“I’d really like to believe you had to see me so urgently for social reasons,” he said as he sat back down. He stared pointedly at me in what I realized was his first truly unguarded moment. “In fact, I’d really like to believe that.”
I could swear electricity snapped in the air between us, sucking away the oxygen. With effort, I licked my lips and shook my head. His gambit was clear, the invitation to flirt extended. As I rocked there on the cusp, my palms sweating and butterflies dancing in that oh so ticklish spot right behind my pubic bone, it was clear my body was ready for this, wanted this, needed this. God, it had been ages—a year or more, certainly—since I’d had reason or desire to flirt.
However, I had to first be sure I couldn’t seduce him into my employ. “That’s not an entirely unpleasant thought,” I assured him. “But I’m not here…just…for social reasons.”
The waiter chose that moment to come over and recite the day’s lunch menu. Between the fried python and the grilled mystery meat in the nyama choma, I chose the mystery to go with my cornmeal ugali. Even knowing it would probably be gamey wild pig, my adventuresome nature only extended so far.
Peter, on the other hand, with a wink my way, ordered the python. “I’ll share if you will.”
The waiter, with the aplomb of a man who’d catered to far more white, Western patrons than I was sure he had, brought our lunch served on mismatched plates with our entrees already divided between us.
The chewy python inside the heavy coating of batter did not taste a thing like chicken.
“So,” Peter said over a forkful of sticky ugali, “what say we get the non-social part of our visit out of the way so we can get to the social. Why did you really come?”
I recounted about the poachers and Abasi. “That means the jumbe position is open—at least temporarily—and I came to offer it to you. Too late, it seems.”
He simply nodded, his crestfallen expression notwithstanding. “Unless of course you have something to sweeten the pot?” He eyed me intently.
“I can’t offer more than what Abasi is making, but that’s about $50 a week more than the ranger position you originally applied for. Not only would a higher salary not be fair to Abasi, but the sanctuary’s bleeding money every day as it is. We lost a lot of the sponsors who had direct ties to the previous owners in the sale.”
“Then what do you have that could interest me?”
I understood well enough what he meant; I just refused to take the bait. “The satisfaction that comes from doing important work is, I’m told, its own reward.”
“You believe that, do you?” He leaned in close across the table, the hunger in his eyes sending jolts of electricity all the way to my toes. My heart thudded.
“I left a very successful partnership in Illinois to come here. Until there’s positive inflow from sponsors or tourism, I’m not getting paid a dime. So yes, Mr. Lawson, I do believe that.”
“Satisfaction is a good baseline. But I need to be more than just…satisfied. Surely you can think up some bonus for me that won’t cost you even that dime.” His low voice, sexy enough on its own, was even richer now with innuendo.
At the prompting of my primal brain, I felt my resolve slipping away. No. This was too important to give into animal lust before it was done. And damn it, those warm, dark eyes halfway across the narrow table seemed to be waiting with expectation. And it was that expectation along with the idea of “trade” or “bonus” that galled me. He was bartering with the coin of my self-respect and there was no way I was going to up the ante with it.
I shook my head. “I’m not a commodity, Mr. Lawson. My original offer stands.”
“Then I guess WildLot Enterprises gets my…services.” He leaned back in his chair and it squeaked at the shift in weight.
He didn’t look nearly as disappointed as I hoped he would.
As I felt.
“To be honest,” he confided, “I only asked because I never really expected you to go for it.”
A game then, nothing more. That made me feel better about the man.
He was honorable after all.
And I liked games.
I signaled the waiter for the check.
“If we aren’t going to be working together, would you at least allow me to buy you a drink?” Peter’s eyes were smoldering now.
Anticipation thrummed through me. If I accepted, this wasn’t going to end with just a drink. We both knew it. Counted on it.
I considered the long drive back to the sanctuary, and while the work of finding two rangers now loomed ahead, there was little I could do about that today. Already I felt the stress building. If nothing else, I needed that drink right now.
“Beer,” I said with a slow smile.
This time, the look on that impossibly rugged and handsome face wasn’t disappointment at all.
4
Nicky
Liwale was just large enough to warrant a four-room motel for the occasional tourists and visitors who passed through. The motel itself was barely more than a group of cinderblock buildings thatched together a few hundred feet behind the owner’s house with a communal outhouse almost hidden in a grove of tambotie trees.
As Peter led me to his room there, only a couple of blocks from the bar, I was pretty sure I wanted more privacy for us. “Maybe my Land Rover—”
He laughed, a throaty sound that felt good to me. “I’m not much of an exhibitionist. There aren’t any other guests right now. We have the whole place to ourselves.”
Since the whole place could practically fit in my modest living room, my sigh of relief was quite audible.
Peter silenced it with his lips.
One beer had turned into two, had turned into four. He smelled of yeast and the remnants of some splashed cologne and tasted of beer and…man. It had been a long time since I’d had the taste of man on my tongue, and I licked the firm plump of his lips and the thin line between them to savor the sensation.
He prodded back and I opened my mouth to him, letting him explore a moment before I wrapped my lips around the protrusion of his tongue and began to suck, slow and sensual, a promise of what I could do for other parts of him.
He stepped into me and through the thin khaki of our paired shorts, I felt one such other part of him firm against my hip.
My blunted tongue pushed him out, our lips sliding slowly away. “Which one is yours?” I breathed, feeling the clench of my body responding to the nearness of him. Of its own, my hand traced over the front of his cotton shirt, feeling the ripple of muscle beneath. Already my imagination was kicking in as I pictured how he might look without the shirt. Without the shorts.
If we didn’t get inside soon, I was going to make a public spectacle of myself. And by the bulge of him, so was he.
With an unexpected sweep of his arms he lifted me into them and carried me to his room, brushing aside the heavy flap that passed for a door with his shoulder.
I had one brief glance around the non-descript room with only a chair, a small dresser and a long trunk with a lock for valuables to furnish it. Other than the double bed, of course, with its rough sheets onto which he dropped me rather unceremoniously. I immediately forgave him when, with a growl, he lowered himself over me, pressing his lips to mine and fumbling the buttons of my shirt out of their holes. Spreading the cloth wide, he groped for my breasts. Unless I knew I’d be jouncing around in the jeep in the bush, I rarely wore a bra—and today was no exception.
Gathering my breasts in his palms, Peter dropped his lips from mine to lave the tips of first one then the other of them, settling on the second to tease it to attention and suckle it.
I ran my hands through his chestnut hair, only a few weeks grown out of its military cut. It smelled clean and natural. I guessed Peter had few toiletries here other than scentless tallow soap and water. Unlike some, the organic scent of him suited him well. Inhaling deeply, I trailed my hands down to his massive shoulders, wondering at the strength it would take to massa
ge them properly as I kneaded the muscles through his shirt, frustrated that it wasn’t the feel of his bare skin under my fingers.
“No fair,” I whispered. “You need to take your shirt off too.”
Pushing himself to his knees, he locked eyes with mine as he unbuttoned his shirt one slow button at a time before stripping it off. He must have seen the appreciation that widened my eyes, from the superb definition of his shoulders, pecs and abs to the mat of hair, not too thick, that thinned across his abs to be picked up, I presumed…
My eyes followed the natural line to his khaki-covered crotch. When the bulge of him twitched under my stare, I smiled.
Levering myself up on one elbow, my shirt falling away as I rose, I placed my free hand over the top ridge of those magnificent abs, slowly feeling my way down to his waistband. The button there was easy to manipulate but the zipper was a little trickier as it eased over the quivering cock below.
That he was commando didn’t surprise me in the least.
He yanked down his shorts to keep from catching himself in the zipper as he sprang free. I caught him in my hand, the beat of his pulse strong against my palm.
As we were, I couldn’t reach him with my lips and he couldn’t reach me at all. I started to slide up. “Wait,” he ordered, leaning down and catching the waistband of my shorts between his fingers. Before I could blink, he had the zipper down and I was wriggling to help him slide the cloth over the curve of my hips then off my legs. I wondered if my being commando surprised him.
Surprised or not, he seemed entranced by my trimmed blonde hair, running his fingertips through it as he shifted position and sending a wave of anticipation fluttering through to my core. Then he was spreading my thighs and lowering his head between them.
I gasped at the first touch of his tongue. It stroked up, circling the nub of my clit, teasing it erect. A warm breath flowed over me, then his lips fell on me and what had been a pleasant, building sensation suddenly became the most intense focus of my world. “Whatever that is you’re doing, don’t stop,” I begged. Pulling his head into me, I arched into his mouth. “Please, don’t stop.”
To my eternal gratitude, he didn’t. What he did do was add a firm, insistent finger to the mix, sliding it deep inside me. When that finger moved, echoing the rhythm of his mouth, my knees swung up, clasping his head, and I squealed. My body was far more ready for pleasure then I realized. Jeez, how long had it been?
Then he sucked…and held, while a second finger joined the first, stretching me and, impossibly, doubling the pleasure. As my butt tightened, he wrapped his free arm under it, elevating my hips in a totally wanton pose as he manipulated me toward orgasm. So close to the edge at that point, I didn’t care who had control as long as we both had the same goal.
I strained against his mouth until he flicked the tip of his tongue against my trilling clit and I thrashed over the edge, shoulders and head writhing against the foreign mattress, hips and thighs and everything in between clenched and shaking as waves and waves of the orgasm rolled over me.
Peter held me to him, fingers still in me, mouth still on me, as if determined to capture every electric bolt of it and every squirm of my delight for his own.
When I could open my eyes again, I saw the rich brown gaze of him over the arch of me as he watched the play of ecstasy along my face.
Only when my ragged breathing calmed and the last of the spasms shook us, did he lower my hips to the bed and slide his tongue and fingers away. Like a great cat, he padded his head and shoulders over me as he knelt between my thighs.
I peered down the channel of space between our two bodies as he came up. Down to the end where he hung long and thick and hard between us, the tip of him nearly touching me. I drew in a breath of awe at the sight.
He allowed me only a moment to admire—not nearly enough time, especially if it were to prove as versatile as its length—before he crouched down and that amazing span of him was touching me, then it was folded between us, hard and cool and quivering as my tired muscles quickly revived under its spell.
Leaning down his head, he captured my mouth with lips that glistened. I inhaled the deep, musky scent of me on those lips and I tasted the salty sweetness right before he drove that talented tongue halfway down my throat. I opened for him, just as other parts were opening as well.
He adjusted his hips and I braced, wet and ready as I was. Snaking a hand between the press of our bodies, I circled the width of him as he rose for the assault. I doubted he needed the guidance but I wanted to feel the weight of him in my palm, measure the thickness of him between my fingers, feel the play of electricity along the thin and sensitive skin as I ran my hand once along the length of him, thrumming my thumb as I circled the tip that was already kissing my entrance, then brushing the long underside before gripping the base and deliberately cutting the blood flow.
He grunted his encouragement, unable to speak without the use of his tongue, captured in my throat.
I laid my free hand over the firm, flat plane of his butt. I was a pushover for the rock-hard feel of a man’s muscles tight with exertion, and I certainly wasn’t going to miss the feel of this man in extremity. Especially not if this was the only hookup we were likely to have. I wanted to enjoy every minute of it every way I could.
The muscles under my hand—not called maximus for nothing—bunched for only a heartbeat before he plunged into me, burying himself to the edge of my other hand. When he backed out to thrust again I shifted my grip to squeeze his balls.
His guttural growl echoed in my ears even as he filled me, fast and complete, the force of him driving my hips low into the soft mattress. I felt the tip of him tickling my womb. God, it still wasn’t enough. I had been too long without. I squirmed under him, arching for more.
He obliged, backing out, then driving in once more, stabbing me more deeply than any man had breached before. I rocked under him before the primal rhythm took over, bucking me against him, encouraging him to match the beat of my body.
He fell easily into the dance, becoming the power of it, centering me at its core. His tongue moved in harmony now, thrusting and retreating, thrusting and retreating, building faster and faster as his long strokes shortened deep inside me and our breaths panted through our nostrils.
I felt the redoubled clench of his butt like a gift beneath my palms as he thrust one final time. My own muscles contracted around him, their spasms a rhythmic milking as his seed fountained into my womb.
Breath bated now, I sucked mercilessly at his tongue and clawed at his butt. My knees gripped tight to his hips, and my ankles twined around his calves as I tried in vain to pull him even deeper inside.
When the orgasm hit, it was like starfire shooting through my soul.
After, we lay catching our breaths, bodies sweating in the hot African afternoon.
Later still, I found my discarded shorts and buttoned my shirt. Peter, naked yet, stretched across the tangled sheets like an indolent lion, watching me.
We were good together, that much was certain.
“Will you reconsider the job offer?” I had to give it one more try.
“Will you reconsider the lack of benefits?” His grin told me he was teasing about this—me, us—being a part of the compensation package.
After that incredible experience, I was very tempted to negotiate it in anyway. But there was one eventuality only too clear. While today’s spontaneity had been fun, what would happen if it became expected? No, sex and business never made suitable bedfellows.
Reluctantly I shook my head.
Reluctantly he shook his.
I gave him my best jaunty smile and swayed my hips as I walked out.
Back at the bar, I scrambled into my Land Rover, only thinking of then what I should have thought of two hours ago. Condoms.
Damn.
Peter had been reckless and he’d made me that way too. I didn’t think sensibly around him. That I would never see him again was, I tried to convince mysel
f, only prudent.
My primal brain, though, pouted all the way home.
5
Peter
Damn. That was the second time I effectively just let Dr. Nicolai Tarantino walk right out of my life.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Yeah, I wasn’t going to explore that question too closely. I already knew I was a mess. Already knew I could tell myself a hundred excuses for why I’d wound up in a dive in Tanzania and not one of them would be the truth.
Because truth wasn’t something I was ready to face.
Apparently I could add beauty to that short list as well.
Jesus, Nicky had looked good in my arms. Had felt good too. Experienced enough to know what she wanted. What I needed. She was the whole package—smart, confident, dynamite body with enthusiasm I could barely match, and a face as lovely as that compassionate heart of hers.
She hadn’t been gone ten minutes when all I wanted was to feel her in my arms again. An aching need that had nothing to do with sex. Or had everything to do with it, but was so transcendent that even sex was sublimated to the desire to simply be with her again.
That was what abstinence would do to you, I tried to tell myself. After all, I hadn’t touched anyone since that courtesan in… Mali, was it? Chad, maybe? Those days ran together now, and I had no desire to untangle the pain of them. I was here partly because I wanted them to stay a blur. Faceless and nameless.
Because if I was ever to put faces to my past again…
Shivering, I skittered away from that thought.
And ran right smack up against the memory of Nicky.
Actively pushing something away that you desperately needed—letting it go without a fight—there was a term for that, something from my Psych 101 days. But I couldn’t remember it. Not that the word mattered—psychologists had a word for everything, it seemed—it was all the emotion and the history and the choices made that mattered. Naming was just the thing humans did to try to tame the abstract. But the name didn’t make a thing less painful—or less real.
Hearts on Fire: Romance Multi-Author Box Set Anthology Page 24