“I don’t think so. I kind of like watching you suffer.” She’d been ready to grin, but when he didn’t, she shrugged. “Fine, what would you like?”
“A shot of whiskey would be great, thanks.”
She left to get his drink and returned with a shot glass in each hand. Standing in the doorway, she said, “This room is like a cavern. Let’s sit in my reading room.”
He took the glasses from her and, since he was the person who’d built the house, found his own way, and she followed.
“Most people don’t call these rooms reading rooms,” he said. “They become game rooms, TV rooms, second offices, but nothing to do with reading. It’s a shame too; reading is a great way to escape the bleakness of life.”
He hadn’t seemed to be speaking directly to her more than thinking out loud, so when he finished, she let the topic drop though she would have liked to agree. Life did have its bleak moments.
Her seat selection was limited. Since he’d made himself comfortable on the overstuffed love seat, she could sit next to him or across the room on the recliner. One seemed a bit too close and the other too far away.
“Chose a seat, Shannon, please. The suspense is killing me.”
She was still deciding when he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the love seat. He handed her one of the glasses.
“Drink up,” he said, tapping his glass to hers. “We’ve got a few things to discuss. As I was saying, I’m sorry for getting you into a pickle with Justin. I was only thinking of myself and not how my behavior would affect you.”
She scooted into the corner of the love seat and tucked her legs under her bum. “Supposedly, some English king once said to never offer an apology until you’re accused of something. You’ve done nothing wrong, St. John. I played the game as enthusiastically as you did. And, besides, we didn’t do anything.” She took a sip of her drink. “The flirting was fun.”
“Yes, it was.” He downed his whiskey and then took her glass and finished hers as well.
“I wasn’t done with that.”
“Too late.” He set the glasses on the coffee table and resumed looking at her. “This might have been a big mistake.” He reached out his hand and placed a finger on her bottom lip.
Her breathing became erratic under the power of his touch, and she pushed his hand away. “Fine, leave. You’re the one who insisted on coming in.”
“No, I’m not talking about… I meant this…” He waved his hand. “Us.”
She stood and walked from the room, coming back with a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “You’re delusional, St. John. There is no us. There’s me, Chad, and Justin, and then there’s you with whomever… The bartender at the lodge, for all I know.”
“The who?” He took the bottle and filled both their glasses. “You think I slept with the bartender? Where did you get—? Oh, right, Justin. He really is an asshole.”
“Yes, he is.” As are you, she wanted to add. Since he had no intention of screwing her, why was he even in her house drinking her booze? “What did Justin say to make you change your mind about this?” She waved her hand as he had.
“That he’ll make your life difficult.”
“So what else is new? My life has been difficult with him ever since Chad was born. What more can he do?”
St. John reached for her hand and lifted the sleeve of her robe, exposing the bruise. “I don’t want you or Chad getting hurt, so, I’m backing off.”
“Good for you.” She yanked her arm away, claimed the two glasses, and downed both drinks. “It’s not as if you changing your mind is creating a hole in my life. So, please go home and cry in your own whiskey.” She kept her composure as she carried the bottle and glasses to the kitchen.
The click of the patio door locking in place told her he’d taken her at her word.
Chapter 18
“She was the dawn to his night.”
Anonymous
Shannon slammed the glasses into the sink. Of all the self-important jerks in the world, he was at the top of the pile. Good riddance to him. She didn’t need him to get her out of her marriage; she didn’t need him period. Seriously, what had he wanted, anyway, coming over in the dead of night? To apologize, her ass. He’d expected her to beg him to screw her that was why. He’d wanted her to become the damsel in distress and plead for him to save her so his ego could get a testosterone rush and his puny penis a boost. Well, she was way past pleading with any man, and she refused to shed one teardrop over him.
And he’d called Justin an asshole.
“Takes one to know one,” she told the sponge being squeezed to death by her fingers.
She rinsed the glasses and then dried and put them away, each movement bringing the tears burning the edges of her eyes a little closer to reality. She returned the whiskey bottle to its home in the bottom cabinet and slammed the door, catching her finger in the process.
“You piece of… Ow!”
The tears came.
And they stayed with her as she turned off the kitchen light and were still falling when a soft knock echoed into the hallway.
She raced forward and flung open the front door.
And met a pair of blue eyes and a leg-melting pirate grin.
Before he had a chance to speak, she crushed her mouth to his. His saliva tasted of bourbon, and like a woman dying of thirst, she drank, unwilling to let him go until she’d had her fill.
St. John surrounded her with his arms and lifted her feet off the floor. They entered the house entwined, and then he kicked the door closed and forced her against the wooden surface. His kisses were those of a starving man, and she matched his hunger with her own. But when she flinched, he pulled away, a look of worry on his face. “What’s wrong?”
She choked out the words “doorknob” between her rapid breaths.
“Sorry.” He moved her to the right. “Better?”
“Yes.” She met his gaze straight on and whispered, “Say my name.”
His right eyebrow lifted, and he grinned. “Shannon.”
“Again.”
“Shannon.”
The look in his eyes was the same he’d worn that first morning they’d met. He was the predator, and she was his prey. She clutched his shirt and flipped their positions. He would soon learn sometimes things weren’t always what they seemed. While maintaining eye contact with him, she unbuckled his belt and opened the zipper of his pants. She reached in, wrapped her hand around him, and grinned. Her whole big-houses-small-dick theory was shot to hell.
“Again.”
“Shannon,” he growled low and buried his hands in her hair. “Shannon.”
“Perfect,” she cooed and knelt in front of him.
That the doormat needed a vacuuming registered for a brief second, soon replaced by what she was about to do. The hunted was about to become dinner.
She took him in her mouth and heard the sound of his head when it hit the door as he gasped her name.
Hearing him call out to her in the darkened hallway thrilled her. She was making love to a man: a viral, sexy, powerful man. She’d been wrong—Justin hadn’t destroyed her. She was alive after all.
She traveled her tongue along the shaft, enjoying the way he moaned with each pass. Some men liked having their testicles squeezed and some didn’t. There was no way to know except to try. As she slid her mouth around him, she cupped his balls in her hands and applied a slight pressure. His long moan indicated he belonged in the first group.
The revelation heightened her passion, and she worked his balls and scraped her teeth against the soft skin of his penis. That was all he needed, and soon she tasted the salty warmth she hadn’t realized she been craving.
He helped her up from her knees and held her. “You certainly come out swinging,” he said, his breaths coming fast as if he’d run a marathon.
She pressed her toes into the floor and brought her lips near his ear. “Need a drink?”
He returned his hands to her hair and placed a slow k
iss on her mouth. “Make it a double.”
“Be right back.”
Her feet obeyed her brain’s instructions and remained steady, allowing her to walk to the kitchen. It didn’t seem right to invite him up to her bedroom, which was still Justin’s even though he didn’t sleep in there anymore. Still, some rules were better left intact and the sanctity of the marriage bed was one of them.
She removed the bottle from the lower cabinet, being careful not to catch her finger again. The throbbing had stopped, which wasn’t a surprise—all her blood was in her groin.
Sanctity of the marriage bed. What an archaic thought. Her grandmother must be channeling into her. She didn’t have to think too hard about what her grandmother would say regarding her present activity. “You’re going to burn in hell’s fires,” she said out loud.
“Let’s burn together.”
St. John stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
She arched her neck, her fingers remaining firm around the bottle, and allowed her head to rest against his chest.
He moved his fingers over her, following the swell of her breasts and the soft mound of her belly. As quickly as the image of her out-of-shape body entered her mind, it vanished, replaced by a new and delicious realization—she was in St. John’s arms.
He untied the sash of her bathrobe and returned his hands to her breasts. The cotton nightgown offered no protection from his searing fingertips as he moved them in circles over the hard nipples.
She arched her head and moaned. The flames inside her raged. Glorious goddess, if he didn’t take her soon, she would melt under the intensity, becoming nothing more than a puddle at his feet.
He removed her bathrobe and placed it on the counter. Next, he slipped the straps of her nightgown from her shoulders and, helping her step free, he added it to the robe. He then cupped her breasts.
She covered his hands with her own and forced him to squeeze. He followed her lead until she couldn’t stand waiting. “Fuck me, St. John,” she said, forcing the words out between her rapid breaths.
He kissed the tender spot behind her ear. “Don’t worry. I plan on it.”
His hot breath opened the dam and warmth spilled from the lips of her groin, moistening the surrounding skin. Even her upper thighs didn’t escape the flow.
Wet fingertips played with her nipples, the skin becoming taut from his cooling saliva. When she trembled, he said, “Say my name.”
“St. John,” she moaned as he squeezed the erect tips.
He looped his left arm around her waist and kissed the spot where her neck and shoulder joined. “Perfect,” he said, moving his free hand between her legs.
“Again.”
She closed her eyes and let her head fall against his shoulder. “St. John.”
The hunter was in charge once again.
He found her center and stroked, slowly, as if to tease her. Like the waves under the moon, his finger controlled the ebb and flow of her orgasm. He brought her to the edge and then let her fall back. Her breaths were coming too fast. She was going to pass out. All she could do was hold his arm and gasp for air.
More fluid leaked from her, and he used it, extending her pleasure. He was the puppet master, and she was about to faint. Dear goddess, her heart was going to fly out of her chest.
“I can’t…” she gasped.
“Can’t what?” He continued driving her to a frenzy. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No, no.”
She couldn’t imagine having anything left to give since what he’d just said sent a tsunami down her inner thighs.
“Please, please, please,” she whispered. “Please.”
His arm muscles locked, and he held her tight as his finger picked up speed.
She cried out, and he slowed his momentum but not to a full stop, keeping her prisoner as her body shook with each additional pass of his fingers.
She slumped against him, her skin covered in perspiration. When her breathing returned to normal, he circled the tip again, sending her over the edge again. Their roles had switched; he, once again, was the hunter.
He turned her and drove his tongue into her mouth. “Can you handle more?” he asked, his lips on hers.
“More?”
“Yes, more.”
Her groin pulsed, keeping time with her heartbeats. “Yes please.”
“Good, because I am far from finished with you,” came his reply, ending with him stepping away.
He removed a foil packet from his back pants pocket and handed it to her. While he unzipped his pants, she removed the latex coil and, marveling again at his prowess, rolled the condom down the shaft. He lifted her onto the counter and opened her legs. Supporting the back of her head with his hand, he entered her.
The tight muscles of her vagina, long gone unused, pressed against him, threatening to bar entry. She opened her legs wider. She wanted every inch of him.
The rapid flow of his breath against her neck singed the tender skin, and she clutched his sweat-soaked shirt. A surge of electricity filled her lower abdomen, and she cried out.
He finished with a final thrust. His hand remained between the back of her head and the cabinet door and she held him, her legs wrapped around his hips, ankles linked.
“Damn,” she exhaled.
“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
He motioned to withdraw, but she shook her head. “Don’t.”
They remained in their embrace until Jasper decided enough was enough and whined.
“I think your dog is trying to tell us something,” St. John mumbled against her neck.
He pulled out, and she whined along with Jasper. When she saw his grin, she said, “Do you know your grin is lopsided?”
“So I’ve been told. Now stop talking and kiss me.”
She parted her lips for him, inwardly jumping for joy as her desire ramped up again.
“Your lips taste like a ripe peach,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of kissing them.”
He helped her down from the counter and held her robe open for her. While he closed the front, he swept his fingertips over her nipples, and her body responded with a delicious quiver. He grinned again and, taking hold of her right breast, surrounded the nipple with his mouth.
Each time his tongue tickled the tip, she moaned. He straightened and gripped her wrists over her head and moved his right hand between her legs. He toyed with the still-erect tip
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered into her mouth. “Beg me to stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” came her breathy response.
He released a stream of hot breath and insisted. “Beg me.”
She grinned. Someday, if she had the chance, he’d be the one begging, but she was more than happy to play it his way. “Please, St. John, I can’t take any more. Please, stop, please.”
“Again.”
He pressed three fingers against the swollen skin and rubbed.
“Please, I’m begging you. I…can’t—”
His kiss silenced her but didn’t prevent a rainbow of colors from exploding in her head—and body.
His arms still held her, not seeming to want to release their hold. Eventually, he asked, “Mind if I use your bathroom?”
She kept her head against him and moved it in an affirmative motion. “Yes. No. Whatever. Fine, use it. You know where it is. Help yourself.”
“You okay to stand on your own, or would you like me to carry you to the chair?”
“I’m fine.” She waved him away, closing her bathrobe in the process. With him out of the room, she removed a spray bottle from under the sink and spritzed the counter. After she finished, she placed two glasses on the clean surface and filled them with bourbon. Her nipples were still hard, as was the spot between her legs. The most time she’d ever climaxed in a row had been two, and St. John had gotten her there… How many times? She’d lost count. She prayed a whole many more were in their future.
&nb
sp; If there was a future.
Was this all she was going to get?
St. John walked back into the room, a wad of tissues in his hand.
Wearing a quizzical look, she asked, “Do you always keep your used condoms?”
He held up the wadded tissue and nodded. “How else do you think I hold onto my money? I’ll rinse this one out and use it again.”
“How about I supply next time?”
His silence told her everything she needed to know. She handed him one of the glasses and tapped it with hers. “Toast to a romping good time.”
St. John rubbed the back of his neck. “Shannon, this didn’t change anything. I’m not going to make your life with Justin more difficult. That bruise on your arm is an indication of what he’s capable of.” He sipped his drink, his grin long gone, and looked out the kitchen window and then at his watch. “It’s late, or should I say early? We should both get some sleep.”
“I’m going to divorce Justin,” she announced, maybe a little too loudly. Hopefully, she hadn’t woken her neighbors.
He sighed, long and slow, and then finished his drink.
She prepared herself for what was coming.
“Don’t divorce Justin because of me, Shannon.” He continued, adding words as hard as his expression. “Let’s get something clear: I don’t need a relationship nor do I want one. This—” He spread his hands. “—was just sex. Don’t go turning it into something it won’t ever be.”
She snorted and shook her head. “You’re a cocky prick, you know that?”
“I’m just saying—”
“Save it, St. John.” She folded her arms. “You can go now.”
He didn’t look like he intended on moving.
“What are you waiting for? Go,” she challenged.
He scratched at his chin. “Let me ask you something. Why is it you cower when it comes to Justin, but with me your claws come out?”
“My claws? You bastard. How I act around my husband is none of your business.” She softened her tone and added, “Please, leave. Is that better for you? I even said please.”
“Yeah, you’re big on politeness. Why are you so angry all of a sudden?”
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