by Andrews, Amy
“Fine. Let’s do it your way, then. Let’s go on a bloody date. There. Satisfied?”
He looked at her incredulously, shaking his head. “Ah…you want to try that again? Nicely?”
Sal almost choked. “I beg your pardon?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Ask me nicely.”
Sal almost choked. “You want me to ask you nicely?
“Sure. A guy likes to feel like he’s being romanced.”
Sal glared at him. “A guy ought not push his luck.”
His jaw tightened. “You’ve spent seventy-five percent of our personal interactions either yelling at, frowning at, bitching at, or ignoring me. So yes, damn it, I want to feel romanced.”
Sal took a deep, calming breath. No way would she be doing this for anyone else but Doyle, who’d proven again and again that he was some kind of savant when it came to the sexy business.
A savant with magic fingers.
She plastered a smile on her face. “Please, Doyle,” she said, “I’d like to go out on a date with you.”
He smiled then, his gaze raking down her body in a very un-nice way. “I’d be delighted. Tomorrow night at seven suit you?”
Sal nodded. She probably wouldn’t die of sexual frustration between now and then. “Yes, that would be most suitable.”
He grinned at her deliberate poshness, pushing off the sink and brushing past her, heading for the hallway. “Wear something sexy,” he threw over his shoulder.
Sal glared at his back. If she wasn’t so damn horny she’d wear a sack and a chastity belt just to piss him off.
Chapter Fourteen
Thankfully there wasn’t a whole lot of time to think about the impending date the next day. The clinic was frantic and Sal barely had time to stop for a break, let alone worry about the date.
The good news was Boxer was much improved, and Doyle had agreed to let him go home with Mrs. Carney, who was clearly fretting without him. She picked him up midafternoon with tears and smiles and a long hug for Doyle.
Then the next few hours flew, and before Sal knew it, she was standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom inspecting her outfit for the date.
She’d chosen a floaty black skirt that drifted to just above her knees and a sleeveless blouse of deep red that just reached the waistband of the skirt and zipped all the way up to her mandarin collar.
It wasn’t showy or obvious. There was a sensuousness to the way the fabric of the skirt swished and moved against her skin and a playfulness about the tease of the zip.
It was sexy, but subtle.
By the end of the night she was hoping the lure of the zip would have driven him a little nuts.
Doyle raised an eyebrow at her as she entered the lounge room. “You’re wearing that?”
She blinked, looking down at herself. Not quite the reaction she’d been expecting. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. It’s perfect. You look amazing. I just figured you’d be wearing something…showing a lot more skin.”
Sal smiled. “Why would I do that?” she asked innocently.
He shoved his hands on his hips, drawing attention to the dark trousers pulling across his thighs and the rich bronze, golds, and crimsons of his shirt, whose long sleeves he’d rolled to display his very nice forearms.
“To punish me.”
She laughed. “What makes you think I want to punish you?”
“Because you enjoy it?”
Sal headed for the door. He followed. “And how am I doing so far?”
He held open the door as she passed through and his aftershave, something subtle and spicy, wrapped silken fingers around her belly. She hadn’t smelled that one before, and it filled her senses to the point of dizziness. It took all her willpower not to just stop and bury her face in his neck.
“So far so good.”
She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him. “That’s only because you don’t know what I’m wearing under these clothes,” she murmured, deliberately dropping her voice into a low husky register.
Sal thought she heard a curse as she walked down the stairs.
…
“Okay, so we’re here,” Sal said twenty minutes later as they sat at their river-view table overlooking the lights of South Bank on the other side of the Brisbane River. It was warm outside, but the air-conditioning was set to freeze on the inside. “What are we going to talk about on this date of yours?”
“Ours,” he corrected.
Sal shrugged. “Your date. I’m just here for the sex.” That’s what the mad flutter somewhere in the vicinity of her heart was about, right? Sexual anticipation? Not how utterly gorgeous he looked sitting opposite her or how good it felt to be out in public with him, watching the envious looks of other female diners as they were seated.
He chuckled. “I do like a woman who’s up-front about her expectations.”
“Absolutely.”
The waiter arrived with menus and inquired about drinks. “You want a wine? Or a cocktail?” Doyle asked.
“How about tequila?”
It was satisfying to watch his nostrils flare momentarily. “You can have whatever you want.”
Sal grinned. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Doyle? You know I’m a sure thing, right?”
Doyle narrowed his eyes at her in that way that parents did at recalcitrant children when they were in company, but Sal had to give points to the waiter who, apart from a slight twitch to the corner of his mouth, remained aloof to the conversation.
“I’ll have a glass of sauvignon blanc,” she said.
“Me, too.”
The waiter left and Doyle shook his head. “Are you going to misbehave like this all night?”
Sal smiled. “Nope. Although I plan to misbehave a lot more later.”
He shot her an exasperated look, but Sal knew Doyle well enough by now to know his tells. The way the angle of his jaw clenched, the slight flare of his nostrils…he was looking forward to her misbehaving later, too.
He handed her a menu. “Choose,” he said.
Sal deliberately fiddled with the tab on the zipper that sat high on her throat as she inspected the menu. She eased it up and down a little, just enough to make a sound. Maybe he couldn’t hear it over the background noise of the busy restaurant. But maybe he could.
“I’ll have the chicken,” she said.
“No appetizer?”
Sal shook her head. “I prefer dessert.” The jaw clench told her he did also.
Once the meals were ordered, Sal expected things to become awkward, but Doyle was not to be deterred, and they managed to have a decent conversation about his hometown until the meals arrived.
Then they talked about their meals and cooking and food they liked and didn’t like and places and things they’d eaten during their travels, and as much as Sal tried to keep her focus on what was going to happen later, she thoroughly enjoyed the present, too. Most of her usual dates didn’t involve regular chitchat—they consisted of a drink or two, maybe something to nibble on, conversation that was nothing more than thinly veined flirting, and then a quick dash back to the apartment.
She’d forgotten how much fun dating could be.
When the waiter came to collect their plates, Sal was surprised how much time had passed. “I noticed eyebrow dude from puppy preschool was in with his mastiff this afternoon,” Doyle said as the waiter departed. “Was there an actual medical reason for his visit or did he just come to flirt with you some more while he slipped you his number?”
Sal laughed at the distaste in his voice. “I threw his number in the bin as soon as he left.”
He grunted, clearly unimpressed. Sal’s fingers found the zipper again, his gaze following the movement. “You don’t approve.”
“As your boyfriend, definitely not.”
“Well, don’t worry. It was completely legitimate. Some kind of insect had bitten Rex on the snout and there was a localized reaction. Some swelling and nasal snuffling. I
gave him a shot of antihistamine. Satisfied?”
He didn’t look satisfied. “No.”
“You think he made some insect deliberately bite Rex so he could come in and flirt with me?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Aw. You don’t like eyebrow dude,” Sal said, faking a pout.
Doyle sat forward in his chair. “I don’t like any guy who touches you.”
Sal’s fingers faltered on the zip. Her belly twisted hard at the steel in his gaze and the gravel in his voice. It was a shocking display of male territorial bullshit.
And it was so freaking hot she wanted to yank her zipper down and flash him. She would no doubt go to feminist hell for even thinking it, let alone encouraging his possessive nonsense.
Luckily the waiter arrived with the dessert menu, saving her from herself. Although nothing, it seemed, was going to save her from the fire raging between her legs sparked to life by Doyle’s my woman, Cro-Magnon crap. She contemplated pouring her cold wine into her underwear to help the situation but then remembered she wasn’t wearing any.
“It all looks good,” he murmured.
“It does,” Sal agreed, her fingers agitating the zipper again. But she wasn’t hungry for food. And surely the date had gone on for long enough? “Of course we could skip dessert and have it at home.”
He glanced at her over the top of the menu, giving her a stern look. “All we have is vanilla ice cream.”
“Nothing vanilla about ice cream if we eat it off each other’s bodies.”
He did that nostril flare, jaw clench thing again. Hello fairy floss.
“I think I’m going for the hazelnut torte.”
She shrugged. “That could work as well. Let’s get it to go.”
He chuckled. “You are incorrigible.”
“Bet you’re thinking about me covered in hazelnut torte though now, aren’t you?”
“Hell, yeah.”
She laughed. “Just to help you make up your mind, you should know that I’m not wearing any underwear.”
His gaze dropped to her breasts and her nipples hardened beneath its interest. “No bra?”
Sal nodded. “No bra. No nothing.”
Jaw clench, nostril flare. The waiter approached. “Have you made a decision yet?” he asked.
Doyle’s eyes never left hers. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll get the hazelnut torte to go and the check, thanks.”
…
Sal was almost giddy with the degree of haste Doyle used to get her out of the restaurant into the dark car park. When he got her to his dual cab, he pushed her against the cool metal of the passenger door, jammed a thigh between her legs, and kissed her long and deep and hard.
She moaned when his big, warm hand found her naked arse and squeezed. “Jesus,” he groaned. “I want to fuck you right here.” He pulled away, yanking open her door. “Get in.”
Sal got in, her pulse tripping, her breath choppy with excitement. When he got in his side, she reached for him, but he shook his head. “Oh no,” he said, starting the engine. “It’s fifteen minutes home, and to quote a famous penguin I am close to the edge. Do not touch me, speak to me, or even look at me. Okay?”
Sal suppressed a smile. “Okay, fine,” she said, buckling up demurely. “I won’t touch, look, or talk. I promise.”
He let out a breath. “Thank you.”
“No worries,” she said, reaching for the zipper and yanking it down, the noise harsh in the quiet of the cab. Her blouse fell open and her breasts were completely exposed.
It was dark in the cab, but there was enough ambient light for Doyle to see all. “Holy shit,” he muttered, feasting his eyes. “Jesus…Sal…” His knuckles went white around the steering wheel. “It’s fifteen minutes. Have mercy.”
Sal’s breasts felt heavy and her nipples ached to be touched, to have the hot swipe of his tongue on them. She figured if she wanted she could straddle his lap right now and Doyle would be a willing partner. But there was something delicious about the wicked sizzle of anticipation.
She was evolving.
“Okay, okay,” she sighed, doing her zip up. “Fifteen minutes.” But it didn’t stop her from sliding her skirt all the way to the tops of her thighs.
“Sal,” he growled.
“Just a little incentive,” she murmured.
Doyle dragged his eyes off her legs and slammed the vehicle in gear.
Good as her word, Sal didn’t say anything on the trip. Doyle put the radio on and she relaxed back into the seat, watching the blur of neon outside her window. She could feel waves of tension radiating off him and her nerve synapses sparked with sexual electricity, but despite all that, she felt decidedly mellow.
Maybe it was the groovy music or the two wines, but Sal couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever felt mellow.
She glanced at him and smiled.
“You’re looking,” he said.
Sal laughed and turned back to the window, a trill of excitement unfurling tentacles deep inside her. And not just for the sex. She was actually enjoying being with him like this—teasing and laughing, letting the anticipation build instead of her usual MO of cutting straight to the chase.
It was something decidedly new, and she liked it.
…
By the time they were standing outside her bedroom door ten minutes later, her anticipation had reached critical mass and all Sal could think about was Doyle, hard and high inside her. She was weak-at-the-knees hot with it, trembling as she slid her arms around his neck, rising on her tiptoes, eager for the heat of his lips and the mastery of his kiss. But he evaded her questing mouth, dropping his lips onto her cheek instead before pulling away and stepping back.
She frowned at him. “What was that?”
“I told you.” He grinned, looking down at her. “I was going to take you on a date, kiss you good-night at your door, and then leave. No first base, remember?”
Sal quirked an eyebrow. “I’m good with first base. In fact I’m good with all of them.”
He folded his arms. “Now what kind of first date would I be if I tried to race you straight into bed?”
“My kind,” she said, taking a step forward, her thighs brushing his, her breasts achingly close. “I shaved my legs, I waxed my bikini line, and I sat for two hours in that restaurant with the air-conditioning blowing up my skirt freezing my nether regions off all just for you. Take it from me, you really, really should race me into bed.”
He chuckled. “You don’t want to talk a little first?” He was teasing, his face a picture of faux innocence, but Sal wasn’t in the mood. Her craving for him had built all night. His banter, his teasing, his witty conversation, the way he threw back his head when he laughed, the way the candlelight emphasized that sexy little chin cleft. All of it—everything—had kept her at fever pitch, but she was done with the tease.
She needed her hit right now.
She pulled her zipper down like she had in the car park and the light from her room fell over the soft pillows of her breasts. “You wanna talk, Doyle, fine. We can do that later. Right now, can we please just fuck?”
Doyle’s smile died on his lips as his gaze feasted on the fascinating uptilt of two gorgeous bare breasts. His mouth flooded with saliva at the thought of tasting those rosy nipples. His cock took over all higher thinking. Her deliberate word choice should have turned him off, should have been a red flag about how differently they regarded sex and intimacy, but there was something potently arousing about hearing such a dirty word coming from such a pretty mouth.
Could they fuck now? After two weeks of accidental bumps and brushes, near-naked apartment walking and shower blow jobs, his resistance snapped loud enough to be heard in the next state.
He dragged his gaze off her breasts and the quickened pace of her breathing as he took in the high flush of her cheeks. “You wanna fuck?” He pulled his shirt over his head, throwing it on the ground as he reached for her hips and pulled her in tight. “Let’s fu
ck.”
A mad jungle beat filled Doyle’s head as Sal moaned and rubbed herself against the rampant steel of his cock. It kicked him hard in the groin, days of wanting and denial mounting up, then breaking free as he pushed her hard against the door. She lifted her face to his, but he bypassed her mouth altogether, swooping down to claim a rosy pink tip, already hard and ripe for his tongue. He sucked it deep into his mouth, her gasp going straight to his cock, urging him to devour the other one, and he swapped sides, sucking hard on the engorged nub.
“Yes,” she gasped, her hand on the back of his head, holding him there.
His fingers found the side zipper of her skirt and yanked it down, pushing the fluttery black scrap off her hips, his hands gliding straight to the cheeks of her naked arse and squeezing, grinding his fully clothed erection against the bare juncture of her thighs.
Her whimpered “yes” told him he had just the right spot.
Then her hands were at his waistband, his abs contracting beneath her questing fingers as she pulled at his belt and undid his fly. His heart hammered as her hand found his cock and he reared back from the wet trails he was leaving on her breasts, a groan wrenched from somewhere deep inside his tight, aching, full balls.
She grabbed for his shoulder, bringing him back to her with one hand while bringing him to his knees with the other as she slid it up and down the hard, taut length of him.
“I want you in me,” she moaned, hooking her leg around the back of his thighs and practically crawling up his body to align their hips.
Doyle’s breath was like syrup in his chest—thick and sticky—as he acted and reacted purely to the dictates of his body. Of her body. She was small and light, and he boosted her up easily, kissing her hard as he pinned her to the door with his big body, feeling the heat and the wet of her settle over the blunt girth of his cock, reveling in the wild buck of her hips as she tried to bring them together.
“Now, Doyle,” she begged against his mouth. “Now.”
Doyle dragged in an unsteady breath at the urgent request, needing to be inside her just as desperately. “Hold on,” he said, his hands going to her hips, angling her better and then flexing, pushing up into her in one long, slow, steady push.