Valentine Voodoo

by Jianne Carlo

Gasping when he pushed a finger into her still-convulsing core, Stephanie protested. “I can't.”

  His relentless finger withdrew slowly as he murmured, “Yes, you can. I'll show you.”

  A large palm slid under her ass and tilted her slightly. His sizzling mouth covered her clit. Eli positioned two fingers at the entrance to her sex, circling the rim.

  Gawd, I'm ready again.

  His teeth closed on her distended nubbin and Eli grazed lightly as he thrust his fingers into her. Her vagina welcomed the sweet intrusion, clamping down on the digits and fighting their retreat. He repeated the caresses, his movements torturously sluggish: plunge, bite, feather kisses, thrust, nip, teasing, openmouthed slurps, pull out, again and again and again, keeping her on the brink of orgasm.

  Thought, rationality burned to cinders. Stephanie pleaded, threatened, cried out his name. A film of sweat coated her body; an inferno blazed every inch of her flesh.

  “Now, honey. Come for me now,” he growled at the exact moment she thought she'd die from sheer ecstasy. His fingers danced faster, his teeth and tongue mimicking their frenetic rhythm, and she somersaulted into a galactic orgasm, wrenching off the mattress, breaking his hold on her.

  He lifted her fully onto the bed, and she felt him settle between her legs, solid and heavy and as hot as rocket flames. Her head went slack on the pillow when the crown of his penis pushed into her vagina. Her lungs stopped working as he eased into her stretching, convulsing walls.

  “Eli.” She grabbed his ass and arched off the bed and climaxed again as the action forced his rigid thickness to her core.

  “I'm a goner,” he said, his voice a husky rumble. He clamped his hands under her hips, tilting her higher, and his dick hit a spot that made her shriek.

  “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah.” He plunged, his cock hitting that spot over and over, and her climax spiraled.

  The tempo of his thrusts accelerated; he pumped in and out, his hot palms clenching her sides, changing the angle of his penetration, forcing her peaks higher and higher, until he shouted, his neck reared back, and he came, grinding against her clit, and she orgasmed with him.

  Chapter Four

  Stephanie didn't know how long she'd been mindless. Didn't quite know when reality and actual brain function began again. Maybe when his short, sharp pants lengthened and evened. Maybe when she opened her eyes to study his profile tucked into the curve of her neck, his mouth crooked up at the corners. Maybe when she wriggled under his weight and a delicious friction cocooned her in warmth.

  The minute she moved, he lifted onto his forearms. Glazed gray eyes met hers.

  “Okay?”

  She smelled herself on his breath. Her pulse kicked up a notch. Suddenly embarrassed, Stephanie blinked and studied the walnut stubble gracing his jaw. “Very okay.”

  “Honey?” A forefinger tipped her chin up. “Did I hurt you? I know I was rough at the end there.”

  A long, long, contented sigh escaped her lips. “I think I might like rough, then.”

  Their gazes locked, the three lines creasing his forehead relaxed as a grin curved his lips. “That's my girl.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I'm starved. How about real food, round two, and then cookies and milk? Maybe a shower somewhere in there?”

  “Round two?” Stephanie cupped a hand over her mouth, groaned, and then laid her palm flat on his chest. “I said that aloud, didn't I?”

  “You did.” His lips met the space between her brows.

  Oh boy. Round two. Fast-forward bang into the world of sex. Gawd, I wish I knew the rules. Shower together. No way. Dinner, dinner's safer. Distance. I need a little space.

  “I'm hungry too,” she replied, hunting for a way out, focusing on the spray of flattened hairs lining the ridge of his ribs.

  “Aw, honey,” he crooned. “Don't look so worried.” Reaching a hand to her temple, he brushed his thumb, once, twice, and then glided the backs of his fingers along the line of her cheekbone. “'S okay if you're not ready for us to shower together. I'm a patient man.”

  Wishing she didn't blush at the drop of a penny, Stephanie attempted a nonchalant tone even as heat scaled her neck and face. “How did you…? Oh forget it.”

  “Your belly did this little flutter the second I mentioned the word 'shower,' and you looked away. Not to mention the fact that you turned a delicious shade of pink—all over.” He answered the question she hadn't completed. “I'm in sales. Contrary to what most people think, a good salesman listens and observes his potential client's every reaction.”

  I'm a client?

  Stephanie didn't realize she'd said the words aloud until he spoke.

  “No no no. The last thing you are to me is a client.” He leaned his forehead on hers. “Crap. Do you know I can sell ice to the Eskimos? Heat to desert sheikhs? Put me in the same room as you, and all I can do is stuff both feet into my mouth.”

  Distracted by the mingled aromas of his bourbon-scented breath, his distinctive aftershave, and the musk of sex, Stephanie's indignation seeped away as the meaning of his grumped words penetrated the orgasm-induced fog lining her brain.

  “Let's try again,” he said, shifting to stare directly into her eyes. “I've wanted you since the moment I set eyes on you. I screwed up our first time together. And maybe I'm a little too anxious. How's about you have a quick shower while I order room service? When you're done, I'll have mine. By then dinner should be here, and we can eat and relax. Does that sound good?”

  Oh, Eli. I swear my bones are liquefying. This is what scares me about you. You make the person you're speaking to feel like they're the most important person in your world. I've seen you do it a dozen times. Now you're doing it to me, and I don't know what to believe.

  “Steph.” He gave her a little shake. “Think of dinner as our first date. We'll take it from there. Hell, it'll kill me, but if you want me to leave afterward, I will.”

  Oh boy. You'd do that for me?

  Unable to prevent the broad smile creeping across her face, she beamed at him and gushed, “It sounds perfect.”

  Rewarded by his tooth-baring grin, followed by a bad-boy wink, she held her breath and prayed this moment imprinted forever in her memory neurons.

  This is what they call a Cinderella moment. Eli Gallagher, you're going to break my heart, and I don't know how to stop you.

  Not quite knowing how he managed it, five minutes later Stephanie somehow found herself standing under a stream of warm water, a tad on the giddy side, palms braced on the cool tiles for support. Willing the last few brain cells left functioning to jump-start her normally sharp mind, she reached for the soap, and thank goodness, her reflexes took over.

  After a quick soap and shampoo, she towel dried her body and her hair, all the while debating what to wear: clothes or the hotel bathrobe. Cowardice triumphed, and she changed into a clean, oversize, scoop-necked T-shirt and another pair of jeans.

  “The shower's all yours,” Stephanie called out as she meandered through the bedroom finger combing her damp tresses and increasing her pace as she neared the arched entrance to the other room.

  “I remembered you liked seafood—” His jaw snapped shut the minute she walked through the bedroom doorway into the suite's living area. Eli's gaze roved from her damp and curling hair to her bare toes in a heartbeat, once, twice. His throat worked, and when he spoke, his voice came out as a low, graveled growl. “You are so beautiful. I am a lucky, lucky man.”

  Like a drenched dog, he shook his head and then straightened his shoulders. “Man, do I need a cold shower.”

  He wore his trousers, unbuttoned, half zipped, and not a stitch more. His arms were akimbo, emphasizing the cut of his magnificent pectorals and the statue-of-David beauty of his six-pack stomach. Pubic hair a shade darker than the ash-blond ruffled locks coating his head teased the fabric of his open fly. He was the epitome of male beauty. Stephanie swallowed, her fingers clamping the terry towel in a desperate attempt at stopping the sudden giddiness that had
the room dipping.

  “Go sit on the couch, honey. If you come near me right now, I'm apt to pillage.” A wicked grin quirked the corners of his mouth and softened his rumbled command. “I ordered seafood marinara for you, shrimp cocktail for the two of us as an appetizer, a thick rib eye for me, and a bottle of pinot grigio. Okay with you?”

  Thank the Lord she'd opted for underwear, since the way he looked at her, the way he licked his lips when his glance alighted on either her breasts or the V between her legs, shot cream to her labia like a repeating buckshot spray. Trying not to be obvious, she peeked at him as she obeyed his order, making her way to the couch.

  Spine rigid, fists balled, he traced her every step, his chest rising and falling faster with each step she took. Her skin smoldered under the intensity of his stare.

  Aching and burning labia made her walk with a wider-than-normal stride, and she sat gingerly on the couch, threw the towel onto the opposite chair, grabbed a pliable cushion, and plopped the velvet square over her lap.

  Giving her one last stare, he muttered, “I'll be less than five minutes. Food will arrive in fifteen.”

  Her last glimpse of his retreating body was pair of hollowed, dimpled bum cheeks as the pants slipped down his thighs. Slouching into the soft upholstery, Stephanie blew out a long sigh and hugged the pillow, squishing the soft material against her rib cage.

  True to his word, Eli padded back into the room no more than five minutes later, wet hair clinging to his nape, a few drops of water glistening on the cusps of his shoulders, trousers fitted around his narrow waist. She loved the way he moved, easy arrogance and confidence emanating with each long-legged strut. The loose linen couldn't hide the bunching and flexing of his powerful quadriceps, and an image of his head between her thighs as he ate at her sex shuddered lightning bolts from her naked toes through every pore, every sinew, shooting straight to her tingling clitoris.

  What will you taste like, Eli? I've heard the other women at work talking about blowjobs. Most of them think it's a chore. I can't wait. Will it feel as wonderful for you as it does for me, my tongue there, my mouth covering your penis, suckling the crown?

  “Honey. What. Are. You. Thinking?” She snapped out of the sensual daze her fantasies had provoked. His voice sounded snarled as if he were in excruciating pain.

  The doorbell rang.

  Stephanie couldn't have moved if someone held a gun to her head. He'd swiped the sweater off the floor and stood in the middle of the room, looking at her like a tiger preparing to pounce, legs spread, pelvis thrust forward, the bulge at his crotch shouting evidence of his arousal. Eli's lips twitched and his jaw muscles knotted and he sucked in his cheeks.

  The strident ding dong went on and on, and still neither of them moved.

  She forgot to breathe, and a deep burn blazed along each rib.

  “Room service.” The bellowed announcement kick-started her brain.

  Eli pivoted, breaking eye contact. He pulled the sweater on, muffled expletives escaping the knit material when he wrenched it over his head. Shoving his hands into the sleeves, he then adjusted the dark cotton over the waistband of his trousers, plowed both hands through his wavy locks, then reached out and unhooked the safety catch.

  Time must have slowed down; the hotel attendant took forever to transfer the domed serving dishes and the plates and cutlery to the circular table adjacent to the wall opposite the couch. Stephanie heaved a relieved sigh when Eli told the man he'd uncork the wine, slipped him a greenback, and then shut the door.

  Trying for some sense of normality, she offered. “If you get the wine, I'll get the shrimp cocktail.”

  “Done.”

  Touching one dome, then the other three, she lifted the coldest one and squealed. “Eli. Just how many shrimp did you order?” At least two dozen prawn-sized, fat pink shrimp curved against one wide glass bowl set in ice, the center filled with ruby red sauce.

  “I've seen you eat, Stephanie Grant. You may look slender and delicate, but you eat like a horse.” He delivered the insult like a love poem. “I can't abide women who pick at their food.” Deft hands worked the cork out of the bottleneck as he talked. “I have this theory—anyone who picks at food has a similar attitude to most things in life—particularly sex. Give me a woman who'll scarf down a hamburger and fries over one who will only eat a mouthful any day.”

  Stephanie burst out laughing. “It's amazing the way you can turn what most women would consider the worst insult possible into a compliment.”

  “Ah, but I'm touched by the blarney stone, you see,” Eli drawled. “My great-great-grandpa was born in Dunkineely, Ireland.”

  “And I just know you were born clutching a four-leaf clover,” she quipped. “So that's where the famous Gallagher charm comes from.” Stephanie shook her head. “Iggie swears you could charm the blarney stone from Irish possession. Now I understand he meant it literally.”

  The sexual tension crackling between them subsided to a simmer.

  Eli insisted on feeding her each shrimp, and she demand equal opportunity. Eli's magnetic personality reared, and she surrendered to his charismatic allure and relaxed. Conversation flowed as easily as a spring brook swelled by a winter melt-off. They laughed and learned each other's likes and dislikes in food, sports, books, and movies. He took every opportunity to touch her, brushing a finger over her nipple, licking cocktail sauce from her lip, edging her T-shirt to bare her navel, feathering kisses along her waist.

  They both cleaned their plates and shared tastes of each other's entrées. Stephanie speared the last bite on her dish—half a lobster tail chunk—and set it on his side plate.

  Eyes narrowing, Eli stabbed his fork into the succulent meat and reached across the circular divide to tease the seam of her mouth with the tomato-sauced seafood. He dared her to give the lobster morsel to him without using her hands.

  Taking the sweet seafood off the fork, she held it between her teeth, pushed the chair back, and jiggled her hips as she made her way to his side of the table, feeling sexy and feminine and confident. The chair squeaked when he shoved his chair sideways.

  Straddling his thighs, she steadied herself by planting her toes on the carpet and then looped her arms around his neck. The gray corona surrounding his midnight pupils held silver streaks from the half-light of the lamp standing to the left of the table. Desire drew his features taut, the hollows in his cheeks rippled when she shifted, centering her pussy on his unyielding erection.

  Stephanie had only drunk two glasses of wine with dinner, yet her mind spun, and she couldn't focus, too passion intoxicated, too inebriated by the smell of him, the touch of him, the feel of him, to do anything but follow her instincts.

  Eli's tongue tipped the corner of her mouth, lingered along the outline of her lower lip; the lobster quivered and dipped.

  Stephanie inhaled a short, sharp breath devoid of calming oxygen.

  His teeth caught her flesh and bit down, the pleasure whirling to that excruciating abyss hovering between pain and bliss.

  She moaned; the lobster piece fell into the scooped neck of her T-shirt, moist, sticky.

  “Horizontal. We need to get horizontal, honey.” Eli heaved to his feet. “Wrap your legs around me.”

  Complying with his command, she buried her nose in his chest and breathed in Eli. Each stride he took amplified her need to have him inside of her, and the brief walk to the bedroom seemed like eternity. They fell onto the bed. The mattress puffed and dented under her spine, and Stephanie crossed her legs around his back and held on tight.

  Eli slanted his lips over hers.

  She tasted the smoky crust of the steak he'd eaten, probed the roof his mouth, and he made a choked sound, a combo moan-growl.

  A surge of adrenaline made her bolder; she nipped the tip of his tongue.

  He pushed the T-shirt above her breasts; the lobster bounced as she arched and tumbled across the floral comforter.

  Both their heads swiveled to the chunk. Eli chortled
and said, “I've got way better things to eat.”

  Stephanie's smile faded when his mouth latched onto her peaked nipple. His jagged, powerful suckles coiled her pussy muscles tight. His fingers groped the button of her jeans, and he freed the waistband. His lips continued to torture her aching buds while he unzipped her fly and edged the denim wide. A large, damp, hot palm slid along her belly, curved over her mound, and he rubbed her swollen labia and then pinched her clitoris with a firm, hard twist.

  The climax tore through her like a tornado funnel cloud, narrow and sucking at one end, spreading and widening up her body until she splintered into infinity. Thought vanished, only shards of sensation existed. Fire and ice sparked tingles on her forearms, every inch of flesh on her body reverberated.

  His spicy scent drifted to her nose, soothing her jangling nerves. The soft swipe of his tongue in the hollow of her throat calmed her jumping pulse. Eli's arms enfolded her, enveloping her in his heat. He petted her, combing her hair, pressing soft kisses up her neck, murmuring words that drifted on the edges of her mind.

  Gradually her ragged breathing evened, but her heightened senses couldn't compete with reality; desire ruled her brain.

  “Eli,” she whispered and opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his features pinched, his lips flattened. “Come inside me.”

  “I'm a goner.”

  His arms slipped away. He sprang off the bed, dug in his back pocket, retrieved three circular packets, threw them on the bedside table, and shoved off his pants. Mind fracturing when the silky, striped boxers went the way of the dinosaurs the day meteorites collided with planet Earth, Stephanie's jaw sagged, and her lungs burned.

  Had he worn a condom before?

  The sight of his jutting erection scattered rationality the way a hurricane-force gust whipped debris into a cloud of dust. She'd only had too-brief glimpses of his penis, but those had been burned into her brain. Images that reared and wrestled her self-control at the most inopportune moments—in a marketing meeting, when she passed him at the watercooler, that dreamy moment between sleeping and waking.