She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  It had already made his pants damn near unwearable.

  Bringing his hands to her waist, he carefully encircled it, remembering what she’d said about her hip. A tiny hiss told him it was her right one, and Mike moved his hand down, gently stroking her through the thin fabric of her summery skirt.

  He hadn’t been paying attention to it when he’d first arrived, but he did now. Noticing the flimsiness of the thing, which fell in wisps of sheer, flowering material, he swallowed hard. The skirt didn’t clothe her, per se, it merely floated around her hips and over the tops of her legs. Seemingly made of shadow and light, it hinted at the lush curves it was supposed to conceal. It was a simple thing, soft and shapeless on its own, but the way it rode over her body turned it into a garment of pure, soft invitation.

  When she lifted her leg a tiny bit, to slide it against the outside of his, the fabric slid higher, revealing a heart-stopping length of that smooth, creamy thigh. The soft folds of cloth slid against her, outlining the V of her thighs. More shadow. More light. More need.

  Mike’s heart rate kicked up a notch and the air he was hauling into his lungs grew thicker. Only a real bastard would take advantage of her now, when she was so obviously in pain. He couldn’t very well make love to the woman when he couldn’t be sure whether her moans were of pleasure or discomfort.

  He could, however, continue to touch her. To ease the ache. To apologize in the only way he could. Slipping his fingers beneath the elastic waistband of her skirt, he moved carefully—so carefully—until he could feel the curve of her hip bone. “Does it hurt here?” he asked, his voice husky with want.

  She nodded, sighing a little. Pleading a little.

  He cupped her there, gently kneading the spot, then moved his hand farther. All the while, he kept his face close to her neck, gauging her response by the deepness of her inhalations and the tiny sounds of pleasure emerging from her throat. Watchful for any sign of discomfort, ready to pull away the moment he sensed she was no longer enjoying his touch.

  “What about here?” he asked when he felt her grow tense as his fingertips brushed the curve of her bottom.

  “Mmm, hmm,” she said on a sigh, her eyes drifting closed. Though the spot might have pained her, she still arched back, into his hand, silently demanding the same touches he’d offered her elsewhere.

  As if he could resist.

  Thinking of his own pleasure now as much as hers, he cupped her warm, curvy cheek in his hand, stroking the soft spot where it touched the back of her thigh. Her sighs turned to gasps as his attention turned much more erotic than tender.

  It was then he realized what he should have noticed right away. “Did you forget something when you got dressed this morning?” he asked, half choking, though whether on laughter or on lust, he couldn’t say.

  Because she wasn’t wearing anything underneath that flimsy bit of material pretending to be a skirt.

  Jen lifted her head and opened her eyes, staring at him. Those incredible eyes had gone dreamy-blue now, no trace of stormy-gray or icy-silver. “I didn’t forget.”

  “I hope you stayed home today,” he muttered as he cupped that sweet bare ass, running the tip of his finger along the seam of her cheeks.

  She hissed in response and arched harder, as if inviting him to dip his fingers and find the hot, wet center of her. “The elastic from my panties hurt me,” she admitted in a whimper.

  His hand stilled. “I hate that I hurt you.”

  “But you’re making it better,” she whispered.

  Not saying another word, he slowly moved, kissing his way down her arm, tasting the skin on the inside of her elbow, brushing his lips across the bruise on her forearm. He continued to drop, until he was on his knees in front of her, breathing hotly through her shirt and the filmy skirt.

  “Mike…”

  “I’m making it better, Jen. That’s all.”

  He cast a quick glance up, to ensure she was still okay with his version of comforting. Judging by the way her head had gone back and her eyes had closed again, he figured she was. Especially considering her pulse was pounding visibly in her throat, and her lips were parted and wet—her breaths audibly spilling across them in short, needy gasps.

  That was answer enough.

  Pressing his mouth to her belly, he breathed through the fabric, inhaling an intoxicating cacophony of scents. The detergent on her clothes. Whatever lotion she’d smoothed into those incredible thighs. Her light perfume. Not to mention the musky fragrance of her aroused body.

  He wanted to devour her. He settled for sampling her.

  Tugging at her elastic waistband, he slipped his tongue past the material and scraped it across her soft, milky skin.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, finally dropping her hands onto his shoulders, as if needing the support.

  Not knowing which he wanted more—to take away her pain or to give her ultimate pleasure, Mike slowly began to pull the skirt down. He moved carefully, tugging the elastic out so it didn’t scrape her in a sensitive spot, letting it gather tightly again just below her hip bone.

  That kept her covered where he most wanted to get to know her. But the sight of her hip bone drove the thought away. He had to close his eyes for a second, shocked by the ugliness of the bruise and scrapes directly over the bone. “Jesus…”

  “It doesn’t hurt as much today,” she said, twining one hand in his hair.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t slam the door in my face,” he muttered as he moved his mouth to her poor, damaged skin.

  “I’m starting to be glad I didn’t.”

  “Me, too.”

  Then he stopped talking, focused only on tasting her, stroking her until she began to shake. He held her outer thighs, hoping he’d found an uninjured area to grip her. When he kissed his way to her side and saw the way the bruise edged all the way onto her lower back, he gave thanks that he hadn’t gripped her glorious bottom any harder.

  It was a wonder she hadn’t broken her hip. It was a further wonder she was up walking around when she should be lying down with an ice pack or a heating pad, and a prescription painkiller. “You should be in bed.”

  “I want to be,” she murmured dreamily.

  “Or in a hot bath.”

  “Mmm. That sounds even better.”

  He began to pull away. “Why don’t you go take one?”

  She dropped her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them. “Will you take one with me?”

  God the idea was tempting. So incredibly tempting. He was hot and ready, as hard as a rock, every molecule in his body demanding that he sample every inch of her. And she was every bit as aroused; he knew it by her whimpers, by her tiny goose bumps of awareness, by the weakness of her thighs and that hot scent pouring out of her.

  But she looked much more in need of a doctor than a lover—he’d seen guys less banged up after a bar fight. Judging by the exterior injuries, he’d bet her hip bone itself had been badly bruised against the brick wall of the bodega. Making love to her in just about any position would bring those parts of his anatomy in close contact with those parts of hers.

  Which would hurt her. And he would not hurt her.

  So while they both wanted it—badly—he wasn’t enough of an asshole to take whatever she’d give him.

  “Not tonight. You need to get better.” He couldn’t believe he was saying it, given the dreamy look on her face and the way her whole body was responding. Her skin was flushed, her beautiful nipples puckered in invitation against her shirt.

  Man, this noble stuff was going to get old really fast. But only a real ass would make love to a woman who was genuinely in pain, as Jen had been Saturday morning and was again now.

  She groaned softly, but didn’t argue, which convinced him, more than anything, that he’d done the right thing. That didn’t make it any less frustrating, unfortunately. It also didn’t make his pants fit any better.

  “I want you so much,” she admitted, “but it hurts when I move. And the last
thing I want is for you to think I’m a block of ice in bed.”

  As if this hot, passionate woman could ever be cold. “That’s nuts,” he said as he glanced up at her.

  “Or that I don’t want you,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him.

  “I definitely don’t think that.” Definitely not. He moved to her belly again, breathing her in, letting his hot, moist breath press the fabric of her skirt against her sex. It had to feel good. He knew it did. Her shattered sighs told him so.

  “I need this so much it’s killing me.”

  She sounded tortured, almost desperate. He understood the feeling. After all, he’d been the same way for days, ever since they’d both built up the anticipation of the incredible sex they knew they’d have…but hadn’t ever had the chance to act on it.

  Just as tonight, once again, they couldn’t act on it. Not without causing her some real discomfort…and possible embarrassment. “It’ll be worth waiting for,” he told her, trying to convince himself.

  “I hate waiting.” She sounded like a severely frustrated kid. Or a sexually frustrated woman.

  He suddenly realized he could help her take the edge off at least a bit. Maybe not satisfy them both completely, the way they needed to be. But it wouldn’t take much movement for him to give Jen a little of what she so desperately needed.

  “You smell amazing,” he said. “I like the way this skirt feels against my face.” The filmy layer on the outside of the clothing was whisper soft and delicate. The layer underneath, though, was heavier, silky and slick. He’d wager it would feel incredible when pressed to just the right spot.

  Like there. And there.

  “Oh, my,” she said with a groan when he kissed her in the delicate hollow between her belly and her pelvic bone. His lips remained separated from her skin by that sensuous fabric.

  “Shh,” he insisted, moving his mouth down until he reached the V of her thighs. Without asking, he tugged her legs apart a tiny bit, sensing the slightest hesitation before she gave him what he wanted. Access.

  When he opened his mouth on her, Mike got a double rush of pleasure. The sound of her helpless groan of delight and the taste of her warm, womanly body in his mouth. She was incredibly wet, and he made her wetter with his tongue as he licked her through the cloth.

  “Mike…”

  Feeling her legs shake, he held them tighter in his hands, keeping her where he wanted her. “Let me,” he ordered, nuzzling into her again, focused on giving her pleasure, while enjoying every second of the experience himself.

  The urge to lift her nothing skirt and devour her with no impediment nearly overwhelmed him, but he resisted it. If he saw her, he’d have to be in her.

  Nor could he allow himself to move his hands higher on her thighs and allow his fingers to slide into that wet crevice. If he felt her, he’d have to be in her.

  This was all they could have. For now. And while it might not be enough to last him for long, he was going to make damn sure it was something Jen never forgot.

  “I can’t wait to see you, but I know I’ll lose control if I do,” he murmured as he nipped at her, sliding his tongue—and her skirt—deeper into the slit between her legs. There was no resistance, all was utterly smooth, and he suddenly suspected the plump lips of her sex were entirely bare. The realization sent every ounce of excess blood in his body racing to his cock until it battered against his zipper.

  This had become pure torture, but he knew by her cries that she was enjoying every bit of what he was doing to her. So he kept tasting her, swirling his tongue over the sensitive nub of flesh he could feel against the material, scraping it across her drenched opening. Until finally, her legs shook so much she had to put her hands on his shoulders for support.

  “I’m…”

  “I know,” he said, hearing the satisfaction in his voice as he took her farther, knowing by the cries and the sudden flexing of every one of her muscles that she’d come.

  While she was still panting from the pleasure of it—all flushed and heated and wild-eyed, he rose and caught her mouth with his, plunging his tongue deep, the way he wanted to plunge his fingers and his cock into her. Over. And over. And over.

  He allowed himself a few seconds of her kiss, her taste, then drew away and stepped back. “Go take a hot bath,” he said, pulling the words out of his gut when he wanted to shut up and carry her to her bedroom. His tone rough with hungry impatience, he growled, “I’ll give you forty-eight hours to get better. Then I’m going to take you so many times you won’t remember what it feels like to not be having an orgasm.”

  Without waiting for her to say a single word, he walked out the door, knowing he needed to drive fast in order to get home to the longest cold shower he’d ever taken.

  Or, maybe, a hot one…during which he’d fantasize about her and give himself the same small amount of temporary relief he’d just given her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  What any cheating husband needs to realize is that sometimes women really do take little oaths like “fidelity” and “forsaking all others” seriously. If he did, he might not have to learn firsthand that his wife also takes the whole “till death do us part” thing seriously…by waking up with an ax in his face.

  —Why Arsenic Is Better Than Divorce by Jennifer Feeney

  THOUGH SHE KNEW SHE SHOULD probably be embarrassed about what had happened between her and Mike Monday evening, Jen couldn’t muster up that particular emotion. She still felt so good after the most powerful orgasm she’d had in ages that she wasn’t complaining about anything. The heat didn’t bother her. The leaky pipes didn’t bother her. The noisy old Mr. Jones next door didn’t bother her. Frank—the leering, butt-crack baring super—didn’t bother her. Nothing did.

  Maybe it was because last night, for the first time in ages, she’d had an orgasm that actually involved another person. But even if that weren’t the case, she suspected the incredible pleasure Mike Taylor had given her would be impossible to top.

  Funny. She was probably supposed to blush with mortification when she thought of that big, hot man on his knees in front of her, pleasuring her through her clothes without so much as kissing her lips first. Or even buying her a drink.

  The only heat she felt, however, was between her legs, not in her face. She got hot and wet just thinking about it throughout the next day.

  As she swallowed vitamins and aspirin and prayed to the gods of fools and clumsy people to grant her supersonic healing powers, she counted down the hours. Forty-eight, he’d said. Well, it had only been twenty-four and she was already going out of her mind, dying to see him, to talk to him, to make a firm date for tomorrow night.

  She could call, she supposed, even if her shoulder did still hurt a bit when picking up something as light as the telephone receiver. She’d had to get an ice pack for it after a phone conversation with Ida Mae and Ivy, who hadn’t shut up for a solid forty-five minutes.

  Damn. She hated to think about what they’d told her—that some man had been phoning Ivy’s house looking for Jen. Why? If her harasser had wanted to talk to her, why didn’t he say something when he called her apartment, rather than whispering foul words or breathing heavily? And how on earth had he tracked her to Ivy’s house?

  She’d assured them it must be a reporter, then she’d tried to convince herself of the same thing. None of them had really believed it. All their anger at her from the previous week—and hers at them for not giving her Mike’s messages—had dissipated as they’d made each other promise to be careful.

  Their concern had warmed her. Sometimes, from a distance, she really thought the old women cared about her.

  That’d last until the next time Ivy called to threaten her with death, accusing Jen of having stolen her favorite scarf or bottle of pills. It always turned out that Ivy, herself, had hidden whatever she was missing, fearing burglars, then forgotten where she’d hidden it.

  “Thank you God, for letting me be adopted,” she whispered. Then, gla
ncing at the phone, she added, “Come on, Mike, call me first before I give in and call you.”

  But, honestly, she wasn’t sure what to say. “Hi there, it’s me, the woman you licked into ecstasy last night. Just wanted to remind you that you promised to bang my brains out tomorrow and I thought we should name the place. And, oh, your condom or mine?”

  Uh…no. Not good. A little indelicate, and a lot pathetic.

  She nearly called him anyway. Just to chat. And to let him know she could now lift her arm over her head—and her legs over his shoulders—without wanting to cry. But her kitchen phone rang before she could pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

  A long moment of silence followed. She started to smile. “Hmm…cat got your tongue?” she asked, knowing she sounded mischievous. The comment might also be considered a bit suggestive, considering where his tongue had been last night.

  No answer. Mike was probably equally as unsure about what to say. They’d sort of skipped a few steps in the dating process. Not that they were dating, precisely. She didn’t quite know what to call what they were doing, beyond good. Right. Amazing.

  Yes. All those things.

  Where it was going she couldn’t say; she just knew it would also be good. Right. Amazing. “Are you going to say anything?”

  The silence thickened. After a long moment, it was broken by a deep, rasping breath. Another followed it, thick and reedy.

  “Please tell me this is you and not some random heavy breather,” she said, stiffening. God, she hoped her psycho caller wasn’t starting in on her again. She’d had a couple of calls already since she’d been home. “Talk to me or I’m hanging up.”

  But she didn’t have to. A click from the other end signaled the end of the call.

  Jen glanced at the receiver in her hand, slowly lowering it into its cradle. If that had been Mike, he’d developed a bad cold in the last day, judging by that wheeze. If it hadn’t, and the relentless prank calls that had tormented her into visiting her aunts in Trouble were gearing up again, she was going to shoot herself.