Lost Angel

by Louisa Trent

  But he was a big boy, and he could handle Emily's code of honor. "I'm taking you to the beach for a picnic and a swim."

  "Okay. I'll wear the bikini I wore lobstering."

  "Did I tell you to wear a swimsuit, Angel?" he said belligerently.

  "No..."

  "Then don't make assumptions."

  Emily's fork dropped to the table. "Fuck off, Gallagher. I don't shake my ass because you tell me to. You don't own me..."

  Funny thing about Emily's memory, she had these convenient lapses whenever it suited her.

  Well, this particular lapse didn't suit him. "For the summer, I do own you. That's our deal. The one you agreed to. Another thing, I told you no foul language. If you want to talk dirty in bed, that's fine. Outside of bed, I expect you to conduct yourself like a lady."

  "Don't yell at me because you've got a hair across your ass. If you need to get laid, say so. No need to turn into a prick because your balls hurt."

  Steve placed his fork carefully beside his plate. "Soap or a spanking?" he asked politely.

  "You're just bitchin' at me because you've got a hard-on the size of Texas and you won't let me take care of it for you." She crossed her arms under her tits, shelving the small mounds until they plumped up and out. "I'm an adult. I can damn well swear if I want to damn well swear."

  "When you start acting like a woman, not a little girl, I'll start treating you like an adult, not a child."

  Steve dropped his napkin over the bulge under his zipper. "I've warned you repeatedly about the swearing. I don't like it and I won't tolerate it." Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. "And go wash off that makeup. You look like a whore."

  "I am a whore. When are you letting me do what you're paying me to do?" She cocked a brow at him. "How about right now, Steve, hmm? You keep mentioning a spanking-how about we do that?"

  "Keep this line of conversation up, and I just might," he warned.

  A warning she ignored. "How heavy into S&M are you? I mean-are we talking a few stripes on my ass with a leather belt, or are we talking whips and chains? You into mild mastery with silk cords and velvet ropes or do you bring on the heavy artillery, go in for clamps and dog collars? Don't get me wrong-it's all covered under our agreement. I'm just curious about what sorts of deviant sexual practices to expect."

  "This has nothing to do with sex, deviant or otherwise," he blustered, feeling his cock go wrench-hard. She was getting a rise out of him, and in more ways than one.

  "Oh, I think it does. And that's cool. Whatever tents your boxers."

  Shit! His erection was tenting his boxers. The extent of her power over him was humiliating. He was crazy with lust. Sex had never been this wild before for him, this intense. With Jen, the lovemaking had been innocent and sweet. His wife had been a good girl. Hadn't sworn, drank, worn makeup, or come to the breakfast without a robe and nightie. His bride had known nothing about S&M, and would have been scandalized if she had known.

  Not Emily. Nothing scandalized his lost angel.

  Steve pushed the card table aside. "Hike up that undershirt you've got on."

  "Sure thing." Emily pulled the soft white cotton tee-shirt to her tiny waist.

  "Put your heels on the chair and spread your legs."

  "Why didn't you just say you wanted to see my cunt?"

  "Do-not-use-that-word."

  With a roll of gray eyes, Emily did as she was told. "I'm sorry. I forgot we weren't in the bedroom. You've got some fuckin' arbitrary rules, you know that, Steve? It's difficult keeping track of 'em all."

  Her cunt was wet, beautifully wet and he was spike-hard.

  He patted his lap. "Ten spanks."

  Emily rose from the chair in one graceful move. Her body as supple as a cat thief, she draped herself over his erection, her bare ass raised.

  His arm lifted. His palm came down...

  Softly. Gently. A delicate, reverent, worshipful caress.

  The skin on Emily's bottom was smooth and satiny. He sighed at the heart-shaped prettiness of her.

  "Is it too soon?" he asked, hoped ... pleaded ... begged, tenderly circling the lips of her pussy with his middle finger, knowing the mastering was all on her side. "Should I wait?"

  "You wait, and I'll turn you over my knee."

  Emily was such a tough little thing!

  He levered her up off his lap so he could unzip. "Take off the damn undershirt," he rasped.

  "Now, we're talking." The white cotton was whipped off over her head.

  He crooked a finger. "C'mere."

  He took her onto his lap again. This time, straddling him, face to face. "Hurry!" she ordered.

  "Come down on top of it carefully. And only take as much as you can comfortably. You're still swollen."

  "Fuck careful. I want it all."

  Steve closed his eyes, rapture taking hold, as his greedy angel took all of his engorged cock, every last inch.

  * * * *

  Emily looked pretty, softly feminine, in the same gauzy lavender dress she had worn to his family's barbecue. Unable to resist temptation, Steve one-handed the steering wheel and pulled Emily closer to him on the truck's front seat.

  Her breast disappeared under his palm, reminding him once again of her dainty proportions, her fragility ... of how he should let her recover before taking her again.

  Only he couldn't wait. And that wasn't like him. Christ sakes, it was only two hours since the last time!

  He couldn't forget how wet and silky she'd been in the garage. Or how he'd pumped fast, and thrust hard, to assuage the torment of wanting her. And how when he had exploded inside her, everything else, like taking precautions against pregnancy, faded to nothingness. Inside her, he lost himself to everything except carnal sensation.

  He didn't want this. Fucking, yes. Good-time sex, hell yeah. Explosive sex, obsessive sex, addictive sex-no thanks!

  "Unbutton the dress," he whispered, his vocal cords so tight he could scarcely get the words out.

  She started working the buttons. "All the way?"

  "Yeah. All the way. And you better not be wearing underpants. I told your no panties unless you ask permission first."

  "I'm not wearing panties, Steve. I'm naked under the dress."

  The lavender gauze gaped down the front, and pink-tipped tits popped out, then a concave belly, but her lap remained covered.

  "Your cunt-I can't see your cunt," he said, about to explode in frustration.

  As cars whizzed by on the narrow Cape Cod road, Emily parted the dress over her thighs

  Not enough. It wasn't nearly fucking enough!

  "Separate your legs so I can see it." The order was as coarse as sandpaper.

  When she parted her thighs, he lost it.

  "Take off the damn dress," he barked. He was whacked. Totally whacked. And he couldn't help it.

  Her dress came off, and Emily sat naked in the front seat of his truck, her thighs open.

  One-handing the steering wheel, he cupped her tits, groped her belly, his fingers spreading the lips of her sex.

  "Fuck!" he growled, and yanked on the steering wheel, pulling the truck off road.

  "Get your feet up on the seat! Do it. Now!"

  Her shoes dropped, her heels came up, his fingers pushed inside.

  "Please, Steve," she panted, squirming on the seat, lifting her pelvis toward his questing fingers, letting him do whatever he wanted, both of them out of their heads in lust. "Oh, God, please, please, please."

  "There's a private spot up ahead. No one will bother us."

  Down the narrow deserted dirt road, he braked, parking the truck under a tree. Without saying a word, his mouth came down hard on her mouth as he moved to the center of the seat, hauling her naked, squirming body over him, her thighs parted over his lap.

  "Tell me if it gets to be too much," he said low against her clinging mouth, his fingers inside her, his thumb rubbing the clit.

  She bucked in his arms. "Oh, yes," she said frantically, clawing at his s
houlders, bringing bring him closer, riding his lap while they kissed.

  They kissed until their mouths bruised from the kissing, and then they were too far into it to kiss any more. Emily was writhing, making incoherent little sex sounds; he was about to come in his jeans.

  His finger feathered the erotic crevice between two halves of a very seductive whole. He circled the dainty puckered opening.

  Emily's lids went heavy with honest passion.

  Steve thought of all the debauchery in his past, all the women whose faces he couldn't remember, whose names he had never bothered to get. He had done it all. With one woman. With two. With more, taking turns. This is all this was, just a return to sexual activity after a few years of abstinence. This was not about needing every part of Emily that she would let him have, every truth she would willingly give him.

  Steve settled Emily back into her own seat, and while the roar of lust thundered in his loins, grabbed the blanket he had packed for the picnic, and threw himself out of the truck.

  He was a wealthy and sexually experienced man, with a huge luxury house that included a huge luxurious bedroom that included a huge pack of brand-new condoms, the luxury kind. Yet, the most erotic moments of his life had been spent on top of a narrow, army-navy store sleeping bag on a bare plywood floor in an unfinished loft, in a garage, and now here in a beat-up truck.

  But it was only lust. And lust was temporary in nature. Lust only lasted so long before it burned itself out. Love was different. Love lasts forever. Love is what he'd had with Jen, his beautiful wife, the fragile woman he had married and still loved beyond the grave.

  Steve opened the tailgate, spreading the blanket double thick on top to cushion the metal, then went and got Emily. He carried her to the back of the truck, bending her belly down over the tailgate.

  "Open your legs," he said, and unzipped.

  This time, he would master the need, the ache, the terrible want. He would prove to himself that this was just sex.

  He entered her swiftly, completely, driving up into her wet heat, back to front, going deep, pumping fast, shouting his throat hoarse, crying out, over and over. And Emily came again and again and again. For him. With him. How would he ever let her go come September?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  As they walked naked, side-by-side down the beach-rose lined path to the ocean, Emily felt Steve's gaze, as hot as the sun, on her flesh. Was he thinking about their torrid lovemaking of a few short minutes ago?

  Rounded on her belly over the truck's tailgate, out in the open, completely nude, Steve had held her in his sexual spell. She simply didn't care who might walk by and see them. Shuddering and shaking behind her, he had withdrawn from her vagina at the last minute, climaxing against her buttocks in a hot, wet spurt, an eruption of fluids seeming to have no end. She understood why he pulled out, and though she appreciated his safeguarding her against pregnancy, she wondered why he hadn't worn a condom instead...

  "I'm keeping you naked all day." Steve's palm smoothed over her bottom. "I brought sunscreen, and there are shade trees where we'll picnic. Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't get burned."

  She wasn't worried. Not even a little. She knew Steve would look out for her. After being on her own for years, it was wonderful letting go, having someone else take charge of things for a change. This was the happiest she had ever been in her life. But like all things, the happiness came with a price tag.

  Her self-respect had taken a hit. She wasn't feeling so good about herself. The money. She didn't want to take money from Steve for sex.

  "Take a deep breath," the man at her side ordered.

  She inhaled deeply, as directed.

  "Smell the ocean in the air?" he asked.

  Nodding, she smiled. "I love the sea. The Cape is a wonderful place to live, even with all the tourists. Thank you for taking me here today."

  As they neared the water, Steve kept her close to his side, one hand resting on her lower back, work-hardened fingers riding the first swell of her buttocks; his other hand held the picnic basket and blanket.

  "Only townies come here," he offered. "This stretch of shoreline is pretty secluded."

  Naked singles and couples walked along the water's edge, collecting shells, watching gulls playing, enjoying the sun without the hindrance of clothes.

  "Nudists have used this beach for years. I always wanted to take Jen here, but she was too modest to get naked out of doors. When we got married, I figured she would lose her shyness quick enough. But I was gone a lot from home. Fishing for weeks at a time. Anyway, we never did come here. Now you, you're a nudist at heart, aren't you?"

  Emily had always considered herself reasonably modest, but with Steve, nudity felt so natural, she just didn't feel shy.

  She shrugged. "I'm not uncomfortable naked."

  Steve placed the blanket and basket under a shade tree. "Glad to hear that. I'll take you down to the water now," he said, slinging an arm around her shoulders.

  They walked naked into the water together, splashing and touching and kissing their way to a sandbar that was not too terribly far from shore, where the water was shallow enough to be sun-warmed and where a non-swimmer like herself needn't be afraid. She wasn't frightened of anything when she was with Steve.

  "The salt water should help the soreness," he said against her lips.

  "Soreness?"

  His hand moved to her pussy, and she immediately opened to him.

  "Soreness here," he said, a large finger gently penetrated her. "Are you too swollen to take me again?"

  Emily looked around. "We'll be seen, Steve."

  "Do you mind? I'll wait if you insist..."

  But Steve didn't want to wait; Steve wanted to make love at the edge of the sun-warmed ocean. "I don't mind Steve. You don't have to wait."

  Desire making her dizzy, she sank with Steve into the shallow waves. As he came over her, his smiling face blocking the sun, there was only Steve. Only this. She was about to come again, about to scream her release, and in wordless abandonment, she gave herself to him completely, knowing Steve only wanted fun from her.

  What would he do if she also gave him her love?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  "I'm taking you out tonight, Angel. Someplace nice, where I can show you off," Steve told her while he tried to pry loose the spare tire from its locked compartment in the Dusenberg.

  "Man, I give up!" declared the normally patient Steve. "Who knew I wouldn't get the blasted key for this compartment when I bought the car?"

  Apart from their picnic on the secluded beach, they hadn't left the garage in the last two days. Between longer and longer sessions of lovemaking, they worked on the antique car. Their time together had been very special, very private, just the two of them...

  That's the way she wanted it kept. For all she knew, there was a gunman in town looking for her. "If you don't mind, I'd rather stay in tonight." She couldn't say more or he would become suspicious. The only way to keep Steve out of her troubles was to keep him in the dark.

  Steve nodded. "Okay, but no pizza. I'll do the cooking and we'll eat up at the house," he said, closing the Dusenberg's hood. "That's enough aggravation for today. I'll have a locksmith make another key for that compartment when we return from Boston."

  She frowned. "When do we leave for Boston?"

  "First thing tomorrow morning." Steve wiped his hands on a rag. "I bought you a gift. I left it upstairs in the loft on the sneak. Meet me up at the house..." He checked his watch. "...in an hour. I should have dinner ready by then." He bent, kissed her cheek, then left the garage.

  The presents in her life had been few and far between. And because any gift from Steve would be a precious reminder of their time spent together this summer, she raced upstairs.

  A shopping bag from an exclusive dress store in downtown Falmouth waited for her on top of her sleeping bag. "WEAR ME," commanded a note taped to the handle.

  Biting her lip, Emily hugged the fancy red bag to he
r, and without looking inside, hurried to shower.

  * * * *

  "Dinner was delicious. You're a wonderful cook, Steve."

  "It was only steak on the grill, baked potatoes, and salad," he said modestly, escorting her from the dining room into the living room.

  "You look beautiful tonight," he whispered into her ear as he led her to the sofa.

  She wore Steve's gift-a slinky silver dress that looked and fit like a slip, and slid like water over her body when she moved. She wore nothing underneath, because she had nothing to wear. On her feet were silver sandals with impossibly skinny, impossibly high heels. Just like a man to pick the most impossibly uncomfortable shoes in the store, she thought, trying not to totter.

  "Champagne and strawberries for dessert," Steve apprised her, removing the frosty bottle from its silver bucket.

  After the cork was popped, Steve filled her glass to the brim.

  Because of her mother's alcoholism, Emily didn't drink. But when Steve took a seat beside her on the leather sofa and raised his fluted glass to hers, saying, "Here's to you, Angel," she had no choice but to join him.

  Strawberries and champagne! How had a former juvenile delinquent ended up here, in this lovely Cape Cod home, with this handsome man? Emily wondered, giggling, as the bubbles from her second glass of champagne tickled her nose. It was the most wonderful evening of her life, a fantasy evening filled with good food, and good conversation, and the lingering and admiring looks of a man she knew she loved.

  Steve took a jewelry box from his pocket. With a slow motion curiosity, a removed fascination, she watched as the smoky-blue satin box inched towards her across the coffee table.

  "That's for you, Angel."

  Another gift! Two in one day!

  Clumsy from the champagne, the jewelry box slipped through her fingers to land in the lap of her mercury-silver dress.

  Mercury is poisonous, Emily thought, the smoky-blue satin box mesmerizing her as it balanced precariously on her slinky silver dress. People chose their own poisons, like drinking or gambling. Was she Steve's poison? Would she bring trouble down on his head? Would he regret the day she had walked into his Cape Cod garage?