Her arms wound around his neck, her fingers drove into the raw silk of his hair, clinging to the strands in pleasure. Clyde shoved the blankets that separated them away, pushing at them with impatience. Dragging her nightgown over her head, he tossed it to the side, then yanked her panties to her ankles. Even her feet trembled when she kicked them off the bed.
His groan was a husky moan when their bare skin collided, filling her with hot lust. Clyde pulled her thigh over his hip, caressing it with confident hands, leaving her quivering when he dipped his fingers between them.
Wet warmth flooded her, dizzying flashes of light behind her closed eyelids came and went as Clyde explored deeper, lower. An almost violent shudder ran the course of her body when he parted the curls of her sex, and stroked her with a light digit. Slipping down her length, he whispered kisses across her collarbone and along the indentation of her shoulders, stopping only when he reached a painfully tight nipple.
The first thrust of his hot tongue against her long neglected breast was lost to savoring when it created such an electric current. Delaney gasped, sharp, clear, leaving a ringing in her ears as she bucked up against his hand still between her legs.
His tongue rasped at her nipple, licking it to a fine point, blowing on it with a soft caress of air. The muscles of her stomach clenched so tight they coiled with pleasure/pain.
Slow, soft sips at her breast became hot, forceful tugs, creating decadent swirls of building excitement. Pressure between her legs mounted when Clyde drew the nub of her clit between two fingers, rolling it, stroking it until it swelled.
Her fingers drove into his hair, clenching fistfuls when he left her breasts and shimmied down along her body. Clyde knelt before her while his strong, urgent hands parted her thighs. His head dipped, his breath whispering over the most intimate part of her before his tongue took the first sensual stroke.
Delaney’s hips bucked upward, reaching for the silken rasp of his tongue. Hot, sharp stings of pleasure taunted her, teased, building, pushing, driving her to find relief. Clyde’s tongue grew more insistent, he drove a finger into her, reaching a place she didn’t know existed, drawing a soft cry from her lips.
Tension mounted between her thighs, hot, wet, spiraling out of control until the last slick thrust Clyde took with his mouth and finger sent her head spinning. She clutched the sheets, driving her flesh against his mouth, gyrating against it, riding the sweet crest of orgasm.
Muscles flexed, clenching and unclenching with rigid jabs to her every nerve ending. Her chest rose and fell in heavy thrusts while she gulped for air.
And then Clyde was over her, demanding and hard, straddling her body with his. His cock jutted from between his strong thighs, her curious fingers grasped him, sliding her hands along the flaming silk of his length. Delaney couldn’t see him very well in the velvety dark of the night, but she memorized every sharp angle of his body, caressing the rippled dips in his stomach, tracing a finger along the indentations at his hip bones.
Smooth skin fluttered under her fingertips when she kneaded the muscles of his thighs. Clyde groaned when she reached for his shaft once more, taking long passes, smoothing her fingers over the silken tip of it.
“No more,” he said with a gruff, husky demand, drawing her hand to him, bringing it to his lips and pressing an urgent kiss against it.
Her legs opened on instinct when Clyde sank against her, lying on top of her, skin against skin.
Delaney’s sigh was from deep within her throat at the contact, her arms reaching upward to wrap around Clyde’s neck. He pulled her legs high over his hips, teasing her swollen entrance with the tip of his cock. Their skin connected, searing her, lighting her flesh on fire.
The first thrust was slow, deep, exploratory, measuring her reaction. Her hips lifted upward to encourage him to go deeper as a flush of heat began to once more rise in the pit of her belly. Clyde lifted up on his hands, his face a shadow in the darkness, and his moan when he sank balls deep into her was one of satisfaction.
They found a rhythm, hips driving against hips, increasing in tempo until they crashed against one another’s. Sweat glued their lower bodies together as Clyde stroked her, long and deep. The heels of her hands dug into his back when the torturous friction of the hair nestled between his legs rubbed against her clit, and her teeth clamped down on her lower lip to keep from screaming out.
He ground into her, rocking against her in a circular motion, changing her need for relief from intense to almost unbearable. When his head bent so he could capture a nipple between his lips, Delaney lost all sense of time and space.
There was only Clyde, driving more wildly into her with each thrust, stroking her nipple with his tongue, wringing her dry of all sanity. Her orgasm exploded, digging so far within her it made her stomach muscles clench, her nipples tighten unbearably, pinpoint ing every erogenous zone in her body.
When Clyde stiffened, his head fell back on his shoulders, his last thrust gliding effortlessly within her. He came with a low, soft moan, clenching his jaw so tight, she could see it even in the black of the night.
Delaney’s breathing came at choppy intervals, wheezing from her lungs as though she’d smoked a thousand cigarettes.
Woo to the hoo.
Demon could wonk.
For all of Clyde’s reason, for all of his logic and calm rationality, for all of his dweebiness, he ruled the bedsport like a mighty warrior. She’d have never suspected he’d be so amazing. Amazing at chess. Yeah. For sure. That just made sense. Solving trigonometry problems and doing some calculus for a chuckle. Yeppers. Book smart—no doubt.
But for the love of voracious, all-consuming sex, who knew he’d be such a wonderland of skill and vigor?
Dayum.
Clyde had obviously caught his breath. “So here’s what I’m thinking, and I suspect as a woman, you want to know what I’m thinking, right?”
Oh, the brilliance. “If you want to tell me, sure.” She gave a vague note to her tone so he wouldn’t suspect she wondered if maybe all the time he’d spent reading books they hadn’t been chemistry books at all, but more along the lines of stuff like How to Make a Chick’s Eyes Wobble with Your Tool of Love.
“I think you didn’t expect me to be very good at this.”
Bagged and tagged, baby. She struggled to keep from squirming under his microscopic gaze. “I think you shouldn’t think so much.”
Clyde winked a sumptuous blue eye. “I think I’m okay with you thinking that. I’m not upset at all that you’re surprised. It comes with the territory. I’m used to it.”
“The territory?” she said, playing dumb.
“Let’s not kid one another, Delaney. The nerd factor for me is high. I know a lot of useless stuff like ’80s trivia, percentages, chemical mixtures—boring shit to most. No one expects me to have any prowess in bed. I don’t mind saying, I like your look of sheer astonishment.”
“And the geeks shall inherit the Earth,” she teased.
“That’s meek, and you just never can tell, huh?”
The dogs began to stir. When dog number two stuck his one eye in Clyde’s face, the urgency in his vacant stare meant some serious potty. Clyde rolled off her, planting a light kiss on her nose. “You recover. I’ll take the dogs out.” He gave her a very pleased-with-himself, arrogant smile before rising from the bed and pulling on his shirt and jeans. He scooped puppies up with an ease that made her heart ooze warmth, dropping them to the floor, and whistling on his way out into the kitchen to gather leashes.
Delaney sat up, easing her feet to the floor and making her way to the bathroom on feet that wobbled and thighs that ached with each leaden step.
Recover. How rude—how presumptuous.
How true . . .
Landing at the sink in her bathroom, she gripped the edges while the cool, white porcelain of it seeped into her hot skin. She grabbed for her pink bathrobe from the hook on the back of the door and shrugged into it, inhaling the scent of Clyde the manly
man when she did.
A splash of cool water to her face did nothing to cool the fiery mess her stomach was in.
Her reflection said it all. Clyde was right. She was astonished. She’d expected he’d be okay, maybe awkward because he wasn’t exactly grace incarnate walking. She figured they might need to find a happy sexual medium, overcome a hurdle or two, but she’d never in a mill suspected he’d be so completely fantabulous her eyes would wobble.
There was nothing awkward or self-conscious about Clyde between a set of sheets. Dude had mad skills.
Or maybe she just thought they were mad because it’d been nigh on a friggin’ millennium since she’d been so blissfully stomped.
But if she remembered her old life correctly, the one before ghosts and Lucifer and his demons had shown up, the sex hadn’t been that fucktacular. Not on the level Clyde had taken it to. Of course, she’d been very young when her sex life had been in full swing. Maybe age and maturity, and okay, a dash of desperation changed your perspective.
Or did Clyde’s demonicness play a role in his mastery?
Suck it up, princess, maybe it was just one helluva mating.
How depressing and exhilarating all at once.
Depressing because she might need to get as many rounds in as she could before Clyde blew this Popsicle plane and left her with nothing but erotic memories—her probability for any kind of relationship beyond a chance supernatural one was slimmer and slimmer by the year. Especially one as fulfilling as that encounter had been with Clyde. Yet she couldn’t deny this slinky, I’m-a-total-woman, sex-kitten vibe she had going on—the shine of her eyes and the blush in her cheeks—was exhilarating.
She’d irrevocably changed the dynamic of their relationship, and that Clyde would leave had begun to fray her nerves, gnaw at the edges of her heart. Though, the risk she’d just taken by letting her instincts take over was one that had proven worthy on an intimate level she hadn’t experienced with a man in many years.
And might not ever again if the only man on the planet willing to become even just a little involved who understood what she did, who believed, was Clyde.
What if she never had sex like that again? Was there anyone, dead or alive, who did what Clyde did?
Of course there was. It was silly to believe he was the only man ever to possess such incredible aptitude.
But what if there wasn’t . . . if she ever became involved again, and the poor slob didn’t live up to Clyde, what was she going to do? Ask him to do it like Clyde did it?
Deaf, dumb, and blind had a whole new meaning. She’d been better off in the dark about that particular brand of banging. The can of worms was officially open—Pandora’s box blown wide-open.
The torrent of emotions involved in what she’d thought was just two people relieving some pent-up sexual energy was turning too deep, and that couldn’t be allowed.
She inhaled, closing her eyes and searching for some inner calm.
But a familiar shiver called to her, forcing her to open her eyes. “Now is a bad time, Michael,” she whispered, pushing her fingers through her tangled locks, trying to tame them.
The ghostly form nodded in agreement, but she wasn’t sure if he was agreeing this was a bad time to catch her in the bathroom, or a bad time because she’d created a situation that might cause a great deal of pain—for her. Typically, he was playful and as well known for his pranks in the afterlife as he was in his life on his ghostly plane. Tonight? Not so much. “So what’s up? What’s on your mind tonight? Wanna hit Walnut Grove and play Name That Little House on the Prairie Episode? I think I’ve proven I know ’em all. You just can’t stump me when it comes to the Ingalls clan, bud. And I’m really tired. So make it snappy or better yet, maybe we could hook up tomorrow?”
His dark, curly hair shook when he moved his head to the left, then the right.
No. He definitely didn’t want to piddle tonight. She held her hands up in defeat. “Okay. I’m all out. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
Michael pointed a finger at her in an almost accusatory way. “Highway to Heaven,” he said, but it was minus the fond smile that normally accompanied what Delaney considered reminiscence on Mr. Landon’s part about his heyday as Charles Ingalls.
Delaney rolled her eyes—okay, message sent. Yes, yes, yes. Clyde should be upstairs. God, the pressure to perform. “Dude, I’m doing my best here. I’m pretty sure he shouldn’t be in Hell, and yeah, yeah, what I just did in there was probably a bad idea. I don’t need you to tell me that. And knock off the voyeurism—it’s creepy. I’m going to help Clyde—swear it, okay? Is that what you want to hear?”
Michael frowned, the beauty of his smile fading, replaced with concern.
Her head cocked to the left. Her brain was addled by the wonk of a lifetime and her patience was all but shot. Yet, Michael without a smile on his face troubled her. He was her good-time Charlie ghost. Nary a trouble. “I don’t get it? Is there something else you’re trying to tell me that I’m failing miserably at understanding?”
Now he graced her with a warm, gleaming smile of acknowledgment. The laughter he’d been known for in his life whispered all around her in a swirl of delighted echoes. “Bonanza!”
She slapped a hand to her forehead, letting it slide over her weary eyes. “Oh, good. I hit the jackpot. Thank God I got something right, because Christ knows I’ve done nothing right so far. Wanna tell me what I hit?” Her hand fell from her face only to find him gone.
“Hey,” she shouted at the ceiling. “Come back here. Was this one of your jokes? ’Cause I’m eggshell fragile right now, friend. This is me telling you, not flippin’ funny.”
The knock on the door startled her. “Delaney?”
She flung it open with a grunt. “Yeah?”
“You okay?”
“Dope.”
“Am not.”
“Not you, Clyde. Dope means I’m fine. I’m so fine, I couldn’t be finer.”
“Then why were you yelling?”
“Because Michael Landon makes me crazy sometimes.”
He looked at her like she’d just gotten her crazy on. “Like Bo nanza from 1959 to 1973 Michael Landon? Like Little House on the Prairie 1974 to 1983 Michael Landon? Little Joe? Charles Ingalls?”
Oy. “The one and only. I take it you were a fan?”
“My mother was. Loved him. So you don’t just talk to dead people, you talk to dead famous people, too?”
“I talk to anybody who wants to talk to me, including dead celebrities. They pop in from time to time. I’m a captive audience, what can I say?” Her eyes cast downward, refusing to get lost in the depths of his. Lord only knew what her now awakened libido would do if she lingered.
“Someone’s here to see you.”
She poked her head around the door to scan her alarm clock. “It’s five in the morning. Is it Kellen? Is he okay?” Her heart began to thrash against her ribs.
“No. It’s not Kellen. It’s Marcella.”
Oh, that meant hard-core.
Let the Spanish Inquisition begin.
thirteen
Clyde dragged a finger over her cheek, holding out his hand to her. She let him tug her to the kitchen, where Marcella sat at her small Formica table, drumming her pink nails on the surface.
“You girls talk. I’ll take the puppies to bed.” He planted a kiss on Delaney’s forehead, corralled the dogs, and left her in awkward silence with her friend.
Marcella swung around in the seat, straddling the back of it with her long, bare legs. The olive of her skin gleamed under the kitchen light; her eyes, dark like the blackest coffee, were hard. She pinned Delaney with her gaze and held it like she was holding on to a sale item at Ann Taylor.
“You’re in for a world of hurt, Delaney Markham. When this is over, you’ll need someone to listen to you whine and snivel while I pass tissues to you and talk you out of eating the whole bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken that’ll only end up on your ass. You’re short—all that extra weig
ht’s going to be very unattractive on someone of your stature, and I refuse to pacify you with bullshit like you’re just big-boned. That someone should be me. You don’t have any other friends. So the responsibility of keeping you from going emo with a blunt object and leaving this cruel world when that Clyde goes falls on me. I’m all about burdens.” Her gaze dared Delaney to defy her assessment.
Her throat tightened. She so wanted to share everything with Marcella. Yet she knew she couldn’t—shouldn’t. “It’s none of your business,” she said with an offhanded tone.
Marcella shrugged her shoulders with feigned indifference. “Of course not, darling. It isn’t my business until he runs over your heart like a Sherman tank. Then what will happen? You’ll be calling me on the phone crying, apologizing, telling me how right I was and how wrong you were. Why not just let me save you the trouble by crucifying him now so we don’t have to shop for wrinkle reducers? They’re so overpriced.”
“You’re not right.” Shit.
Marcella’s eyebrow rose, condescending and sure. “How do you figure? Is he or is he not a demon?”
Vague. Be vague and noncommittal, Delaney. “Sort of . . .”
Marcella leaned forward with a hand on her full hip, pressing for an answer. “Is he or is he not here on some kind of day pass that has no choice but to be revoked?”
Her gut shuddered hard. Her throat clogged. “Maybe.”
Marcella went for the jugular with her brand of steely determination. “Will he or will he not leave you when whatever he’s here to do is terminado—er, finished?”
Delaney averted her eyes. “Yes.” And if she could only express how rank that was. If she could only put her head on Marcella’s shoulder and just have a good cry. If she could only figure out why Clyde’s leaving was turning into a big deal . . .
“So how am I not right, chica? Please, commence with the explanations.” Her face was smug. Smug and really, really pissed.
Kiss & Hell Page 19