by Louisa Trent
Not many, proving Steve was no masher. There was no need. With his virile looks, he could get any woman he wanted. Why on earth did he want her?
Probably because she had made herself so readily available, proven she was easy, having thrown herself at him in his bedroom.
To outdistance herself from that humiliation, Emily got back to work. Not too long later, the lobsters were nicely pegged, and because of Steve's instructions, her hands were unscathed.
Not so the rest of her.
A gentle touch on her shoulder caused her to flinch. "Ouch," she gasped.
"That hurt?"
"No ... yes ... some."
"You've got dark hair, but a fair complexion. It's an unusual combination, and an invitation for sunburn."
At Steve's astute observation she decided some fast-talking was in order. Nothing too inventive as both men and women colored their hair these days. It was the style. A fashion statement. And no big deal. "It's a dye job," she said breezily. "My natural color is an in-between shade, not quite black but deeper than brown. It's sort of mousy, I guess. That's why I decided to dye it, you know, to even out the tone."
"Really? Dark brown? Considering your complexion, I would have taken you for a natural blonde."
She forced out a laugh. "Is there such a thing? I mean, men often don't know the difference between bottle blond and real blond."
"There's one sure way for a man to tell."
There was no misunderstanding his meaning. And she was taken aback because Steve was never crude. In fact, she would have called him an old-fashioned man, conscious to the point of absurdity of what he perceived as a lady's refined sensibilities. They worked side by side in the garage, and his fingers were always getting nicked yet he rarely swore. And even when he did, it was only a mild cuss word, after which he generally apologized...
She had the distinct feeling she had just been issued a subtle warning, or at the very least, she had been placed on notice-if Steve found out she had lied about something as silly as her real hair color, he would wonder what else she had lied about.
Was Steve onto her?
She had walked right into a possible viper's den, thinking she could outwit his venom. Had the viper always known who she was? Had he been toying with her, stringing her along, before striking?
When Steve took her hand and started walking in a determined fashion toward the other side of the boat, her fear escalated. Did he mean to throw her overboard?
"Where are you taking me?"
"Geez, aren't you the suspicious one. I'm only getting the sun block." He removed a small bottle from a built-in medicine cabinet. "Turn around."
Faced the other way, she wouldn't be able to keep her eye on him, but what choice did she have but to do as instructed?
No choice.
She turned.
"This lotion will feel cold on your skin," he offered.
A cooling glob of gel was squirted on her shoulder.
Okay, maybe she had overreacted. Maybe he didn't intend to murder her. Maybe, after all, he was just a wealthy playboy trying to seduce her in an isolated spot out on the ocean where the only escape was a daunting swim to shore. Not exactly the honorable actions of a knight in shining armor, but not the motivations of a criminal either. Maybe Steve was just a spoiled guy out to get what he could...
What was she thinking?
Her only explanation was that fear and paranoia had taken control of her mind.
Seduce? Where was the need for seduction here? She had already agreed to a summer of fun, to an affair, to sex! Steve was simply taking her up on the deal they had already shaken hands on.
Hands. Wonderful, soothing, capable hands moved to the tops of her shoulders where they made small, circular sweeps that excited her nerve endings. His palms, slick with the oil, started at her nape and slid down her spine. He paused at the skinny bra fastener in the middle of her back.
Foreplay. A well-versed man's sexual technique. She was standing in front of him, practically naked, and burning up too and not entirely from the sun. By the time he undid her bikini, her breasts had started to ache. She crossed her arms over them, over the hardened nipples, finding some relief in the pressure. "I'm a little confused. Is this where I accidentally on purpose drop my top?"
"That's entirely up to you."
"But you're the expert. The boat. The lotion. The whole big romantic production..."
"I've never taken a woman out on a boat with me before. Besides, this is an old lobster tub, not nearly stylin' enough for romance. If I had wanted to get you in bed on the ocean today, I would have taken you out on my yacht. Now that's comfortable. All I'm out to do is protect your sensitive skin."
No sun block ever made could protect her from what she needed protecting from...
As Steve's large hands coated her lower back, the urge to give into her own wanton impulses cruelly tempted her. She fought that force within her, pushed it back with all her strength, tried to smother it with reason, with logic, with every bitter lesson that life had ever taught her, including her most recent refresher course with Mr. Fritz. Do not trust anyone!
"Trust me, angel. I'm not going to hurt you, and I won't let anyone else hurt you either."
God, but she wanted to trust him. She had been on her own for so many years, believing in no one but herself, depending upon no one but herself. She never knew her father, and her alcoholic mother had loved her but hadn't been able to care for her. There were no relatives, and so when her mother died of cirrhosis of the liver, the state had stepped in. Missing her mother, hating living with strangers, she ran away from the foster home placements, becoming one of the many runaways on the streets, a cast off, a throwaway kid, just another statistic flushed down the toilet. And so she had learned to be tough, to look out for Number One-no one was flushing her anywhere. Putting her best interests first was how she had survived.
Steve said quietly. "No expectations, no pressure. Let's just have a good time. I'm not jumping you on the sneak, if that's what you think."
No, he never would. Steve would never trick her or coerce her into having sex with him; he would make sure her eyes were wide open first.
Callused hands, which should have felt hard on her skin, were instead whisper-soft when he turned her around to face him. "I'm not a saint, angel. There was a period in my life where I didn't care much about anything, including myself. I partied pretty hard, and those parties included sex. Lots of sex. To fill the hole inside me."
A woman, she thought. Somewhere in his life there had been one woman who had mattered, one woman whom he had loved. The relationship was over, and that's why Steve had a hole inside him.
"Have you worked her out of your system?" she asked.
"You're just not letting me off the hook here, are you?" He sighed. "I don't know," he said, glumly. "Some days are rough. Other days are rougher."
"I'm sorry she hurt you, Steve."
"She didn't; circumstances did. Can't get through life without getting hurt," he said with a shrug. "I'm thirty-eight years old and I come with an assortment of dents and bruises."
Forgetting her fear ... forgetting her hold on her bathing suit top too ... she turned and touched his face. "Regardless of the hows and whys, I'm sorry for your pain."
With an arch of his jaw, he kissed her palm. "And I'm glad you came out with me on the water today. I enjoy your company."
An explicit undercurrent raced back and forth between them, the same kind of expectancy that flooded her senses every time they were together.
Hooded eyes surveyed her bared breasts, the thrusting pink nipples of which were perfectly aligned to his tanned chest. "Go topless if you want, but these cuties need protection," he whispered roguishly.
Oh, mercy. This was it. Showdown time. This was where he would lay on the charm, put the moves on her. To save her virtue, she could jump over the side and swim for shore. But since she couldn't swim, she would most likely drown before her toes touched down on sand
dunes. She didn't want to end up a bloated and half-naked corpse, washed up on somebody's beach blanket, especially since, practically speaking, she had very little virtue left to save. Apart from that, she had agreed to this with a shake of hands.
Speaking of hands, she loved his, and when Steve reapplied oil to his palms, she just about came-only an expression that, as she had never actually experienced an orgasm at anyone hands including her own.
"May I?" Steve asked
She nodded, too aroused to speak.
His hands smoothed over her small breasts, coating her cuties, hardened peaks and all. Her flesh was so hungry! In anguish, her thighs clenched against the gnawing sensation inside her.
Oh, she needed this! It was surprising how much she needed this. Because of her less than romantic introduction to sex, she had assumed that letting go with a man would prove difficult the second time around. But there no replay in her mind of the loss of her virginity, no uncertainty about what this was. Because this was Steve. He fed her need, but he didn't seduce. He teased her sexually, but he didn't trick. He had been upfront about wanting some fun, about being in the market for a no-hard-feelings-at the-end, summer affair. There was honesty in that. And realistically, temporary was all she had to offer too.
And wasn't it nice, she thought with a sigh, that she was reaping the rewards of his vast sexual experience, for cars were so obviously not Steve's only passion! If he was knowledgeable of auto bodies, he was a connoisseur when it came to the working of female bodies.
As he rubbed sunscreen onto her tummy, a finger dipping into her bellybutton, Emily realized she wanted his hand lower, between her thighs lower; suddenly, she wanted his fingers inside her. So he frolicked with naked women in his pool and so she didn't approve-they weren't talking love here; they were about lust.
Flinging her arms over Steve's wide shoulders, she went for it, giving into her need.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ordinarily, a close encounter with a set of cuties didn't turn him into a crazed animal, so Steve figured he could handle bringing Emily closer, just close enough so that the tips of her breasts brushed his bare chest when she exhaled. Now that her distended nipples actually grazed his pecs, he realized his mistake. He was playing with fire, and no way could he handle the heat of Emily. She was burning him up, setting him ablaze.
A pained growl rose in Steve's throat. Like he was some wild hairy beast, the mating instinct held him in its grip. Was it because it had been too long, because during his sexual abstinence he had forgotten the unique lushness, the soft silkiness that was woman? Or, did it go deeper?
Whatever the cause, the reason, the justification he gave himself, his hard-on wasn't going away. Pain wracked him, almost brought him to his knees. Was this the fun in the sun he had outlined for Emily?
This didn't feel like a good time to him. Already semi-erect-his condition for days-his cock now lanced against her belly and his aching balls, hung low and swollen, sought the comfort of her cleft.
Not being inside her hurt. But the pain of holding her close-but not nearly close enough-wasn't enough to keep him away. Like a masochist loves the whip, two hands tightening at her waist, he brought her nearer still.
"Shall I take off the thong?" she asked breathlessly.
"It's up to you," Steve replied, jaw tense, teeth gritted, fingers kneading her mostly exposed rump.
He hadn't planned on this happening, hadn't even really wanted this to happen, not on a lobster boat. But plainly, Emily needed some sweet loving. Something had to be done. Years before he had walked away from sex and never looked back but he couldn't walk away from Emily now, because with her, it wasn't about taking, it was about giving. He wanted to give her everything.
"It is up to me, Big Boy," she said, and lowered the bottom of her bikini to the deck.
It was a good quip, delivered with just the right amount of punk attitude. But the witty remark didn't wash with him. Emily was about to let him inside her body but she might just as well have been wearing a suit of armor for all the intimacy she allowed. Cleverness could only mask so much. He saw through her defenses, and what he saw was everything he had never been exposed to. It made him sick what he saw, and still he couldn't back off and run like hell before he got too involved; too late for that, he was already involved.
Keeping his gaze fixed on her gray eyes, he slid his hand down between her legs, to that most private area of a woman's body.
And met smooth skin.
"No pubic hair," said keeping all inflection from his voice. "Any reason why?" He whispered the question in her ear, his lips nuzzling the lobe.
"Just like a man. Bitchin' already, and we haven't even fucked."
"I'm not complaining," he answered, keeping his voice mild.
"Some types get off on it," she said, her tone tough and belligerent, her fragile hands knotted around his neck. "Some guys like the ingénue look. You know, so they can do the daddy routine. Dole out spankings along with the lollypops. You gonna spank my bottom, Stevie? Or do you just want me to lick your lollypop?"
"Neither." His color rose. "And I don't go for young girls."
"Oh, no?" She gave a toss to her black hair. "If you say so..."
"Early twenties is as young as I go, and even that is pushing propriety. "
"Propriety. Now there's a dated idea! But I bet you like seeing everything at once, don't you? Since my cunt is bald, there won't be any surprises. I don't think you're the sort who likes surprises. What's your pleasure? You want me to jerk you off with my hand? Or do you want me to go down on you? You said you wanted sex-does giving head count as sex anymore?"
He wasn't anybody's idea of a maiden aunt, and what was spewing forth from her mouth wasn't anything he hadn't heard a million times before, or said the same amount of times himself, but he talked gutter strictly with the guys. Or to himself. Never in polite company. The garbage she was spewing forth made him sick to his stomach because he didn't think it was totally an act. Some, yeah. Not all. Deep down, Emily was angry. He knew how that went. His wife's death had angered him pretty good. But he was a male, raised on the docks, and his rage didn't seem quite so obscene. He would do anything to take her anger away, to soothe her hurt, to make it all better. Sex on a fish-stinking lobster boat was not going to cut it. Emily needed a leisured loving, not a fast fuck.
"There's no reason to talk street with me. You're safe, okay? And as to my pleasure ... well ... my pleasure is to make you scream."
Her gaze dipped to the decent-sized bulge in his denim shorts. "You think you can?"
Good thing at thirty-eight he had been around the block a few times or he would've been deeply offended. "I know I can. But pleasuring you is all I intend to do. Nothing more. Does the thought of pleasure scare you, angel?"
Sad gray eyes darted over the side.
Christ! Was she thinking about throwing herself overboard? Did a woman on the run since childhood know how to swim?
His heart pounded as adrenaline pumped. Had he misread the signs? Did she want this or not?
"I'm up for it," she answered.
"Spell it out, angel, so I'll know. Tell me what you're up for."
Her look was fierce; her voice was strident, militant, not giving an inch. "I need sex, Steve."
Not him-sex.
"Then open your legs and I'll give you what you need," he said quietly.
Emily spread her thighs, her breasts moving shallowly as she tried to control her breathing. Never had he come across anyone as determined as Emily to put on a show of bravado. He wished she understood there was no reason to act when she was with him.
He felt Emily's wince when he slipped an oiled finger up inside her.
She wasn't a virgin. Neither was she a hustler; her vagina, as dry as the sea is wet, protested his careful entry. A one finger digital penetration was almost too much. Two would have caused her discomfort.
He concentrated on romancing her clit. "Just relax, angel."
To ge
t her to do that, he took her mouth, courting her lips until they opened for him and his tongue was inside. After almost losing it in his bedroom, with an audience no less, he had to stay cool. One of them had to maintain control, stay rational. Tough to do, because when Emily kissed, she kissed with everything she had. And just like before, the kiss was no act. She was purring, pulling him closer, generally making him want to forget everything but sinking into her.
Emily was now slick, dripping with excitement, a reservoir of wet heat. But, unaccountably, her legs had also started to close. Why did she resist what he offered?
He broke the kiss, pulling away from her clinging mouth. "No, angel. Keep your legs apart."
Steadying her with one hand, his other hand still on her slit, he hooked a toe to a crate and dragged it over. "Your foot goes up on top of this."
She hesitated.
"With your foot raised, your pussy will be wide open," he explained, his language frank and honest. "If that makes you uncomfortable, we'll stop right now..."
"I don't want to stop," she said. Her small breasts shifting, the little bounce driving him closer and closer to the edge of control, she raised her leg, placing her foot high atop the crate.
Her pretty pink flesh, moist and pouty, was so open he could see drops of dew dotting the folds, and his confidence nose-dived. He didn't know if he had enough restraint to give her what she needed, because never had he wanted a woman as badly as he wanted this woman.
Sucking up his own desperation, he gave himself over to pleasuring Emily.
And learned the concept of pleasure was not hardwired the same way in her head as it was in her body.
Her body was on an all-systems go, and in a big way. But, man, her brain was on an all-alert shut down; she fought the climax, tooth and nail.
Until it started to happen. Then her body took over. He could feel the exact moment her inhibitions let go. Writhing and whimpering, she flung her arms around his neck in a chokehold.