Delicious

by Lori Foster, Lucy Monroe, Sarah Little

  “Come in.” Stan pushed the door wide and stood back while she crept over the threshold. And she did creep. As though she had reservations, or was afraid . . .

  It hit him, a storm of sensation, exploding inside his brain like a migraine. Jenna badly wanted to talk to him, to clear the air by her own choice before he read her thoughts. Stan struggled to abide by her wishes. He tried thinking of things the total opposite of Jenna—his mother, grub worms . . . It didn’t work.

  Singing to himself to drown out her feelings, Stan took her arm and trotted her down the hall and into the family room that opened out to the deck. The open sliders had let in the humidity, leaving the room damp and cool and as turbulent as the storm itself.

  He led her to a soft striped couch, pushed her down onto the cushions, set his coffee on the end table and crouched in front of her. His heart hammered and a sudden erection made his old faded jeans uncomfortable. “Talk to me quick, sweetheart. I’ll do my best to hear only what you say, not what you think.”

  Jenna’s lips trembled. She touched his face with one small, cool hand. “Stan.” Her hair was loose, and very little make-up colored her face. She wore an old, soft sweatshirt with a pair of drawstring shorts and flip-flop sandals. Her knees pressed into his chest and she licked her lips, bringing her thoughts together. “I spoke with Rachelle.”

  He hadn’t expected that. A dozen other possibilities had occurred to him, but not that. “Yeah? And?”

  She licked her lips again. If she didn’t quit doing that, he wouldn’t be responsible for a delay in conversation. Already he wanted to push her flat on the couch, to open her thighs and settle between them and strip off her sweatshirt—

  “I told her everything.”

  Stan had been studying her taut nipples beneath the soft cotton sweatshirt with interest, but at her confession, his gaze shot to her face. “Everything?”

  Scooting forward to the edge of the sofa, earnest in the extreme, Jenna tunneled her fingers through his hair and launched into explanation. “I had to, Stan. I couldn’t sleep and I was up all night pacing and trying to sort things out, and finally at five this morning, I gave up.”

  Stan stared at her. “I got up at five, too. Same reason. Couldn’t sleep.”

  Her expression softened. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”

  Damn, she made him feel like a wimp. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice gruff. “What the hell did you tell Rachelle?”

  “She was concerned. She wanted to know if you’d done something mean to me, something to upset me. She told me about Terrance—you were right, by the way. He is an ass. He made my daughter cry.”

  “If he was a little older, I’d stomp him for her.”

  Jenna smiled, and she had her heart in her eyes. “I told Rachelle you weren’t like that, but then she kept prodding, telling me how perfect you are. She thinks you’re smart and nice and sexy—”

  “Sexy?” he croaked.

  Her smile widened. “Yes. But she said it in an attempt to convince me, not out of personal interest.”

  Burning heat came into his face. “Damn it, I know that.”

  “I told her I thought you were wonderful, and she wanted to know why I was up moping and pacing instead of in bed dreaming about you. So . . . I told her.”

  “She knows I can read her thoughts?”

  “Yes. We talked through an entire pot of coffee.”

  Shit, shit, shit. Stan’s shoulders slumped a little. “She thinks I’m a wacko.”

  With a quiet chuckle, Jenna leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. Stan could feel her breasts on his bare chest, her warm breath on his shoulder.

  He closed his eyes and whispered, “You’re killing me, babe,” and then he pulled her closer still.

  Jenna pressed a small kiss to his throat, another to his shoulder. “Rachelle said, in a rather admonishing tone, that most men never have a clue what a woman thinks or feels, and they’re even more lost as to what a woman wants.”

  “True.” But given the female psyche, how could you blame them?

  “She told me that I should grab you with both hands and never let you go.”

  Stan’s heart almost stopped. “Is that right? And what did you say?”

  “I reminded her that it wouldn’t only be my thoughts you could listen to. But Rachelle says she has no secrets, and when she does, she won’t be around during full moons.”

  Some of Stan’s tension started to ease. He stroked his hands over Jenna’s back, down to the swell of her hips.

  “I thought about that,” Jenna admitted. “About how it’d be between us, how you’ll know what I want, even before I realize it.”

  “You mean in bed.”

  When she nodded, her hair teased his cheek. “I’ve waited long enough, Stan.” Her teeth closed on the muscle of his shoulder, sending a rush of sensation through his veins. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

  “Neither do I.” Jenna hadn’t said anything about love or the future, but in that particular moment, Stan needed her too much to care.

  In one smooth movement, he pushed up from his knees to sit on the sofa, cradling Jenna on his lap. She curled against him, right at home, her rounded tush pressing against his boner, her arms around him, her big cushy breasts smooshed against the hard wall of his chest.

  He struggled to catch his breath, but her thoughts penetrated. It had been an effort, letting her talk without reading her feelings, her mind. Now he couldn’t stop the tide and it flattened him. Like an inferno, she burned from the inside out. Stan knew that her breasts were throbbing, that between her thighs she was wet and aching, trembling all over.

  He caught her face and kissed her hard, giving her his tongue and accepting hers in return. Her urgency became his own, and he shoved up her sweatshirt, desperate for the feel of her body, her soft breasts and stiffened nipples.

  As his rough thumb stroked over her nipple, pressing, circling, Jenna jerked her mouth free and cried out.

  Raising the sweatshirt higher, Stan lowered his head to kiss her. Jenna struggled, trying to free herself of the shirt while squirming under him. When his mouth closed over her nipple, she arched her body and gave a long, ragged groan.

  Jesus, she was on the ragged edge, and he knew, knew that she wanted his hand on her now, his fingers inside her, stroking and working her. Without a word, Stan levered himself up and off her, stripped her shirt away and went to work on the drawstring of her shorts. Jenna helped, kicking off her sandals, but once Stan prepared to remove her shorts, she froze.

  He felt her lack of confidence and paused long enough to cup her face. “Listen to me, Jenna. You’re beautiful. Every inch of you.”

  “I’m forty.”

  “You’re stacked.”

  Pleasure at his compliment warred with uncertainty. “I’ve . . . I’ve had two kids.”

  Stan continued to look into her eyes while he slipped his hand over her rounded belly, circled once, relishing her softness, then pushed into her shorts. Her lips parted on a sudden breath.

  He found her pubic curls and fingered them briefly before pressing lower, into damp, hot flesh, swollen and ready. His chest labored.

  Her eyes grew unfocused—but she didn’t break the connection of their gazes.

  For a time he just petted her, lightly prodding, exploring. Then he found her clitoris, already turgid, and using his middle finger, touched her gently.

  Her shattered moan filled the air. “Oh, God, Stan.”

  She needed release more than foreplay, Stan realized. It had been a very long time for her. Jenna wasn’t a woman to indulge in one-night stands, and in a small community where everyone had known her husband, there’d be no such thing as privacy. She’d been in a position of all or nothing, and so, putting her kids first, she’d chosen nothing.

  But now she had him.

  Stan looked at her breasts, and his lust kicked up another notch. They were big and soft
, very pale with rosy nipples drawn tight. Slowly, deliberately building the anticipation, he closed his mouth over her, suckling softly, tonguing her—and all the while, he teased her clitoris, lightly abrading, moving his finger back and forth.

  Her hips lifted and her thighs opened. Stan paused long enough to tug her shorts over and off her hips, then threw them aside. Without haste he looked at her, lying naked on his couch, her belly trembling, her chest heaving, her face flushed.

  All his.

  Every muscle in his body strained with the savage need to take her. Her timidity wasn’t strong enough to overpower her sexual yearning. She wanted him and, at least for that moment, didn’t care if her body lacked perfection. Stan shook his head. To him, she was better than perfect, everything he’d ever wanted, more than he thought he’d ever get.

  “Stan . . . please.”

  He shifted his position at the side of the couch so that he faced her feet, then levered himself over her. He slid his arms under her thighs and pulled them farther apart. With his fingertips, he explored her, opening her swollen lips, tracing along her opening, up and over her clitoris.

  Her small moans and soft gasps urged him on. He kissed her belly before pressing his mouth lower.

  Yeah, she wanted this, had dreamed about it, fantasized for long, endless nights about how it’d feel to have his mouth on her, tonguing her. Sucking. Making her come.

  Her excitement was a live thing, invading his head, obliterating his concentration.

  Harsh, trembly sounds of anticipation mingled with her fast breaths. Her heels pressed into the sofa cushions. She groaned, and her fingers curled over the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back.

  Stan inhaled the hot scent of her sex, gave his own groan of excitement and closed his mouth over her. Being very gentle with her, he circled her clitoris with his tongue, finding a rhythm that made her wild. The weight of his body held her still, but she jerked hard when he pushed one finger into her.

  With each new pulse, each throb and shiver that coursed through her, his own pleasure expanded. She tasted so good, he could have eaten her for hours, but only a few minutes later, with two fingers buried deep inside her, pressing hard, alternately sucking and licking her, she came.

  Stan was so wrapped up in her pleasure, so into the moment and so turned on, that he forgot about reading her thoughts. Everything he did was out of love for her, because he wanted her pleasure and enjoyed kissing and touching her—as much as he’d enjoy her touch in return.

  Attuned to her every sigh and moan and movement, he knew just when to increase the pressure to give her the most explosive orgasm. He knew when to ease back, when to slide his fingers free, when to gentle her.

  Because he was a man in love, not because of the twice cursed moon. It astounded him that during her climax, her thoughts hadn’t been clear to him at all. He hadn’t needed them to be. Jenna was an open, giving lover.

  She was all his.

  He had his cheek on her belly, his fingers idly tracing circles on her thigh when her soft sobs reached him. Still, without delving into her thoughts, Stan smiled with pure male satisfaction. Jenna’s tears weren’t from sadness, upset, or disappointment. She cried out of an excess of emotion, because she knew that what they’d just shared was special.

  Enjoying her femaleness, this sign of her caring, Stan kissed her pelvic bone. “Shhh, sweetheart,” he whispered, feeling very indulgent. “Don’t cry.”

  She made an endearing little hiccupping noise, then stammered, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I am.”

  Carefully, Stan eased his arms out from under her thighs and began kissing his way up her body. “You,” he said with his lips on her belly, “enjoyed”—he lingered on her breasts—“what I just did to you.”

  Her eyes were liquid with tears, sated and filled with love. “You already know I did.”

  “Yeah.” Using one fingertip, he brushed away a tear clinging to her lashes. “Because I’m not unfamiliar with a woman’s body or her response.” Uncaring if she understood his statement, Stan stood, then unzipped his jeans. “You’ll enjoy me inside you even more.”

  As he shoved his jeans down and off, she caught her breath. “God, Stan, you are so gorgeous.” She quickly sat up, tucking one leg beneath her bottom, reaching out with both hands to touch his abdomen, lower, over the trail of hair that thickened at his crotch. Fully erect, his cock throbbed as her soft fingers wrapped around him.

  Tipping his head back, Stan locked his knees and let her explore him at her leisure.

  In an absent voice, she asked, “Do you have a condom, Stan?”

  “Yeah.” He dropped one onto the coffee table. “I stuck three in my jeans pocket as soon as I knew you wanted me.”

  Using both hands, she squeezed, slid up his length, then slowly back down again. “Three, huh?”

  Stan swallowed his groan. “Yeah.” Talking wasn’t easy. “You never know when opportunity might knock, and I believe in being prepared.”

  “That’s because you’re such a great guy.” The last whispered word no sooner left her mouth than her lips brushed the head of his penis, and Stan growled out a low curse.

  “Jenna.”

  “You already know how often I’ve thought about doing this.” The hot interior of her mouth closed around him and he felt her wet, velvet tongue moving, sliding . . .

  He couldn’t wait any longer. Not with Jenna.

  He caught her shoulders to pull her away, then tipped her to her back on the sofa cushions.

  Rumbling thunder nearly drowned out her laugh as Stan stretched out over her. The lights flickered and a strong wind brought the storm into the room. “Why such a hurry, Stan?” Jenna teased.

  He kissed the smile right off her mouth, then kept on kissing her until she clutched him again, until her skin heated and she moaned and writhed under him. Again, he pushed his fingers into her, and he felt her muscles clamp down, squeezing him, making him desperate to feel her on his cock.

  When she again made those sweet female sounds he adored, Stan sat up long enough to roll on the condom.

  “Look at me, Jenna.”

  Her heavy eyes opened, but grew dazed as he guided himself into her. Straightening his arms, Stan stayed above her so he could see her every reaction as he became a part of her. “Christ, you feel good, Jenna.”

  Her neck arched and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, whimpering. The tension grew, until finally she gasped. “Stan, I’m sorry.”

  And before he’d seated himself fully inside her, she groaned long and low, rocking out another climax. Her heels pressed into the backs of his thighs and her fingers dug deep into his shoulders. Stan took great pleasure in just watching her, feeling her contractions rhythmically squeezing him, knowing that he had the power to satisfy the woman he loved.

  When she quieted, her forearm over her eyes, her body damp with sweat, he began thrusting, shallow, easy, slow deep thrusts.

  “Oh, God, Stan,” she whispered.

  With his right hand, he gripped the cushion beside her head and with his left, he braced on the arm of the sofa. He clenched his jaw, driving into her with more force, shaking the couch, feeling the power of the storm in his blood.

  Restless, Jenna turned her face away from him, but she came right back, eyes barely open, lips red and swollen. “Unbelievable,” she moaned, and then her hands slid up and over his shoulders, her fingers delving into his hair.

  Stan bent to take her mouth, ravaging her, eating at her soft lips and sucking at her tongue, and then he exploded, great waves of pressure shuddering through him again and again. He lowered himself to hold Jenna tight until finally it all began to ease away. He felt replete.

  He felt whole.

  Jenna stirred as goose bumps rose on the naked flesh of her waist and hip and upper thigh. Idly, Stan stroked her with his open palm, warming her skin. “You are so soft.” He kept his voice low now that the storm had moved past them, leaving only a steady rain. “I love to
uching you.”

  She sighed and curled into him. “You didn’t close your sliding doors. Your floor is going to be wet.”

  “Storms turn me on.” Stan loved her so much, it hurt. But so far, she hadn’t said a word about love. She’d screamed out her pleasure, hugged him with her thighs, begged him and praised him and been as open and giving as a woman could be during hot grinding sex. But she hadn’t said a single word about the future.

  She was so lethargic, her body, her thoughts. Stan felt her smiles inside his heart. He felt her satisfaction and her contentment. He felt . . . a lot of things. But he didn’t know if they equaled love.

  “So,” she whispered, twining her fingers in his chest hair. “I need to wait for another rainstorm during a full moon to get a repeat of today?”

  He swatted her hip, smiled as she yelped, then went back to smoothing her skin. “I was edgy as a junkyard dog when you showed up, and I knew even before I opened the door that you were here to get laid.”

  Her lips curled. “I was here for you, Stan. If all I wanted was sex, I probably could have found another willing guy.”

  Shoving up to one elbow, Stan almost toppled Jenna to the floor. His hand gripping her ass stopped her from falling off the sofa. “Who? Where?”

  This time she laughed outright. Slumberous, sated eyes mocked him. “I don’t know, Stan. I’ve never offered before. But I figure someone would be willing if I started giving it away. I mean, I know Delicious can be a little backward, and there aren’t that many single guys my age, but—”

  In one swift movement, Stan pinned her beneath him. Catching her wrists in a fist, he stretched her arms up and over her head. “Tell me you love me.”

  Those green eyes widened, no longer teasing. At the same time, Stan felt the response of her body, the accelerated beating of her heart, the shifting of her thighs, the warming of her skin.

  She liked being in a submissive position—and her turn-ons became his own.

  Distracted, Stan trailed the fingers of his free hand along the underside of her arm, down, down, until he cupped her breast. Staring into her eyes, he caught her nipple between his fingertips, lightly pinched and tugged.