by Unknown
“That’s been my recommendation on many occasions, if you recall. You never seem to take my advice.”
“I will from now on, I swear.”
He chuckled. “Right. The day that happens, be sure to alert the media.” Pausing a moment for effect, he added, “Oh, wait, I am the media.”
His joke was rewarded with an airy laugh. But it didn’t last long when his fingers wandered lower. She made a mewling sound in the back of her throat and arched into him.
He was no superman, and no perpetually erect porn star, either. But even if he’d been three hours in his grave, feeling the soft curve of her buttocks pressed against his crotch would have given him a chubby.
“Roll over,” he whispered, keeping a hand at her waist while she moved closer to the edge of the couch so she wouldn’t accidentally topple over. At the same time, he got up on one knee and straddled her.
She was on her stomach now, head turned to the side, her cheek resting on her folded arms. Gathering the long strands of her dark hair, he twisted the mass into a makeshift ponytail to make room for his hands to gently knead the line of muscle between neck and shoulder.
“Mmmm. Is this one of those Happy Ending massages I’ve heard so much about?”
He smiled, continuing to work his way over her shoulder blades and along the slim expanse of her back. Her muscles were anything but tense, so she probably didn’t really need a massage, but he was enjoying himself. And getting her all soft and pliant was one step closer to giving her a third orgasm.
“It could be.”
“Would it be politically incorrect for me to say I’m glad you aren’t a petite Asian woman?”
He laughed aloud at that one. “Probably, but I won’t turn you in, since I concur. If you’re not careful, though, I still might walk on your back.”
“If it feels as good as this,” she told him, “go right ahead.”
He crawled backward, coming to rest at her knees rather than—as much as he’d liked the position—over her ass. The tattoo emblazoned high on her left butt cheek caught him off guard, sending a bolt of desire from his chest, to his gut, to his balls, which tightened at the sight.
It shouldn’t have jolted him quite so much, since he’d known it was there somewhere. He’d just never seen it before. And even though she’d been naked much of the evening, she’d mostly been facing him, giving him little chance to view that portion of her posterior until now.
Major oversight on his part. He should have yanked her skirt down and turned her around first thing.
He’d speculated about this tattoo, wondering where it was and what it meant. Brushing his palm over the fancy black Chinese symbols, he slid his hand down another fraction until he could lean forward and press his lips to the design.
“I’ve fantasized about this tattoo, you know.”
He didn’t know what possessed him to make the confession, but there it was.
“As amused as I was by your determination to go through with that particular challenge, I respected you for it, too.”
She shifted slightly, turning her head a fraction to look back at him. “Lots of people have tattoos,” she told him. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, but most people actually want a tattoo and go into it with enthusiasm, knowing what they want inked on their bodies for the rest of their lives. Somehow I can’t picture you as being interested in body art or already having a design in mind.”
“No, you’re right. It took me a while to work up the courage . . . and to decide what to get and where to put it.”
“Good choice, on both counts. But I have to admit, I’m dying to know what this symbol means.” He ran his fingertips over it again, a feather-light touch that brought goose bumps to her bare flesh.
Twisting at her waist, she came half around to meet his gaze. A hint of a grin tugged at the corners of her mouth, and a glint of mischief danced in her chocolate-brown eyes. “Are you sure? I don’t think you’ll like it very much.”
“I can handle it,” he assured her, not sure whether to be worried or amused.
Shrugging one slim shoulder, she said, “Fuck you.”
The sudden verbal assault made him blink. They’d been having a good time, an amicable time, even. He hadn’t expected her to turn on him and tell him off quite so succinctly.
“I was about to,” he replied flippantly, and though he considered climbing off her to go in search of his pants, he didn’t move.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s what it means. It’s the Chinese equivalent of ‘Fuck you.’ ” An airy chuckle spilled past her lips. “I was none too happy with you at the time, and if I had to permanently mark my body with something I didn’t really want, I figured it should be memorable and mean something. ‘Fuck you’ seemed to sum up my feelings pretty well. It wasn’t easy to track down the symbol, though . . . Grace and Jenna helped me with that.”
Dylan studied her for a minute or two, letting her explanation sink in. It wasn’t every day a woman branded herself with an invective directed at one specific person, and even though he felt like a complete dope because of it, he was ridiculously pleased to be that person.
For the rest of her life, she would wear that tattoo.
For the rest of her life, every time she saw herself naked in the mirror, she would be reminded of him.
Every time she slept with some random jerk-off, he might not know it, but he’d be looking at or stroking a brand that said Dylan Stone had been there first. Long before he’d gotten her into bed, he’d been in her periphery, in her head, under her skin.
“Have I ever told you that you’re a very scary woman?” he asked.
“Scary in a good way, or scary in a bad way?”
He grunted, not sure whether to be amused or intimidated. “Both.”
“Thanks. I think. I just hope the damn thing really does mean what I think it means. We did the best research we could, but I may never know for sure if I got it right. For all I know, I may have ‘Made in China’ stamped on my ass.”
She slapped a hand across her face and rolled her head back and forth on the arm of the sofa. “God,” she groaned, “do you have any idea how angry I was with you over that challenge? I wanted to kill you, and now here I am having sex with you. I need serious counseling.”
Biting the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing, he said, “I’ll keep that in mind for a future column.”
The hand fell away and her eyes went wide. “Don’t you dare,” she warned, her voice going low and as close to The Exorcism of Emily Rose as he’d ever heard it. “If you print a word of anything I’ve told you or of anything that happens here tonight, I swear to God you’ll be sorry.”
“Oh, yeah?” he taunted, this abrupt confrontation turning his blood hot and sending it rapidly to all the right places. “What will you do?”
She sat up a fraction more, flames leaping in her wide, round eyes. “I’ll rip open your chest and carve the Chinese symbol for ‘Fuck you’ into your still-beating heart. And then . . .”
Quick as a shot, her hand darted out to grab him by the danglies. He yelped and tried to pull back, but she held him tight, her fingers flexing on the verge of painful around both his dick and his tea bags. Shit, this woman meant business, and she was not messing around.
When she spoke again, her tone was frighteningly soft and calm, a full-180 switch from seconds before. “And then I’ll get nasty.”
For a moment, they both remained perfectly still. She seemed determined to make her point, and he was afraid of being the recipient of a sex change he hadn’t signed up for.
Then he swallowed and inclined his head. “Got it. Tonight is off the record, no exceptions.”
When she smiled sweetly and loosened her hold on the family scepter and jewels, fresh air flooded his lungs.
“Thank you.” She released him entirely and laid back down. “Now, shall we continue on our way to number three?”
How she could go from threatening his
life—and worse, his manhood—to being ready for another round of mind-blowing sex in the space of a heartbeat only confirmed his belief that she was a scary, scary woman.
So how demented was it, then, that he found himself growing harder than before and even more eager to be inside her again?
Yep, she was scary, all right, but he was obviously one sick puppy.
“Turn over,” he growled out, determined to reassert his masculinity and return the testosterone level in the room to an even keel.
“Why?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “You aren’t going to spank me for grabbing your crotch, are you?”
At that suggestion and the image it invoked, his dick trembled and headed a fraction farther north.
“Maybe,” he said, careful to keep his expression blank. “But if you don’t roll over, then the answer is definitely.”
Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips before she did as he’d commanded, sliding back to rest on her stomach. Only the stiff line of her spine alluded to the fact that she wasn’t entirely at ease.
For several long minutes, he stayed where he was, simply staring at her. Taking in every curl, every curve, every dip and plane.
Then he reached out for a condom packet, deciding he might need one soon, after all.
Ronnie awakened slowly to sun streaming through her bedroom window and every muscle in her body aching from overuse. Squinting against the bright light, she turned her head to find Dylan stretched out beside her.
He was flat on his back, spread-eagle, looking about as dead to the world as a person could get. And no small wonder, after the energy he’d exerted last night. He’d brought her off time and time again—with his mouth, his fingers, his cock. He’d taken her in ways she hadn’t known were possible. On her back, on her side, straddling him, sitting on his lap . . .
Her favorite, she thought—if she could even pick a favorite out of the myriad pleasures she’d experienced all through the wee hours—had been when he’d bent her forward over the back of the sofa and fucked her silly while she stared through the open curtains at the shining city lights against a blanket of black.
She remembered wondering at one point if anyone could see them; if some voyeur might be out there with a pair of binoculars, watching as Dylan made her scream. The possibility had only heightened her pleasure and the ensuing orgasm.
She’d never thought of herself as the kind of person who would get off on being spied upon during the throes of passion.
But then, she’d never thought she could come so many times in one night, either. Or that she’d ever find herself waking up after a night of hot monkey sex with Dylan Stone in her bed.
Heaven help her, but she seemed to be having one revelation after another lately.
The mattress dipped beneath Dylan’s considerable weight . . . her poor bed wasn’t used to having a big, muscular man in it any more than she was . . . and threatened to pull her into the center, right up against him. It would have been so nice to let gravity do its thing so she could curl up beside him and snuggle into all that solid male warmth.
God, he looked good. Sexy and slumberous and good enough to eat.
She licked her lips at the prospect, then turned resolutely and regretfully away. As tempting as it might be to wake him with a few kisses and light strokes to the proper areas, she couldn’t justify dragging this on any longer.
Last night, she’d been tipsy and horny and willing to shove her better judgment aside to discover if all Dylan’s bragging about being able to bring a woman to orgasm a dozen times was valid or just so much boasting swagger. And—much to her delighted dismay—she’d learned he was as good as his word.
She couldn’t be sure if he’d given her the promised thirteen or only the bragged-about twelve . . . she’d pretty much lost count after number five or six. But since the night had gone on and on after that, and he’d continued to make her come and come, she had no doubt he’d reached his goal and possibly surpassed it.
She’d never before been this sore just from sex alone. It was a good sore, if there was such a thing, but muscles she hadn’t known existed screamed in protest as she climbed from the bed and quietly made her way to her closet for a robe.
Thank God he hadn’t felt the need to stimulate her clitoris every time he brought her off, otherwise she was afraid that tiny, most valuable part of her anatomy would have shriveled up and fallen off halfway through the evening.
She winced as she shrugged into her long lime-green-and-turquoise robe, glancing back over her shoulder at Dylan to make sure he hadn’t stirred.
It was after nine o’clock, which meant she was late for work. She should have felt guilty, but didn’t. The number of times she’d been late or called in sick could be counted on one hand, so they certainly weren’t going to fire her. She would simply call in and let them know she’d be there in an hour or so, then make up for the lost time at the end of the day.
Making her way out of the bedroom, she went to the kitchen to place the call, then backtracked to the bathroom for a quick shower. By the time she returned, she felt better. Steadier, stronger, more resolute about what needed to be done.
She was digging in the drawers of her bedroom dresser when she heard a deep groan and the squeak of the mattress behind her. Slanting a glance over her shoulder, she saw Dylan stretching, rubbing a hand over his face and through his hair, then sitting up in the middle of the wide bed, only a corner of the white sheets draped across his torso keeping him from being completely nude to her view.
“Morning,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. His eyes were drowsy with sleep, and his lips were twisted into an endearing half smile.
“Good morning,” she replied, keeping her tone even and free of emotion as she went back to what she’d been doing.
He slid to the end of the bed and climbed to his feet. Leaving the sheet behind, he padded bare-ass across the room and down the hall to the bathroom.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding as she pulled a pair of panties from her underwear drawer and stepped into them. He returned to the bedroom just as she was fastening the hook of a matching fire-engine-red bra.
Moving to the closet, she pulled out a pair of charcoal slacks and a white blouse, mindful of his gaze remaining hotly on her the entire time from where he leaned casually against the open doorjamb.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked. “If you stay naked, we can have some more fun.”
She would have been lying if she’d said his suggestion didn’t make her legs quiver just a bit and a streak of heat roll through her belly.
Get a grip, Ronnie, she told herself sternly.
“Don’t you need to get to work?” was her evasive reply.
He shrugged negligently and gifted her with another one of his cocky but seductive grins. “I’ll call in sick.”
“Don’t bother,” she told him, buttoning the blouse and tugging the hem into an even line on the outside of her slacks. “I’m late, but I’m still going in. You should, too.”
She should have borrowed a page from his work ethic, though, and taken the day off herself. She was stiff, and tired, and in no mood to put in a full eight hours.
But as much as she would have liked to stay home and recoup, she needed equally to get away from Dylan for a while and shake him from her system.
Seconds ticked by in silence while Ronnie examined her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Her hair was a wet, tangled mess, making her look like something the cat had dragged in, and her face was devoid of makeup, leaving her somewhat glossy and pale. But she could fix that with a few minutes under the hair dryer and a quick application of foundation, blush, eye shadow, and lipstick. It would take her all of ten minutes, and then she would be out the door.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Dylan turning and disappearing down the hall while she affixed a thin silver chain and pendant around her neck and stuck silver earrings into her ears. The tension in he
r limbs seemed to lessen without him standing there, in the buff, watching her like a big cat stalking its prey.
Her relief didn’t last long, however. No sooner had she put on her jewelry and turned, intending to walk to the bathroom and finish getting ready, than he reappeared, a glint of determination in his blue eyes.
He was wearing his jeans, pulled up and half zipped, but still left unbuttoned, making her realize he’d gone back into the living room to collect them. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, though, leaving his muscular chest spectacularly bare.
It had been so dark last night that she hadn’t had a chance to really study him, to note what a fine male specimen he truly was. He had the figure of a Calvin Klein model. Smooth planes meeting firm delineations, with two perfectly round, bronze nipples in the center of his pectorals that begged to be stroked, teased, licked . . .
Oh, crap, she was getting wet again. She didn’t have time to be turned on, didn’t want to be turned on. Not again. Not by him.
He stood in the doorway with his legs slightly spread in a near-military stance, his hands at his hips, blocking her exit. And the expression on his face told her he was no longer interested in luring her back into the sack. He had something on his mind, and he meant to get to the bottom of it.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” he finally asked.
It took her a moment to swallow down her growing arousal and remind herself of her plans for the day: get rid of Dylan; make it clear they were done, over, finished, finito; and get her butt to work.
“Nothing is going on,” she said, stealthily evading his penetrating gaze by tugging at the cuffs of her blouse, checking that the front buttons were straight, scrunching the damp roots of her hair. “I’m getting ready for work.”
She moved to get around him, but he shifted to keep her where she was.
“Uh-uh. You’re avoiding me, and I want to know why.”
“I’m not avoiding you,” she all but snapped. “I’m looking right at you.”