Esme grin. She’d been the companion of his childhood, the balm to his wounds, a familiar, much-needed touchstone…the undeniable object of his hormone-ridden lust.
In the distance, he heard her phone start to ring again. He quirked an eyebrow at her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to get it?” he called loudly over the music.
“Never been surer,” she said, her chin tilting up defiantly.
“It’s a guy, isn’t it? Some guy is waiting for you somewhere, and you’re standing him up,” he stated levelly, strangely quite certain what he said was true. It suddenly struck him how much he hated all of those guys, that eternal stream of males that were inevitably out there, panting and yearning for this amazing girl. This unique woman.
Her smile widened, as if she’d read his mind. He kept his forearms resting in his lap, his drink covering his crotch.
“How should I know who it is? I’m not answering,” she replied with a pointed glance. “I’m here with you.”
She sashayed over to get the remote control and turned up the volume on the music. She did an about face and walked toward him. With one fluid, graceful movement, she leapt up on the coffee table in front of him. Laughing at his surprised expression, she ran her hands against the silk blouse she wore, outlining her body, and gyrated her hips in his direction.
Jesus, Es. Give a guy a chance.
Without being entirely aware of what he was doing, he set down his glass slowly on the table, transfixed by the vision of her dancing above him. He realized he tread in dangerous territory, but he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. It was hard to think with his blood pumping like crazy through his veins. Did those pants have a breakaway crotch, like he suspected they did? Leave it to Esme, to come up with a garment that was elegant and patently sexual at once. His gaze narrowed on her grinding hips and swaying ass. All he could think about was what was just behind that smooth leather. His hands slid to the couch cushion, leaving his arousal expo
sed.
Esme. Beautiful, risk-on-a-stick. Esme.
It struck him in some distant part of his brain that something had changed. That was why he wasn’t having his usual withdrawal response from animal lust when it came to her. Then it hit him, what was different. It was the way Esme had looked earlier when he’d told her part of him still couldn’t accept that his parents were gone. Her big, shining eyes had sliced right through his defenses against her. It was still Esme, of course. But her grief over her dad’s loss had opened her up to him, somehow. Revealed her in a new light.
He’d looked into her in that moment, and seen himself. Seen both of them. And something had tightened inside him.
He stood up and began to walk slowly around the coffee table, never taking his gaze off her. She followed him with her stare and her pulsing body, turning on the table as he circled it. He read a kind of focused, burning anticipation on her face. He’d seen that expression before, while she’d readied herself to make an especially hard jump on her skate or snowboard, or the time she’d accepted a dare from one of their idiot teenage friends to do a double somersault into Tahoe off a rock cliff. Jude had forbidden her to do it—there were some boulders at the lake bottom, and he couldn’t be sure how deep the water was—but Esme rarely backed down from a dare.
Even when she knew it was bad for her.
He lunged, snagging the remote control and muting the volume. The sudden silence and the sound of the remote clacking down on the dresser rang in his hears. Esme went completely still. Slowly, he walked toward her. He came to a halt on the far side of the table, facing her. He reached out, cradling her curving, compact hips. A thrill passed through him at the sensation of her tight, vibrant body in his hands. It was likely his imagination, but he felt heat emanating from her core.
She was going to scorch him.
Chapter Four
“Who’s the guy trying to call you?” Jude asked gruffly.
All traces of amusement had vanished from her face. He realized he’d sounded serious. Demanding, even.
“He’s nobody,” she whispered. “He doesn’t mean anything.”
“And you were thinking I’d be a good substitute for this guy that doesn’t mean anything, is that it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolded, but he heard the slight tremor in her voice. “You’re…you. Of course you mean something.”
She took a step toward him. He stared up at her. Sexy-as-hell, golden brown hair with blonde highlights tumbled across her breasts and fell short of her waist by just an inch or two. A light sheen of perspiration shone on her throat. That blazing quality had returned to her finely wrought features. He felt something release inside him, some old, carefully tended lock snapping open.
He leaned forward and pressed his nose and lips against the crotch of her pants.
A convulsion of lust shook him when he inhaled. Leather and sweetness and sex. Esme. He felt her fingers in his hair, heard her choking sound. Years of suppressed desire rushed through him like a torrent through a shattered dam. For a second, his vision blurred and darkened.
Gritting his teeth, he straightened and began to unfasten the snaps, releasing the leather breakaway.
Esme couldn’t believe this was happening. And yet…in some ways, it seemed like the most inevitable outcome in the world. Of course it was. She’d even worn the exact clothing that would allow her to submit to her need without bearing too much of her shame to him.
He lowered the breakaway strip of leather slowly, exposing a narrow, trimmed patch of brown pubic hair. She’d defiantly—or drunkenly—taken off her underpants in the bar bathroom earlier. From where she stood above him, she saw his nostrils flare slightly. His expression was rigid. For a split second, he froze and stared fixedly between her thighs. Her clitoris tingled. She felt herself go wet in a warm rush.
She heard a small, desperate moan and realized it was her own. She bit her lip to stop it. His gaze flickered up to her at the sound. She saw the gleam in his eyes, and then he was urging her with his hands at her hips to move. Turning her back to him, she stood on shaky legs, feeling his hand grab the strip of leather suspended between her thighs, hearing the click-click-click of the snaps as he released them one by one, and then finally the soft, muted sound of him tossing the breakaway fabric onto the seat of a nearby chair. With the breakaway removed, most of her ass cheeks and her outer sex were exposed. She tried to see behind her, but her long hair and the angle prevented her from seeing his face. She began to turn around, burning to feel his mouth on her lips—Jude’s mouth.
But he abruptly cradled her leather-covered hips again, his thumbs pressing into her bare buttocks. He shifted his hands slowly, cupping both cheeks from below. A shaky cry flew past her throat. An ache swelled at her core. It was the most erotic, possessive gesture she’d ever experienced. Then she felt his lips on her bare skin, his nose skimming an ass cheek, his slight whiskers abrading her ever so gently. The caress was elusive and feather light. Worshipful, even. Intensely arousing.
Her clitoris pinched, her arousal mounting to an excited agony.
“Jude—”
“Turn around.”
His voice resounded low and rough, nowhere near as desperate as she’d sounded. He guided her with his hands. When she faced him, she realized his dark head was only inches from her crotch. Because she was fairly short, the height of the coffee table had placed her sex within kissing distance of his mouth. He glanced up at her face. She began to tremble at what she saw.
He might have sounded calm when he spoke just now, but he wasn’t. He was as calm as a ticking bomb.
She watched breathlessly as his dark head lowered.
At the contact of his mouth on her sex, Esme’s knees dipped uncontrollably. His fingers tightened on her ass, holding her steadily against him. He found her clit unerringly, rubbing until her sensitive labia parted, the tip of his tongue a gentle, teasing explorer one second, a firm, demanding lash the next. His rough, low groan resounded in her flesh. She clutched at his head, spiraling. Powerful emotion and pleasure barraged her from every direction.
This was Jude, whom she’d loved as an innocent girl and a bitter adolescent. This was Jude, loving her back—however briefly—as she stood before him as a woman.
Maybe it made sense that their first kiss would be the most intimate one of all.
His head shifted between her thighs. He pressed to her at a different angle, even hungrier now. His lips applied a delicious pressure on her clit while his tongue laved at her sensitive lips and skimmed across the entrance to her vagina. She found herself shifting her hips, thrusting her sex forward, and realized she wasn’t just responded naturally to her hunger, but to the pressure of his urging hands. He nuzzled her wet sex with his nose. She heard him say her name before his tongue darted out, penetrating her channel, plunging in and out for a taut few seconds while she strained to breathe.
The next thing she knew, he was lifting her down off the table and pressing her against his body. She stared at him through a Scotch and desire induced haze. She’d known his face for so long, but she’d never seen this side of him, never witnessed how desire tightened and hardened him into such a reckoning force. A need to press her mouth to him overwhelmed her.
She lunged forward, but he ducked his head back.
“Whoa,” he said hoarsely. He set her down on the edge of the bed.
“Why can’t I kiss you?” she asked, hurt and annoyed at being thwarted. His firm male lips were slicked with her juices. It was the most arousing thing she’d ever seen.
“Because if we’re going to do this, it’s going to be on my terms. You’re a trial enough as things stand. If I let Esme Esterbrook take charge, I’ll be drained in a minute flat. You already just about killed me with those damn pants and that dance,” he stated, his mouth twisting slightly in grim bitterness.
Esme didn’t argue with him. Now wasn’t the time. But in fact, she did grow anxious at the idea of him calling the shots…possi
bly insisting that she remove all of her clothing, exposing more of her than she was ready to reveal.
Than she was capable of revealing.
He reached and grabbed the bottom of her blouse and began to draw it up. It was loose and sleeveless—a sophisticated, elegant pairing to the tight leather pants. It swished right over her head and off her arms. For a stretched few seconds, he just looked down at her, his warm hands cupping her shoulders, his gaze lowering over her bra-covered breasts and bare abdomen. His hunger appeared almost harsh. So what he said next surprised her.
“You’re sure you want to this?”
She nodded gravely, even though that hint of anxiety remained, burning inside her chest like an expanding balloon filled with toxin. That bubble of doubt was contained for now, but it could explode the moment she let down her guard.
“Are you sure?” she asked, trepidation in her tone. Was that doubt she saw behind his naked lust? But then, without replying, he reached around her and unclasped her bra. It was an insubstantial thing of lace and elastic. Her breasts were small. She’d never had much need for support. A flicker of uncertainty went through her, when she recalled some of Jude’s busty ex-girlfriends.
But she saw the hunger in his eyes as he tossed aside her bra, and he was scooting her back on the bed forcefully and coming down over her. Then his hands and mouth were on her breasts…
And he was feasting.
She didn’t know what else to call it.
And then she didn’t know anything, she was only feeling as sensation and pleasure flooded her.
He made low, thrilling growling sounds as he firmly molded and massaged her breasts in his big hands and sucked on one tip, then the other. His manner was greedy. Starved, even. She gasped for air, furrowing her fingers through his thick hair, holding him to her. He nipped, licked and sucked on her, until her nipples stood up dark pink and distended, and the small mounds had blushed a pale pink from his fondling.