Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  Steve applied pressure to her arm. "Nothing doing. You're not going anywhere."

  "But to deceive your parents like this. They're so dear! I hate lying to them."

  "It's not a lie. We are having an affair."

  "Not a real affair. Not a love affair. This is a business relationship. That's different. I'll do whatever you want, but..."

  "Good," he said, giving her arm a little squeeze. "What I want to do is make-out on the beach. The Gallagher men are a hot-blooded crew. A little session on the beach will go a long way to prove to my family that we're in deep, mutual heat. "

  Emily examined her new purple flip-flops, patted her second-hand dress. What clothes will do for a woman! She was hardly a clotheshorse, but she had longed to wear something different from the same dreary tee-shirt and jeans. For the first time in weeks, she actually felt pretty. The way Steve looked at her also helped.

  Raising her eyes, Emily smiled at Steve. "If making out will set your family's minds to rest..."

  "It will," Steve said, stopping at a small cottage near the water, away from the Gallagher's gathering but close enough for everyone on the lawn to see them.

  He gave her a huge wink, placed his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her cheek.

  She giggled.

  His jaw lifted. "What's so funny?"

  "I've never made-out before."

  His jaw lowering once more, he kissed her throat. "No?"

  She hiked her chin to give him better access. "No." Foreplay had not preceded her first and only sexual encounter. At least, not as far as she knew. She was a virgin to making out.

  "Open your mouth for me," he whispered. "Let me in."

  When she did, their tongues met.

  Emily swayed into the kiss, feeling the heat of Steve's firm lips all the way down to her pussy.

  Her wet pussy. That's what foreplay did for a girl. At least, that's what Steve's foreplay did for her.

  "I have to take a business trip," he murmured, lifting his head. "While I'm gone, you'll stay in my Boston condo."

  "Are you sure, Steve? I could stay on the Cape and work on the car."

  "I won't leave you alone here. The security in my Boston condo is impenetrable, and since you say you're in trouble, that's the kind of setup you need. Besides, while I'm gone, there'll be places in Boston you can shop."

  The pawnshop where she had hawked Leonard Fritz's gift was in Boston. She would have another paycheck by then, but it wouldn't be enough to get the brooch back. For sentimental reasons, she wanted the return of that present. "I would rather have money than a shopping spree," she said in a small voice. "For the sex, I mean. I would prefer cash to clothes."

  His eyes narrowed. "I don't like it when you say things that make you sound like a hooker."

  "I am taking money for sex," she insisted, the glow from being in Steve's company and having his full attention directed at her dimming a bit. "That is what a hooker does."

  Hooker. The word was out of its bag.

  Steve didn't like her sounding like a hooker. But he was the one who had brought up the nature of their agreement. He had only spoken his thoughts aloud.

  And his thoughts were undeniable. She was his paid pussy for the summer. He had lost the wife he loved, he needed sex, and so he had procured it.

  "I'll try not to sound like a hooker in front of your family. I promise to watch my language," she said quietly.

  The bad language was part of her act. Normally, her speech was no cruder than any person in her age group, maybe even less so. And in her capacity as Mr. Fritz's assistant, her manner of speaking had always been professional. A good thing too, because her professional telephone manner is why Steve hadn't connected her to her former employer or to the person he had spoken to on the phone. They'd had a lengthy conversation, which she had really enjoyed. Steve didn't relate foul-mouthed Lee Packet to that poised woman on the other end of the telephone line.

  He dragged his knuckles down her cheek. "What are you thinking about, angel?"

  "That you never talk about her, about your wife."

  "Jen was a long time ago. We had been married for not quite a year. I was twenty when she died. Now, it's like it never happened. I forget I was ever married." Another pause, longer this time. "Aw, hell. Who am I kidding? My Jen's death just about ripped me in two."

  He looked away. "I've tried to move on. I started all over again after Jen's death, made myself over, but still... Listen, I don't want to talk about this."

  There were things in her life she wanted to forget too, so she understood Steve's reluctance to bring the pain to the surface. She also understood his need to reinvent himself; in essence, she had done the same thing. Sometimes a person needs a new beginning to get it right. Sometimes pain is the catalyst. And Steve wasn't paying her to listen-that isn't what they were about. What they were about was sex

  Steve led her to a small cottage near the edge of the water. "This is where my folks lived when they were first married. Just two rooms-a bedroom and kitchen. It's used as a guesthouse when there's an overflow of company up at the house. It's empty this weekend."

  Steve opened the pink door, drawing her in after him.

  Emily spun around, taking in the two tiny rooms. Everything that could be stenciled with hearts and flowers was stenciled with hearts and flowers, including the canopied bed in the middle of the floor. "It's so tiny, just like a dollhouse."

  He ran his thumb over her bottom lip. "The furniture isn't dollhouse size."

  She looked over at the bed. "Won't your family think...?"

  "My family will think what I want them to think, which is I couldn't wait to get you alone." He touched her chin with his thumb. "You're so damned pretty."

  His dark eyes never leaving her face, Steve brought her into his arms. Then, everything went out of focus as he rubbed his lips against her lips, back and forth, until her mouth opened to him, until her tongue stroked his tongue, until she needed more than a kiss.

  "I'm dying to touch you again," he said, his nose stroking her nose, his mouth within a breath of her own.

  While he stroked her small breasts, his fingertips moving back and forth across the jutting nipples, Emily closed her eyes, allowing herself permission to feel those stroking fingertips. And she knew then, as passion flared hot and insistent, that sleeping with Steve would never be just a simple business agreement.

  And it could never be anything more.

  An "Mmm" escaped her slightly parted mouth as an ache that started at the tip of each breast found its way to her loins where it intensified to need, wet and hot and greedy. On the lobster boat, he had brought her to climax with his hand. Her very first climax. She wanted him to touch her like that again, to pleasure her again. She wanted to pleasure him the same way. Why wouldn't he let her?

  When Steve cupped her breasts, one in each hand, the aching need inside her exploded. Emily gasped, her resolve not to fall in love with Steve Gallagher turning to mush.

  His hands were roving now, over her back. He drew the gauzy lavender dress upwards with one hand while the other tunneled under her dress, up the back of her leg to her thigh. He stopped when he came to her bare bottom.

  "You're not wearing underpants."

  She couldn't afford a bra, and after washing out her panties every night in the sink, the elastic had finally given way, her single pair of briefs falling apart. She wouldn't tell him that though. She had her pride. "No, I'm not wearing underpants."

  "No bra either."

  "I'm sure you already knew that." His hands had just been all over her breasts.

  "You're naked under the dress."

  "Yes," she agreed.

  "Sexy," he growled. "So damned sexy."

  And then he was kissing her again, his tongue stroking the interior of her mouth again, and she understood what real want was all about.

  He pulled away. "Take off the dress and get on the bed."

  On the bed. As on top, alone. Not under the sheets, together.
Steve was a man who knew what he wanted, sexually. She was a woman without much experience. Certainly not the kind of worldly experience that would satisfy a sexually sophisticated man like Steve. And the little cottage, well it was an adorable little dollhouse, but not very private, especially since both drapes and shades were open. Anyone, a passerby on the beach, a member of his family ... a gunman out to kill her ... could look inside the windows and see them.

  But she couldn't tell him any of that. She couldn't involve him any more in her problems than he was already, for to do so was to endanger him. Better he know as little as possible. After all, Steve Gallagher was only a bystander in the wreck of her life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "You have an athletic body," Steve told Emily. "A dancer's natural grace. I enjoy seeing you nude."

  There was more to this than sex, more at stake than just The Cuzin. He needed Emily to trust him, to come to him with her secrets. That meant stripping her naked and building her back up, the construction under the guiding hand of his tutelage. Emily was a young woman in need of a sense of security in her life, some limits set. Steve knew he could give her both.

  For all that she was twenty-two and had been on her own for most of her life, for all that she could survive on the mean streets, there was still a lot of the little girl in her. She wasn't a virgin, but she was too unsure about sex for her to have slept with a lot of guys. No way had she ever been a hooker. She was still much too bashful about her body to have prostituted, though she tried very hard to disguise that shyness in her tough babe routine. The act didn't wash with him.

  "Take off the dress," he repeated. Firmly. "At the window," he added.

  Emily hesitated before gliding gracefully to the floor to ceiling window. He could tell she didn't want to strip down in the full glare of light, but it was necessary.

  Emily wasn't wearing underwear. He had known that immediately upon seeing her today. But now that the sun was behind her, her lack of underwear was very apparent. Her nipples were enormous and hard; they poked through the lavender gauzy stuff of the cheap dress she wore. The dress was second-hand, of course, and he wanted it off her.

  She started to pull the dress off over her head.

  "No," he ordered. "Turn around and face the glass."

  Regardless of her cute blush, he wasn't about to relent. Emily had to give him her full trust, her total confidence. She needed to understand that his dominance assured her safety.

  He watched while she drew the dress over her head and tossed it on the floor. Nude, she stood looking out onto the beach, slender arms crossed protectively over her bared breasts.

  "Hands at your sides," he directed.

  With a nod, she uncovered herself.

  He sighed. She was such a pretty thief, and considering the circle she ran in, Steve was surprised that this, that a man taking charge of her, hadn't happened before now.

  "Is there anyone out there on the beach?" Steve asked.

  "A huge man walking an even huger dog. A Great Dane, I think. Oh, God, Steve he's walking in this direction. He's at the breakers now."

  Good. If he was at the breakers, even if he jogged the rest of the way down the beach, they had at least two full minutes of privacy before the guy with the dog came close enough to see inside the window. Not a lot of time for this, Emily's first lesson in submission, but enough.

  "Touch your breasts," he ordered.

  Her hands, both of them, went to her tits. Emily had the prettiest little tits. He wouldn't change them for all the fake cleavage in the world. "Fondle the nipples."

  Her fingers caressed the hard points, not expertly, not enough to tease a watching man, but satisfactorily. He would teach her later how he wanted it done.

  Steve counted off thirty seconds. "Open your legs."

  "But Steve-the man with the dog is coming this way." Her voice contained horror.

  "Do it," he said calmly, though inside he was churning. Would Emily trust him enough to do this?

  Her thighs split.

  He pushed for more. "Place the heel of your foot up on the sill."

  Lowering her chin, she did as instructed. Balanced on one shapely leg, she spread herself. She was crying. Not a lot, just a little. She would cry more before he was finished.

  He didn't let up. "A finger goes inside."

  Weeping softly, she inserted a finger between the lips of her sex.

  "Nice and deep," he said, firmly. "All the way up."

  When her digit was in, all the way in-he could see her reflection in the glass-he said, "Masturbate. "

  He timed her. At ninety seconds, she was in the throes of pre-climax, uncaring about anything but encroaching pleasure, oblivious to the dog walker outside.

  Steve walked to the window. "Stop," he said.

  "B-but I'm so close," Emily sobbed in frustration.

  "I'll give you what you need in a minute," he said, and placed Emily behind him. As the dog-walker passed by the window, he would see only a threatening-looking mug silhouetted in the glass.

  One glimpse, and the man fled, dragging his yelping attack dog with him.

  "Funny, I often have that impact on people." Steve shrugged. "But if that man didn't take off, if he knew you were here, came to the door, tried to get in, tried to get at you, I would have taken care of him. Whatever the reason, whatever the provocation, no one will harm you when you're with me. I give you my word. Do you believe me?"

  "I believe you." She sobbed harder.

  "If a man, any man, puts his hand on you while you're with me, he'll bring back an empty sleeve. Do you believe me?"

  Her shoulders heaved. "I believe you."

  "I can protect you."

  "I believe you."

  "Good. Now get on the bed, and know that if I ever find the muthafucka you're so frightened of, he'll regret the day he was born."

  A look ... relief ... gratitude ... fear ... tightened her features for a split second, and then the look disappeared, her expression once again back to normal. Without saying anything, Emily backed up to the bed and reclined on the homey quilt.

  He reached out and opened her legs. All the way.

  He took his time looking. Then, one hand on each knee, he tenderly bent Emily's long legs back to her belly.

  "I want to see it all," he told her.

  Allowing her no place to hide, no modesty, he carefully stuffed a plump pillow beneath Emily's buttocks to lift her hips higher.

  In the open and raised position, she could keep no secrets from him-at least not the anatomical kind.

  His hand came down on the protuberance formed by the pubic bones, his thumb stroking lower into the genitals.

  Emily's cunt. Her pretty pink cunt, as delicate as a rose, the petals just as tight.

  "We're not having sex yet. My fly stays zipped. But I want you to know in advance that my meat is hung like any man's meat is hung. I'm not huge, but I am thick. Kind of heavy. The head is ... well ... it's smaller than your standard-sized doorknob but not by much. It's a big swallow and can take a woman by surprise the first few times."

  He ran his finger around Emily's opening. "I've never used my cock as a weapon, never used my cock in anger, never fucked a woman to cause her pain deliberately, never put it to a woman unless the woman either wanted it, or was being well paid to take it. Why the hell would I want to? Why the hell would any man want to?"

  To make Emily feel more secure, he had to fuck her as soon as possible. She was running scared, and he needed her to run to him, not away from him. He walked a fine line between doing that and rushing her. If Emily felt cornered, she would split.

  His voice was thick, hoarse, a strangled grate of a whisper. "This is beautiful." His finger dipped into the pink slit before him, the cunt spread open and pillow-raised.

  Her back arched up off the bed, her tits pointing, her hands fisting the quilt. She purred as he began the strokes.

  Inexperienced, but willing-that was Emily. The tears had dried on her face, and she w
as more than letting him; she was urging him on. First though, he had to give her some ground rules. "I'll want it when and where I want it. Understand?"

  "Yes, Steve."

  "Since you work at the garage, that shouldn't be a problem during the day. We'll work out the nights as we go. Any objections so far?"

  "No," she groaned, mouth agape.

  "Good. Now, about this." He put his free hand on her bare mons. "Let it grow back. I don't like it bare. I particularly don't like it shaved. My guess is you couldn't afford a wax job, right?"

  "Yes. But..."

  "No argument. I want to be able to run my fingers through your pelt."

  "Yes, Steve."

  "Good. Now as to the kinds of sex I want-the answer is everything. I don't like ordering a la carte. I want the full menu. Any problems with anything so far?"

  "No."

  "Great." He withdrew his finger from her cunt and skimmed it slowly along the crack in her ass.

  She jumped.

  He smiled. For all her big talk, when it came to sex Emily was a bit of a prude.

  He wasn't.

  His dick clamoring for a piece of the action, he circled the little hole. Christ, he couldn't wait for that seductive dimple to belong to him.

  When he paid, he always insisted on anal. Mostly anal, as a matter of fact. With anal, there was no comparison to the innocent lovemaking he had shared with his wife.

  Sweat broke out on his brow. It was not easy to wait, but he had to; earning Emily's trust would take some time.

  "This is on the menu too." The tip of his pinkie finger rimmed the ring. "I happen to enjoy anal, and since you already said you give it, that shouldn't present a problem, right?"

  "No problem whatsoever," she said, her muscles clenched tight.

  "Relax, angel. I'm just checking you out. See how you're made. Okay?" He quick slipped just the tip of his pinkie finger inside.

  Emily's lashes fluttered like crazy.

  "Like it?"

  "Yes," she said on a sigh.

  "Yeah, some women really do. I think you'll be one of them." He was trembling when he withdrew his finger, wanting her so bad his teeth rattled. And forget about his dick, that poor bastard was really suffering.