She cried out when he took her nipple in her mouth, her hips slamming into his. The taste of her, so soft, so feminine, brought up an arousal in him like he’d never known before. This wasn’t about another conquest, another notch on his bedpost. This was about her.
It was completely about her.
Other times, with other women, it was fast, passionate, quick. Done with a sense of urgency.
Not this time.
Not with Greta.
He lingered over her breasts—the skin all around, even her stomach—slowly placing kisses on every bit of her, tasting and savoring. She panted soft little sounds that went straight to his groin as he tasted her soft skin.
He kissed along the line of her skirt, feeling for a button or a zipper, but he couldn’t find it. Instead he slid his hands down her hips, feeling her legs through the fabric, at least, until he got to the edges.
Then he found her skin underneath, and started sliding his hands up her legs. She twisted as he touched her knees. More moans, and he slid along her body, kissing those lovely legs.
“Bruce?”
“Shh.” He peppered kisses up her shins, to her thighs.
“Really, I… You don’t…” She tried to press her legs together.
“This is my favorite part.” Then a thought occurred to him. “Have you not ever—”
She shook her head, covering her hands with her face. “I thought guys didn’t like doing it.”
“Who told you that?” he asked as he bunched her skirts around her waist.
She shrugged. “Guy.”
“Well, he’s a bastard.” Bruce continued his onslaught of kissing. Leading right to the promise land, he intended to prove men do actually care about how a woman felt during sex.
Greta tried to scoot away from him. He grabbed her hips, holding her still, as he dove in.
She let out a cry, one of pure ecstasy as he tasted her. Every moan ripped like electricity through him, turning him on like never before. Her body trembled, and her hips gyrated. To pump the orgasm as high as possible, he slipped a finger inside her, and about popped his own load when he felt how tight she was.
Good God.
She bucked, her leg kicked out as she came hard.
As she rode it out, he peppered softer kisses against her until she finally relaxed. And he couldn’t help feeling about twenty stories tall for making her come so hard.
He lay next to Greta, and she let out these soft breaths. “Hi,” he said with a grin.
She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped, shook her head. “I… You know I’ve written stuff… But I don’t. I didn’t know.”
He grinned. “Well, I will happily provide you with all the sexual book research you desire.”
She swung her arm to smack him, but she was so limp it barely made a sound.
Bruce waggled his eyebrows. “I think my job here is done.”
Greta snapped her gaze to him, at the same time her hand went in between his legs, cupping his member through his pants. “Um, I don’t think so.”
Bruce rolled onto his elbow. “Oh really? You think you are ready for more?”
She squeezed him. “Oh yeah.” Raising up on her elbows, she looked him up and down. “Thought we were playing The Exploration of Bruce? Don’t I get to say what we do?”
“Yep.”
“So get naked, mister.”
Bruce couldn’t help grinning as he immediately shucked his pants and threw them to the floor. “What about yours?” he asked, turning… and whoa.
She was naked.
Beautifully naked, rolled on her side, hair falling over her shoulder just right, and immediately, his mind snapped a picture of it.
He stared, unable to speak for a moment.
“What?” she whispered, pulling back.
“No, don’t move.” He took in every inch of her. The way her legs were crossed, her toes—her cute little toes, painted bronze and gold—her knees were even sexy, curvy and perfect. A woman’s body.
A gorgeous woman’s body. Breasts lay perfect.
She…
“Bruce?”
He made himself blink, and met her gaze. “You look incredible. Amazing.” He reached over, caressing her arm. “I would take a picture, if you’d let me.”
Utter panic filled her eyes, and he immediately felt like an idiot.
What a stupid thing to say!
She pulled away, the pose ruined. “I can’t, Bruce.”
“I know,” he replied, lacing his fingers in hers. “Sorry I brought it up.”
“I just…”
He pressed his finger over her lips. “Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t want to share the image of you looking so sexy with anyone, anyway.” He kissed her. She sort of melted against him, her soft flesh pressed against his, and the kissing turned heated again.
Tongues danced and Bruce thought he might blow up if she kept rubbing her girly parts against him.
As they kissed, he rolled back, and she straddled him, rocking her hips against him in the most delicious way.
“I…” she said. “I think I…”
Bruce nodded. “Yes baby, anything.”
He felt her hand reach between them, like she was—
“Hold on.” He reached for a condom out of his nightstand drawer.
Greta’s cheeks turned pink when she saw what he had. As he got it into position, her fingers met his.
“Can I?”
Bruce nodded as she unrolled the condom, and sighed from her touch.
“They’re kind of slimy, aren’t they?” she said.
He smirked. “Never thought about it.”
“Sorry, the writer in me.” Her hips pressed against his again, and this time, he reached between them, helping her…
Holy shit.
Greta eased herself on him, and he thought he might die.
She felt that good.
She let out her own groan, her hips slowly moving on his, and put her hands on his chest.
Bruce found her rhythm, matching each little thrust with a small one of his own, making her cry out with every bump. Her pace increased, and so did his, the two of them carved out a breathless momentum.
Until she threw back her head, and cried out, and he felt her squeeze him from the inside as her orgasm took her.
Bruce couldn’t take much more, and rolled her over, his own so close—right there. He kissed her hard as he pounded his hips into hers, over and over until he erupted a few moments later.
He collapsed on her, panting in her ear.
“Oh. My. God.” Greta whispered.
“Yeah,” Bruce said. My thoughts exactly.
Chapter Twenty-Three
From somewhere, light streamed into the bedroom. Greta rolled over and smiled at Bruce’s snores. His gray sheets covered his butt, and she wondered if she could work one of his cameras, because the image deserved to be on the cover of a book.
She giggled and stretched. A glance at his alarm clock—it was after nine.
The responsible part of herself, the part in charge of her own internal alarm clock, screamed she needed to get up, get a move on, because she did have to drive home today. She wasn’t horribly far from the city, but still…
Clothes were everywhere. Speaking of that…
“Where’s my dress?” she whispered. “Or my bag?” She’d packed an overnight bag, planning originally to stay in a hotel, but after…
Well, after round one, anyway, Bruce had gotten the bag for her. It was very sweet. But she didn’t want to fiddle with it.
Instead she grabbed the nearest thing—his burgundy button-up—and wrapped it around herself as she padded into the kitchen.
Ahh, coffee pot.
With a little digging, she found the makings and started
a pot. She checked on Bruce. Yep, still snoring.
Wow, I must have worn him out. And rolled her eyes at the silly thought. She’d never “worn out” a guy in her life.
She wandered around, taking in the details she’d only glanced at last night. His main living space was very masculine. Lots of brick. Big windows. In the center, halfway between his couch and the studio area sat a huge drafting table—complete with a light— and another table, outfitted with a computer and huge monitor. A heavy-duty, industrial printer sat against the wall, and she walked by, stroking the machine.
She’d always wanted a massive printer to spit out a manuscript in five minutes so she could edit her books.
“Maybe he’d print documents for me.”
Of course, that meant she’d have to see him again.
And she’d be open to that.
Yeah, spending more time with Bruce was certainly a possibility. She wandered over to the drafting table, where several pictures were strewn about—all wedding shots, in various sizes. A lovely bride and groom, both incredibly happy, smiled from the picture.
She leaned forward, her hand on the table, to get a closer look.
Something slid off the table and landed with a thunk on the floor.
“Oh!” A manila envelope lay on the floor. She returned it to the table.
And stopped cold.
The envelope had a name on it.
Greta Vandecall.
A chill ran over her. A sick, twisted chill. She flipped it over, seeing the envelope hadn’t been opened, and a label, with another guy’s name, covered the seal.
Her hands shook as she slid her fingers under the flap.
She couldn’t… she had no words. Her stomach roiled.
Oh my God.
Oh God.
She ripped it open and reached inside. There had to be a reason. There had to be a reason why he had this.
Pulling out, she found a single piece of paper with her name, her address and her Facebook account name.
Oh my God.
Setting it to the side, she stared, unable to believe what she saw. The packet, bundled together in string, was neat and tidy, but she knew before she even undid it what they were.
It was obvious.
Photos. Of her.
She undid the strings and spread out the photos, her stomach gurgling, the need to throw up threatened to overpower her.
Her entering work, sipping on her coffee, with her favorite steampunk coffee mug.
Her going into the post office.
Going into her house.
Getting in her car…
Close shots. Shots illustrating her scars, in blinding clarity.
And the worst? An article about the dog attack.
“Oh my God,” she said, her stomach boiling over.
“Something smells good…” Bruce walked out of the bedroom, smiling.
Greta opened her mouth to say something. Anything. But nothing came out. Flabbergasted, she merely stared at him, the bundle in her hands.
“Greta…” Bruce’s face lost all color, and his mouth fell open. He charged across the room. “Greta, wait, I can explain.”
“You… you followed me? You tracked me down and… and…”
“No, I didn’t. My friend did it for me. It’s his job.”
His words clicked together. “You paid someone to follow me?”
“Yes. No. Wait. It’s not what you think.”
“Then what is it? Because this looks really, really fucked up, Bruce.”
“I… I was drunk.”
“Oh, because that’s the best reason for everything. Wash it all away with ‘oh, I was drunk.’” She shoved the photos back in the envelope. “That doesn’t mean he was drunk when he did this. Or when you paid him! This is sick. Sick, twisted…”
“Greta, no, you don’t understand.”
She didn’t give him time. She ran into the bedroom, scrambling for her clothing. She didn’t bother taking off his shirt, instead threw her skirt on, stuffed anything else she had into her bag, and slammed her feet into her shoes.
“I just wanted to know what you looked like.” Bruce followed her into the bedroom.
“You never once considered I had a reason for not showing my picture? Did you ever think I might have wanted to hide?”
“Yes. No. Sort of.” He dropped on the bed. “I… Jason told me I shouldn’t open them. And I wasn’t going to. Hell, I’d forgot about the damn things until now.”
“If you weren’t going to look, then why do it?” She shivered, wondering how long it took his friend to find her. How easy was she to track?
It twisted her gut another notch.
“I don’t know. At the time, it was a good idea. I was drunk. It made more sense then.”
His words stabbed her—they both had been drinking last night. Granted, not a great deal, but enough. Did the alcohol twist his perceptions of her too?
Was the only reason he’d been with her because he was drinking?
She shook her head. “I can’t. No, I can’t do this,” she said. Hefting her bag on her shoulder, she headed for the door.
“Greta, please wait.”
“No, Bruce. No, I will not wait. I’m walking out that door, and I am never coming back.”
“Come on, I… I didn’t even look at the pictures.”
“It isn’t the pictures, Bruce,” she said. “I can’t be around someone who has no regard, sober or drunk, for other people.”
“Greta, that’s not true.”
“After what I saw, you’re lucky I don’t call the police, have you arrested for stalking.”
It took everything she had, but she turned and walked off, and properly slammed the door behind her.
It wasn’t until she got behind the wheel of her car she allowed herself to cry.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday
Bruce jerked when his door buzzer went off.
He’d buried himself in work for the past three days. After Greta left, he’d tried repeatedly to call, text and Facebook. At least, until Greta unfriended him online and reset her controls to “private”. The only thing he could still see was her fan page for her books, but she never put anything up except book stuff.
He felt like his heart had been ripped out.
He’d fucked up royally.
And he had no idea how to fix it.
His buzzer went off again, and Bruce checked his schedule. He had a photo shoot, but didn’t remember booking it.
He buzzed in the insistent client, though the last thing he wanted to do today was deal with, gah, people. He forced himself to go through the last of William’s wedding pictures and work on a few book covers. At least with that stuff, he could look at it all from a distance.
Now he had to work with a person?
Not what he needed this week.
He opened his door to a cute, bubbly blonde with cork-screw curls and a big grin.
“I know I’m early.” She pushed past him with two suitcases. “Eager. Wow, what a place you got here. Much bigger than I thought. All that natural light is awesome. Good midday sun. I think it will be perfect.”
She continued through his apartment, glancing around.
Bruce picked up the litter of pop cans and beer bottles. “I’m sorry, I forgot about this shoot, miss—”
“Lilly. Lilly Bloom.”
He raised his eyebrow. Wow, her parents were rather cruel, weren’t they?
She blushed. “It’s my given name. My parents had a sense of humor.”
“Ahh.” He still didn’t remember making this appointment. But it was right there on his schedule. “I see you got costumes. What are we doing again?”
“Fairy tales.” She grinned. “All the fairy tales. Cinderella, Sleeping B
eauty, Rapunzel, all that? Don’t you remember? Davis Modeling sent me over.”
He rubbed his face. “I… I’ve had some things come up. Distractions as of late.” He had to get his game face on. She wanted fairytales. Well, he could do it.
Focus.
“Do you need to reschedule?” she asked, sounding disappointed.
He shook his head. “No, we can do this. Let’s see what you brought with you.”
“Great,” she said with a grin and opened her suitcases.
Three hours later, Bruce couldn’t say he was energized, but he felt better. Lilly was an excellent model, and already—even on the digital—he knew he had some spectacular fairytale shots.
He went over a few things, changing the backdrop to a wooded glen, for the final set of pictures.
“What do you think?” she asked as she came out of the little changing room.
Bruce stared, his eyes about to fall out of his head. Lilly had changed into a fairy. A beautiful golden fairy, with wings a foot over her head, which dragged a little on the ground behind her.
“Wow, how did you get those in the suitcase?” Bruce asked. “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Had them special made.” She darted over to the backdrop.
“Those are amazing.” He stepped to her side to examine the wings. They were feathers, but thick stems. “I bet they’re heavy.”
“Not as bad as you think.”
“I have to check those out before you leave.” He stroked the feathers, amazed by the way they shifted and moved under his hand. “I may need to know who made them. They’re the best wings…” He started reaching for her hair—she’d put curly extensions in so the hair covered the wing’s harness.
He reached in to move the hair to see the apparatus, but she pulled away.
“I don’t think they’d fit you,” she finally said, shuddering.
“Well, they’re probably the best wings I’ve ever seen. Really big, though…” He stepped back, looking at her against the backdrop. “I don’t think, if they were open, I could get them in the shot.” He paused, picking up his camera. “They don’t open, do they?”
She smiled. “Actually, yes.”
Regardless of his mood when he started, he was getting amazingly jazzed now. “You have to open them.” He put down the camera and started adjusting the lights to give her the most ethereal glow possible. “You didn’t tell me what these were for, by the way.”
Guys and Godmothers Page 27