Avery Flynn - Killer Style 02 - This Year's Black

by Avery Flynn

  Riding high on passion, she wanted nothing more in the world than to follow through with her body’s demands, ride him until he couldn’t come any more, fall into a sweaty heap beside him to sleep, and then wake up a few hours later to do it all again. His personal mixture of raw sensuality and almost animalistic single-mindedness was the perfect fit for her own single-minded needs. She’d known it the minute his hands had roamed across her ass on the dance floor the night they first met—Devin was the man who’d make her let down her guard, forget the bitter lesson she’d learned last summer, and lose control.

  That couldn’t happen.

  Easing back from his throbbing cock and intoxicating kiss, she fought to steady her breathing and get the world back on an even keel.

  “Close.” He flipped her around so her back pressed flat against the wall, cupped her ass, and lifted her until she had no choice but to wrap her legs around his narrow waist. “But let me show you how it’s really done.”

  His dick rocked against the crotch of her soaked panties, slow and steady, so unlike her heartbeat. He didn’t seek out her kiss-swollen mouth, instead he zeroed in on the base of her throat, sucking and nipping at the sensitive flesh. Her moan escaped before she could even attempt to hold it back, the fire burning through her too fast and hot to deny.

  He licked his way up her throat, bringing his mouth against her ear. “You make me so fucking hard.” He ground his cock against her, squeezing her ass cheeks in his firm grip. “This is what you do to me every time I so much as think about you. And if I don’t stop, I’m going to come in my boxers instead of buried deep inside you, which is the only place in the world I want to be right now.”

  Reason exploded into a pile of well-intentioned ash. Her body was about to get what it so desperately wanted. “Put me down.”

  He stilled against her, their position as intimate as it could be with her still in panties and him in the sarong clinging for dear life to his hips. He knocked his forehead against the wall but released his hold.

  She glided down his body until her feet touched the tile, icy cold compared to the heat roiling through her body, and pushed him back several paces so that the back of his knees nearly hit the bed. Not giving him time to recover, she swept her leg behind his and knocked him down onto the pale blue comforter. The air in his lungs whooshed out. Another man, she might have worried about, but Devin played—and worked out—just as hard as she did.

  One hard yank, and his sarong joined hers in the corner. Another tug, and his boxers followed suit. He lay flat on his back, never moving a muscle while she stripped him, but the look in his light brown eyes was anything but docile. He deliberately slid his right hand across the tribal design covering his pecs, over the flat landscape of his abs and stopped only when he wrapped his long fingers around the base of his shaft.

  “I think you need more practice to perfect your kissing skills.” The devilish gleam in his eyes dared her to make the next move as he rubbed his cock in long, slow strokes.

  Her nipples were hard enough to rip through the thin cotton of her tank top, and the urge to sink to her knees and follow the movement of his hands with her tongue hit with the force of a semi plowing into a plywood derby cart. But a single shred of self-preservation held her back. Her game. Her way.

  Determined to maintain the upper hand, she strutted to the edge of the bed, lowered herself, and planted her knees on either side of his corded thighs. She wrapped her hands around his wrists and brought them up over his head as she crawled over him.

  “Be a good boy and you might get your wish.” She ran her hands down his tattooed arms, keeping herself positioned so that her center hovered directly above his hard cock but didn’t touch it. “I could spend hours just tasting you. The question is, where to lick first?”

  She lowered her head to his pecs and traced the round lines of ink that ended like the yellow brick road at his nipple. She lapped at the flat, dusky nub, drawing him into her mouth and sucking.

  His moan echoed in the room, and he wriggled beneath her, bringing his dick into direct contact with her.

  Releasing him and raising herself higher, she flicked his nipple and then followed her hands as they traveled up his arms and wrapped around his wrists. The position resulted in her still hidden breasts dangling an inch above his panting mouth, his humid breaths pushing the well-worn material against her overheated flesh. Teasing him had become her own torture.

  He angled his head up, sucking her breast through the tank top, engulfing the small mound into his mouth. His tongue circled her almost painfully hard nipple.

  “You’re not being a very good boy right now.” Her voice shook almost as much as her thighs.

  “That”—he broke free of her grasp—”is because”—he gripped her hips, rolled her over, and took up residence between her splayed legs—”I’m not good.” He grasped the thin cotton material of her tank top. “And I’m definitely not a boy.” He yanked the black cloth, ripping it in half and exposing her breasts to his feasting eyes. “Sweet God, woman, you are going to be the death of me.”

  The reverence in his eyes as he stared down at her shifted something deep inside, and an emotion as close to shyness as she’d ever experienced tickled up from her toes. Her hands itched to cover herself as she lay open and vulnerable beneath him. Then he lowered his lips to hers, and every thought evaporated.

  His tongue swept inside her mouth, teasing her until she was a writhing mix of want and need. She ran her hands up his thighs, the curly, coarse hair springing against her palm, and didn’t stop until she had both hands on his firm ass. Pulling him downward, she refused to stop until his cock lay nestled against her core, the damn panties blocking his entrance.

  His hands were everywhere at once, caressing her breasts, skimming across her stomach, and finding their way between her panties and her silky folds. He dipped a finger into her entrance, his thumb circling her attention-starved clit, and her spine bowed so sharply she almost bounced him off the bed.

  He regained his balance and his mouth found a home, kissing its way from her right nipple to her belly button.

  “I want to rip these silky things off you, too.”

  “How about you just take them off, instead?”

  He answered with a growl and dipped his head lower, taking the elastic band of her panties between his teeth and dragging them down her legs. Pushing her legs back open as wide as they could go, he kissed and licked his way up her calves and thighs, not stopping until he arrived at the center of her need, where his tongue and fingers worked in concert. Her thighs trembled as the tension within her tightened, blocking out everything except his mind-blowing efforts between her legs. Then, her muscles locked and she came undone.

  “I want to be inside you so bad it’s killing me, but I don’t have a condom.”

  “Not a—” She swallowed the word “problem.” She always kept a condom in her wallet. For her, it was just wise planning, but some men would get all judgmental about a woman being proactive. Not that they thought bad things about themselves when they shoved a condom in their wallet.

  But Devin had already proven himself different from most of the men she’d dated, and really, did she even care what he thought of her? It wasn’t like there was relationship potential here. Extending her arm, she swiped her wallet off the bedside table and took out the condom. The foil package glimmered in the honeymoon suite’s dim light.

  “If you weren’t on this whole no-commitments-for-a-year thing, I’d be down on one knee right now.” He nuzzled her neck.

  “Watch out, soon enough you might be, anyway.”

  He laughed and rolled on the condom.

  Taking back control, she pushed him onto his back and raised herself, centering her opening over his straining cock. Bracing herself with her palms flat on his hard chest, she lowered herself, inch by inch, until she enveloped him fully. After that, instinct and need took over. They moved together in a primal rhythm, both lost in the absolute pleasur
e of the moment. The tingling started low in her belly, growing and morphing within her as she arched her back to allow him deeper.

  “Devin!” she called out just as her climax hit.

  A few breaths later, he gripped her thighs, pulling her down hard against him, and exploded with his own orgasm.

  She collapsed on top of him before rolling onto her side, sated and satisfied. Beside her, Devin rolled onto his stomach. Even destroying an opponent in the ring never felt this good.

  The full moon’s light filtered through the sliding glass door, illuminating his muscular back. The tree tattoo looked even more impressive up close. She traced her finger across the detailed limbs and down the thick trunk that traveled the length of his spine.

  She outlined the J.H. with her short nail. “Who’s J.H.?”

  The muscles in his back hardened, and he rolled onto his back, shutting off her view of the tattoo. “That’s not a story for tonight.” He pulled her close, so her head fit in the curve of his shoulder, and brushed his lips across the top of her head.

  Her eyes fluttered, post-coital exhaustion zapping her curiosity. Closing her eyes, she promised herself that she’d rest for a minute, then figure out what to do next. But her plan lost its luster when he intertwined his fingers in hers, snuggled up into the spoon position, and fell into a half-snoring sleep. Basking in the warmth of his embrace, she gave up on her former strategy and let her breath deepen.

  There’d be time enough to freak out tomorrow.

  Chapter Eight

  “I don’t design clothes, I design dreams.”

  — Ralph Lauren

  A death metal drummer was going to town in Devin’s head, crashing the cymbals loud enough that the sound vibrated down his spine and exploded in his kidneys. Peeling his eyes open, he slapped his palm against the alarm-blaring phone on the night stand. The blessed silence was broken only by the sound of a nearby shower running. Confusion muddled his foggy brain. Waking up in a strange room wasn’t completely foreign, but it had been years since it had happened.

  He brought the room into focus and scanned the area. Pale blue walls dotted with landscape paintings featuring beaches and palm trees. An overhead fan pulling in the salty air and ocean breeze from the open French doors leading to a small, private patio. Soft yellow material crumpled up in a corner. His gaze froze, an image of Ryder arching her back in ecstasy burned itself into his brain, and he became painfully aware of his morning wood tenting the sheet.

  The shower turned off.

  He had about sixty seconds to melt his boner or walk bow-legged past Ryder to the bathroom. He did not want to do that.

  Gathering the little bit of mental focus he had at the moment, he zeroed in on all the crap going on in his life right now.

  The merger of the year that would rock the fashion world rested on quietly catching Sarah Molina and recovering the money she’d embezzled.

  He went to half-mast.

  If he couldn’t make that happen, he’d be tossed out on his ass and labeled a disappointment, just like his old man had predicted when he’d started with Dylan’s Department Store. Just like he had failed to protect his little brother, James.

  Devin’s hard-on turned into a large speed bump under the sheet.

  Oh, yeah, and he’d just had mind-blowing sex—again—with the woman who’d fucked him and then wouldn’t return his calls. The only reason Ryder had wanted him last night was because of some crazy island aphrodisiac an old woman had mixed in their wine. It didn’t have a damn thing to do with him.

  That did it. He deflated until he was practically a eunuch.

  Ryder emerged from the bathroom with a white towel wrapped around her body. Her long, wet hair hung down her back. Drops of moisture glistened on her shoulders.

  His mouth transformed into a highway in the desert seventy miles from a gas station. God, the woman was going to fuck him up, and he was so stupid that he looked forward to the carnage.

  She gasped and slammed to a stop. “Sorry, I thought you were still asleep.” Her voice trembled a bit and her hands crossed in front of her body, locking the fluffy white terrycloth in place.

  “Nope.” Way to state the obvious, dude.

  “Well…” She gave him a wild-eyed look and swiped some clothes from the closet. “I’ll just get dressed now.” She shuffled backward, stopping when her back thunked against the bathroom door, exhaling an oof.

  “You okay?”

  She snorted. “Peachy keen.” Then she scurried into the bathroom, shoving the door shut behind her.

  They sure were a pair of articulate people.

  He fought the urge to smother himself with a thick pillow. What would he say to her, anyway? I know last night only happened because of the spiked wine, but I’d like it to happen again. That didn’t sound desperate or pathetic at all. He groaned.

  Time to get his balls out of Ryder’s purse and man up. They’d fucked. It was good. It wouldn’t happen again. So what? It wasn’t as if he cared.

  Bravado pumping him back up, he sprang off the bed and pulled on his boxers.

  “I’m going to go grab some breakfast. You want me to bring you back anything?” Ryder’s voice had regained is firm footing in badass chick territory, which made sense since she was back in her usual all-black uniform of skinny cigarette pants and a sheer black blouse with a tank underneath. Noticing a woman’s outfit was second nature to him by now—the pro and con of living and breathing women’s fashion for the past decade.

  “Breakfast?” His stomach rumbled. “Grab me something with lots of protein. We’ve got to nail down Sarah Molina today at the fashion show. I could use an energy boost.”

  Ryder picked at the collar of her blouse, right next to the spot where he’d done his damnedest to mark her last night. Heat rushed up his body at the memory of their battle for dominance. Be it the bedroom or the boardroom, few people ever challenged him. He’d never experienced such a rush of excitement at the prospect of battle as he had last night with Ryder.

  “Protein it is.” She gave a curt nod and slipped out the door.

  Looked like they were going to ignore the smell of hot sex still hanging in the room. He was good with that. Course he was. He was Devin Harris—jock turned fashion executive; rich kid made good; a man who rarely spent a night alone unless he wanted it that way. His hangover explained the tightness in his throat. No way was it because of her.

  He strolled toward the bathroom, stopping when his toes brushed the filmy yellow material puddled on the floor. Without thinking twice, he bent down and grabbed the soft sarong she had worn. Her sensual scent teased his senses, and his body responded with an instant hardening. After breathing in one last, deep lungful, he let the fabric slide out of his grasp.

  …

  “I swear to God, Sylvie, if you breathe a word of this to Tony, I will never come back and you’ll have to explain to my mother why her baby daughter is living on an island where they probably make lasagna with cottage cheese.” The cramp in Ryder’s stomach had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the hot guy she’d left in the suite.

  A staticky silence crackled from her cell phone as she paced in front of the ice machine. A crash sounded behind her and she whipped around, half expecting to see Devin and his drool-worthy six-pack leaning against a wall. Instead, the hall remained empty. More banging emanated from the ice machine as it dropped a fresh load of ice into the freezer.

  High-strung? Her? Not at all.

  “Yeah, yeah, calm down. I promise not to breathe a word of it to your brother, even if he is asleep in the next room and would turn about twenty shades of pissed off if I told him you were sleeping with a client.”

  Her brother’s live-in girlfriend and her best friend or not, Ryder was going to kill Sylvie.

  “Slept. Past tense. It will not happen again.”

  “That sure was convincing, said no one, ever.”

  Ryder shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t even like him.” Good thing she
was leaning against the ice machine because her black pants were about to spontaneously combust.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s just so…”

  “Hot? Good in bed? Sex on a stick?”

  Yes. Yes. And yes. “You are not helping, Sylvie.”

  “Look, I remember what you were like after you two hooked up and you ditched him like Cinderella after the ball. You were a mopey and snarly woman, and if I didn’t love you, I’d have conked you over the head with my favorite Coach bag. Something about this guy just does it for you. Maybe it’s time you started listening to that little voice inside you. Your instincts weren’t totally off with any of your exes—even with Heath. You went with your gut and you found out the truth.”

  The idea of doing that scared and thrilled her. Could she trust herself again? Was she on target with Devin?

  “Anyway,” Sylvie chuckled. “You’re in a tropical island paradise with him, you might as well go for broke.”

  Ryder’s stomach fluttered. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “What are friends for?”

  “Chocolate ice cream and booze.”

  Sylvie laughed. “Yeah, I’m good for that, too.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to need both when I get back to Harbor City. Thanks for everything, Sylvie.”

  “No problem.” She sighed. “But think about what I had said, okay?”

  Thinking about Devin wasn’t the problem. The fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about the hotness sitting in the suite, now that was a huge problem.