British Bad Boys

by Nancy Warren

  Conscious that she was wearing borrowed feathers and Max might not appreciate them being tossed all over the floor, she rose and backed slowly away, slipping the velvet jacket from her shoulders. It wasn’t going to be easy or natural to perform a stripper routine in this style of clothing, but she figured she’d give it her best, and if he thought it was odd that she stopped to hang each piece up neatly, she hoped he’d merely think it was part of her act, one more way of increasing his anticipation of seeing her naked.

  Gack. She sucked in her stomach at the thought. If he thought her scarred, burned, and banged-up hands were a turn-on, he was going to flip at her flabby abs and I-stand-on-my-feet-all-day-in-a-kitchen sturdy legs.

  She got the jacket hung up neatly, and before she could turn back to him, she felt his hands on her, tracing her ribs, stroking up to cup her breasts. The feeling was so exquisite that she forgot to worry that her boobs had gained weight along with the rest of her when her life hit the toilet.

  He didn’t seem to be all that put off by the expanse of flesh now cupped in his palms. In fact, judging from the contented sounds he was making and the very definite hardness pressing against her hip, he was a big boob kind of guy.

  He undid her buttons and peeled the blouse off her. Then, as she was getting ready to rescue Max’s peasant blouse, he leaned past her and hung it neatly.

  Her skirt soon hung beside it.

  There was something surprisingly fun about undressing and hanging each other’s clothes. “I feel like your personal butler,” she said as she hung his dress shirt.

  “If I had a butler as gorgeous as you, I’d never leave my room.”

  She slid his trousers off, liking the sight of muscular, furry legs. He was such an elegant-looking man that it was a surprise to find thigh muscles thick and athletic. “You play sports?”

  “Used to. Now George and I are in a football league for sorry old-timers who can’t give up.”

  “It’s good that you keep in shape,” she said, trying not to stare at another thick muscle that appeared in excellent shape. He was a boxer man, which didn’t surprise her, his choice a muted navy cotton with white pinstripes. So businesslike. Pin-striped boxers.

  Who would have thought, even a year ago, that she’d find herself in an honest-to-God earl’s historic mansion, with a sexy Brit staring down at her with that particular combination of sweetness and, oh, that so very English word, naughtiness. Excitement skittered through her and she thought she might be getting over her long-running black mood.

  “I am absolutely delighted that I decided to come down today,” he said.

  She rose, close enough that a lot of her brushed a lot of him as she made her way to standing. “And I am very happy that you invaded my kitchen today,” she admitted.

  He kissed her. She thought she could go on kissing him forever. He was possibly the best kiss she’d ever had. Before she’d decided to her satisfaction that he was in fact the best kiss she’d ever had, her breasts felt a little breezy and she realized he’d dispensed with her bra. Rather swiftly and subtly.

  His hands were on her, squeezing gently, touching her nipples as though they were both fragile and precious, so the throb of desire began to build.

  He lifted one, then the other, to his mouth. There was enough there that they easily reached.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said in a soft, reverent tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such amazing breasts.”

  And from feeling fat and out of shape, she suddenly felt like a voluptuous earth mother, womanly and bring it on, baby sexy.

  She’d always loved sex, was almost embarrassingly responsive, but with him she felt it all as a gift.

  She fell back on the bed, free-falling as though into a pool, letting her arms reach above her head. When she hit the mattress, she felt her breasts bounce with the impact, felt a little bit of jiggling where she’d really prefer no jiggle to be, but her soon-to-be lover seemed mesmerized with her body.

  He stripped her of her panties in one smooth move and then stared down at her.

  Somehow his expression told her that he liked what he saw. She started to get up so she could return the favor and remove his boxers, but he stopped her with a gesture. “No, don’t move. Don’t move a muscle.”

  How could she not feel seductive and special when he couldn’t tear his eyes away? When he ripped off his boxers without looking once at what he was doing?

  She looked though-oh-and looked some more. He was gorgeous. Fit, tough, toned, and with his body so evidently eager for her that she began to melt.

  When he climbed onto the bed, she felt she would go mad if he didn’t touch her, didn’t kiss her, didn’t take her, and now.

  But he surprised her, kissing her sweetly, as though he had all the time in eternity to do nothing but kiss her.

  As her passion built, she moved closer, pressing herself against him for the pleasure of feeling her skin against his. He was so warm, his skin silky smooth in places, hair-roughened in others.

  She’d never in her life felt worshipped, but tonight she did. He looked at her the way he’d looked at the Rembrandt, his favorite in George’s collection, he’d told her.

  He tasted her the way he’d tasted her food, with eager anticipation, then slow savoring, followed by delighted satisfaction.

  He played at her breasts, kissing and licking them until she felt they were swelling with the excitement that filled her. She began twisting as heat built within her. “Oh,” she sighed. “Oh, yes, oh, please.” She didn’t even know what she was murmuring as he continued to toy at her breasts. But he didn’t know her, he didn’t know…

  “Wait,” she cried, but it was already too late. The wave seemed to begin at the soles of her feet and to roll upward, taking everything along for the ride.

  “Am I hurting you?” He raised his head, first in concern, then with a smug grin as he saw the state she was in.

  He went back to her breasts in spite of her breathless suggestion that he come inside her. He didn’t seem to hear her, and then suddenly it didn’t matter, it was too late, and the world began to tremble, her body began to spasm, and she cried out as an orgasm shook her.

  He stayed with her through the major quake and the aftershocks, then came back up to kiss her mouth, holding her as her heart slowed.

  “I’ve heard about women like you,” he said. “Always wanted to meet one.”

  She groaned, torn between embarrassment and satisfaction. “It’s been a while,” she said. “I had a lot of pent-up horniness.”

  “Don’t ever apologize for enjoying yourself in bed.” He announced it like a lesson.

  And she was feeling good enough that she opened her eyes wide. “Is that a rule?”

  “Absolutely,” he assured her. “Jack Flynt’s rules for living. Rule number one.”

  She felt a little lazy, a lot turned on, and wild to see what was next on the agenda. “What’s rule number two?”

  “Ah,” he said, kissing his way down the underside of her breasts to her belly. “Jack Flynt’s rule number two is to extract the maximum pleasure from a woman.” He nibbled her belly until she giggled helplessly. “To find every one of her weak spots and exploit them shamelessly.”

  He nudged her thighs apart and the restlessness increased again. If he was going to do what she thought he was going to do, it was her absolute favorite thing on earth. But she’d already come once, surely he’d want to…

  “Oh,” she cried as he put his mouth on her, and began to remind her why this was her absolute favorite thing in the world. He kissed her intimately, savoring her with his mouth the way he’d enjoyed her food earlier.

  She wanted to hold back, to take the time to enjoy and luxuriate in the exquisite experience of his mouth on her, but he was stroking her, swirling his tongue over and around her hot button, and she knew she couldn’t last. When she began to thrash, she felt the beginnings of delight take her, and suddenly, he changed his technique. Now he was light, stroki
ng with little touches like butterfly wings that only teased, keeping her hovering over the peak but not giving her enough momentum to fly.

  “Oh, oh, that’s so good,” she moaned, her head thrown back, feeling a drop of sweat roll between her breasts.

  He spread her wide and she didn’t care, she didn’t care that her thighs were built for stamina, not bathing-suit modeling, and that she had too much lust as well as too much of everything else. She let him look. Let him touch, feel, taste.

  Every second he kept her on the edge was agony, and yet the most intense pleasure. She couldn’t hold on, couldn’t float this high without bursting into flame, and still he controlled her, holding her airborne, but not quite setting her free.

  It seemed to go on forever; her heart stuttered, her breath caught, her body grew tenser, and then, when she thought she would absolutely expire from the sweet torture of those feather-light touches, he gripped her hips, holding her in place, and tongued her with deep, strong strokes. If he hadn’t held her, she was certain she’d have hit the ceiling as he took her over the edge, letting her soar, staying with her until she was spent.

  She waited for him to come inside her, her eyes shut and her body floating lazily in lapping waves of pleasure. She needed to open her eyes, at least one eye, and remind him about condoms, but for a second she wanted to stay here in the afterglow, enjoying the bliss.

  She jerked and her eyes flew open when she felt his tongue on her again. “I can’t!”

  “You can.” He was so sure. It was as though he’d known her body as long as she had.

  And, of course, she could. Only after she’d sobbed out his name did he kiss his way up her body and reach over her for the condoms he’d placed on the bedside table.

  “Rule number three,” he murmured. “Always give a little extra of yourself.”

  “I have some rules too, you know,” she said, watching, propped on her elbow as he sheathed himself.

  “What are they?”

  “One, never let a guy have too much control,” she said. Tucking her strong, sturdy legs around him, she flipped him to his back and mounted him. When she took him into her body, she couldn’t resist kissing him, feeling so intimately connected to this man on his first entering her body.

  “Rule number four,” he said, “never take love lying down,” and he flipped her.

  She laughed as they rolled back and forth, teasing each other, exciting each other, her taking him and him taking her, until they ended side by side, his hand on her hip, hers on his shoulder. He stared into her eyes and the intimacy was almost more than she could bear. She kissed him, allowing her eyes to close, and they rocked to oblivion.

  She snuggled up against him. Loving the feel of his body against hers, the way his heart still pounded, which she’d caused.

  Today had ended up being a surprisingly good day-the best she’d had in ages. Also exhausting, she realized, as she began to drift.

  She jerked herself awake.

  “I should get going,” she said after a minute.

  His arm tightened around her. “Don’t go. Not yet.”

  She stared at his profile, shadowy in the dark. He had a strong, almost beaky nose and a no-nonsense jut of a chin. She wished she could read his mind. She wished she knew her own. To stay or not to stay.

  So many things urged her to stay. Her body, replete and satisfied, but not so satisfied that she couldn’t imagine waking in the middle of the night to another bout of amazing sex. But then, what if Maxine was up early? Or George or, God forbid, Wiggins.

  “Let me think about it for a minute,” she said.

  “Is there anything I could do to convince you?” he said, skimming his hand down her front, bringing her tired body suddenly back to aching life.

  “Yes,” she said, pushing up against his hand. “You could definitely convince me.”

  He rolled her over, and she found she couldn’t care less about what her sister or George or even Wiggins might think when she stumbled back to her room tomorrow morning.

  He had her peaking before she’d even thought about it. She cried out an almost obscene number of times before they’d finally exhausted themselves and each other.

  As they lay snuggled together, her head comfortably resting on his chest, his hand making idle patterns on her back, he said, “You are, without doubt, the most amazingly responsive woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of taking to bed.”

  “I got a little carried away,” she admitted, turning her face into his chest.

  “My dear, you have a body that was made for pleasure.”

  “I wish you could have seen it a year ago.”

  “Why?”

  “A year ago I was running. I was more toned, more trim. Not so flabby.”

  “Flabby?” He raised his head so he could look into her face. “I’ve never known a woman who couldn’t find something wrong with herself. You are perfect. I think you’re the most truly sensuous woman I’ve ever known. You make art out of food, you take pleasure in eating, in touch, in your body, and in your partner’s. You are a rare and special woman.”

  She wanted to believe him, she did, but she’d had a crappy year and her self-confidence wasn’t exactly hitting an all-time high. “You don’t think I’m fat?”

  He shook his head. “I think you are perfect.”

  Well, she was far, far, far from perfect, but if he wanted to think that, hell, if he just wanted to claim he thought she was perfect while they were lying here together naked, she was not in the mood to stop him.

  With a sigh, she snuggled against him and closed her eyes, her lips still curved in a smile of satisfaction.

  She awoke in the cold, gray light of dawn. She wouldn’t have woken at all had she not felt cold, for which, she realized, she could blame Jack, who had left the bed. So long as she’d been curled against him, warm and occasionally very, very hot, she’d been content. Now she found herself alone under crisp white sheets. She not only felt cold, but extremely naked.

  The shower was running. By squinting her eyes at the clock she saw that it wasn’t even six. She could roll over and go back to sleep, and chance that Jack would catch her drooling on her pillow, or that the housekeeper would find her here when she came to do the room. No. Better to haul herself out of bed now, at once.

  Rachel had never been a morning person. Working in the restaurant business hadn’t made her any less nocturnal, but she managed to heave herself out of bed and shove herself back into her clothes before the shower had been turned off.

  Jack crept out of the bathroom a few minutes later with a furtive glance toward the bed. “You don’t have to worry about not waking me,” she assured him. “I’m up.”

  “Ah,” he said, looking as good in a towel as he had in nothing at all. “Sorry to disturb.”

  “It’s okay. I should get back to my room. Before, you know…”

  He nodded. He glanced at the clock and shed the towel with no embarrassment, dressing with speed. He didn’t even kiss her good morning. Obviously, his thoughts were already in London.

  “Well,” she said, “I’d better get going.” She took a step toward the door. It had been fabulous, amazing. The best night of her life. She wasn’t going to spoil it by wishing for more.

  “Rachel, wait,” he said, before she’d taken more than a step. “I want to see you again.”

  Her heart leapt. Oh, thank God. “I’d like that,” she said.

  “Why don’t you come up to London?” He slipped into a clean shirt. “I’ll take you to dinner and the theatre.”

  She sighed in pure bliss. “Sounds good.”

  “All right. I’ll give you a ring. Have you got a mobile?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a California number.” And she reeled off her cell phone number. He pulled out his and programmed her into memory. Cool.

  “I could make you breakfast,” she said, suddenly not wanting him to go.

  He shook his head, buckling the belt on his trousers. “No time. The
M5 will be murder if I don’t get away soon.”

  She felt very unhappy with the M5. But Jack wanted to see her again. That was something.

  “I never gave you a menu for your sister’s wedding,” she said, suddenly feeling like the worst caterer in the British Isles.

  “Believe me, anything you make will be brilliant. You’re a genius with food.”

  He came over and kissed her soundly, then grabbed his bag, which she now saw was neatly and completely packed, slipped into his shoes, and left.

  It was six o’clock in the morning, and she was the only person awake in Hart House.

  She didn’t feel like sleeping, but she didn’t feel like hanging around here, either.

  She made sure any trace of her was gone, including tucking in all the blankets and remaking the bed so it looked like only one side of the bed had been used. Satisfied, she crept out of the door and stealthily made her way back to her own room, where she changed out of Maxine’s clothes once more, showered, and hauled on her usual jeans and a favorite black cotton shirt.

  She let her hair hang free and put on a little makeup. Nothing like a night of great sex to put a person in a good mood, she thought as she realized she was feeling better than she’d felt for months.

  So the restaurant had closed, so she’d failed at marriage. Her life wasn’t over. She was young, talented, attractive enough that a man like Jack Flynt could spend the night making love and paying extravagant compliments to her.

  Life was good.

  Feeling grateful to Maxine and George for putting up with her for the past few miserable weeks, she decided to surprise them with breakfast.

  Max, annoyingly, was right. She’d needed to get back to cooking. Now she couldn’t seem to stop. Something simple, she decided. An omelet with fresh herbs from the garden.

  Chapter Seven

  Rachel told herself repeatedly that she wouldn’t expect Jack to call. Wouldn’t expect anything. Just because he’d said he wanted to see her again did not mean that he was obsessively going over every detail of their night together the way she was, or even that he did in fact want to see her again.