by Meryl Sawyer
Yes, tasting him.
He’d obviously showered recently. The clean scent of soap still clung to his skin. But the sprint across the meadow had developed a fine sheen of moisture that tasted slightly salty. The almost uncontrollable urge to taste every inch of his magnificent body overwhelmed her.
Then she found a flat nipple concealed beneath a whorl of hair. With her tongue, she circled the tiny nub once … twice. A low groan rattled in his chest as he reached down to stroke the exposed back of her thigh. He yanked the skirt aside and his hand burrowed under her panties before she realized what he was doing.
“Christ,” he muttered as his fingers traced the curve of her buttocks.
In a heartbeat, he’d rolled over, his large body now covering hers. He stared down at her, his lips temptingly close. He studied her for a moment, and she wished he would kiss her. Don’t give me time to think, she silently pleaded.
“This is what you want, isn’t it? You want sex. Right, Claire?”
His words jolted her. Passion evaporated, again leaving her angry with herself. What was she doing on her back in the middle of some meadow with him?
“Let me go.” She shoved at his shoulders, but he effortlessly restrained her.
“We both want this, so why do you keep fighting me?”
“I need to,” she said before she could stop herself. “I don’t know why.”
He pulled back and looked at her with the kind of pitying expression reserved for mental basket-cases. “Let’s get something straight, princess. I’ve never used force on a woman.”
“I didn’t mean that … exactly.”
“What in hell did you mean?”
She shrugged—or tried to—but it was hard. His body was half covering hers, anchoring her firmly against the grass. And the pressure against her thigh told her he was becoming more aroused by the second.
“You want to play rough. Okay, I get it now.” He kissed her roughly, his mouth slanting across hers and his tongue plunging inward with an impatient thrust. His hands were under her now and his fingers dug into her tender flesh as he shoved her upward against his erection.
“There’s no stopping now, princess.”
She scored his back with her nails as they kissed ravenously, their tongues battling each other for control of the situation. He nipped at her lower lip; she bit his. He rolled to the side to hike up her skirt even more, and she took advantage of the movement to scramble on top of him. His legs imprisoned hers, trapping her against his lower body even though she was in the superior position.
He flipped her over onto her back again, manacling her hands with one of his like a steel cuff. With his free hand, he managed to yank off her skirt, the soft cotton tearing as it gave way. The cool night air washed her heated skin. He gazed down at her exposed lower body, his eyes narrowing as he inspected every inch in the moonlight.
She took advantage of the momentary diversion by rocking to one side, then she managed to roll, taking him with her. Now she was on top again. Yes! She undid two of the buttons on his jeans.
He bucked, his whole body convulsing like some wild bronco. She hung on, her arms locked around his neck, her legs entwined with his. The throbbing heat of his sex thrust against the juncture of her thighs.
The power in his body as he thrashed beneath her was like a wild animal—almost frightening. An unbelievable turn-on that reminded her of an X-rated version of king of the hill.
The next second she was gazing up at the stars again.
His powerful hand lashed out and imprisoned both of her wrists, shoving them above her head. Pop. Pop. Pop. The buttons on her favorite blouse dropped into the grass as he stripped it away with his free hand.
She refused to surrender, even though he’d removed most of her clothes. Not to be outdone, she grabbed at his jeans, using her feet to force them down his hips. She only succeeded in getting his pants just to the point where a dark tuft of hair confirmed what she suspected. He wasn’t wearing anything under the tattered jeans.
She had no clothes left except her bra and panties. He held her down and mounted her. She was panting hard now, vaguely aware of the damp grass beneath her bare skin and loamy smell of the meadow. And the two dogs hovering nearby—watching.
“I won, Claire. Admit it,” he said as he unhooked her bra and brushed the cups aside.
He gazed at her bare breasts, and she should have been embarrassed. But she wasn’t. If anything the tussle had emboldened her. “I’m not conceding this battle yet.”
Flat on her back, looking up at his body sheened by moonlight, she was suddenly struck speechless by how powerful he appeared at this angle. His shoulders appeared wider, the muscles bunching as he held her down. His thighs, clamped against hers, held her captive.
“Know what your problem is,” he asked, a bead of moisture running down from his temple. “You’re so damn cold, daring any man to touch you. But you’re wild at heart, really wild.” The fascinating droplet lingered on the square edge of his jaw for a second, then dropped onto her cheek. “The wilder the woman, the more fun the ride.”
“I’m more than you can handle,” she said just to taunt him.
He ignored her, staring at her breasts. A quick peek confirmed they were resting softly against her chest. Her nipples jutted upward, dark and hard in the silvery light. And aching for the touch of his tongue.
He bent over and coaxed one stiff peak into his mouth, sucking hard. He grazed it with his teeth, gently but erotically until she was squirming beneath him. He was straddling her, his knees bearing most of his weight, and one of his hands still held her wrists above her head.
King of the mountain. Well, there was no question who had won that little game. He had her right where he wanted her, and it seemed he was going to take the rest of the night to play with her breasts, no matter how much the rest of her body ached with need.
“Give up?” he asked a few agonizing minutes later.
She wanted to give up, to go on to the next level—to feel him inside her, but her stubborn streak refused to admit it. His eyes were dark with desire, the lids heavy, but there was something else in his expression, some indefinable emotion. Suddenly, it became hard to swallow. She’d never had a man look at her in quite that way.
She heard herself whisper, “I give up.”
He chuckled, a low, raspy sound. “Promise to do exactly what I say?”
Obviously, he was prone to the usual male obsession with submission. So big deal; she’d indulge him. “If you insist,” she said, deliberately trying to sound disgusted. Secretly, she was thrilled, anticipation building by the second.
“Stop fighting me,” he said. “Try a little tenderness.”
Tenderness? It seemed like an odd thing for him to say. She never would have suspected wrestling with him would be so arousing. Yet unquestionably it was. Every fiber in her body tingled with longing, moisture building in private places.
“Oh … all right. I’ll stop fighting.”
He released her hands and rocked backward until he was sitting on his haunches, looming over her but no longer actually holding her down. “Darlin’, I never had any woman try to take off my pants with her feet. Let’s see what you can do with your hands. Go for it.”
Without hesitating, she reached for the two buttons on his fly that she hadn’t been able to get undone. Heat rose through the fabric to scorch her fingertips. The first button popped out of the hole easily, but the second was held securely in place by his burgeoning erection. He growled, low and deep in his throat as she struggled with it. He finally shoved his hands into the waistband and yanked down his jeans.
On more than one occasion she’d felt him and knew this part of his body was as impressive as the rest, but nothing could have prepared her for seeing it. His erection sprang free from the confining jeans and thrust outward at her, hard and thick and long.
And proud. In that moment, she knew the one word to characterize Zach. Proud. Even as a kid, cast in the role of
the town’s bad boy, he’d walked with pride. That same pride was etched in the firm line of his jaw and the confident set of his shoulders. In his magnificent erection.
Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed the flared tip. It was smooth, but velvet soft, and oh, so warm. His body shuddered and he reached for her as he kicked his jeans aside. Holding her, he angled himself across her body.
“See?” she tried to joke. “I am too much for you to handle.”
“Wrong, Claire. I have your number.”
His hand inched along her stomach until he reached the moist patch of curls, then dipped downward, finding a very sensitive spot under her panties.
She sucked in her breath, lifting her hips as he traced his finger in slow circles. Moaning, she bit her lip, savoring the waves of pleasure racking her body. This was torture, pure exquisite torture.
He jerked the panties down over her hips to her ankles. She fluttered her legs, forcing them lower, then kicked the panties aside.
“I have your number, Claire,” he repeated.
Her brain was searching for a smart comeback. Suddenly, he was kissing her there. His tongue found the same spot his finger had just been. He applied a little suction as he lolled the tight bud with his tongue. His tongue stroked and teased, working miracles. Her pulse staggered, then surged at a breakneck speed until rational thought was impossible.
She was dimly aware of the thick ridge of his sex pressing against her thigh, a promise and a threat. She’d never made love to a man so large, so powerfully built. Arching upward, her hips instinctively sought his as his expert caresses sent rippling waves of pleasure through her entire body.
“Hurry up, Zach.”
She was ready, more than ready, Zach thought, but he tweaked her again with his tongue, then blew hot breath across the wet curls as he lifted his head. This was exactly where he wanted her, on her back, blond hair flung across the grass. Okay, okay, so he’d mentally pictured her on his pillow. What the hell? She was into rough stuff, and now they were buck naked in his meadow.
“Hold that thought,” he said gruffly, reaching for his jeans.
The two dogs were nearby, tongues hanging out, watching. “Don’t you two have anything better to do? Go chase rabbits.”
He found the small foil packet he’d put in his pocket earlier. He’d won the bet with himself. He’d known Claire would come to him after the party. She refused to be seen with him, but she wanted him to screw her. Okay, he could live with it—or maybe he couldn’t.
His feelings for this woman were unbelievably complex. It was sexual, sure, but it went way, way beyond the physical. He wanted—oh, hell—he couldn’t express exactly what he was craving where Claire was concerned.
He’d asked her to be tender, but she hadn’t. Instead, she’d been astonishingly passionate. Her undisguised need for him was arousing, sure, but he wanted so much more from her.
And he had the disturbing suspicion he was never going to get what he wanted. Right now it didn’t matter. He’d worry about the future—and his pride later.
He tore open the package, silently cursing. The damn thing was gooey and too small, but he managed to get it over his turgid shaft. He parted her legs with his knee, then settled himself between her smooth thighs. He released a harsh breath and nudged his cock into place. She was ready, hell more than ready, but the fit was tight.
“Is this hurting?” he asked.
She shook her head, flinging her hair from side to side. “Don’t you dare stop.”
With each thrust of his hips, his shaft probed deeper and deeper. He groaned, his body taut with strain, his lower lip caught between his teeth. A scant inch at a time, he coaxed himself forward, stretching her, stretching her. Loving every second.
Her body gloved him so damn tightly that he thought he’d lose it just getting inside her, but he made it. He gave another little forward nudge just to be dead certain he was in to the hilt. Then he willed every muscle in his body to freeze until he had control of himself again.
He rocked his hips once … twice … three times, and she cried out with wild pleasure. He desperately wanted her, but he needed it to be good for her. A night she’d never forget. She might not walk down the street with the likes of him in broad daylight. But at night there would never be anyone else for her but him.
He pulled back by degrees, slowly withdrawing until only the tip of his sex was inside her. It was exquisite torture, but he managed it.
“What are you doing?” she protested.
“I’m giving you a dose of your own medicine. You’ve been teasing me with your hot, sexy body. Now it’s my turn.” What a smart-ass. He was dangerously close to losing control.
He flexed his hips and burrowed in again, discovering her muscles had adjusted to his size. They were still tight, hugging his sex like a closed fist and making him shudder with desire, but he could more easily glide in and out.
“Harder,” she cried, bucking upward.
He gave her what she wanted, jackknifing his hips again and again and again. He clamped his teeth together so hard his jaw ached, determined to hold back and not let himself go until she was satisfied. He took off, zooming into high gear, gathering speed as he went.
“O-o-oh, Zach—yes!” she cried, her eyes squeezed shut. Her whole body shuddered with pleasure, then went limp.
He kept pumping, loving the feel of her, loving being inside her. Not wanting this to ever end. His release came in one long hot wave that was so gut-wrenching in intensity that he threw back his head as it shot up his spine into his skull. His head tingled from the aftershock of his climax, and every muscle lost its ability to support him.
Pitching forward, he remembered just in time to take the brunt of his weight with his forearms or he’d crush Claire. He hovered over her, breathing like a racehorse, every pore in his body throbbing with pleasure.
Gathering her in his arms, he rolled onto his back. Their bodies were still linked, his sex pulsing contentedly deep inside her.
He couldn’t help smiling up at the stars and winking at the glossy white moon riding the night sky. “Okay, babe. How was that for wild sex?”
Twenty-five
Max Bassinger lay on his side across his enormous round bed naked except for a loosely tied maroon silk robe. The fabric was perfect for cooling his heated loins, he thought as he gazed up at the mirrored ceiling and smiled. He snipped off the tip of a Havana Noir, a top-grade Cuban cigar that he had rolled and banded by Davidoff for his personal collection.
He hadn’t opened his humidor for over a month. Fuck the doctors and all their crappy advice. He took his heart medication as directed. So what if his only exercise was in bed? It was still exercise.
He flipped the bitter end of the cigar over his shoulder and sucked on the freshly exposed tobacco. Sweet, so sweet. Like the scene before him.
Vanessa and Seth were next to him on the bed. He’d rather be alone with Seth, but after that bitch poured champagne on Seth’s cock, embarrassing him in front of “everybody who was anybody,” Max had to boost Seth’s ego.
Just before the champagne dousing, Vanessa had been pitching Max on some half-assed film she wanted to star in. Damn was he good, or what? He knew he was fat and giving sixty a hard shove. No way Vanessa was interested in his bod.
On the other hand, Vanessa was proving she would do anything for his money. Not that he’d been crass enough to suggest trading sex for dollars. But when the Cristal soaked Seth’s Jockey shorts and left a humiliating wet patch all around his fly, then ran down his legs to drench his Cole Haan loafers, Max had rescued Seth.
Everybody in the entire joint had heard Claire Holt yell, “You’re a sniveling wimp and a liar!”
Seth had stood there dumbfounded while the bitch flounced off like some high falutin princess. The whole scene had been so damn funny. After a long moment of shocked silence, people began to laugh, including Max.
But the mortified expression on Seth’s face had forced Max into ac
tion. He’d grabbed the actress by the arm and propelled her across the room, knowing the tight dress and big tits would distract people. They were out of there seconds later.
Max had told Vanessa that Claire was a vengeful bitch bent on destroying Seth because he’d tossed her over. Then he hinted that the two of them could show Vanessa a real good time—while discussing her film project.
“Sniveling wimp,” Vanessa was saying. She had Seth on his back, her sleek rump in the air as she serviced him. “Claire doesn’t know anything about men.”
She sucked on Seth; Max sucked on his hand-rolled cigar. Vanessa Trent was so conniving and utterly ruthless. She might as well have been a man. Had she been packaged like Zach Coulter, people would have been afraid of her. But the surgeon’s scalpel and God-only-knew how much silicone had turned her into a beauty. If you cared for a bottle-blonde look with a plastic bod.
Seth absolutely, positively did. The kid perked up—wet pants and all—the second Max had mentioned a threesome. He lit the cigar, letting the tip burn just slightly. Vanessa was now dangling her boobs in Seth’s face.
Max took a long drag on his cigar, letting the sweet, hand-cured tobacco flood his lungs. He was enjoying this much more than he expected, heat surging through his groin, then clenching like a tight fist. Seth was a toy, a human toy—a novel experience. Why hadn’t he thought of this before?
Max intended to keep the kid around for a long, long time. Seth was so easy to manipulate now that Max understood him perfectly. Seth got off on respect. He wanted to be a state senator, but he didn’t have the money to run for office. He had hoped to wheedle it out of Alexander Holt.
Once Max understood the kid’s needs, he made dead certain Seth Ramsey knew what Max Bassinger craved. He blew the smoke up at the mirror, thinking of how astonished Seth had been when Max had written him a check for half a million dollars to get his campaign rolling.