Maybe she didn’t smell the same smoke he did. Maybe she didn’t realize she’d had him at a frustrating smolder for days, made only worse after that morning in her office. Since he’d watched her stifle her orgasm like a good girl stifles a sneeze. He’d walked away then, but by God, he couldn’t walk away with her thinking he was nice. “Or what is that I’m going to make you do things that will curl you hair,” he threatened.
Gaze not leaving his, she lifted a lock of her long hair and wagged the wavy stuff back and forth. “Already curly.”
He took a step toward her, heat rushing up his back. “I’m not kidding around.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Fine, then. Nice is off the table. How about considerate, though? Is that better? Or there’s kind. Caring works, too.”
All making him sound like some gullible fool—just what Lana Lang had taken him for. What Penn’s father had considered Debbie Penn, cocktail waitress with the heart of gold that he’d knocked up and then left. He strode forward again, his chest meeting the tips of Alessandra’s breasts. Her sharp intake of breath gratified him. The little smile continuing to hover at her mouth did not.
She thought this was a game, but oh, baby, he didn’t feel the least bit playful. Placing one hand on the door above her head, he leaned into her, more of his weight pressing against her torso. His other hand slid under her short skirt to travel up her warm leg. As close as he was, she couldn’t hide her shiver even though he was sure she tried to control the response.
“So inhibited,” he murmured, then lifted his brows. “Or wouldn’t a considerate man point that out?”
They both knew the answer to that. A considerate man wouldn’t have his mouth a half-inch from hers and his fingertips the same distance from her pussy. A considerate man wouldn’t be sending sexual signals to the Nun of Napa, no matter that she’d begged him for a secret affair just a few days before.
That was another damned word—secret. He pressed closer to her as her breaths soughed fast against his cheek and her brown eyes deepened to the darkest chocolate.
With deliberate strokes, he brushed the silky fabric at the apex of her thighs with the backs of his fingers. She twitched, the movement quickly suppressed, and he let his mouth curve in wicked intent. The bottled-up baby bride wasn’t going to hold back from him this time. He wasn’t nice enough, not considerate or kind or caring enough to allow her to hide from him what he did to her.
Sex was driving him now, not common sense, but he was allowing it to take the lead. This time he was going to have it all—hear it, feel it, taste it. Take it from her.
“You owe me,” he said, brushing his knuckles against her panties again. She was bare under there, he remembered, another flash of heat streaking along his spine.
She swallowed, and he saw the pulse in her neck was fluttering. “Owe you what?”
“All your sugar, sweetheart.” He slid one finger under the elastic band of her panties, found smooth, baby-soft skin and then her wetness. His hand braced on the door curled into a fist. They hadn’t even kissed and she already was . . .
“Sticky,” he whispered, stroking his finger into her flowering folds. He withdrew his hand, put it to his mouth and sucked the moisture away. “Sweet.”
Her body went rigid against his. The flash of heat was from her skin this time, and he felt it on her cheek as he drew his damp finger down that soft curve. Reaching her chin, he angled it upward to position her lips for his kiss.
He pushed inside her mouth, aware that over the lingering fruity notes of the pinot she couldn’t miss her own taste on his tongue. Another delicate twitch, and he knew she’d registered the new flavor. Her dead boyfriend couldn’t offer her that.
Snaking his arm around her waist, he drew her into the cradle of his hips. Her head dropped back, the kiss deepening, the flames around them leaping higher. Lifting his head, his hand caressed her pretty round ass over her skirt. “Take me upstairs,” he said, then kissed her cheek, her chin, the side of her neck. He sucked there, then harder, until she bowed against his body.
“Penn,” she whispered.
“Alessandra,” he whispered back.
She buried her face against his shoulder, and he pushed her hair off her neck to press another burning kiss to her nape. Her shudder was more detectable this time and his happy, hard cock throbbed against his belly. No more hiding, he thought, not behind nun reputations, dead-and-gone grooms, or good-girl expectations. He was going to make a screamer out of this one if it took all night. Then she’d know the real kind of man he was. “C’mon, sweetheart. Take me to your room.”
Cheeks flushed bright, her eyes in that dazed-by-desire state, she took his hand and edged toward the staircase. At the bottom, she glanced back at him over her shoulder, and those big brown eyes and prim little mouth had him smiling at her in reassurance before he could think about it. Nice Guy reassuring a new lover.
Which defeated the whole purpose . . . Shit.
Inspiration struck as she placed a foot on the first step. He squeezed her shoulder with his free hand to halt her. Though he could feel her gaze again, he didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, he reached beneath her skirt and yanked her panties to her ankles.
“Keep moving,” he said, urging her to step out of her underwear and move up to the next tread.
As she did, he grabbed the hem of her skirt and tucked it into the waistband. Bare.
She froze, her delectable bottom framed by the sides of her skirt. He caressed the sweet curve with his callused palm, then swatted the round flesh. Her spine went rigid.
He watched pale pink blossom and fade on her creamy skin. “No Mr. Nice Guy, get that?”
That thawed her, though the Nun of Napa didn’t respond verbally. Instead, she continued up the stairs, a new, saucy swing to her hips and her naked ass. Still holding her own, the little witch, he thought, rolling in his tongue as he trailed her up the rest of the stairs.
No matter. He was going to be on top—and come out on top—in the bedroom. She’d be sighing and shaking and crying out hosannas and he’d lap it all up in the name of sin.
The bedroom was as he’d expected: bare wooden floors, oval rag rug, pastel walls, all dimly lit by the glow of a lamp on the dresser. He looked for a crucifix hanging over the four-poster bed, but instead saw a framed photo of Alessandra and her sisters standing before the ruin that was once the cottage. It was what she worshipped, anyway, family and the winery.
Then his eye caught on a smaller photo on the bedside table: Tommy.
Under the dead man’s gaze, he took Alessandra’s shoulders in his hands and drew her back against him, her naked bottom to the front of his jeans. His palms slid over her arms to cup her breasts. “I didn’t get to play with these like I wanted last time,” he said, weighing the mounds and rolling his thumbs over the tips.
Her head lolled against his shoulder and her hips pushed into him, his erection pillowed by her soft flesh. He groaned, the pressure so good. His hands grasped her shirt and yanked it over her head.
Her little yelp of surprise was muffled by the material but she didn’t make another sound when his fingers unlatched the front clasp of her bra. It was he that sighed as they spilled into his hands. Hot flesh, silky and firm, with nipples already a tight pinky-plum. He plucked at the tips, absorbing the tiny jerks of her reaction into his body.
She was still holding out on him, but two could play the control game. “Get on the bed,” he rasped out.
“You first.”
Damn it, for a woman who claimed to need an affair—a secret affair—she was still too much in charge of herself. Hyperaware of Saint Tommy’s unwavering gaze, Penn picked up the burr in his side and tossed her onto the mattress . . . then followed her down, because there was no trusting the woman would stay still to take her medicine.
“I’m going to make you crazy,” he promised, then laid his mouth against the hot skin of her neck to blaze a trail with his tongue to her nipple.
Her back arched, th
e hard nub brushing his lower lip. He caught it in his mouth, sucking strongly as her fingers found his hair. His gaze lifted to her face as he suckled, noting that while her neck was arched, her expression was set, showing nothing—no urgency, no ecstasy.
“Damn you,” he whispered, but he was talking to Tommy’s photograph and not the sexy woman who quivered with ruthless restraint. Moving to her other breast, he plumped it with his hand and sucked the sweet cherry on top of the mound. Her light perfume steamed from her skin, rising around him, making him dizzy as he touched and tasted the bounty of her flesh.
He crawled up her body for another deep kiss and her mouth opened, her tongue dueling with his as he found the fastening of her skirt and pushed it off her legs. He sat back on his knees, his heart hammering at the sight of her golden skin uncovered for his eyes.
Hers were drowsy, her mouth swollen. “Build me up,” she whispered.
“Huh?” Then he realized he was wearing one of the show’s promo T-shirts. Smiling, he drew it off, and instead of tossing it to her—as if he’d let her hide now—he held it above her breasts and dragged the soft fabric across her nipples.
Her skin flushed, and he held the shirt higher from her body. “Penn . . .” her bottom lip pushed out in a sexy pout.
He lowered his arm, trailing the fabric over her again . . . and then again lifted it an inch. This time, she followed the teasing touch, her heels digging into the bedclothes in order to arch up toward the cotton.
“God, that’s hot,” he heard himself murmur. Between her parted thighs he could see the wetness glazing her swollen folds. She could swallow her sighs and moans and erase the need from her expression, but she couldn’t conceal this from him.
He tossed the shirt over the side of the bed and slid down to his elbow beside her. Sure she was ready enough, he tucked his hand between her legs and slid two fingers inside her.
Eyes closing, he reveled at the hot snug fit.
“Aaaah.” The sound riveted him . . . until he realized it was his own voice groaning at the goodness of her. But there were telltale signs of how it affected her, too. She was bowing into his touch, taking a deeper penetration, even as her top teeth held her bottom lip closed. So subdued.
And still that way, even as he started a slow and steady rhythm, his thumb nudging her clitoris on each thrust. He bent down and sucked her nearest nipple, and still she didn’t do anything more than breathe heavily.
“Little nun, silence isn’t a virtue in the bedroom,” he said, plunging into her body and then holding there, his thumb pressing the hard button at the top of her sex. “Talk to me.”
Scream, baby.
Her gaze found his face. She let go her lower lip and it sprang back, red and swollen. He groaned aloud, heat prickling over his body, and then her mouth opened.
“Yeah,” he cajoled. “Tell me, Alessandra.”
“Take off your pants, Penn.” She paused. “Now.”
Shy, beautiful, bossy. She was all those things, but it didn’t matter because he wanted nothing more than to be naked beside her. As he shucked his pants his wet fingers—wet from her—trailed dampness along his hip, causing his cock to go even harder. It made donning a condom quick, torturous work.
Their next kiss was luscious, delicious, tasting of ripe fruit and the piquant tang of wine. She widened her thighs and he took his place there, the head of his erection catching in the crease between her leg and groin.
He groaned again, because even that small pressure sent pleasure shooting toward his heart. It made him crazy with the need for more, so he edged back to his knees and aimed—“Aaaah”—straight for the center of her body. Breaching her inch by inch, he worked into the soft slick clasp of her.
The idea of holding back, going slow, torturing her with bliss was at the forefront of his mind, but when she lifted her knees to slide her satiny inner thighs around his hips, impulse took over and he thrust to the hilt. Rocked back. Thrust again.
This wasn’t going to last as long as he’d dreamed. But he wasn’t going down alone, he promised himself. The tension in her body beneath his told him she was getting close, too.
He focused on her face, determined to see and hear her break. Their gazes met, held, and he slid one hand between their bodies to fondle her clitoris in time with each stroke into her clasping, hot hold.
Her muscles gripped him tighter. Her body shook with the most subtle of tremors.
Almost there . . . almost there, he chanted to himself, determined that Mr. Not Nice Guy would bear witness to her sexual explosion. One of her small hands lifted from the mattress. It cupped his ass.
Pleasure shot like a starburst from the touch. His rhythm hitched, then restarted with a frenzy, feeling the frantic onset of orgasm just in the offing.
Hold on . . . hold on . . .
Hold . . .
Her fingers squeezed, and she was going over, her inner muscles clutching his cock, the goodness of it launching his own orgasm.
As the bliss hit, Penn’s eyes squeezed closed and his ears rang with only the sounds of his own loud groans of release.
He collapsed to the pillow beside her. Minutes passed before he had the strength to open his eyes.
Only to find the Nun of Napa staring back at him, all signs of stupendous orgasm already absent from her face. “Wow,” she remarked, “You’re, um, loud.”
A screamer, she meant. Oh, hell, the screamer was him.
11
Insistent raps pulled Alessandra out of the depths of sleep. “Allie,” her sister Stevie’s voice called from the other side of her bedroom door. “Are you decent?”
Hmm, she mused as drowsy memories of the night before flooded her mind. Was what she’d done last night with Penn “decent”? But before she could answer, her sisters came barreling through the now-open doorway.
“Hey,” she protested, yanking the covers to the neckline of her old cotton nightgown with one hand while the other swept the empty space beside hers, assuring herself he was gone.
“Hey, what?” Giuliana asked, crossing to the windows to pull up the shade.
Alessandra squinted as pale morning light brightened the room. That’s when she saw it, Penn’s T-shirt bunched on the floor on the far side of the bed. If her sisters realized what had happened last night, how would she explain it to them?
They’d want answers besides “I was horny and couldn’t help myself.”
Like always with him, it had felt beyond her control from his first touch. They kept colliding like magnets, opposites attracting, the small-town girl body-slamming with the big-city bad boy. Inevitable and hard to regret, though now that she was awake there was a vague disquiet hanging over her head.
“Coffee?” Stevie asked, then lifted Alessandra’s limp hand and wrapped her fingers around a cardboard cup.
“You brought me coffee,” she exclaimed, bringing it to her mouth. Her first sip brought more clarity to her brain and she looked at her sisters with suspicion. “You brought me coffee . . . why?”
Stevie shrugged. “I have some clients to pick up out this way. But since the tasting rooms don’t open until 10:30 at the earliest, I thought I’d kill some time with you.”
Alessandra switched her gaze to her oldest sister. Giuliana shrugged, too. “Um, I work here, remember?” Her job was at the winery offices, where she’d taken over the administrative tasks that had been their father’s, though she lived in town instead of at their family home.
“Your room is just down the hall,” Alessandra felt compelled to mention.
Stevie snorted. “Rapunzel’s afraid of what—who—might come crawling through her window.”
Alessandra blinked. “Huh?”
The middle Baci sister was looking in Giuliana’s direction, while Giuliana herself was playing with the comb and brush set on the dresser, as if she wasn’t the subject of the conversation. “Allie,” Stevie said, “haven’t you ever wondered what wore that path between our house and the Bennetts’?”
&
nbsp; “I know what wore that path,” Alessandra retorted. “Liam and Jules . . . oh.” Oh.
At only fourteen when her oldest sister swore eternal enmity on Liam Bennett, Alessandra had never known what had seeded such passion. And now she realized that it was . . . passion. That meant Giuliana herself had only been eighteen, but you didn’t need to tell Alessandra about her sister’s ability to hold a grudge—or about the intensity of first love.
“Oh,” she said again.
“You can’t trust them,” Giuliana pronounced.
Bennetts? Men in general?
“We have to remember that, Allie,” she continued. “That’s why I came this morning. To warn you not to get your hopes up.”
“About Penn?” Alessandra scooted higher on the pillows. “Don’t worry, I have no expectations whatsoever about him.” She tried pushing away the hovering uneasiness. No way could he claim a heart as hard and small as hers.
Frowning, Stevie wandered toward the window. “He’s not going to call his friend from Wedding Fever?”
“Of course he’s going to call—” Alessandra broke off, realizing she’d been having a different discussion. She waved her hand to erase the past few sentences. “Let’s start over. I’m certain Penn can get Tanti Baci on that show. He’d already contacted his friend when he told us about it last night.”
Giuliana didn’t look placated. “Still . . .”
“Hey.” Stevie’s attention was riveted by the view outside. “Come look at this.”
Eager to move on to something new, Alessandra climbed from the covers. Her foot brushed cotton as she crossed the floor, and she took the opportunity to swipe up Penn’s shirt and hold it to her chest. Inside out, the telling logo was hidden, but she could still smell him on it.
Her nipples tightened as she clutched it closer to her body. Memories of their encounter flowered in her head. His strong shoulders under her hands. The thrust of his hips. The hot suction of his mouth on her breast.
Stevie’s voice interrupted the replay. “I forget about this sometimes.”
Crush on You Page 14