She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  Something that sounded about at the edge of human control.

  Lowering her arm, Jen intentionally slid the palm of her hand against her breast, sucking in a quick gasp at the sensation. The pleasure rocketed from her puckered nipple down through her body until it pulsed between her legs, where warm, liquid readiness had already pooled.

  Mike let out one small, nearly inaudible groan.

  Dropping her arms to her sides, Jen smiled at him, a Cheshire-cat smile full of self-satisfaction. The robe fell back into place—but didn’t close quite as much as it had been before. More of her body was revealed—a few inches of it. More of his hunger was revealed, too. Miles of it.

  Inhaling the heady scent of the huge tropical-looking flowers, she whispered, “I like it out here.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “It’s sensuous.”

  He nodded in agreement. “Very.”

  Lifting her fingers to her shoulders, she slid the material farther away from her neck, letting her own fingernails scrape across her nape. The gap down the front grew wider, until Jen could feel the warm summer air brush against her collarbone and the crevice between her breasts. Trickles of air danced farther down, skittering over her midriff and her belly. And lower—into the tiny tuft of curls above her smooth, bare sex.

  With every movement, every centimeter revealed, Mike’s hungry stare betrayed him. He raked a thorough gaze from the hollow of her throat, going straight down, taking his sweet time about it, too. Wherever he looked, she burned. So she was soon burning everywhere. Burning and shaking, living and dying.

  He wanted. She wanted. And there was nothing stopping them now. Absolutely nothing.

  “I’m not sure what I most want to do with you right now.”

  “What are my choices?” she purred.

  He finally moved, stepping around the chair, stalking her. His steps were slow, deliberate, and as he moved he reached up and undid more of the buttons on his shirt.

  “You seem to like being on display,” he said, his tone not revealing whether he thought that was a good thing or a bad one.

  Uncertainty crept into her. She wrapped her fingers in the terry cloth, not knowing whether to pull the sleeves back up, or let the robe fall entirely to the cement patio floor.

  “You want your body to be looked at.”

  By him? Oh, yes, she most certainly did. But had her complete lack of inhibition turned him off? Maybe he thought she was an exhibitionist. Maybe he thought she wanted to drop her robe, rip off his clothes and have wild, hot, hungry sex right here outside in this lush city jungle.

  Well, she did. She had to admit that, if only to herself.

  But it wasn’t as if she wanted to drop everything, then turn around and lean over the railing, tilting her bottom in welcome. Have him curve in behind her and press close, his chest to her back, his groin pressing for entrance, his sex sliding between her cheeks. Let him bend her over, wrap his strong arms around her waist and drive into her while they both looked out over the city and cried to the blazing sky in pure satisfaction.

  Oh, God, she was an exhibitionist.

  A smile of such pure, visible satisfaction curved that amazing mouth up and his dreamy brown eyes glittered. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  He did. She knew it. And the wicked smile on his face told her she hadn’t shocked him at all.

  “Drop the robe.”

  He was completely dressed. Beneath her robe, she was naked.

  She dropped it anyway.

  “God in heaven,” he murmured, sounding stunned.

  Jen had a decent body, and she worked to keep it that way by limiting the wine-and-ice-cream nights to only the direst emergencies. Decent. Maybe verging on good, though not centerfold quality, by any stretch of the imagination.

  But she honestly didn’t think she’d ever seen a man look at her with such vivid, raw hunger. As if he could die at that moment with a smile on his face, having seen his perfect image of woman in his final moments.

  It was heady, being that wanted. Maybe she’d have savored it more if she hadn’t been so insane with desire, too.

  “You exceed my imagination,” he said, keeping his voice low and even, though she knew—could tell by his expression—that he was hanging on to his control by a thin thread. The tension in his body indicated it, the intensity of his stare screamed it.

  “I’m a little exposed here,” she murmured, half wanting to do an ancient woman’s one-arm-over-the-breasts-one-over-the-goods pose. The other half of her wanted to extend her arms straight out, toss her head back to cry out in decadent relief.

  She settled for running the tips of her fingers in a long, slow caress over her own body. Starting at the spot below her ear, traveling down over her collarbone, then delicately over the tip of her breast. Her nipple swelled in reaction. So did Mike.

  She continued to touch herself as he watched, tracing an invisible line she wanted him to follow with his hands and his mouth. When she reached her belly, she hesitated for a second.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “You know how I respond to orders.”

  “Please don’t stop.”

  Better. She did as he’d asked, stroking the soft, vulnerable skin just above her pubic bone, then dipping a bit lower to tangle in her little patch of brown curls. The recent wax job she’d had left her exposed and vulnerable, and he took advantage, watching every move she made. As her finger slipped a tiny bit lower, there was no way Mike could have not seen the way it brushed across her throbbing clit.

  “Mmm,” she moaned. “Please tell me I’m not going to have to do this all by myself.”

  “No. Not by yourself.” He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, revealing his body to her the same way Jen had moments ago. Jen stopped what she was doing to watch him, enjoying the sight every bit as much as he’d enjoyed watching her.

  When his shirt fell away, Jen held her breath, then let it out on a long, shaky sigh. Oh, the man was amazing, broad in the chest, lean in the hips. All long planes of muscle and smooth, tanned skin. The triangle of dark hair on his chest was sparse and taut, narrowing into a thin line that ran over his belly, disappearing into his waistband. Hard and beautiful and perfect.

  She had a feeling he was perfect all the way to the floor, judging by the massive bulge in his trousers.

  “By the way,” he said as his hand moved to his belt. His thick arms flexed and rippled as he unfastened it, then unbuttoned his pants. “We’re simply taking a break in our conversation. I’m still not happy about you leaving.”

  “Well, I live to make you happy,” she said, reaching out to help him pull the belt free, loop by loop. It cracked as she whipped it out of the last hole, a sizzling note of wickedness in the otherwise still air of the garden patio.

  “Uh-huh. I can tell.” The zipper came down. Slowly. So slowly she was surely going to die.

  She said nothing, waiting for him to finish the slow opening of the zipper, gazing in avarice at the bulge barely contained behind it. When he finally finished, and the pants dropped low on his lean hips, he grabbed a condom out of his pocket. Kicking off his shoes and socks, he let the trousers fall away, revealing his powerful legs, until he wore only a pair of bulging, tight cotton boxers. Very bulging. Which might explain the stubbornness of the strained zipper.

  “I think you’re still one up on me,” she managed to say.

  He didn’t take off the briefs, merely stepped closer, until she was enveloped in his warmth and his hot, musky smell. Before she could even mentally prepare for it, his hands were on her hips, his rough skin easing over hers as he tugged her close, until their bodies brushed ever so lightly. Having his hands on her naked body was such a relief, she sighed at the pleasure. She rose to meet his mouth, her lips parted, waiting for his kiss.

  When it didn’t come, she whispered, “Please…”

  “Tell me you’ll do what I say and stay in the next time,” he whispered as he leaned to her neck, kissing her there.
His sweet mouth tasted her nape, his tongue scraping a path up to the sensitive spot just below her ear. “Promise.”

  Torture. He was coercing an agreement out of her. “This would never stand up in a court of law,” she said with a whimper that was half laugh, half desperate plea.

  He nipped her jaw. “Promise.”

  “Damn it, I promise.” Twining her hands in his hair, she tugged him up, seeing a smile of triumph on those lips, but so needing to taste him she didn’t care. He finally gave her what she wanted, covering her mouth with his, licking at her tongue in a deep kiss that stole her very last coherent thought.

  As if he couldn’t get enough of her, Mike ran his strong hands up and down her body. Each stroke and slide of his fingers both aroused and shattered her. Driving want gave over to pure sensation as he caressed her skin, their joint groans of pleasure mating between their lips.

  Her breasts screamed for more than those light, passing touches, especially when he trailed the tips of his fingers along the outside curves of them. With their bodies remaining a breath apart, her nipples were already throbbing because of the brush of his chest hair, and if she didn’t get more, soon, she might jump off the balcony.

  When she thought she’d die from waiting, his hands covered her breasts, plumping and stroking her into a frenzy. “Yes,” she groaned against his mouth, shuddering when he caught her nipples between his fingers. Her groan turned into a whimper as Mike tweaked and plucked them into two points of pure sensation.

  As if he knew exactly how long he could torment her before she’d lose her mind, he ended their long, drugging kiss and arched her back to gain access to the front of her body. With his strong arm supporting her around the waist, she let herself go, trusting him not to let her fall.

  “Oh, yes,” she groaned when he covered her breast with his mouth. He lathed the sensitive tip with his tongue, slowly, then tormented her with a quick, hard suck that sent frantic lust through her.

  Her legs were growing weak, and he seemed to know it because he drew her over to the lounge chair she’d vacated.

  “Wait,” she said, not letting him draw her down onto it yet. She pointed to his briefs, now darkened with his own moisture. “Those. Off.” But she didn’t wait for him to obey. Instead, she slid her hands into the waistband, tugging the elastic out and over his erection, then pushed them down.

  “Oh, my goodness,” she mumbled as she stared at him. He was engorged—huge and powerful, his smooth, pulsing cock just as perfect as the rest of him. Her legs clenched reflexively, as did her sex as she realized she was going to have that. Soon.

  No, not soon. “Now,” she demanded. “I want everything else but right now I have to have you inside me, Mike.”

  She betrayed her insane need with her words, her voice and her stare. But she saw the same need in him. His dark brown eyes flared, then narrowed as he slowly lowered himself onto the chair. He studied every inch of her on the way down, pausing only to scrape his lips across her belly, then blow a warm, slow breath into her few remaining curls.

  “Right now?” he asked, staying close—so close—she could almost feel his lips. “You sure about that?”

  Closing her eyes, she dropped her head back. “Well…maybe I could wait a moment longer.”

  “Good,” he whispered right before he slid his tongue out and swirled it against her clit. Her legs buckled, but he held her hips, careful to avoid her fading bruises. He kept her still so he could slide his tongue deeper, between her drenched lips, drinking her body’s juices. And after a few more flicks of his tongue, she came in an orgasm that put the one he’d given her the other night to shame.

  “You taste so good,” he muttered as he watched her ride out the hot waves of pleasure. “I’ve been wanting to taste you again for days. Without the cloth.”

  She shared the want, suddenly hungry to perform the same intimate pleasure on him. But not now—now she’d reached the end of her endurance and needed to be filled by him.

  Apparently knowing—and sharing her desperation—Mike let go and pulled away long enough to tear open the condom and sheathe himself with it. Then he slid his hands around her waist again, tugging her down, onto him, around him.

  As the tip of his hot member slid into her, she gasped, and kept on gasping as she rode down it, taking him deeper and deeper until he’d completely impaled her. Gasping, she closed her eyes and savored the invasion, wondering how she’d ever go back to the emptiness of not having him inside her.

  “Ride me,” he ordered as he sank his hands in her hair and tugged her mouth to his for a deep kiss.

  She did as he wanted, slowly beginning a sweet, sensuous ride. With her feet on the patio, on either side of the chair, she had ultimate control and used it to take exactly what she needed—and what would give them both the most intense pleasure.

  Mike lay all the way back on the lounger, watching her with blazing eyes. Not taking over, he still remained very involved, reaching up to caress her bare breasts or tangle his fingers in her long hair. He kept murmuring sweet, sexy things that she could barely comprehend but that rolled like sweet background music into her ears.

  “Mike…” she said hoarsely as the intensity built.

  “You’re beautiful.” He drew her down for a deep kiss.

  Jen curled her fingers in the hair on his chest and continued taking him with long, teasing strokes and hard, fast ones. He seemed to like those because he shuddered with every one. Until finally, as if he couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed her hips and set the pace. Rocking up, thrusting hard. Bursting into her as if he just couldn’t get deep enough.

  “Come with me,” he ordered.

  Some orders she didn’t mind so much.

  She could do as he said, she was already so close. When he moved one hand and worked her swollen clit, she cried out. “Yes.”

  The familiar spasms rolled through her, pulsating from her center and radiating outward until she felt as though electricity was pouring out of even her fingertips. Clenching him tightly in reaction, she milked him and heard his guttural groan as he joined her in climax.

  She stayed on top of him, breathing deep, ragged breaths, trying to regain control of her raging heart. Her legs ached, her whole body felt wonderfully exhausted. Not even opening his eyes, Mike tugged her down to lie on top of him. Jen curled onto his chest, feeling his raging pulse beneath her fingertips, and the two of them gradually began to float back to earth.

  When she felt capable of speech, Jen whispered, “I don’t think us talking about sex so much before this was a problem.”

  Feeling his chest rumble as he laughed, she tilted her head back, wanting to see that smile, to savor those dimples. She got what she wished for, their eyes meeting, both wearing matching expressions of utter satisfaction. And simple, basic happiness.

  “No, Jen,” he finally said as he kissed her forehead, “I definitely don’t think talking about it was a problem.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They say some things improve with age: cigars, classical novels, wine. And men. That, supposedly, is why old married guys cheat with twenty-year-old bimbos because their wives haven’t “improved” the way they have. Personally, I think the only thing that improves with age on a man is his bank balance.

  —I Love You, I Want You, Get Out, by Jennifer Feeney

  STROLLING DOWN TROUBLE’S main street Saturday afternoon, Mortimer nearly rubbed his hands together in delight. Signs of new life were springing up everywhere, and he mentally patted himself on the back.

  His projects—all of them—seemed to be going along just swimmingly. The town was crawling out from under its cloak of depression. His grandson Maxwell was living in marital bliss in California. His friend Roderick was out again today, for the third time this week, with Miss Baker. And, judging by the tone in Michael’s voice when he’d called to check in a few days ago, things were heating up between him and Jennifer Feeney.

  Heating up? Ha. Considering Michael had been cal
ling to let him know that Miss Feeney was staying at Mortimer’s place in the city, he’d say they were on fire.

  “Soon now,” he mumbled as he paused to glance in the window of a small antique shop/tearoom, its front window crowded with cuckoo clocks. They’d once hung in Mortimer’s own house, which had been built by a clock manufacturer. “I’ll have great-grandchildren sometime soon.”

  “Mortimer!” a voice said.

  Startled, he saw Roderick and Miss Emily, apparently having just left the new bookshop that had opened up a few months ago. Another sign of prosperity: there were enough people around here to keep a bookstore going. Of course, Roderick probably spent enough each month to cover the store’s rent.

  “Well, hello. Didn’t suppose you two would be sticking around here today.” He’d half expected his old friend to have whisked Miss Baker off for a romantic picnic. Roderick did make a fine chicken salad and had impeccable taste in wine. Though, of course, he couldn’t abide bugs. His friend had gotten a little persnickety in his old age, considering he’d once as easily smashed a desert scorpion as flicking off a flea.

  Roderick forced one of those small, impassive smiles, which told Mortimer he was uncomfortable. On guard. “I invited Miss Baker to help me choose a birthday gift for my sister.”

  Books. Bah. Only thing one could gain from books was the inspiration to go on a journey to a new place described within its pages. “Why not go on an adventure?” he asked. “Do something spontaneous. Anything but lock yourself up in a musty bookstore.”

  “We’re going into the tearoom for an afternoon respite.”

  “Taproom?” Mortimer asked, immediately perking up at the thought, though he suspected he knew what Roddy had really said. Sometimes he quite enjoyed playing hard of hearing.

  “No. A tearoom has opened up in the back of the antique shop and they serve somewhat palatable cucumber sandwiches.”

  Tea and cucumber sandwiches. Egads. Roderick had not merely grown persnickety, he’d gotten boring. “Why not order the sandwiches to go and take the lady for a picnic in the country?”