by Nancy Warren
Her cries grew urgent, her body plumper and slicker, and he swirled once, all the way around, and then thrust his tongue inside her body. And just like that, she exploded. He didn’t stop, couldn’t, needing to suck every bit of sweetness out of her until she was sobbing with release.
“No more,” she panted. “I can’t take any more.”
He didn’t think he could take any more either without seriously embarrassing himself, so he kissed his way back up her body and lifted her down from the counter. Wondering if Badass Mark had gone too far, he turned away to let her gather herself, when he found himself attacked from behind. His belt buckle was open before he’d quite realized she was after it, and his pants and boxers sliding south.
“What did you—” The sentence ended in a grunt as he felt the cold squish of fruit against his very hot, very hard cock.
“I’m a bit short of vitamin C myself,” Bron explained as she slid to her knees before him.
He glanced down and was mildly shocked to see his normally white flesh covered with an abstract arrangement of color and textures. Red, orange, green—all fruit, all squishy, and all cool. Against the fruit mask came the warm, firm swirl of Bron’s tongue. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth faintly curved in a smile like that of a chocoholic biting into her first Godiva’s. Her tongue curled around him, and she made these wonderful sounds of pleasure. Explosion was imminent.
“Condom,” he grunted.
“Mmwhn?”
“Condom.”
More desperate, trying to think of the balance sheet of the last company he’d saved from bankruptcy. But all he could think about was the pungent smell of papaya, mango, and orange, and the feel of—no, can’t think about that. Her hands were on his butt now, squeezing, and her mouth was all over him, her tongue so sweet, so warm, so . . . oh, no, one hand slipped lower, between his legs. No, not the balls, please, not the balls. Too late, gently she cupped and squeezed and it was too much. A moment of such exquisite delight gripped him that he had to reach behind him for the countertop in order to remain upright. When she had squeezed the last of his climax from him, she rose, looking pretty happy. They held each other, wordless for a few minutes, until a muffled squeak brought him out of the state of bliss in which he’d been floating half-conscious.
“We’ve got to go.”
“Shit,” he yelled, glimpsing the clock. One glance at his creased pants and the papaya spattered around his ankles, and a similar one at his room-mate and he knew they’d both have to shower and change. “Give me five minutes.” He bolted for the stairs but at the bottom couldn’t help but turn and enjoy the sight of Bron naked and sun-dappled, dashing to her own shower. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said.
She glanced back at him with her sweet, sultry smile and he wished they didn’t have to go to work today. “Any time.”
He couldn’t help the grin, or the urge to whistle as he raced up the stairs.
Chapter 6
“Oh, the man doesn’t just work a spreadsheet, he makes love to it. He’s so amazing he could balance your checkbook,” said Fiona, the front office receptionist and center of a gossip network the size and complexity of which amazed Bronwyn. It might have questionable authenticity, but was always good for a laugh.
Bron snorted. “To sort out my finances he’d need supernatural powers.”
Mark had worked here for three days and Bron hadn’t missed the way the women in the office, Fiona especially, had been checking him out. Her only consolation was that so far he remained oblivious. Give the man a computer and a bunch of boring numbers, and he went to some completely different plane of existence. It was creepy.
“I bet he’s amazing in bed.” Fi’s expression said, “come on it’s just us girls, give.”
Fiona was terrific. Fun and upbeat, almost as daring a surfer as Bron and she genuinely loved men. All sorts of men. Fiona was exactly the kind of woman Mark had come to Sydney to find. But Mark and she would be all wrong together. Bron knew that. She was doing them both a favor, she rationalized with great virtuousness and a large dollop of self-interest, when she leaned in close and kept her voice low.
“If you’re thinking of giving him a try, you might want to stock up on Viagra.”
Fiona’s eyes opened wide. “Viagra? You mean he has trouble . . . ?” she made vague motions in the direction of her lap.
Bron felt a moment’s guilt. She might as well publish Mark’s supposed impotence in the in-house email system as tell Fiona. However, she couldn’t go with the gay angle here, since everyone knew Jennifer Talbot and he had been engaged. They might find it suspicious that being dumped by a woman turned him gay within a matter of months. Probably such things happened, but her story wouldn’t hold up under the faintest of investigations.
“I’m not saying that’s why Jen gave him the flick. Maybe it was being dumped for another man that’s given him some . . . um, confidence issues. All I’m saying is . . . well,” she tried to look sad and confidential, “I shouldn’t really tell at all. I don’t want you to waste your time, that’s all. Not after that surfie from Brisbane turned out to be such a letdown.”
“Oh, don’t bring that up. I finally brought him home and he got drunk and spewed all over the bathroom.”
“Right. Who needs two disasters in a row?”
Fiona nodded sagely and took off her glasses to gnaw the earpiece, a habit that should have been revolting, but she somehow managed to make sexy. The slightly out-of-focus expression in her eyes appeared sensual but was really myopic. “Maybe he needs an understanding woman to help him through his bad patch.”
Oh, no. That was exactly what Mark didn’t need. “Sure,” Bron said brightly. “Great idea. And, penis size is vastly overrated, don’t you think?”
The glasses clattered to the reception desk as Fi’s mouth fell open. “He’s only got a little willie?”
“Shhh.” Bron glanced around the busy reception, but fortunately no one appeared to be listening. “Don’t tell anyone. I only wanted to warn you.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Thanks.” Fiona picked up her glasses and put them back on. “No wonder he makes love to his calculator. Those buttons are so nice and tiny.”
“I’ll cook tonight,” Mark said as they headed home.
“Why would you do that?” Bron asked. She was driving him home from the office as she’d been doing most days.
“Because you shouldn’t have to do it every night. Besides, I’m a neater cook. Dishes won’t be such a marathon.”
They stopped to shop and she immediately wandered to the display of fruit, like a magpie to shiny beads. He shook his head and called out, “Bron, I made a list.”
She turned and laughed. “Mr. Efficient. Of course you did.” She had a habit of doing that. Laughing at him. He was used to taking life seriously and having other people take him seriously. But somehow when Bron laughed at him he could see that maybe he was a bit stuck on routines and systems.
Still, it was efficient to have a list, and they could have been done in no time if she hadn’t insisted on wandering around and making an adventure out of a chore, making him sample some kind of dip she liked enough to buy, and showing him all the kinds of foods he wouldn’t find at home. He had to admit shopping, like everything else, was more fun with Bron around.
When they got home, he reached for the grocery bags and handed her the lightest one, thinking this was a ritual like married people might share, only he suspected rituals would never become dull or routine with Bron. He was right. As they climbed the outside stairs, it seemed there was someone waiting for them. A man with an official-looking briefcase.
“Bronwyn Spencer?” the man asked in a snotty tone that irked Mark immediately.
“Oh, crikey, not again,” she muttered behind him. He made a motion to her with his hand, making a grocery sack swing.
“Who wants to know?”
“Ms. Spencer is three months overdue paying for her new fridge,” the man said in that same snooty tone
. “And she seems to have changed addresses without informing her creditors.”
Irritation surged through Mark. How dare this little pipsqueak talk to and about Bron this way? And how could she put herself in this position? He put down a grocery bag and reached for his wallet.
“I’m Ms. Spencer’s accountant,” he said with impressive terseness. “If there’s been an oversight, we’ll correct it.” He pulled out a business card and his pen and carefully wrote his local number at Crane onto it. “You can reach me at this number, tomorrow.” The man opened his mouth to protest. “During business hours,” Mark said, and waited until the toad had scrambled back down the stairs before letting Bron and himself into the house.
“Wow, thanks,” Bron said when they were inside with the door shut. “I can’t believe they tracked me down here.” She kept babbling as she hauled her one bag of groceries to the kitchen, then made a big production out of putting everything away.
“Hold on a minute,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you in trouble?”
She winced. “Not trouble, exactly. I’m not the most organized bookkeeper. I told you I’m hopeless.” She looked hot and embarrassed and uncomfortable. He kissed her nose.
“I’ve saved huge companies from bankruptcy, Bron. I bet I can help you, too.”
“Really?”
“Sure. First we eat, then we do some ‘boring accounting,’” he said, imitating her well enough that she giggled. While she put the rest of the groceries away, he started cooking.
“Oh, shit,” he muttered. “I forgot to put fresh thyme on the list.”
She opened a cupboard that was stocked with some dried spices. “No thyme. Will oregano do?”
“The recipe doesn’t call for oregano,” he said, wondering if he should run out to the local corner store. Bron came up behind him and kissed his neck.
“Be a devil,” she said.
Okay, so maybe he was a little anal sometimes, he admitted as he tasted the pasta dish and found the oregano had done the job. After dinner, she was so desperate to escape the accounting ordeal that she even volunteered to do dishes, but he shook his head. He’d made so little mess that it wouldn’t take long to clean up. “I’ll clean up while you gather receipts, your bank statements, whatever you’ve got lying around.”
“Do we have to do it now?” she groaned.
“Yes. Let’s get you organized.” She made a revolted face, but she didn’t refuse the help.
“So, where’s this fridge you bought and forgot to pay for?” She didn’t even have a place to live, what did she want with a fridge?
“That was for a girlfriend. She lost her job and then her fridge went. She’ll pay me back when she can.”
“You’re a generous friend, Bron.” She’d been generous with him, too. Giving him tours of the area, her time, and sharing her body with him. He was enjoying this trip more than he’d dreamed possible.
“Yeah, well, I’m not an organized one.” She dragged her toe across the floor like a little kid. “I don’t know how to manage money. I make good money so there should be lots. Never can work out where it all goes, so then I don’t know how much money I’ve got, see?”
“Do you want me to do that for you? Help you figure out what you owe and how much you’ve got coming in? At least you’ll know where you stand?”
She thought about it and then nodded. “I think that would be amazing.”
“You don’t think it’s too personal?”
“What, more personal than you sticking your tongue inside my body? I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Sure.”
Absurdly, he fought the urge to blush. She was right, they’d been intimate physically, why shouldn’t he see her bank account if she was willing? It didn’t take him all that long to get her sorted out or to explain to her how to reconcile her account every month.
“You’d find life a lot easier with a budget, which I can set up for you.” She made gagging noises, but, he noticed, she didn’t turn him down. “As for the fridge, when that collector calls me tomorrow, we’ll work out a monthly payment schedule you can live with. All right?”
She breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Yeah. Thanks. Really.”
“Any my advice to you is to let your friend know about the monthly payments. Maybe she – or he – can help out?”
“It’s a she,” Bron snapped. “And you’re right. I think all my mates think I’m loaded.” She scowled. “But I’m not.”
When they went through her records, which were mostly available thanks to online banking, since she didn’t seem to keep receipts, he could see right away where her problem was. “You do make good money. But you’re always in debt so you start out the month trying to catch up. I’m going to set you up a budget that starts with savings.”
“Savings? But you just said I’m in debt.”
“Trust me. If you start to save first, even a little bit, you’ll begin to like the habit. We’re also going to set aside a portion of your income to pay of your credit cards.” He did some quick calculations. “I think we can get you back in the black within six months if you stop giving money to all your friends and start paying attention. How do you feel about a cash allowance?”
“What? Like a kid?”
“No. Like a generous woman who gives too much and doesn’t always think of herself.” He hugged her, thinking he’d rarely seen anyone so generous and wondered why she felt the urge to keep giving without taking proper care of herself. He had to wonder whether she was like that in other areas of her life and felt a quick stab of guilt. Was she being too generous with him? But he stopped himself from going down that path. He’d been clear from the start that he was here to party. She understood, because she was a partier too. Though, when he stopped to think about it, she’d shown no interest in anyone but him since he arrived.
“You’re frowning,” she said. “Okay, I guess I can stand an allowance. So long as you don’t tell anybody.”
He let his uncomfortable thoughts go and promised to keep his lips sealed about her allowance.
“Thank you,” she said when they were done and she had a simple system to follow.
“You’re welcome. Now, do I get a reward?”
She grinned at him in that way he loved that had his body already tightening in anticipation.
“Yeah,” she said. “You get a reward. I’m taking you shopping tomorrow.”
His erection wilted along with his smile. “Shopping?”
“I can’t stand it another minute. You dress like my dad.”
Mark gazed down at his crisp navy Dockers and checked golf shirt. “I’m guessing he’s not a really hip guy.”
“He’s all right for a fifty-five-year-old, but you’re young. You need to start acting like it.”
“I have two words for you,” he said advancing on her. Her eyes crinkled.
“What?”
“No yellow.” And then he scooped her up, giggling, and hauled her up the stairs to bed.
Mark wondered if it was some Australian courting ritual he’d never heard of when he began to notice the women of Crane glancing surreptitiously at his crotch. Even a few of the guys were doing it. After checking to make sure he was zipped and hadn’t inadvertently dropped something in his lap, he decided it was some kind of cultural thing and filed it away for future reference. He wondered if he was supposed to reciprocate.
He’d always understood Australians to be an earthy people, but he’d never heard of this crotch-checking business before. He’d have to ask Bron. He’d feel a little strange telling her about the crotch thing, though, in case she thought he was coming on to other women. Which, surprisingly, he had no interest in doing. He’d gone out with her on the weekend more as a matter of form than that he really cared to meet any women.
They’d shopped, and argued like crazy trying to find him clothes they could both live with, then they’d gone to some party or other, but he’d pretty much never left her side all evening. He’d already
worked out that if he was free to date other women then Bron was free to date other men, and as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t going to happen. After almost two weeks in Sydney, he had to admit he’d struck out spectacularly in the slutting-around department. But, he kept reminding himself, there were no rules. If he wanted to bed the same woman every night—hell, every morning, early evening after they got home from work, and any snatch of time they felt like it, then why shouldn’t he?
He was seeing plenty of Sydney, enjoying the challenge of work, and he’d formed a few friendships of his own. Bill had taken him fishing and they hadn’t caught anything, but they’d drunk some beer and toured the amazing coastline around the city. He’d gone surfing with Bron and a few of the guys from the office and been amazed at how much he liked the sport. He’d forgotten the thrill of being picked up and carried by a wave, the heart-pounding excitement mixed with fear as the wave curled above you and the world was nothing but a noisy blue tunnel.
And Bron! When he’d jokingly likened her to a mermaid, he hadn’t been far off. Bron perched on a surfboard, her hair and body golden as she rode waves like they were hers to command, was a sight he’d never forget. And surfing, he discovered, made her horny. Yes, he’d decided he was a big fan of surfing after all.
He was also learning some new customs. How to order a coffee, the correct way to order a beer; he’d even made half a stab at working out the rules of cricket, and tried not to fall asleep when he actually watched a game. He really ought to ask Bron about this crotch-checking business, though. But as it turned out, something new and far more unpleasant took its place at the top of his mind. He’d endured the by-now familiar crotch glance, this time with the addition of a smirk from some young punk with blindingly bright board shorts, a goatee, hair decorated with sand, and a big honking earring.