Getting Lucky

by Avril Tremayne

  Of course, she had no idea that the biggest dragon in her life was him. Which was why his conscience kept tap-tap-tapping at him, telling him that even one night had consequences.

  But it was too late to listen to his conscience and so he told himself that since it was only one night, the risk was limited. And if he fucked things up...well, hadn’t Romy just said she’d forgive him? If she could forgive him anything, surely he could forgive himself for taking this one night. Anyway, he couldn’t stop now. Not after the way she’d kissed him, like she was making up for those ten lost years. Enticing him to give more, to take more, to devour her mouth, until it was pink and swollen and wet.

  Pink, swollen, wet. Like the luscious place between her legs—mysterious, like a dewy flower, its petals closed, peeking out from around the barrier of her panties.

  Burrowing his tongue between the petals, searching out every fold, had been an adventure in eroticism. Hidden secrets, buried treasures. And he would use his one night to find every last concealment and plunder it.

  How he wished he’d plunged his tongue inside her, but she’d come before he’d had the chance. She was so effortlessly sensitive, it had taken almost no time to get her there. It was like she was made for his mouth. For his cock, too, judging by the way it had throbbed all the way through, demanding its turn. It was a miracle the poor thing hadn’t exploded, depositing a gallon of semen through his jeans.

  Wasted sperm, Romy would have called that. And so would he. He wanted to be buried all the way inside her when he lost it the first time. And maybe if he was lucky—really, really lucky—the time after that, she might take him into her mouth before she remembered that would be a waste of sperm, too. But hell, one suck, one lick, even the briefest kiss, would get him ready to do whatever she wanted. Just the thought of seeing her lips wrapped around him was enough to make him wild. It was going to take some willpower to not fall on her like an unrestrained caveman when her clothes came off.

  He sent a quick message to his dick: control yourself. His dick twitched in response, which Matt interpreted as the penile equivalent of being flipped the bird.

  “So...what do you want me to do?” Romy prompted, making him wonder how long he’d been standing there arguing with himself. “Do I take off my clothes now?”

  Matt shook his head, closing the small distance between them. “I’ll do it,” he said, because he needed his first touch to be controlled and once she stripped, all bets would be off. He reached for her zipper. “All you have to do is kick off your shoes.”

  She kicked. And waited.

  He unzipped. And hovered.

  Stop, breathe, swallow, control yourself. “Lift your arms,” he said.

  She did as he asked, and he drew her dress slowly up and off, tossing it in the direction of the chair without taking his eyes from her. He was going to need every ounce of self-restraint he could muster, because he’d never seen a hotter sight than Romy in her underwear. The contrast of the opaque black of her stockings against the matte cream of her upper thighs and the translucent lilac of her panties was pin-up-girl sexy. The neat little patch of brown hair he could see through her panties had his fingers twitching with the need to touch it. Her bra was ivory lace, her full breasts pushing against the cups as though craving both release and his hands, the pastel-pink areolae showing through the material longing to be licked.

  “Shall I...?” she asked, reaching behind her for the clasp of her bra.

  “No!” Too harsh. Stop, breathe, control yourself. “I’ll do it.” Better. Just.

  She nodded, her hands falling to her sides—a simple movement that told him she was ceding herself to him. He liked the idea of her giving her body wholly into his care a little too much for it to be healthy, but he was in thrall to the idea of it nonetheless.

  He circled her, drinking in the sight of curves delectably full and lush. He wished he could ravish her a thousand times all at once, in her underwear and out of it. He unclipped her bra, drew the straps down her arms, let it fall to the floor. One long look at her milk-pale back before allowing his eyes to dip lower. When he reached her generous bottom, which was stretching out the lace of her underwear to the limit, he wanted to sink his teeth into her. His hands were shaking as he reached for her panties to push them past her hips, down her legs.

  He was glad she wasn’t repeating her earlier question about what position he wanted her in; he wasn’t sure how he’d frame an answer that included every position known to man. On her back, on her knees, on her side, on top, underneath him, straddling him, sucking him off, on his tongue, in his mouth, hanging from the fucking chandelier. He was past desire; what he felt for her was darker, like a craving—and he knew it was that darkness he had to control at all costs. He would not tarnish his bright and brilliant girl.

  She stepped out of her panties and he picked them up, sifting them through his eager fingers before throwing them who-the-fuck-knew-where because it struck him that he might savage a hole through the lace—a dead giveaway that he wasn’t in control.

  He came around in front of her. If she felt uncomfortable wearing nothing but those black stay-ups in front of him, she didn’t show it. She looked like she belonged exactly like that, waiting for his touch. Like she trusted him—exactly as she’d said she did—to take care of her.

  She reached out a hand, fingertips on his chest, frustratingly tentative. “What about your clothes?”

  He’d intended to strip off pretty damn quick, but when he looked for outward signs that Romy was as aroused as he was, he got such a shock his hands stopped midaction. Her face was appropriately flushed and her breathing was revealingly fast and shallow—but her nipples were steadfastly flat.

  He’d been so busy imagining her breasts with nipples jutting out as per his steamy daydreams in the library, it took him a moment to process that there was no jut. No jut at all.

  Romy gave a sigh that could only be described as long-suffering. “They’re inverted,” she explained. “And I’m guessing you haven’t seen their like before, despite your revolving bedroom door.”

  “Inverted. Does that mean...? What does that mean? I mean, I know what inverted means but does it...mean...” Oooooh, shit. “Does it mean you don’t like them to be touched?”

  “No! I mean...no.”

  Thank you, God.

  “They’re actually super sensitive,” she continued, blushing. “It’s just not easy to guess how I’m...you know...”

  “I know?”

  “How I’m...feeling, okay?”

  God, did she think that was a problem? Because he fucking loved the idea of having to work hard to make her show herself. He wanted to work over every inch of her until there was nothing he didn’t know. One night. He wanted it all.

  He leaned in for a groan of a kiss. “I guess that means I’ll have to check how you’re feeling by doing this...” Sliding his fingers between her thighs to swirl them around her clitoris before slipping them inside her. “Mmm. I think you’re almost ready, Romy.”

  “Not almost. I am. I am ready...I am...I am...ooooh...” she said between pants, and clenched around his fingers as they pulled out of her, as though to keep them inside her. “Oh, please!”

  Much as it thrilled Matt that she wanted him to stay there, though, that wasn’t the game now. “I will please you, Romy, I promise. But first, I want to play with these.” His hands went to her breasts, thumbs rubbing over their mysteriously hidden nipples. “Do they ever come out?” he asked, intrigued.

  “Sometimes,” she said, and arched her back, thrusting her breasts into his hands. “Depending...”

  “Depending on what?”

  “What you do.”

  No way was he going to turn down that invitation to experiment!

  He pinched around her areolae. “Do you like that?” he asked, and when she groaned and nodded, he said, “Me, too.” Only i
t came out more like a growl, like something feral, so he paused for a moment to rein it all back.

  And then he started pinching again, feeling what he couldn’t see, the hardness secreted inside. Another buried treasure, waiting to be coaxed out of hiding. Irresistible.

  He lowered his head to lick over the top of one nipple, then the other. Her gasping breaths told him she liked that, too, so he kept going. One then the other, back and forth, over and over. She leaned into him, enticing him to more. Her hands were on his hips, gripping hard as he kept licking, experimenting with his tongue. Flat, pointed, lines, circles, hard, soft. What did she like?

  The answer was everything, judging by the way she kept shifting from foot to foot, pressing her thighs together, then releasing, then pressing. When he put a hand around each breast and squeezed, narrowing his focal point so he could intensify the pressure of his tongue, she actually moaned. It was hot, hot, hot, to hear her. Hot, hot, hot to taste her. He liked wanting her like this. The insistent kick of lust, the anticipation of what was to come without knowing quite what path they’d take to reach the cliff, taking her with him every step.

  He raised his head, stared into her heavy eyes. “Shall I test again?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, released one breast, sliding that hand down her body, slipping his fingers between her thighs again. Her clit felt like a small oiled pearl, and as he rolled it between finger and thumb he imagined dropping to his knees to suck her there. But before he could turn the thought to action, she tensed, gasped and—bang!—she came in a clenching rush, the act of it, the force of it, taking Matt completely by surprise.

  As she collapsed against him, Matt couldn’t think past the ease with which he’d gotten her there. Either she was the most responsive woman he’d ever had or he was a fucking magnificent foreplayer. Whichever, he was euphoric. He loved that her sleepy eyelids were even sleepier, loved the way her breaths were still more like pants, loved the way her nails were digging into his hips. And then she topped it all by nestling her face into his chest and biting him through his T-shirt, and his dick leaped like an animal.

  “Two down,” he said—no, snarled, like a beast. “Two to go.”

  One more twirl of the fingers that were still between her thighs because he simply couldn’t resist. And then he started stripping with a vengeance. Thank God he was barefoot; if he’d had to bend down to take off shoes, he was pretty sure his dick would see it as an opportunity to wrap itself around his neck and strangle him—revenge for making it wait.

  His T-shirt was wrenched up and off. Jeans and underwear shoved down, kicked aside. A glance showed a damp patch on his boxer briefs. He’d been leaking precum for so long his poor imprisoned penis had had just about enough. He reached for her, but she stepped back. Prime position to be tumbled on her back on the bed, exactly where he needed her. He reached again.

  “No,” she said.

  Freeze. “No?” It came out disbelievingly.

  “Not that no,” she said. “I mean no as in wait.” Her eyes dropped to his dick, which all but lunged at her. He needed a leash for it, that was becoming obvious. “Wait because I want to look at you. First time, you know?”

  Jesus God yes, he knew. He took a deep breath to curb the rush in his veins. He could wait while she looked him over. He fucking loved that she was looking him over. Another deep breath to calm his body, which had broken out in a sweat.

  “Can you make it fast? The looking?” he half asked/half pleaded. “Because I’d like to move on to some mutual touching.”

  Her eyes raced over him as he started counting in his head. One, two, breathe, breathe, as her eyes snagged on his lower abdominals and she licked her lips. He went taut as a bowstring as he pictured her licking her way up and down the V framing them. Three—God-help-me—four. She reached out a finger, touched the top of his dick where more liquid was leaking. Holy-Mary-mother-of-God—five—six. She raised her finger to her mouth and sucked it inside.

  “Mmm,” she said.

  And the bowstring twanged, whip-fast, sending his arrow flying. “Fuck this,” he said, and launched himself at her.

  She landed on her back on the bed, Matt on top of her. A keening moan—hers. A ground-out curse—his. She tried to put her arms around him but he stopped her, forcing them over her head so that her big, beautiful breasts were thrust up at him. He leaned in for one more lick of each nipple, shuddering as her back curved up off the bed, offering him more. His thighs settled between hers, knees splaying to open her, spreading her wide. His hips were pistoning even before his cock was in position. He was so hard he knew he wouldn’t need to guide it in. It knew where it had to be and was in a fever to go there. One thrust, and he was inside her, her legs wrapping around him. On his third stroke he felt her heels digging into him, encouraging him to go harder.

  He tried to kiss her, but he was too far gone to manage anything except a riotous assault of lips and tongue, goaded on by the fact she was attacking him right back. He was sweating enough to make sliding off her a real possibility, so he let go of the hands he still had pinioned above her head and wrapped his arms around her, burying his head between her neck and her shoulder, dragging her in so close they were plastered together tightly enough that a tornado wouldn’t separate them. Pulse thundering in his ears. Romy almost sobbing as she spurred him on—heels and words. “Matt, I’m going to come. Make me, make me, make me come.”

  And as he felt her internal muscles start to contract around his cock, he unleashed himself, hands moving beneath her bottom, angling her hips, surging into her, aiming for the spot he knew would tip her over.

  “Yes, there,” she gasped, grinding against him. “God, right there.”

  Thrust, thrust, fucking thrust, and he felt his own orgasm zap through him. She spasmed around him, crying out his name, and it was as though she’d set a torch to him, so sudden was his eruption, like a gush of lava bursting from a volcano. Gush...then scorching flow. An endless stream, endless pour from him to her. Hot, wet, tight. Delirium.

  He stayed, hips bowing into her, as the almost painful tension finally started to drain out of him. He realized he was shivering, but he was still so hot. He had no control over his body, even in the aftermath. Distance. He needed distance. But when he tried to roll off her, she tightened her arms and her legs around him and clung.

  “I’m too heavy,” he said.

  “One minute,” she said, her voice muffled because she’d buried her face against his chest. “Just one.”

  And so Matt stayed on top of her, caught between helplessness and dread at the terrible, aching, never-before closeness. He was relieved when she finally relaxed beneath him, unhooking herself, freeing him.

  “I’m fine now,” she said, and he eased off her to lie beside her, staring up at the ceiling, not knowing what came next.

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “How long do you need to recharge, Matt?”

  He angled his head toward her, uncomprehending.

  “I’m flying out in the morning, remember, so I need to get back to my hotel soon,” she explained. “I need to check my notes for Lennie, and pack, and...and double-check the time of my transfer to the airport. All the things an overthinker does. So if we’re going to do it again...” She offered him a tremulous smile. “Well, we’re up to petits fours, right?”

  Flying out in the morning. Flying. Out. “I thought—” He stopped himself. One night, she’d said. That didn’t have to mean all night.

  But...but he’d thought she’d stay.

  Stop! He didn’t care if she stayed. It was better if she didn’t stay.

  Safer.

  How many goes did it take to get pregnant, anyway? Okay, stupid question. He knew it only took one. It was just a matter of which one. A matter of what point in the cycle she was at, and whether the stars were aligning and shit like that.

  He thought back to her
phone call two weeks ago, when she’d been on day three of her period. If he used that as a guide, they were damn close to target. And when you combined that timing with the fact that he’d shot off inside her like a NASA-grade rocket, she was probably already pregnant. He’d probably given her triplets to match the three orgasms. She didn’t even have to stay for her fourth...fourth orgasm...if she didn’t...want...oooohhhh.

  Brain slowing down. Blood, heart, nerves, seizing up.

  Back up a step. Back up.

  She was probably already pregnant. Already...pregnant. Already...

  Matt reached out a trembling hand, laid it low on her belly.

  * * *

  Romy stopped breathing, stopped everything, looking at Matt’s hand on her.

  She knew what he was thinking, and now that he was thinking it, she was thinking it, too: she might already be pregnant.

  Way to change the dynamic! A few minutes ago, it was all about sex. Now it was about more.

  She put her hand over his. “So?” she asked softly, searching his face.

  He kept his eyes on their hands. He said nothing but she felt the shiver that ran through him all the way to her bone marrow, as though he’d become a part of her. She wanted to warm him, to rub away the crease between his eyebrows, tell him everything would be okay.

  Except that everything wouldn’t be okay. His silence told her that, and the look on his face—a look she’d never seen on him before. Haunted. Hunted.

  They hadn’t blurred the line, and they hadn’t crossed it; they’d drawn a new one. And it wasn’t a situation that could be withdrawn from. It was real, and it was forever. He’d become hers in a way that was different from before, and she had a sudden insight that he always would be hers, whether she was pregnant or not, no matter what happened in her life, or who else he slept with. And that was more than he’d bargained on and way more than he wanted.

  “So,” Matt said, and took a deep breath as he eased his hand out from beneath hers. “I’m recharged—let’s go for broke this time.”