One Tough Cookie

by E C Sheedy

  He wanted to take her, sink hard and deep with all the fumbling, awkward rush of an adolescent. Grasping for restraint and the return of at least some finesse, he stretched out beside her and rested his heated palm on the smooth plane of her stomach. When his hand headed downward once more, seeking the warmth of her inner thigh, she parted her legs and murmured his name.

  Taylor ran his fingers through her soft maze of pubic hair, caressed her gently. He wanted his touch to turn her to butter, wanted her wet and as desperate for him as he was for her.

  When Willow pressed herself to his hand, he groaned.

  "Oh, my God, that feels…so-o good. I can't—" Her hands grasped wildly at the sheets. She bucked and twisted toward his hand.

  It was game on…

  While he could still think, in a deft maneuver, he disposed of his slacks, first removing a foil packet.

  When he started to sheath himself, she stopped him. "Not yet. Let me... touch you first."

  "I don't think—" But he was too late. Her hand closed around him. He froze, utterly still in her firm hand and his breath ripped out of his lungs. Fuck! His rock-hard cock throbbed to aching. One more second of her touching him, and he'd be doing a slam-dunk. She started to stroke him.

  "Whoa… Not a good idea." He gripped her hand. "Not yet." He'd be back for more of what she was giving him. But later. Much later.

  With a soft, uneven sigh, Willy acquiesced, moving a hand upward to play with his flat male nipples. She lifted smoky blue eyes to his. "Then touch me again. I like it when you touch me."

  He gave her a crooked smile, using words to cool his raging heat. "Where exactly would you like me to touch you? I seem to have lost my place."

  Without a word, Willy took his hand and placed it in the warmth of her inner thigh. And in the dim bedroom light, she returned his smile, her voice throaty, her uptilted eyes sultry and teasing. "Can you find your way from there?"

  Taylor's fingers tightened over the firm flesh of her thigh before inching upward to comb through her curls.

  "Was it somewhere near here?" he asked, the steam of his breath heating the curve of her throat.

  "Hm-m." Willy closed her eyes, sinking into the husky rumble of Taylor's voice. Purring words, questions, promises in her ear, his hand cupped her sex. Held her. Rubbed her.

  Then…he slipped a finger through her center, a delicate splitting of waiting flesh. She thrust up her hips. Or they thrust on their own, she was sure. Her eyes opened to meet his. While he played with her he watched her. "You okay?"

  Another slick finger through her seam.

  Chaos. Her head rolled, and she heard herself murmuring his name. She bit her lower lip and threw her head back wildly, hard against the pillow. Still his slow hand stroked, over, then into, her softness—a deep hot intrusion destroying all thought.

  "Open for me. More."

  She obeyed, letting her knees fall apart.

  And he played with her. In her.

  Heat gathered, slicked her body, clustered inside. Uncontainable heat. All of it a rush of burning, greedy wanting. Taking her outside herself. Her nails tore across his shoulders, then down to grab fistfuls of quilt at her sides. She heard herself say his name but didn't know why. "I—" she started, but couldn't finish. She wanted…something but didn't know what.

  "I know." He kissed her hair, her ear.

  What did he know? She thrashed and tried to deep breathe. He couldn't know how her body screamed for his. I need… I need…

  What did she need? She only knew the need was raw. Unbearable. Terrifying. Wonderful. She raked her fingers across and down his chest. "Enough," she said, her voice rasping, dark, and demanding, unrecognizable to her ears. "Enough… Now. I want now." She wasn't making sense, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the promise of Taylor's hard heat pressed into her thigh. "Now," she repeated.

  Taylor lifted away from her, slipped on a condom, and came back to settle himself between her legs, the length of him finally with her, heat to heat. She stifled the moan rising in her throat and thrashed beneath him, crazed with need.

  "Easy," he murmured. To her? To himself? She didn't know and was past caring.

  With a deep shudder, he entered her. Achingly slow. Then retreated and entered again, deeper now. She felt the slickness of sweat across his shoulders, his hard muscles bunching under her hands. Every sinew in his body tense with the effort not to hurt her.

  When he met her barrier, she tensed; every friend, every whisper, every book she'd ever read setting her up for the pain to come. Taylor took her head between his hands. "Look at me, Willow. I want you to look at me." With that he drew in a deep breath—and filled her. His eyes never leaving hers.

  The ripple of pain was met and negated instantly by her burning body, her frenzied need for the man in her arms. Inside her, he stilled himself, locking his body with hers, letting her accustom herself to his size, to the fit of him.

  "Are you okay?"

  Willow's answer was physical. Wrapping her strong legs around him, she rocked up to him. Hot, moist, and fevered, she took all of him deeper—and shattered, her breath a ragged singing sigh against his throat.

  Taylor's own release was immediate, and more powerful than anything he'd ever experienced.

  When the steam cleared from his head, he rolled off her and pulled her to his side. While he tried to catch his breath, he kissed and smoothed her hair, letting her rest in his arms. He heard and felt her heartbeat backtracking, searching out its natural pulse. She nuzzled her head into his shoulder.

  "You're awfully quiet," he said. "What happened to the sassy-mouthed woman I've come to know and love?"

  Silence.

  Cupping her chin, he lifted her face to his, his thumb tracing her jawline. With the lamp behind her, her face was shadowed. Damn it! She was crying.

  "I did hurt you, didn't I?" Damn it to hell! For the first time in his life, Taylor felt helpless. He pulled her closer. "Please, don't cry, I—"

  She pulled from his arms and sat up, her back as rigid as old oak. "I'm not crying. Crying goes on and on and on. That was one lousy little tear. And, no, you didn't hurt me. You were very, uh, nice."

  "Thanks. I think." Nice! What was that expression? Damned with faint praise. She takes him to another galaxy at warp speed and to her it's nice! He ran his hand down the length of her back. "So why the 'lousy little tear'? If it wasn't pain, and obviously wasn't ecstasy, what was it?"

  Willow pressed her eyelids together. She hadn't lied. She wasn't exactly crying, but she didn't have an answer for him. She wasn't about to tell him she was afraid, because her carefully planned no-strings-world had just been hurricaned to rubble. She had the sick feeling this mind-blowing sex, this eruption of emotion, was some kind of omen, or worse yet a definite precursor—to what her mother felt for her father. That thing called love… Her stomach tossed and twisted, and she swallowed hard. Not that she was in love with Taylor—but still.

  Whatever was going on here, it bore some serious thought. But not now, not in bed with the cause of all her problems running his fingers down her back. She shivered.

  "Come back here," he demanded softly.

  Willow sighed and let him pull her back to the nook of his shoulder. She nuzzled him when his big warm hand drifted down her neck and over her shoulder. She rested her arm on his chest and snuggled closer, feeling his damp skin begin to cool under her touch.

  "Talk to me," he whispered into her hair. "That one lousy tear and your silence are making me damned uncomfortable." He drew in a breath and added, "Not what you expected?"

  "It was better."

  "You mean 'nice' is better than what you expected? Obviously you weren't expecting much and I lived up to it."

  "Are you fishing, good lookin'?"

  He laughed lightly. "Yeah, maybe I am, but not for compliments. There're worse things than 'nice' lovemaking."

  Her own lips curled into a smile. "Oh? Like what?"

  "There's okay, satisfactor
y, adequate, or that all-time buzz killer, pleasant. Nice is a definite step up from that." He combed her hair with his fingers. It was delicious. "But there are other descriptions."

  She traced a finger through the springy curls on his chest. "Such as?"

  "Sensational." He kissed her forehead. "Spectacular." His lips brushed over her cheek. "Staggering." He kissed her throat. "Or my personal favorite, indescribable." He nibbled her earlobe.

  Willy swallowed. "Hm-m. Maybe I should think about this. After all, I'm new at this sex business. I should get it right.' She ran a finger across his nipple, relishing his sharp intake of air. "No doubt in my future affairs inquiring lovers will want a more apt adjective."

  "You're an authentic brat. Did you know that? I can see I have my work cut out for me." He rose up on one elbow and looked down at her. "Can we talk about those tears now?"

  "No." Willy hooked her arms behind his neck. "Because right now, I think you should practice. Let's start with sensational and work our way to indescribable."

  Taylor lifted an eyebrow. "Would that I could."

  Willy gave him a questioning glance.

  "Shall I get you a calculator?" he added dryly.

  Knowing nothing, she nodded knowingly. "Oh. Too much, huh? Well, do the best you can then." She smiled into his darkening green eyes. "I'm sure whatever you can manage will be very nice."

  She heard the word 'brat' again as his mouth closed over hers. Maybe indescribable wasn't out of the question after all.

  Chapter 7

  Taylor sneezed, woke, and brushed a long strand of hair from under his nose. Willy was lying on her stomach with her head on his chest. The rest of her sprawled tantalizingly uncovered across the bed with one foot dangling over its edge. He grinned—an ultra satisfied grin—and stretched.

  Willow stirred long enough to pull her knees up and fling a hand loosely over his shoulder, but she didn't wake. He wasn't surprised. Both of them had tested their endurance last night, and she needed rest.

  The Iberian sun poured morning warmth into the room and a golden light over the tangled bed sheets. One dancing ray streamed across her blond hair, highlighting it in tandem with the breeze-tossed curtain on the window.

  Beyond beautiful… Beyond anything, anyone, I've ever known before.

  Their lovemaking had touched him on a level he was unfamiliar with. A thickness lodged in his throat, and for a moment, a strange but welcome weight rested near his heart. He looked down at the sleeping woman on his chest. While the sun played its golden game with her hair, something shifted deep inside him, gave way, as if his spirit was making room for something new—and permanent.

  Willy opened her eyes and quickly closed them again in defense against the morning light. Letting one eye blink partially open, she gazed sleepily at Taylor.

  He tousled her hair. "Good morning."

  "How far did we get?" she mumbled.

  "We put a run on staggering but fell asleep in the home stretch."

  Willow's lips curled into a pleased smile before she closed her eyes and promptly went back to sleep, but not before he managed to extricate himself from the bed. He pulled on his pants and headed for the kitchen, wishing he'd learned how to whistle. It was a day for whistling.

  The coffee was brewing when he heard a knock on the door. Probably Rosa, Dan's landlady, he thought, with another message from Danny saying he wouldn't be able to make it until the year 2020. The thought didn't bother him. All he wanted now was a few more uninterrupted days with Willow.

  He opened the door.

  "Buenos dias, Senor." It was Rosa. "The senorita, Willee, she is here?"

  "Here but sleeping at the moment. Shall I wake her?"

  "No, Senor. You will tell her, por favor, to call her mother. Is not, how you say, urgente, her mother say."

  He nodded.

  "Gracias, Senor." She smiled and was gone.

  Taylor had barely closed the door before he heard Willy's voice. "What was that all about?" she asked. "And do I smell coffee?"

  He watched her come through the bedroom doorway, pulling the sash of Danny's well-worn robe firmly to her narrow waist. It was short, showing her long shapely legs to maximum advantage. Much better on her than on me. She gave him a wide smile before letting her gaze briefly slip to the floor.

  Not so brash and cool as you pretend. Which for some unaccountable reason lifted his already soaring spirits higher.

  He walked toward her. "Yes, you smell coffee, and that," he nodded toward the door, "was Rosa. Your mother called. She wants you to call her, but she says it is not urgente." He slipped his arms around her and pulled her to him, planting light kisses on her throat. Willy's arms locked behind his neck, and the soft rush of her breath warmed his ear.

  "Are you aware, by saying that word in New York Spanish, you've set a very romantic language back a hundred years," she teased. "Spanish should roll from your lips not drop like sawn-off boards."

  He kissed her one more time before lifting his head. "I guess you'll just have to help me with my pronunciation."

  "I hate to tell you this, Monroe, but you don't have any pronunciation."

  "I know how to say one thing." He took her face in his hands and captured her eyes. "Gracias, muchas gracias, Willow. Last night was perfect. The most perfect night of my life."

  Willy swallowed, and mesmerized by his touch, the sincerity of his quiet words, barely managed a nod.

  He brushed her lips with his and asked, "Do you want to call your mother now or wait until after breakfast?"

  "Coffee first," she said. "If I called now, she'd hear... last night in my voice and ask a thousand questions."

  "None of which you could answer. Right?"

  "Right." She extricated herself from his arms, her expression wary and perplexed. He doubted her mother had any more questions than Willy had herself. That analytic mind of hers must be working overtime trying to make sense of last night—and the best way to deal with that was leave her to it.

  "Then coffee it is. And how about we have it on Danny's excuse for a terrace."

  * * *

  An hour later, Willy turned down Taylor's offer of his cell phone, and went to Rosa's to call her mother.

  He was coming out of the bedroom when she got back to the condo, snapping a crisp cotton shirt across his chest and doing up the buttons. Last night she'd run her hands all over that chest, through his silky chest hair. Her fingertips tingled at the thought, already itching for a repeat performance. She loved his body, loved exploring its planes and angles, its masculine secrets.

  When I think of him inside me…

  She let out a breath, sucked in another to her suddenly constricted lungs. Her head a little misted by her body's unexpected response, she willed her molasses' legs to keep her upright.

  Watching him now, his hair still damp from his shower, freshly shaved, and exuding more sex appeal than any man had a right to, her knees damn near buckled.

  When he saw her, he grinned, and tucked the buttoned-up shirt into his belt. That grin was enough to cause a heart stall, and she resisted the urge to walk over and wrap her arms around him. He was so arresting, so fascinating, so... resplendently male he dazzled her. Her insides turned out at the sight of him. One night with him and it was as if her world had shrunk, all of it now contained in his eyes, his smile, his strong body.

  A frown played across her brow. Unsettling to be flooded by feelings and sensations she'd spent years avoiding. She wasn't ready for this—but here it was. Here Taylor was.

  "You look concerned. Nothing's wrong with your mother, I hope?" he asked, misreading her look of consternation.

  "No. At least I don't think so. She wasn't there. She'd just left for my aunt's place. Sounds a bit mysterious though. She left a message telling me to call her tomorrow for some 'thrilling' news."

  "Good."

  "What's good?"

  "Thrilling news is good, isn't it?"

  Willy laughed. "We're talking about my mother he
re. It could mean anything from the cat had kittens to a fire sale at Barney's." She stopped suddenly, a growing excitement lighting her mood. "Or it could mean Sammy's had her baby. It's early but possible."

  "Who's Sammy?"

  "A cousin. It's her first baby. The first for our generation actually. Amazing, isn't it? I have four cousins, all women, all older than me and not a niece or nephew among them. Too busy in the divorce courts, I guess." She smiled then. "Sammy's will be the first."

  "You didn't tell me about your family success stories."

  She gave him a questioning look.

  "From what you told me last night, I thought there wasn't a happy marriage among them. Obviously Sammy beat the odds."

  "I said she was having a baby. I didn't say she was married. Sammy's husband walked out on her three years ago. She was devastated. She's been on her own ever since, and from what she tells me, she plans to stay that way."

  "And the child's father?"

  "Her new guy. She says he's a friend with benefits—says it works for her."

  "Sounds modern." He looked annoyed as he turned his attention to fastening his thin gold watch to his wrist.

  "My family is nothing if not modern. Not for us the traditional, the conventional—the ties that bind," she joked. And not for me the wounds that never heal.

  He gave her a long look. "I don't know. I'd say that what we did last night was as traditional as it gets. As for the ties that bind, they take a bit more time."

  She pulled up her mental boot straps. "About last night." She paused, firmed up her stance and her voice. "Don't get any unrealistic ideas, okay? I admit the earth moved, but earthquakes are temporary aberrations. Sooner or later things stabilize."

  "Wrong again." He cupped her chin and smiled. "Now what are we going to do today? Do you feel like a drive?" His lips breezed over hers. "You can be tour guide. I'll go wherever you lead me."