Twenty Times Tempted: A Sexy Contemporary Romance Collection

by Petrova, Em

  Rob had all the pieces of me spread out in a virtual folder, all the warts, the bad decisions and the even more damning histrionics after I’d finally awoken to the hole my hormones had dug for me. I’d gone about making it right by doing it wrong. The Horndog had every right to sling me into the too dumb to live file cabinet, close the drawer and throw away the key.

  Instead he handed me an out, a way to set my life back on track—not the academic career, the witness protection program Sam and Marie and Cordie and the Fink had manufactured out of thin air, but a real fresh start. Without fear, without always looking over my shoulder or wondering about motivations, expecting the con and the lie.

  Cringing from the abuse, both mental and physical.

  That wasn’t in the file, that wasn’t part of the Taylor Richardson profile and I planned on keeping it that way forever. Some secrets a woman has to keep close to her heart, not even sharing with her best friend because the pity and outrage would be too much an imposition for both to carry.

  I’d burdened those I loved too much already.

  Squinting against the early morning glare, I realized it was him. He stared through the glass, watching whoever sat in the booth by the window, hands in his pockets, hair ruffled from the stiff breeze canyoning between the brownstones and bumper-to-bumper mid-sized vehicles lining the street. The dry leaves swirled and danced around his feet but he ignored them, concentrating instead on a tableau I could only imagine, though the thoughts going through his head might not be too hard to conjure.

  Marie called up and asked if he was there yet and I think I grunted no but wanted to say he was changing his mind and wondering if he did, would I disgrace myself and chase after him?

  I think I would have but he finally turned away from whatever held his interest and walked quickly toward Sam’s house, his gait lanky and loose and arrogant. As he got closer, I felt that too familiar gut wrench of anticipation, the gooey ooze of saliva running to drool as my eyes feasted on the man.

  He’d gone metrosexual with a thick mohair scarf wrapped around his neck, the leather jacket open over a white sweater, close knit like a turtleneck. He gave the impression of being tall, his long legs elegant in skinny jeans pulled over boots with pointed toes. Italian, maybe. Or western style, it was hard to tell.

  The steps in front of Sam and Marie’s brownstone were pink-tinted preformed concrete, rounded at the edges. The balustrade sported a broad rail over solid wrought iron Doric styled columns, the newel post street-side impressively thick and topped with metal balls. I thought they might be called balusters but I wasn’t sure about the terminology.

  The doorbell rang and I craned my neck to stare down at the mop of brown hair, tinged with silvery glints in the weak sun, and I wondered if he was going grey but that wasn’t possible given his youthful look, so youthful I felt suddenly old and wizened and … cougarish.

  And conflicted.

  Marie yelled to Sam who yelled something back, but my ears buzzed so loud all I sensed was the no no no no guttural groan in the back of my throat. The fire escape at the rear of the building beckoned.

  Taylor the wimp longed to take the easy way out, but my nether regions went into oh hell no revolt and guided my legs down the stairs, my one and only dress flirtatious and come hither around jelly thighs.

  They were shaking hands, my bull moose cousin towering over Rob’s arrogance gone cautious. Marie fluttered in, took his coat and did the pleased to meet a friend of Taylor’s. She emphasized the friend and his cheek twitched, perhaps with amusement, more likely pain as Sam was still gripping his hand hard enough to crush bones.

  I was halfway down the steps, taking them tentatively in bare feet, my hand sliding down the banister as flesh splintered and split with excruciating craving.

  That’s when he looked up. Staring with the intensity of a sea gone mad, his face a mask, studying my every move, as if committing me to memory. Turning away from Sam, he focused his full attention on me, not moving a muscle, a predator in waiting.

  Sam mumbled something about helping Marie, and then it was just him and me and too much space and too many reasons why not.

  Gripping my wrist he pulled me down the last step to stand on the bare wood floor in my bare feet with my soul and my hunger bared for him to see, to judge, to be found wanting.

  Shuttering his eyes, the tic in his temple pulsed denial, the grip on my wrist like cold steel melting in a furnace of blood at boiling point, the pulse in his fingers wallowing in the swill of sludge thup thup thupping under mocha parchment. A grip so tight I disengaged and hovered like a transient zephyr, observing without feeling because to feel would peel the skin one layer at a time, a flagellation so exquisitely fierce it repelled and drew me at the same time.

  I wanted to die, to swoon in his arms. Instead I curled my toes, nails digging into wood gone friable and soft, his chin angled down, watching me lose my grip on sanity, tug tug tugging on bones separating and reforming.

  Air moved aside, dispelled, crushed and bludgeoned, until alpaca fibers twined with silk and the static crackled, jumping ship and racing with abandon to a forbidden destination.

  Cupping my face, he teased with that nimble tongue, the flavor of mint and dark roast and possession heady in the back of my throat as he plundered and demanded, driving me back against the wall, through it, penetrating and dispensing my self-control into a world of oh god yes.

  Giggles and a fuck I want you traced awareness behind my eyelids, tiny sparks of remembrance of time and place and propriety, and what good girls did and didn’t do, and I didn’t want to be good. I’d been stupid good, then just plain stupid and that had landed me in a lock down that had stripped my soul.

  I was going to be as bad as I wished, and given the promise of all the sacred feminines rising up in a waterfall of lust … that was very bad indeed.

  Rob managed to back away without actually doing it, his erection pressing hard on my hipbone, thick and rigid in the tight jeans, my skirt filmy and no barrier if he wished … oh please God yes! … to take me then and there.

  But he’d heard the giggles and Marie’s choked off, “It’s on the table…” and gave me quirky and naughty, the grin insinuating that we weren’t done, not by a long shot.

  ***

  It was late afternoon on a chilly autumn Sunday, the wind still brisk but not so bullying, and we strolled hand-in-hand, me with my poor excuse for an oversized purse slung over my left shoulder, him toting the overnight bag on his right.

  I shared, “Marie likes you,” and left off the Sam doesn’t trust you as far as he can throw you because that wasn’t exactly a surprise.

  He tugged at my arm, gently spinning me to face him. “What about you, Taylor?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  Like, of course I like you sprang to mind, that one was easy, but I sensed it wasn’t what he wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure I understand…”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Shaking my head, desperately trying to avoid the passive-aggressive no I don’t, yes you do, I mumbled that it wasn’t easy for me, he had no idea what he was asking, and then my jaws snapped shut when he gripped my chin and lasered eyes the color of sea foam into my skull.

  “Let me put it this way. I have two things in mind. Do you want to know what they are?”

  I whimpered, “Uh, sure,” and meant exactly the opposite.

  “Door number one is me warming up that shrimp creole for a late dinner,” and he emphasized the late, late meaning … oh boy.

  There was no way I wanted to hear about door number two, first because if it was what I wanted, I was going to embarrass myself right then and there, in mid-town Manhattan, with families out for a stroll and the pervs and pickpockets eyeing us up and down. And second? Well, there was no second because my brain said to hell with higher functioning in favor of slut number one.

  Taylor Richardson did it with the stud on Forty-seventh over the steam vent.
/>   I don’t know what came over me, Officer.

  No, those aren’t my lace panties.

  I’m not wearing any. Not now.

  Jaysus.

  Trying to distract him from delving into option two, I asked, “Is there dessert,” and nearly bit my tongue off at the thought of what he might conjure for après dinner.

  Nipping at my lower lip he purred into my mouth, “I plan on doing better than that.”

  There was no way not to ask, I had to know. “W-what’s better than dessert?”

  “The appetizer.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Rob

  There’s horny and then there’s desperate. The kind of desperate that makes a man do shit he’ll regret later. The kind that could be counter-productive, as in fostering performance anxiety, or going in sophomore hot and leaving freshman cold. The kind that turned a man’s balls blue and his face red.

  I was stepping into the violate ethics septic pile and there was no tip-toeing around that fact. It should have made me stop and think, but I’d sunk so deep into Viking van Horn the Conqueror that there was no going back.

  It hurt so bad I just wanted it done. No games, no soft purrs or touches, just me pile-driving her into submission as she wrapped those long legs around my waist, holding me tight enough to suffocate lust with dominance.

  That kind of desperate.

  I set the plates and silverware on the counter, aligning them precisely, the compulsion so ingrained I no longer much noticed it. She smiled and came into the kitchen, pulling the plastic container with our aborted meal from the other night out of the fridge. The sautéing pan was still in the dish drain so she righted that and set it on the stove, dumping the shrimp creole into the pan and stirring to distribute the liquid evenly.

  I said, “We’ll make fresh rice.” I’d eaten the plain leftovers as punishment and out of laziness. If I’d touched the main dish that would have meant she wasn’t ever coming back and I couldn’t deal with that possibility. Such was the level of my obsession, the angst of wanting her a physical ache that never went away.

  But, first things first.

  I’d promised an appetizer and I never reneged on a promise.

  Husking, “Leave that,” I motioned for her to sit on the stool and followed behind her, moving in close and pinning her against my chest with my arms wrapped around her. The thin silky dress fabric molded into my skin until lacey temptation and plump mounds formed a procession of fleshy waves as I stroked and petted her, teasing with sharp flicks until she groaned and hard went one-on-one with the pads of my thumbs.

  She clutched her thighs tight enough to crack a walnut, the image doing little to cool my jets. It was doing the reverse instead. She wasn’t fighting me. She fought herself, her desire. When she finally gave in, I wanted to be the one in that line of fire, when she exploded or imploded or flamed out in one glorious eruption.

  Imagine every euphemism and then up the ante by an order of magnitude.

  “Rob.”

  “Ssh, just relax.” Like me. Be cool. The iceman.

  But the iceman cometh and I was so damn close that I had to stop and reconsider. Not the ethics thing but the hold on long enough to give her satisfaction and me not embarrassing myself. I didn’t deserve her otherwise.

  You have all night van Horn, take it easy, take your time, make it worth the wait.

  Christ, who was I kidding?

  The braids made an indent against the thin cashmere of my sweater, the tight weave on the two strands pretzeling into the contours of my chest. Following the line to the tips, I admired the peekaboo curl of sassy brassy blonde against the brownish red highlights. An elastic band held the weave in place so I smoothed it off, first one then the other. They pinged on the peek of tile, edging just beyond the counter but not far enough to stabilize the stools, the rug-linoleum interface making for a tactical approach when choosing how best to park your derriere.

  With her long legs, she’d backed the stool completely onto the carpet, leaving me, my cashmere turtleneck and her dress having a boisterous Van de Graff generator discussion. The static discharge hurt. I needed it to hurt.

  I needed that distraction from my desperation.

  Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the counter, her chin on balled fists and her head tilted just enough forward that I could work the braids loose, one side, then the other, alternating and keeping the effect in balance. The kink was kind of like a mirrored pair of sine waves, oscillating down her back, until I smoothed and combed the strands into a single fall of dark chocolate.

  Knees finally relaxing, she sighed into the gentle pull as I finger brushed her hair from scalp to tip, left hand, right hand, gathering and spreading until it lay flat and glorious against the peach of the dress.

  I expected a that’s nice or you have wonderful hands you should be a hairdresser. What I didn’t expect was, “I refused the money.”

  My “what” followed, whispered, but she heard it and nodded. It was reflex because I knew what she meant, just not why she’d tell me that. Not now.

  So I asked, “Why?”

  “Because if I took it, then we couldn’t do this,” and she half turned on the stool and lifted her face, her eyes pools of promise without regret.

  I’ve never drowned, or crawled through the desert ravaged by thirst, or starved or suffered in any significant way so to say her mouth, her tongue, the taste of her was like manna from heaven or a dying man’s last sip of water doesn’t even come close to describing the drenching, the total immersion of my soul in her essence.

  Basically my balls were so tight they hurt like hell and I needed to fuck her senseless before I died on the spot.

  Standing, she looked me over with a critical eye and asked, “Do you want me to carry you?”

  “Oh Christ, yes. I don’t think I can walk.” I was almost past the point of breathing on my own. Two more minutes and I’d need life support. I carried so much joy in my jeans they were suffering from suffocation.

  Tay dropped to her knees and made quick work of the button and the zipper, pulling the denim and briefs to my ankles, the release marginally helpful, the salute to her wiles earnest and demanding.

  She had blunt nails and large hands for a woman and she worked my thighs until I collapsed to the floor frantically warring with boots and fabric, my ass brush burned on the flat pile as she slid her palms under the sweater and eased it over my head.

  Bumping my knees apart, she let the fall of hair brush my belly, curtaining her face and teasing me with giddy anticipation.

  I thought I imagined it, the first flick of her tongue, then another and another, so lightning fast I couldn’t be sure my nerves weren’t randomly firing out of some asynchronous sequence set up by a desire so solid, so real, so enormous that it invaded the hollows and parked my libido in permanent overdrive.

  I wanted to be inside her, feeling the walls of resistance collapse and covet every movement, every thrust.

  Instead, I was inside her and I went woozy with shock and sensation that rocketed up and down my thighs. She drew me deep into her moist warmth, suckling and prying at veins and muscle and tissue until my universe collapsed into a single point of light, leaving me quivering and moaning like some has been porn star. Biting my tongue and lips, hard enough to draw blood and sequestor my taste buds in iron shackles, acrid and bitter and hot, I braced my heels on the rough carpet to free up my hips to pivot forward and back. But she refused the rhythm, dragging her teeth across sensitive flesh until tears pooled and guttered in weak rivulets, my neck snapping like a rubber band near to break point, and please please please rolling off my tongue, my restraint lying in the carnage of love parading as lust.

  With a flick of her chin, the cascade of kinky curls parted and I inched up on elbows ouching against the rough carpet but intent on watching, a voyeur to my own seduction. Eyes shifting up, she caught my stare and the “O” of ecstasy, my mouth sucking air for all it was worth, feeding tortured
lungs, willing the blood low and slow to feed the sensations.

  I prayed for more and forever and right now and stop, don’t stop … my groin clenching with shivers as nerves detonated in pinpricks, flirting on the evil side of a violent passion poised for release.

  My cock was purpling and begging and oozing under the onslaught. Then she stopped and withdrew, parking on her heels, forcing my knees to collapse outward, exposing my total submission.

  With a finger, a single forefinger alighting on a beaded pearl, she drew it down and around, again and again, lubing and feathering until the silent swearing and imploring and pleading passed into pain and obsession as my eyes followed my descent into hell.

  Do it!

  Goddamn it, do it.

  Rocking on her heels, she gripped me like a joystick, solid, commanding, pumping each finger in sequence one two three four, thumb bracing on the vein, then tapping a drumbeat, a light brush on the snare, a rap of the stick on the rim and I dug my nails into the carpet as fibers ricocheted into my palm, miniature missiles imbedding into flesh and stinging shallow pings of do it do it.

  There was no please and no mercy and when she unleashed the final volley into the valley of my most hidden, secret cravings, a single digit pressuring with exquisite finesse … down to the base and a flick across the gland, firing every pleasure synapse in my body until I covered my eyes and thrust hips so out of control my spine curled and grated in agony and I sprayed my seed and my ecstasy onto skin gone brittle with sweat and surrender.

  I may have passed out. I wanted to pass out. I didn’t want to bask in that orgasmic glow, the false sense of wellbeing because … because, I could never, ever again experience anything so intense, so right, so dirty and pure and that was unacceptable.

  She had catapulted me past the insanity of obsession into the deepest, darkest hell of addiction and there was no twelve step program on earth that was going to free me of craving her.