by Jianne Carlo
“I wished I'd seen that blow. Remind me never to get in the way of you and a knife.”
“I imagined it was Juanita's scrawny neck.” Destiny gave him a light smack on the chest. “Too bad the duck overcooked.”
“Overcooked? Charcoaled is a more apt description.” He blocked her attempted chop by capturing her hands. “Uncle, uncle. It was entirely my fault. If I hadn't distracted you—”
“Distracted?” She squealed. “A commercial is distracting. An errant comma is distracting. That's distracting.” Her gaze dropped to his penis.
“That's distracting. Covering my…my vagina.” Her cheeks fired, and she sputtered to a stop.
“Vagina? Vagina? We gotta do something about your vocabulary.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Orange-flavored pussy became my favorite dish two hours ago. And there's no more referring to my dick as a penis.”
“It is,” she said, her tone insistent.
“This”—he rested her hand on his arousal—“is a manly dick, not a girlie penis. And this”—he slipped his hand between her legs—“is my personal pussy paradise. Mmm, wet already. I'm dreaming of dessert.” He licked the seam of her mouth.
“No way, Linc Chapman. I have plans for the rest of the night. Plans for the bad-boy SEAL, Sinner. When the pizza gets here, we're putting in a DVD.”
He flashed her a wicked grin. “That’s the first time you’ve called me Sinner. Turns me on, woman. Why’d you want to watch a DVD? I doubt any movie's gonna hold my attention tonight. I'm thinking of strategic places for olives and pepperoni.”
“Not even Deep Throat? Or The Devil in Miss Jones? And acting out a scene I pick? One where you wrap your hands around the headboard slats and let me taste you.” She arched a brow. “Everywhere.”
The door intercom buzzed. Destiny cupped a hand over her mouth, but a few giggles escaped.
A wave of expressions crisscrossed his face. He stared at her mouth, then his dick, then let out a long, tortured groan. “You're going to kill me, woman. And hell if I'm not going to enjoy every single minute.”
“Pizza,” she reminded him.
“I'll get it. The porn's—”
“On your side of the closet,” she quipped. “I noticed you'd unpacked when I got home. I'll get it.” Reaching to the other side of the bed, she snatched the T-shirt he'd taken off earlier.
“Uh-uh. If I'm going to be tortured, I fully intend to enjoy the view. Don't even think about putting that on.”
The minute he left the room, Destiny snagged the outrageous lingerie—as if wisps of fabric could actually be termed clothes—she'd hidden in a drawer. When Lincoln hollered from the kitchen, she jumped.
“Wine or Coke?”
“Wine,” she answered, figuring liquid courage might come in handy.
She took up a pose on the bed, cheek propped on a palm, one hand draped over a hip. The dresser mirror reflected her wearing a feather boa and a winking stick-on fake ruby in her navel. Red lipstick completed the outfit, and she'd painted her toenails and fingernails scarlet earlier.
Lincoln's jaw dropped, and he bumped into the doorframe when he caught sight of her.
His brows did a wild jiggle. He swallowed a couple of times, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Fuck. I'm a goner.”
“Put the pizza here, big boy.” She patted the bed. “I'm feeding you tonight.”
Destiny arranged him on the bed against the headboard, hands cradling his neck. Then she set the pizza box on the left and climbed onto his lap, sitting so her pussy slicked his dick.
She flipped the lid open and sniffed, savoring the intermingled aromas of green peppers, sausage, pepperoni, and jalapeños, tore off a slice, and tightened her legs around his penis.
“Why dick?” she asked. “Why not cock or shaft?”
“I'm not hungry anymore,” he griped. “You expect me to carry on a conversation?”
She teased the seam of his mouth with a pizza slice. “Open. You'll need your strength to keep up with me, Mr. Chapman. So why dick?”
Chewing furiously, jaw working, he frowned and then swallowed. “Dunno, all the guys in the unit called it a dick. Shaft's for historical novels. Feed me a boob.”
“Nope, take another bite and hit Play on the remote.” Since the remote lay on her thigh, his hazel eyes glinted mischief and deviousness, and he tried to remove his hand from behind his head.
“Uh-uh,” she mocked. “I forgot you can't use your hands. Too bad.”
He growled and opened his mouth, and she popped the last crusty piece in. His eyes narrowed, but he chomped the pizza.
She made him eat three slices before hitting Play on the remote.
The first ten minutes of Deep Throat formed a futile attempt at a plot.
“You've got to be kidding,” Destiny grumped. “Her clitoris is in her throat? That's the plot line?”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” Linc retorted. “How about two clits? A throat one and a regular pussy one.”
He rolled his eyes. “The mind boggles.”
“I think I like airbrushing.” She shuddered when a non-doctored close up of a full frontal shot of vagina stayed on the screen for a too-long fifteen seconds.
“Omigod.” Destiny stared at Linc's glistening penis. “I don't know if I can do that.”
She swallowed when Linda Lovelace's lips slipped to the base of Harry Reem's substantial, fat dick. “And he's not half your size.”
“You can practice all you want, woman,” he croaked. “Are you going to practice? Soon?”
“Stay right there,” she ordered, levering between his legs. “Hmm, I have limited access with you in this position. Lie down.”
“Hands?” he asked, brows doing a hopeful tilt.
“Behind your head.” She pointed. “On the pillow.”
The bounty of his genitalia made her as giddy as a carousel spinning out of control, and she sucked in much-needed oxygen.
His sinewy thighs caught her fancy; she lowered her face and licked the bunched muscles. His quadriceps twitched. Twirling a scarlet nail in the sandy hair dusting his groin, she breathed in the musk of his arousal, turned her face into the spot between dick and pelvis, and bit the ridge there, then laved the spot.
He grunted, and she laid her cheek flat on his belly, stroking her finger over the slit in the head of his dick. A deep moan rumbled through her ear.
Peeping up from under her lashes, she blinked his face into focus, arrested by the beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. His gaze was fixed on her hand when she curled her fingers around his dick. His chest rose and fell faster, his lips thinned, and he bared his teeth, gritting so hard, she heard the slight squeak.
Power made her giddy. If stroking his penis made him look like a caveman, what would licking do?
She had always loved lollipops and bought the giant round grape kind. She swiped a circle around his reddened glans, teasing nibbles on the ridge, tasting a flavor similar to oyster brine. The texture of the drop was sticky, almost tacky. “Mmm.”
“Fuck.”
Destiny smiled wide and took the whole head in her mouth. She sat on her haunches and held his erection the way Linda did on the DVD, running both hands down the smooth satin of his dick, learning the length and girth of him slowly. When she flicked her tongue on the ridged underside of the crown of his cock, Linc cussed.
She opened her mouth wider and sank down lower.
His hips arched.
Destiny willed her throat muscles to relax when his cock hit the back of her mouth with his sudden movement.
“I'm losing it.” Hands fisted her hair, and his fingers framed, then tilted her face. “Up.”
He freed his dick from the vacuum her mouth had become, flipped her over on the bed, shoved his elbows under her knees, and plunged into her. She was so wet and slick, her over sensitized folds sucked at him, begging for more, more, more.
Destiny lifted off the sheets, desperate to meet his frenzied pounding. She dug her heels into the mattress, and on h
is next hammered drive, he hit her clit.
Her eyes glazed over when the contractions began.
Wave after wave, climbing high, higher, until one thrust hit another sweet spot inside, and she burst, shattering into shards, her inner muscles convulsing spasm after spasm.
Destiny had no idea how long she remained in a sensual stupor, enjoying their joined bodies and the erratic aftershocks.
His weight felt good, solid, perfect.
She loved that she did this to him.
Loved the tang of him.
How many calories are there in semen? Must remember to look that up.
The second she opened her mouth to tell him he'd gotten way heavy, Lincoln leveraged up on his forearms. “I think I busted a few brain cells.”
He kissed the tip of her nose, and a drop of perspiration hit her cheek. “Ah hell, I've made you all sweaty.”
He winked at her and quipped, “I guess we'll just have to take another shower together.”
•●•
Five hours of sleep slowed every reaction and numbed your brain to frostbite, Destiny decided on the way to work the next morning. For the last few years, she’d read submissions on the commute, but that was pre-Linc. Post-Linc meant drifting from the sub on her Kindle to Linc. Reliving the new stuff they’d tried the night before. New to her, anyway.
She didn't jerk out of her sex-induced fantasy trance until the train pulled into her stop. The squealing brakes pierced the image of them coupling, of Linc's cock pounding her swollen folds. She wore an old-lady pantie today, her nether parts too sensitive for a thong's friction.
Thirty minutes late for work, Destiny jogged up the subway stop's three sets of peach marble steps leading to the lobby of her building. She stopped at the Starbucks mini-outlet, purchased two cups of double expresso café lattes, and hurried to the elevator. Her laptop case banged into her knee, and she literally bumped into Jess in the building's lobby.
“Oomph.” The tray she carried wobbled.
“Let me get that.” Jess relieved her of the coffee burden. “You didn't check your email last night, did you?”
Destiny blushed, her scalp tingling, flesh heating. She hadn't touched her laptop; on the other hand, she now knew every nook and crevice Lincoln favored, that he growled when she trailed her nails from neck to groin, that his hands fisted when she sucked the flat area behind his testicles.
“I wonder why Steven changed the venue.”
Venue? Destiny crinkled her nose. What is Jess talking about?
“You haven't heard a word I've said. Gather those wooly wanderings, honey. Steven sent out a broadcast yesterday. The book launch party's been pushed back. This Friday at the Plaza.”
“We've never held anything at the Plaza before.” Destiny stifled a sigh and switched her case to her other hand when she and Jess slipped into the elevator.
“Later,” Jess whispered and angled her head at their audience, which included reps from the two other small presses that had offices in the building.
Destiny nodded her understanding.
Cripes, I'm not ready to face Nadine.
Thank the Lord Linc will be there.
The thought perked her slouched shoulders.
She couldn't wait to show him off. He might not be as pretty-boy handsome as Kenny, but the man would wow the women with all that leashed, seething sexuality.
We've never been out together. What's he like in public? Affectionate? Or distant like Kenny?
Linc couldn't keep his hands off her in private. Cripes, he'd carried her everywhere last night, and so far, she'd only eaten while sitting in his lap.
Naked.
Or wearing a T-shirt.
The elevator's ding popped her sensual bubble.
Jess nudged her shoulder when they passed the water cooler. “I have some news about Juanita.”
Damn, how could I have forgotten about the lawsuit?
“Good news, I hope. Let me drop off my laptop.”
“Check your email first. That'll bring you up to date.”
Fifteen minutes later, Destiny strode into Jess' corner office, fingering the USB drive in the pocket of her tweed blazer.
Jess looked up from a stack of loose papers and let the pencil in her hand fall. “Shut the door.”
An uneasy frisson did a macabre waltz across Destiny's nape, but she obeyed the order.
“What, Jess? You're giving me goose bumps.” Destiny hugged her arms and slumped into the chair opposite Jess’ burnished cherry wood desk.
“There's good news and there's bad news.”
“Bad first.”
“You're going to be editing Juanita's book after all.”
“Damn it. And the good news?”
“In return, there will be no lawsuit.”
“I guess I'm supposed to be grateful for her majesty's mercy. It was all a ploy, wasn't it? I should have known.”
“Classic Juanita maneuver. Steven, of course, has given in to her every demand. Honey, that's not all of the bad news. I just finished a conversation with our venerable leader. He's stepping down at the end of the fiscal year. Brittany's replacing him.”
Steven's daughter Brittany hated Destiny.
Fuck.
She’d just lost her job.
No. No, you haven't, Destiny Driven. Not yet, anyway.
St. Paul's didn't operate on a calendar year. She had nine months' breathing room.
Nine months. And a finished book. Who knows?
“Jess, in all the confusion yesterday, I forgot to give you my good news—”
“Jessica.” Steven's voice rolled through the phone's intercom, interrupting Destiny's tentative announcement that she'd finished her novel.
Putting a finger to her lips, Jess depressed the intercom button. “Yes, Steven.”
“My office, right now.”
Uh-oh, Steven Eldridge never lost his cool, never raised his voice.
Destiny and Jess exchanged surprised glances.
“Of course, Steven.”
Jess pushed back from the desk. “Walk with me, and you can tell me this good news on the way.”
“It'll wait, Jess. Steven sounds truly pissed.”
“I've only heard him snap like that once before in the seven years I've been senior editor. And that was when we lost Tom Rodney to the big boys.”
Tom Rodney, the golden boy of the publishing world and the third-richest author on the planet, had abandoned St. Paul's and jumped to a large press when offered a reputed ten-million-dollar advance.
“Ominous,” Destiny mused. “One of the rare occasions I'm thrilled to be a lowly assistant editor.”
“Brat.” Jess’ smile and twinkling eyes made the word an endearment.
“Break a leg,” Destiny called out when they separated. She walked back to her desk. Jess headed to the executive offices situated on the other end of the reception area.
For the first time in years, Destiny sat in her cube and frittered time, cleaning folders on her laptop, updating contact information. She deliberately ignored the email from Juanita, knowing it would be about her latest book.
Around noon, Jess sent Destiny a cryptic text message. Have to babysit. Fill you in later.
Poor Jess.
Who? She thumbed.
Top secret. See you Friday. Check email.
Destiny flipped the Lexar USB drive that contained her first novel from one hand to another. “Guess you'll have to wait till Jess returns.”
Her desk phone rang.
“Sara Parker.”
“I'll never get used to that name, Destiny. How the hell do you do it?”
Linc's voice sent squirrely shivers up her spine, settling into static sparks at her nape.
“I've been Sara Parker most of my life.” She lowered her voice and admitted, “Since coming back from Alaska, though, I keep forgetting to answer when someone calls me Sara.”
“I love your name, Destiny Driven. After all, you're my destiny. My fated soul mate. I
miss you.”
I miss you too, and I feel lonely.
“It's only been a couple of hours.” Destiny knew the foolish grin she wore had been transmitted over phone networks.
“I know. I deserve a trophy for such restraint. Ever had phone sex?”
“Linc,” she chastised, cupping a hand over the phone's receiver.
“Okay, okay, I'll settle for lunch. Where do you want to go?”
Their first date. Butterflies swarmed in her stomach. Her bones caramelized.
Not a single restaurant popped into her mind.
“We can grab a hot dog and sit on a bench in the park.”
“No way, woman. I'm about to enter your building. You're on the eleventh floor, right?”
“You're coming to my office?” Her voice came out as a squeak. She glanced left to right, then crouched low, resting her forehead on the metal desk edge.
“You bet.”
“I can meet you in the lobby.”
“Not a chance, Destiny. You ashamed to be seen in public with me?”
“Of course not,” she retorted. “Everyone will assume we're together.”
“Precisely. Staking my claim. You're all mine, and I want the world to know it.”
Giddy, Destiny stared at the utilitarian black phone. When the steady dial tone changed to a high-pitched beeping, she jumped and banged her head on the desk. “He's turned my brain to mush.”
“From my observation, that's not a remarkable feat.”
Destiny couldn't quite choke back a moan at the sound of her nemesis’ low, throaty purr. Turning to one side, she grimaced at the sight of Brittany Eldridge, manicured from scalp to patent leather scarlet pumps, pencil skirt hugging nonexistent hips, cinched Chanel tweed bolero jacket showcasing an eighteen-inch waist.
“What do you want, Brittany?” Destiny pasted a smile on her face to soften the almost-rude question.
I'll never survive if I have to report to her.
Destiny knew—everyone knew—Brittany would inherit the privately owned St. Paul's, but no one expected her father to relinquish control now, not at the relatively young age of fifty.
“Angel's requested me as her new editor. I thought you could fill me in over lunch.”
This time she didn't even attempt to prevent a real smile. “Sorry, I have plans.”