And it’d been there while he held his girlfriend’s hand as the docs did their thing two years ago, took from her what he’d put there, took his heart in the process as well.
Large brown eyes riveted him to the spot. The gay sparkle returned right away. “Your female?”
You dumb ass, you stupid, moronic, reckless fool of a macho— Shit.
Archer kissed her so he wouldn’t have to answer.
Chapter Seven
Joan was sure she’d gone up in flames when Archer leaned into her and pressed his lips to hers, his hand still cupped around her chin. He’d never kissed her this way before. Tenderly—without the wicked grin preceding it. Her hands hurriedly clamped around his neck as she pressed herself into him, his firm and fit body, the way they almost clicked with the quiet but satisfying snap of puzzle pieces. Liquid heat spread to her pussy right away. Maybe they ought to finish what Mel had interrupted? Just as Joan was starting to lower her hands in search of glorious skin to touch, Archer pulled away, sighed then put the smirk back on.
“If we don’t practice, you won’t make the audition for amateur night.” His wicked, wicked tongue did that thing, brushed against the back of his teeth with a tantalizing glimmer.
“You always do that,” Joan replied, still not letting go of him. “With your mouth.”
“Enjoy it?”
Would grinning like a loon answer that?
It must have for Archer chuckled, kissed her hard but quickly pulled away again. “Practice. Now.”
Joan gasped when he slapped her butt before marching for the CD player and putting her song on. At once, the bass thumped slow and erotic. How was she supposed to practice now? Horny and hot and…rawr, as he’d said.
Archer grabbed his pole—nark, nark—threw a slanted look at her until she’d taken her clothes off except for her pink No Pain No Gain cami, sports underwear and the penny belt.
They started with the first few moves, a combination of simple holds and leg extensions, followed by more complicated leg work that involved a lot of pointing and twisting around the pole, and finally hit the spot where, as the song reached a crescendo of electric guitar, Joan was supposed to do the dreaded Reverse Knee Spin. She landed on her ass, bit her cheek and let a good curse out.
Archer shook his head, looked at the ceiling. “Let’s do it again.”
They did. Joan holding on to the pole with all the grip she had. Her palms squeaked when she bounced on her heels, snapped up, kicked high with one foot, to right away switch hands and wrap her other leg around the pole. Here it was again. Using all her focus, keeping the toned back of Archer in sight, she grabbed the pole high with her right hand, low with her left, kicked herself backward while simultaneously releasing her grip in tiny increments so as to gradually slip down to the ground. She twisted a full rotation around the pole, one leg bent other extended, slid down to the ground just as the last twang of the electric guitar struck. Perfect timing. She grinned wide.
Archer whirled on the spot, marched for her and picked her up in his arms. “Wow! That was perfect, babe!”
They shared a quick laugh while he let her feet touch the ground again.
“Again,” Archer said, pushing back, still grinning wide.
They practiced her routine for the next four hours, doing it slowly, quickly, in segments, several times in one stretch. When lunchtime came around, Joan could barely close her shaking hands.
Archer cringed when Joan’s grip failed, sending her backpedaling several steps for the force of the momentum. She didn’t fall, didn’t know why either because her legs felt like jelly. Bent in half, she took several deep breaths.
“That’s enough for today,” he announced as he hit the stop button on the CD player. “You have to be in shape to melt their faces tomorrow.”
“I think it’s my thighs that are going to melt,” she replied, checking the inside of her right thigh. A long red mark shone there from the many spins. “I’ll have to hide that somehow.” She straightened, caught the look of pride in his eyes and that swelled her ego as nothing else, though she instantly felt silly for letting it get to her. “Hey, should I get some baby oil or something? Get me all nice and shiny?”
He visibly shuddered. “What year is this? 1980? Performers don’t use baby oil anymore. They use cocoa butter or other kinds of body butters. Anyway, the quickest way to the hospital is to grease yourself up then go pole dancing. I have some, you can borrow it for tomorrow.”
“Oooh, sorry, I didn’t know skin moisturizing was an exact science.”
Archer laughed. A good-natured, open laugh. Where had the smirking, cocky man gone? She enjoyed this one much better. Even if he still was very much a Bad Boy with both capital Bs, hair tousled just so, five o’clock shadow and low-riding pants that allowed her a fine view of every single muscle on his fine belly.
Sigh.
“Is it tested on animals, that stuff?”
Archer solemnly shook his head. “I may eat our furry friends and smother their dead carcasses in pepper sauce, but I don’t condone spraying cosmetics in their eyes.”
Had Sauvageau been here, he would’ve had a theory about that and “alternative lifestyles”. Which reminded her, she’d never seen someone straight-arm their way out of her boss’ Special Handshake. She’d wanted to hide in shame when Sauvageau had held on to Archer’s hand when it was obvious the handshake was over. Yet Archer had broken it with no apparent effort. The look of Sauvageau’s face! Joan would make sure to share every detail with Chantal. Oh, what fun in the office!
“Do you have the rest of the outfit?” Archer suddenly asked, pulling her out of her gleeful “let’s tease the sarge” campaign.
“It’s in my gym bag in the car. Why?”
Heat wafted to her cheeks and it had nothing to do with exertion. Well, okay, a little. She was beat. Did he want a repeat of the prior day’s performance?
“Why don’t you have lunch here?” he offered, crossing the distance. “Something light so we can practice a bit more afterward. But this time, make it a dress rehearsal—outfit, cream, music. The works.”
“Yeah, but I reek to the high heaven. I need a shower.”
“I’m sure we’ll find a way to take care of that. Come on, I’ll walk with you.”
Feeling buoyed for no good reason except she was finally going to see inside his house—and isn’t that just pathetic—Joan followed him out after quickly pulling her wind pants back over her penny belt and underwear. What would the rich neighbors say? Ha.
After she retrieved her gym bag from the backseat, which made Archer smirk and make a comment she didn’t hear, she followed him up to the porch. He fished a key from behind the brass mailbox, bounced his eyebrows at her then unlocked the thick oak door, cleated and polished to a high glimmer.
“That’s not very safe, keeping a key outside this way,” she commented. “And now I know where it is.” She wondered how many other women also knew about Archer’s key behind the mailbox.
Archer shrugged. “I trust you.”
The urge to give him a bone-crushing hug was strong but she resisted it in the spirit of not dissolving into a puddle of Liquid Loser. She had to be cool. Stay focused. Not stare at his butt. Yet the notion of his trusting her enough to show her where he put the key to his house enveloped her in a nice, warm cocoon of denial. He didn’t think of her as anything more than a fun fuck partner. Yet it was nice to pretend for a few seconds. But he wasn’t a slut as Chantal suspected, just a very, very good lover and a cocky, funny guy—despite the asperities of his Bad-Boy personality.
Sex, woman. This is about sex. Nothing more.
Unfortunately.
As soon as she stepped inside, she knew he lived alone. Her cop’s sense of observation told her that. Single everything. To her right on a gleaming mahogany table was set a small ceramic bowl with one set of keys, one wallet and one pair of shades. Nice wallet too. Brown leather, worn smooth at the corners and etched with G.B.A. in cursive let
ters. Her bosses hadn’t told her what the B stood for. She’d have to take a look at his file, see what kind of background his check had revealed. It must’ve been clean if the lieutenant had received his name. Joan didn’t know the lieutenant well enough to ask for the informant’s name but promised to ask Chantal, who knew everything about everyone.
“Wow, that’s nice,” Joan said as she walked past a tall gilded mirror placed at the end of the lobby, right over a thick vase filled with straight, thin branches. Very…what’s the word again? Asian stuff.
Archer stopped to look at the mirror. “It was my mom’s prized possession. She would’ve sold me before that thing.”
Joan didn’t know how to reply and so just shut her mouth. Would his mom really…?
He turned to her, smirk full-on. “Man, you’re gullible. She wouldn’t have sold me to keep it. Maybe just rent me out.”
She was so glad he’d been teasing her—what mom would value a mirror so much?—that she laughed a bit too hard for the situation.
You’re such a moron, Murphy. Settle down.
“Your parents don’t live here anymore?”
“They died a while back and left me the house.”
“Oh. That’s very smart of me, running my mouth that way. Sorry.” She meant to walk up to him, kicked up the runner in the process and stumbled a few steps.
Archer’s gaze flicked to the mirror, his face tight and worried. Joan wanted to laugh.
“I’ll stay clear of it. Don’t worry.”
He took her through a living room that could’ve been pulled right out of a magazine. He had the Old English pub thing going on in his home, leather couch, brass lamps with the green-glass shades, wood moldings and thick bookshelves all along one side. She kept expecting to see one of those huge globes that hid a bar inside if one only lifted the northern hemisphere. Except for the mammoth flat-screen television set inside one of the bookshelves. It must’ve been fifty inches across!
“This is a nice house, Archer. Wow.”
He shrugged but looked delighted anyway. “Both Mom and Dad were real estate agents. I had no chance.”
Speaking of which, she spotted a thick frame that served as a bookend on one of the shelves. A laughing woman held a man almost in a headlock, his black wavy hair brushed back over his high forehead. So Archer had inherited his mom’s pale eyes and grin but his father’s dark hair and good looks. The mother wouldn’t have stopped traffic with her looks, yet there was something irresistible, something kind about her, in the way her eyes smiled and sparkled, despite the obvious age of the picture.
She winked at him when she caught him looking. “Your parents were hot!”
They shared a quick grin as he took her to the kitchen beyond a swinging latticed door. It wasn’t at all modern as she’d expected, even a bit tired but charming just the same. Old-fashioned wood cabinets and tiled countertops in shades of reds and oranges made her want to sit and chat. So homey! And her cluttered house in tones of Creamy Dull.
“Here,” he said, offering her a stool set against the breakfast counter. “I’ll make sandwiches so it’s not too heavy.”
Joan watched him work around his kitchen, admired the way he treated everything with a mix of manly economy of movement and culinary proficiency. He was probably a great chef. She could—and had—made water stick to the pan.
After they’d shared a tasty ham sandwich with Dijon mustard and dill pickles, iced tea and chocolate chip cookies, she helped him put everything back in order, fussed with him over the dishes—“that’s what machines are for, Joan”—and followed him to the bathroom so he could show her around.
“So,” he asked, leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom. His biceps twitched when he looked at her from head to toe. “Together or one after the other?”
Joan snorted a laugh—damn that instinct to laugh first and ask questions after! “Oh, you’re serious? I thought you said we’d practice today.”
He nodded slowly. Oh, and he began doing that thing with his mouth, as though he played with a mint in there. She wouldn’t mind getting her hands on a mint herself actually.
Anyway, back to the sex god with the wicked mouth please.
“Who says practice can’t be fun? And anyway, what I said was you’d do a dress rehearsal. So you’ll only do the routine once.”
She couldn’t even speak when he stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.
“Steam sets the smoke alarms off,” he remarked, his chin dipping low, his eyes narrowing while he studied her.
Had anyone anywhere in the history of the world made those two boring words—smoke alarms—sound so damned sexy?
“You have to be the hottest woman I’ve ever seen, Joan. Truly. I get cramps just looking at you.”
“Cramps? Mmm, sexy.”
He arched an eyebrow. “That’s the highest form of compliment a guy can give. When your balls cramp up just by looking at a woman, you know she’s special.”
She cleared her throat to subdue the laughter. “Ball cramps?”
Special. She liked that, being special to Archer even if she couldn’t help suspecting he’d sung that tune to countless others before.
He nodded. And when he licked his lips, kept the bottom one tucked in afterward, Joan’s ability to speak, nah, think even, was dramatically reduced. She watched him get closer, the tips of his fingers gently running along the black countertop, closer still until he stood directly in front of her, his breath brushing the skin of her face and neck and sending shivers right down to the soles of her naked feet. Speaking of which, when she peeked down, she noticed the impressive bulge tenting his pants. Whoo!
“You’re turning me on, it’s not even funny. Did you know that?”
She swallowed hard. Her gaze was riveted to his. “Shouldn’t we wait until after the dress rehearsal?”
“Do you want to wait?”
“Um. Well.” She grinned.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He reached over her shoulder and pulled the glass door open. “Shower, ma belle. And hurry if you don’t want to pick my fainted ass off the floor or perform CPR on me.”
From a distance, Joan suspected the scene must have looked as though an explosion of clothes had gone off in the large modern bathroom. The No Pain No Gain cami went flying, as did the wind pants, sports panties and penny belt. Archer was just as quick getting rid of his clothes since the “karate” pants dropped to the slate tiles nice and quick. Before he took them off, Joan had half a second to admire the black boxer briefs hugging his nice tight hips and muscled thighs. Then those went flying too and landed on the counter.
Naked, aroused—and not just a little judging by the size of cock he presently pointed at her—she let him back-walk her to the corner of the shower and waited with her hands pressed against the wall behind her while he fisted the brushed nickel knob. Glacial water rained down on them from three spigots in the ceiling. Whoa. A gasp left her.
“Cold!”
Archer grinned what had to be the most decadent, lascivious smile on the planet, even bared his teeth as he cupped the back of her neck and pulled her close. She didn’t lose a single precious second and filled her hands with his glorious male body. All those sinewy muscles, so hard and inviting!
“Touch me,” she whispered against his shoulder. The urge to bite hard nearly overwhelmed her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll touch you in places you didn’t know had nerve endings.”
Well, the smug, cocky—WHEW!
The water turned hot just as Archer’s hand closed over a breast and gave a quick, teasing squeeze.
His cock poked her in the belly when he closed the gap between them.
“You know,” she said against his mouth, which he kept a hair’s breath away from hers yet didn’t kiss her. “We’ve been together twice and I still haven’t had a taste of this.” She closed a fist around his shaft.
Arched hissed something that resembled remarkably what Chan
tal said when she was getting ready for a fight.
“What was that?” she asked, teasing. Another squeeze.
He closed his eyes, swallowed. “If you kill me, you won’t get inside The Quicksilver, you know that.”
She grinned then kissed a trail down his hard belly to his equally stiff cock filling her hand. Both hands!
While he pressed his palms against the wall, she nudged his feet wider so she could kneel in between them, dark rosy glans, so smooth and shiny and now dripping wet, pressed against her cheek. She kissed the base of it. Archer’s abs, so sculpted and showing big veins leading down to the playground, twitched, pulled on his penis and made it bob enticingly.
A two-fisted approach would be perfect for him.
“Are you ready?”
Archer cursed. “You big tease!”
Half growling, half chuckling, Joan angled him downward to her mouth and wrapped her lips around that glorious rod, worked her jaws to accommodate his thickness. Each vein, she made sure to kiss and lick. Each ridge, she teased with the tip of her tongue. Around and around his glans. She explored every angle of him, down under the base, his balls that contracted with each breath. Ball cramps. Ha.
On the spur of the moment, she joined her hands along his penis and began to rub the tip of it with the pads of both her thumbs. Archer shook violently.
“Oh, you enjoy that, do you?”
“Mmm.”
Then she stuffed him down her throat again, pressed her forehead against his lower belly and made rumbling sounds in her chest to show her appetite, her enthusiasm, while she stretched the skin back as hard as she dared go. He was so smooth. Rolling her eyes up to his face, she caught him staring at her, anticipation and thrill etched on his handsome face. So she gave him a show he wasn’t about to forget.
Joan sucked hard and loud. With great pulls, she tugged on his cock then took him down deep, repeated the process. Archer’s hand closed over her hair, fisted it. Because she was kneeling facing him, it proved easy to up the ante. He wanted her to pin him? She would. Joan leaned the back of her head against the wall, braced her heels and looked up at him, mouth wide. He’d get the hint.
Tease Page 10