Until he asked her to the movies.
Call her needy, but for tonight, after that altercation with Heidi, she didn’t care how late it was or how her feet ached or how tired she was; she needed a little TLC, and TLC was what Walker dished out in spades. You could see it on the faces of the women he wined and dined. Bliss. Cleo wanted her share. She was glad for the sweater she’d worn as she climbed out of her car. The day had been in the seventies—not so unusual in the Bay Area even for the end of October—but the night was chilly. Leaving the restaurant, she’d rushed home to change into a wool skirt and her fur-lined boots, then hightailed it over to the community college where they were holding this Fright Fest. Walker had offered to drive her, but she didn’t want him to know where she lived. In case things got messy somewhere down the road.
The lot was full, people heading up the walkways, couples, groups, college95
The Wrong Kind of Man
age and older, some with lawn chairs and picnic baskets, blankets, flashlights. Laughter rose into the night.
At the end of the row of parked cars, Walker appeared under a light, the beam shining on his bare head, giving him the look of a guardian or something. Watching out for her. It felt extraordinarily good. Like that old show from the eighties, Beauty and the Beast, where Vincent was always there when Catherine needed him. Okay, she was a sucker for a good romance when she was a kid. Yeah, then she grew up.
“Hey, you.” He smiled that sweet, sexy smile as she came abreast of him. A quilt was tucked under his arm and a basket dangled from his fingers. Wearing black jeans and a cable-knit sweater, he looked thick and powerful and oh so sexy.
“Hi,” she said, almost shyly.
He held out his hand. Cleo stared. She didn’t go in for hand-holding, too much like a boyfriend/girlfriend thing. She’d stopped bringing boyfriends home for Heidi to get attached to because she sucked at picking the right men. Case in point, Heidi’s father left before she’d even been born. There’d been Greg when Heidi was seven. He’d cheated on Cleo, but in many ways, he’d cheated on Heidi, too. Then she’d met Phil. She’d thought he was permanent, but in the end, he wanted a family of his own. He didn’t like the word step in stepdaughter. If she’d known that in the beginning, she’d never have let Heidi meet him, and though she hadn’t said why he left—Cleo didn’t even tell Ma—Heidi took his defection hard. She’d been only eleven, and she didn’t understand why Phil was suddenly gone. She’d blamed Cleo. To avoid the issue altogether, Cleo didn’t have boyfriends anymore. Sometimes she had friends who took care of needs, but even that had been ages ago. Damn if loneliness, physical and mental, wasn’t starting to wear on her.
“I won’t bite,” Walker said.
Screw all his other women, and her bad judgment. This was one night, that was all, and Cleo wanted to be touched. She took his hand. He wasn’t extremely tall, but his body was stocky enough to make her feel petite.
“I’m glad you decided to come.” He squeezed her fingers.
“You thought I’d stand you up?”
He smiled, his teeth gleaming in the lamplight. “It’s already happened once tonight.” He didn’t seem terribly broken up about it. But then, he was always 96
The Wrong Kind of Man
good-natured whenever he came to Bella’s.
He led her up the incline, walking faster than most, winding through openings in the crowd. “I have a special spot in mind for us.”
Passing through a gate, Walker handed over the tickets. They picked their way up a grassy slope dotted with partygoers. Some wore costumes—Dracula, aliens, killer clowns from outer space, a big silver robot.
“Gort,” Walker said, following her line of sight.
“Huh?”
“The robot. His name is Gort.”
“Oh.” All she was really thinking about was how big and warm Walker’s hand felt engulfing hers.
He chuckled. “You’ll see.”
He took her to the top of the incline, tossing down the quilt in a small clearing nestled amid a ring of bushes. He’d actually had more than one blanket secured beneath his arm. Setting aside the basket, he flipped out the quilt to cover the grass, then swept out his hand.
“Have a seat.” He hunkered down beside her after she sat, wrapping one of the other blankets over her shoulders. “This will keep you warm.”
The way he looked at her, she had visions of other ways to keep warm. Sitting beside her, he opened the basket, pulling out a bottle of wine, glasses, cheese, crackers.
“Wow, you think of everything.” He certainly knew how to treat a woman well. Then she remembered that none of this had been for her. “No wonder the ladies flock to you.”
In the midst of uncorking the wine, he tipped her chin. “I’m with you tonight, Cleo, because I want to be with you. And only you.”
God, she’d sounded jealous. To hide it, she picked up a glass. “I’d like to toast you for being such a nice guy and inviting me to the movies.”
“I’m not so nice.” As he poured, he gave her a wicked grin.
“So where do we see this movie?” She pointed out over the throng sloping down the hill.
“The gymnasium wall.”
She laughed. “They play them on the wall?”
“Yeah. I come every year. It’s great.” He handed her a cracker topped with deliciously fragrant cheese.
97
The Wrong Kind of Man
“What silly classic are you going to make me watch?” she teased. He put his hand to his heart. “You wound me with your sarcasm.”
“Yeah, right.” She’d never seen anything bother him. Walker was a man with an even keel if ever there was one. “Now, what are we going to watch?” She’d never been to an outdoor movie before.
“The Day the Earth Stood Still, Psycho, and Black Christmas.”
“Oh, I love Keanu Reeves and Vince Vaughn.”
Walker shivered dramatically. “We’re talking classics. Classic sci-fi, Hitchcock horror, and campy slasher. Originals, no bad remakes. Keanu Reeves is in no way classic yet.” He pulled more stuff from the basket. Squishy down pillows that filled out when he drew them from their cloth bags. The man did indeed think of everything.
“I like my creature comforts,” he said as she eyed his setup. “And Vince Vaughn has nothing on Anthony Perkins.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Not to mention the luscious Janet Leigh in the shower.”
“You like blondes?” Although she wasn’t quite sure if Janet Leigh had been blonde in Psycho.
“Hah, you’ve seen it!”
She sniffed snootily. “Everyone’s seen the shower scene.”
The wall suddenly lit up, and the audience hushed. Walker pulled her down beside him, shoved a pillow beneath her head and the blanket up to her chin. Beneath her, the grass was soft, and, so close, Walker smelled good, something outdoorsy. As if he’d just been walking in the woods.
“Now, shush,” he whispered as the opening credits rolled. Well, the actor certainly wasn’t Keanu Reeves, but she had to admit the big tall guy playing the alien was handsome. When he spoke to Gort (yes, the robot) in his alien language, the audience yelled out the words just before he said them.
Walker murmured them into her ear. “See, I’m bilingual.”
Ooh. Lingual. That made her think of certain things, but she elbowed him.
“Shh,” she said, then muttered, “Klaatu the alien’s kinda hot.”
Propped on his elbow behind her, Walker wrapped his arm across her abdomen beneath the blanket and snuggled her closer. “I think Patricia Neal should dump her loser fiancé and do Klaatu.”
She laughed. “How about a threesome with Gort?”
98
The Wrong Kind of Man
“Oh baby,” he cooed at her ear, chuckling. “I like the way you think.”
With his body pressed along her back, Cleo shivered. She liked the way he felt.
He misinterpreted. “Cold?”
She was ab
out to say no. She had the blanket, his body heat. But now . . . she wanted more. “Yeah, I’m cold.”
He muffled around behind her, pulling both blankets on top, adjusting the pillows; then he was flush against her, back, knees, powerful thighs. And everything in between.
Oh man. That was some everything nestled along the crease of her butt.
“Better?” he murmured.
He simply couldn’t know. She hadn’t been with a man in months. Though a vibrator could be a girl’s best friend in a pinch, especially when she was fantasizing about Walker, there was just nothing like the feel of a real, hard, flesh-and-blood cock. “Oh yeah,” she murmured. “Much better.”
While the crowd repeated damn near every line of the movie before it was spoken, Walker teased her with seductive one-liners. They bantered and laughed, and, hell, she hadn’t enjoyed herself this much in . . . forever. She had to admit that while Keanu Reeves was cute, the original version of the movie won hands down. Later, when Janet Leigh stepped into the Psycho shower, Walker put his lips to her hair. “What I wouldn’t give to see you stepping into that shower.”
She laughed. “Sorry, dude, but I’ve seen what happens, and I would never get into that shower.”
“Naked,” he went on, “all slippery.”
God, he was good. The feel of him was decadent. She pressed closer, if that were even possible. With his body surrounding her, his voice at her ear, breath in her hair, she felt like a woman instead of a waitress or a receptionist or a mom. Lying there, the movie images flickering on the wall, the after-midnight moon high in the nighttime sky, the voices and laughter and Walker, she was no longer tired after the long day and an even longer week. Energy coursed through her. Sexual energy. It had been much too long. Beneath the warmth of blankets and body heat, Cleo covered Walker’s hand and drew it to her breast.
99
The Wrong Kind of Man
WALKER’S HEART BEAT SLOW AND STEADY IN HIS CHEST. HE NEVER
rushed, never pushed. In his mind, the timing had to be right for the lady, and Christ, yes, her timing was so damn perfect. He’d been salivating over her all night, crushed up against her as Patricia Neal and Klaatu battled to save the world and Janet Leigh screamed in the shower. Cleo’s breast was firm and full, filling his hand, the bead of her nipple discernible through the soft sweater. Her simple, sweet vanilla scent fogged his mind; the silk of her hair caressed his face.
With his head propped on his hand so he could see the movie over her, they were nestled together by the bushes, behind everyone else. Blankets covering them, their embrace was practically invisible.
“Cleo?”
“Hmm?”
“You have the most perfect breasts.”
She laughed. “Thank you.”
“Tell me how sensitive your nipples are.” He could have tested for himself, but he loved having a woman tell him what she liked. He’d always been verbal. Phone sex was a favorite pastime.
“Pretty sensitive.”
Some women needed to be enticed into opening up. “Do you like them licked or sucked?” He circled her nipple and felt her sigh against him.
“Both.” Her voice grew huskier.
“Do you like a little pinching?” He demonstrated with a gentle tweak. She gasped—“Oh”—as if the pleasure was totally unexpected.
“Like?”
She nodded, her hair brushing his cheek.
“Harder?” he enticed.
“Yes.”
Harder, longer, he gave it to her. She rewarded him with a low, breathy moan. He could almost scent her panties dampening. Her body strained against him, and his cock surged along the base of her spine. He licked her earlobe. “It would feel so much better skin to skin.”
She huffed. “What are you waiting for?” She lifted her sweater and pulled his hand beneath the soft wool. “That was so good, it makes me want to come.”
Okay, so she didn’t need a lot of cajoling. He liked that she showed no fear or 100
The Wrong Kind of Man
maidenly hesitancy. He liked equally as much that she hadn’t experienced everything: case in point, a hot little pinch. Her bra was front-clasping, and he popped it with minimum effort. Her breast fell into his hand. He rubbed one nipple with his palm, circling the other with his thumb. “Better?”
“Pinch them like you did before.”
He took turns with each bead. She squirmed and moaned. “Oh man.” Her ass rolled over his cock, massaged him; she revved his motor.
“I didn’t think I’d like”—she gasped—“that BDSM stuff.”
Walker laughed. “This is not BDSM.”
“Whatever. Just don’t stop, okay?”
He favored both equally, and this time he was sure her hot, sweet, aroused scent perfumed the air. Christ, he wanted her nipple in his mouth, the saltysweet taste of her skin on his tongue. Getting arrested for lewd behavior in public, though, wasn’t an option. He was only allowed things he could accomplish under the blankets with no one being the wiser. Walker was an expert at finding all the right spots without getting caught. 101
The Wrong Kind of Man
3
JEEZ, THE GUY HAD MAGIC IN HIS FINGERS. HER SKIN WAS HOT, HER body wet, her nipples tingling, aching, and pure heat streaked straight down to her clit. Man, oh man, how had she missed out on this? Just for a little jealousy about his number of women?
Cleo tightened her grip on his forearm beneath her breasts, holding him close, her head back against his shoulder. “That is so good.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
She’d always found his voice deep and sexy, but now it was a husky rasp at her ear that seemed to shimmy down every nerve ending. “What else can you do?” she asked from some dreamy near-orgasmic state. Walker chuckled, and the warmth of his breath was like pure sex drizzled on and licked off. She didn’t want a kiss; she didn’t need warm fuzzies. She just wanted hot sensation all over her body.
“My trick is to find out what a woman really wants, then give it to her.” He leaned over her, trailing his lips across her cheek. “Tell me what you need right this minute.” He licked the rim of her ear, eliciting a shiver. “Better yet, show me.”
Oh, this man really did have a way with women. She was willing to show him anything. Turning her head and putting an arm back, she pulled his lips down to hers just short of touching. “I didn’t have this in mind when I put on a skirt, but
...” She trailed off, letting him get the message.
“And?”
She huffed. He wanted her to say it. “I think you should take advantage of me.”
“You do?” Her breath brushed her mouth.
Now he was teasing her. “I’m not going to beg.” But she swept her tongue across his lips.
“Mmm,” he murmured. “That feels like begging.” His chest rose and fell against her back, a little faster now.
“If you want to think so, go ahead. Just put your hand up my skirt.”
“Whatever my lady wants.”
The skirt was long. Walker trailed his hand down her abdomen, to the 102
The Wrong Kind of Man
waistband, then over her hip. Her skin hummed. He traced the edge of her sex, along her thigh, until he curled his fingers in the material and tugged the skirt higher.
“What do you want me to do once I’m there?” he whispered. She burned. Make me come. But that was not what he asked for. He wanted the means to the end. “Stroke my thighs just along the edge of my pussy.”
He breathed deeply, shot it out. At her back, his cock pulsed, hard, hot, as he laid his hand on her bare knee. “Your skin is so soft and smooth. Did you shave just for me?”
“I shaved this morning for me.”
He nipped her neck. “I love feisty.”
Well, hell, she was that. At least where men were concerned. You get dumped on enough, you learn not to take a lot of crap. “You’re taking a long time to get there.”
He chuckled, the vibrat
ion rippling through her. “We have half of Psycho and all of Black Christmas to get through. I don’t want to rush.” He followed the line of her thigh, leaving tingles in his wake.
“I might fall asleep before you get around to it.”
“I’ll be sure to wake you up when I finally make it all the way there.”
Man, he was fun. She’d always appreciated his sense of humor. He teased and flirted when he was alone, polite and sweet when he was with a woman, but always quick to smile and laugh. Then his touch made her gasp, his fingers tracing the seam of her pussy through her cotton panties. He growled like a jungle cat. “I knew you were already wet. I could smell how sweet you are.”
She trembled, sliding one leg down his until she rested her boot on his ankle, parting her thighs. “You are a sweet talker.” She lowered her voice, purred to match his growl. “But let’s see some action. I don’t want to miss the climax of the movie.” She’d forgotten all about Norman Bates, but she loved the word climax.
“I need direction.”
Hmm, dirty, classy, or euphemistic? “Rip off my panties.”
“You naughty woman.” Laughter edged his voice as he slid his fingers beneath the elastic and yanked her cotton panties over her hips. She wriggled, helping him pull them down her legs.
103
The Wrong Kind of Man
It was so wonderfully decadent, to be naked beneath the skirt, the blankets, the heat.
“If I was sure I wouldn’t be seen, I’d hold your sweet cotton crotch to my nose and breathe in your scent.”
“Pervert,” she whispered, but he was deliciously sensual. In her experience, men were wham-bam. If you wanted more, you had to forcibly slow them down. She’d never felt quite the thrill to a man’s touch, never been so drawn in by the banter, the sex talk, the sensuality of a mere caress. She’d never become creamy before a man even put his hands between her legs. She’d certainly never had to speed a man up.
“Now touch me, Walker. Put your fingers in me. Make them wet with me.”
She closed her eyes, turning her head to rub her cheek against his shoulder.
Mine Until Morning Page 11