"Open up, will ya?" I yelled as the wind tried to rip the words away from my mouth.
Small, round balls began to pelt the back of my head and shoulders.
Hail drummed against Rinaldi' window; a flash of bright blue lightning reflected from the vitreous surface and a crack followed almost immediately, bright and deafening.
He turned the latch and flung the tall, casement window open, letting the weather inside.
"Hurry up, dammit," he said, alarmed.
The sodden rope of my harness got too swollen with water for its own good. It wouldn't slide anymore. It was stuck.
I was stuck, too.
I tried to loosen it, but my leather gloves got in the way.
"Here, gimme that." He stepped up and grabbed the rope with his long, strong fingers, trying to loosen the stubborn loop. A gust of wind shook the window next to him.
"Hold my shoulder, Pearson!"
I reached out, grasping the warm fabric of his dress shirt. His hands skimmed the surface of my pants between my legs briefly, loosening the wet, stuck rope. Then I was free, with the rappel line swaying in the wind as he pulled me inside.
The noise of the storm was cut short as he closed the window and drew the sheers. Then he turned and looked at my soaked, dripping person, stepping close enough to grab my shoulders and shake me hard.
"What the fuck're you thinking, climbing in weather like that?"
Wait, he cared?
I shrugged.
"It didn't rain before. Hey…sorry about the mess. I didn't really want to do that to you."
"Why the fuck did ya do it anyway?"
I summoned the last bit of spunk left in me, met his eyes, and smiled. "You told me to act normal, so I used the usual entrance, y'know?"
IN NOT VERY long, hot water rained on my head and shoulders. I had stopped shivering from the cold some time ago, and I was obviously clean – hiding in the shower was nothing but a stalling tactic. The saner part of me cringed at my undignified position. Soaking wet, on a window parapet, unable to untie my own water-sodden rope harness. Being pelted by hail surely didn't help.
Way to go, Pearson.
The nutty part of me – most likely the part I inherited from my estranged yet eccentric father – cackled at being in the same apartment with the tall, handsome, and entirely enticing Rafael Rinaldi. My nutty part was still trying to salvage the situation. I leaned against the moss-green tile wall of the old-fashioned bath enclosure, trying to get a better sense of my current strategic position.
When he grabbed my arms, our faces were just inches apart.
He shook me kind of hard.
He yelled at me in a loud, scared voice.
He shoved me into the bathroom, being a lot gentler than I probably deserved.
He tossed a clean guest towel after me, followed by a curse.
He tossed his clean workout clothes after me, sans instructions.
He slammed the door shut.
Temperamental bastard, I thought. I wished he hadn't yelled so much, because then I'd be better able to absorb the content of what he was trying to say. Like, I really wanted to know whether he was yelling over the sodden carpet – my late mother would have – or whether his outburst was a show of concern over my personal safety. My estranged, nutty father tended to act like that. My heart sped up at the thought of the second option, but I had no way to be sure. Once I got out of the shower I toweled my hair dry, bending over and letting my hair hang upside down. Then I toweled the rest of me and inspected the garments lent me by my volatile host.
His sweatpants were gray and washed into ageless softness, and his T-shirt was one of those clingy black microfiber ones, which is supposed to control your body temperature. White cotton socks. It seemed I’d have to make do without the dignity of underwear.
I hung the towel over the shower rail and opened the door.
"Took you long enough, Pearson." Raf Rinaldi sat on the sofa, watching the evening news. "You still cold?"
I shrugged. "It's okay."
He glanced over me, presumably to assess my overall condition and I saw his eyes darken as his gaze lingered.
“You sure?” He drawled, his voice velvety soft and deep.
"I'm fine, really. Did you pull the report out of my backpack?"
"Haven't touched your stuff." He nodded toward the foyer, where my black, rip-stop nylon backpack occupied a place of honor, dripping onto the Jackets hanging off his coat rack. I took it down and opened it, half expecting it to be full of hail.
It wasn't; the report was snug in its plastic cover. Just the edges of the paper were wet.
"Here. It will need to dry a bit. I have a backup copy on my phone – I'd email it to you but I don't know how wet my phone got." I nodded at my cellular phone, which sat on top of his glass coffee table.
Rinaldi picked up his phone and pushed two buttons. "Let's see if it works, then."
"Grrraahwrrr!"
Our eyes met; motionless, an eternity passed. The lull before the storm.
We collided in midair, our arms extended toward my roaring phone. Our shoulders crashed as we landed on the dark blue living room carpet, the roaring cell phone still whole two feet away. I scrambled for it, only to feel Rinaldi's hand clench around my forearm and yank me off balance. As I fell, I grabbed him tight to take him down with me.
"Oooof."
That was me, with air forcibly expelled out of my lungs.
"Grrraahwrrr!"
"Dammit, I'll crush that effin’ phone of yours!" Rinaldi reached his long arm above us and clenched the spasming, orgasming electronic device and shut it off. I felt his bent leg warm and solid across my thighs, his chest lightly touching mine. With mischief in my eyes I struggled to reach for my phone, successfully provoking him to trap both of my hands in one of his, pinning me to the ground. His face hung above mine, the tendrils of his brown hair almost long enough to touch my face. Our breath mingled and our eyes met, but it wasn't one of those longing gazes of sudden recognition where both parties feel unspeakable lust for one another.
He merely looked pissed off. I gave him my puppy dog eyes and felt his grip on my wrists tighten. Apparently, Rinaldi was inexplicably immune to the "power of cute".
"Alright, Pearson," he said, breathing hard. "Tell me what will keep you from using that particular sound as your ring tone."
I was breathing hard too, albeit for a different reason.
"For your information, Rinaldi, this ringtone is only for you. Not like before, for Vicki and all the other people who call me. You alone. See? You ought to feel good about that."
“Is that so,” he exhaled, letting his stranglehold on my hands loosened a little. I didn't make any attempt to move away from the tingling contact.
"I'm not talking about having an exclusive ringtone. I wanna know what can I do to make you just delete it.”
Moments passed while I luxuriated under the delicious pressure, exerted by the warm and muscular body of Raf Rinaldi. As he held me down like that, I felt my nether regions stir and it took all the control I had not to arch into him. I was tempted to shift and see if, perhaps, he felt the same. My breath became shallow and my face flushed a bit at the thought. However, despite these extenuating circumstances, I considered his request.
"Problem is, Rinaldi, I really love the sound of that ringtone." I felt him go rigid over me, eyes wide. "If you'd… if you would perhaps find a way I could hear that sort of a delicious, intoxicating sound live, then maybe – and I'm not making a promise – but maybe I'd have no need to keep a recording of it."
He pressed into me ever so slightly, keeping himself from crushing me.
I arched my middle, not quite reaching him. My hips wiggled a bit, searching for something solid but his hips canted to the side. Frustration was the only fruit of my labors. I scowled at him.
"You're a tease, Rinaldi."
"Yeah, I am." The words ghosted over my lips as he came closer to me; the moist weight of his breath almo
st made me flutter my eyelids shut, except his weight settled onto my middle and my chest and I relaxed into it, allowing a small, pleasured whine escape me.
His hand let go of my arms, his long fingers stroking my wrists before going all the way to my shoulders; he folded his arms on top of my chest, allowing his fingers to relax over its curves as though by accident. He propped his chin on his forearms, gazing at me down his perfect, straight nose with the slightest hint of a smile.
"Would you care for a drink? I could use a martini just about now."
"Okay," I breathed, never having had a martini before.
CHAPTER 6
I leaned my butt against the dishwasher as I watched Rinaldi fix our third martini. He measured out five small, glass jiggers of Blue Sapphire Bombay gin and the last dregs of Cinzano White Vermouth into a large plastic cup, added a handful of ice cubes, and stirred it for a while. Then he poured half into my glass and the other half into his, straining the ice through his fingers. He grabbed the lemon again and, using a razor-sharp paring knife, removed two strips of lemon peel; he twisted them over the clear liquid, then dropped them in.
My eyes kept vacillating between his shapely butt and his broad shoulders at first, but soon they wandered up to the focused frown between his eyebrows, and cascaded down his aquiline nose, soft lips, strong chin and wide, well-muscled shoulders and onto the defined arms, pausing at his deliberate, skilled hands. He prepared the drinks like it was an act of artistic expression. The fingers of his right hand were still dripping with the liquid as he handed me mine; I took it from him and set it down.
"Well, go ahead, taste it! This gin's different." He sounded eager to have me try, but my I appetite was for something else entirely.
I reached out, grasping his wrist in my hand. Not bothering to meet his eyes, I bent forth and let my tongue flicker out, lapping the drying martini off his fingertips.
Lemon. Juniper. Alcohol.
My palate demanded more. My lips wrapped around his fingers; my tongue sucked on their underside, tasting, caressing.
The bitters of vermouth. A hint of salt.
Salt. Rafael's salt?
The sound of glass crashing onto the tile floor made me stop and open my eyes. Rinaldi stood still, breathless, his eyes shut. I eased his fingers out of my mouth, drawing my tongue along their undersides, enjoying the slither of my tip over the pads of his calloused fingertips. A low moan rumbled deep in his chest, escaping his throat as a breathy sigh. Slowly, as though it were a great deal of effort, he forced his eyelids apart to reveal confused, impossibly blue eyes.
"Look…what you made me do,” he rasped. “That was the last of the vermouth."
"Sorry." I felt a blush rise up my neck. "I'll clean it up."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You're barefoot. Sit up on the dishwasher and stay put."
I did as he said, sipping a bit of the freshly made drink. The Bombay gin was a lot smoother than the Beefeater; the lemon a fine counterpoint to the sublime balance of juniper and bitters – although, truth be told, fine distinctions were becoming difficult to discern because I was on my third drink. Suddenly I felt a bit off balance, and the floor tilted fifteen degrees to the right. Acting with smooth deliberation, I set the glass down and grasped the edge of the counter, righting myself. Now I knew what a martini was and what went into it, but still – wow.
Rinaldi returned with a broom and a pan and threw the broken glass in the garbage. Then he ran a handful of wet paper towels over the white tile, picking up the smallest shards. He washed his hands at the sink and looked at me just sitting there.
Watching him.
"Drink your martini," he growled.
Not unless you want it back later.
"I'm waiting to share with you." My enunciation was careful. It wouldn't do to slur.
He wiped his wet hands against his dress trousers. Just water – a typical guy.
Our eyes met; the arctic ice of his irate glare was long gone, replaced by the soft warmth of a tropical ocean, liquid and caressing. He came closer - way too close - and his long arm snaked around my waist.
"The floor's wet and I don't want you to mess up my socks. Here, hop a ride."
I didn't want him to carry me like a groom might carry a bride – that position was way too loaded with unintended meaning.
Being tossed into a fireman's carry was out of the question – that might make me hurl.
My right hand reached for the last martini as my left wrapped around his neck. I felt like a brazen hussy at what I was about to do. My face burned as my legs wrapped around his waist. He pressed our chests together, hoisting me under my ass, transporting us to the living room.
I WOULD have thought I would enjoy this sort of a thing. After all, I had been lusting after this fine specimen of manhood for weeks. So why did I feel this sudden sense of ambivalence wash over me? Every step he took made me rub my groin against his hip, and the sensation made me feel all warm and gooey inside. Yet I couldn’t make myself just lean into it. The tables must have turned while I wasn't looking. The control I enjoyed so much during my invasions and burglaries had dissipated with my landing on Rinaldi’s windowsill, soaked to the bone and stuck in my rope harness. Once I had allowed him to untie me, warm me up in his shower, dress me in his soft, broken-in clothes, indulge me in a drink made by his own hand… dammit, where did my sense of control go?
I had to get the upper hand again.
His butt sank into the soft, leather sofa as my legs let go. I straddled him, safely seated on his knees; close, but not too close. His eyes were now darkened with heat, and heavy-lidded, and his hands felt steady and warm on my hips.
"PEARSON." His voice was a dry rasp, breaking the silence as his hands tightened on me. I met his gaze as I lifted the drink to my lips. Taking an overlarge sip of the strong, burning liquid, I touched my lips against his and curled my tongue into a straw, letting the drink invade his mouth. His eyes widened as he drew a sharp inhale, the air current irritating the tender tissues of both of our mouths by evaporating the alcohol too fast.
"Fuck, Pearson…"
I shut his mouth with a kiss, my tongue skimming the bottom of his lip.
He groaned. The sound was as intoxicating as the taste. He responded, engaging in gentle play; his tongue swept the inside of my upper lip. I moaned, relishing in knowing how sensitive that place can be, feeling those strong, able arms pull me into him, his undeniable hard-on now rubbing against my belly.
There was no hiding it now; I felt a blush coming on again and fought to make it go away.
I'm in charge – it's okay.
I'm in charge – it's okay.
I'm in charge – it's okay.
My control-freak mantra worked its magic. I felt my embarrassment drain away as I rocked my pelvis into Rinaldi's washboard abs. I felt him remove the glass from my hand. The silence of the room was broken by the soft clink of a crystal bottom meeting the polished wood surface of the side table. The soft clink shattered the silence in my ears – the driving rain susurrated against the windowpanes, accompanied by our breathy gasps of pleasure. His hands warmed my skin, skimming my waist, my back. A stray finger, daring and brave, venturing to explore the curve of my breast. I shivered at the touch, taking in every nuance of his caress. Tongues met and parted again, and he slid out a bit so his hips could reach mine as he arched into the pleasure of our contact, and that familiar, thrilling heat began to spread from my center down and I knew that in not too long it would develop into a dull, wanton ache of desire.
My hand slid down his chest in a slow, exploring caress. I slowly mapped his chiseled planes through the fabric of his shirt. Bent on removing some of the layers of fabric between us, my hands dipped to find the cool metal of his belt buckle. I fussed with it until it came undone, distracted by delicate sucks on my collarbone. The zipper finally gave, then the buttons, and my hand slid under his silk boxers.
Oh yeah.
The hot, hard, satin-smooth shaft c
aressed my fingers as Rinaldi gasped, turning his breath into a growl.
"We… we have some unfinished business… Pearson."
I've always loved the smooth, silky hardness of cock in my mouth. I didn’t quite know how I got down there; all I knew I could never quite recall the exact sensation of the delicate and soft skin - its tender caress along my neck, my cheek, my lips - until I encountered it once again. It always came as a pleasant shock that I could play with something so smooth and hard and hot; a toy so fabulously responsive.
"Get your pants off," I heard myself say as I grabbed his knees to keep myself from swaying like a martini-soaked rope in the breeze. He wiggled, pushing his trousers and boxers down to his ankles. I had full access. I smiled.
My hands slid up his thighs, enjoying the feel of his heated skin, reveling in the conflict between tightening and relaxing that now warred within my prey.
Within Rafael.
I let my fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, pushing its folds to the sides to better see him in his glory. My eyes met his, wanton and wide, before I let my gaze slide down that beautiful torso. Had he been a mountain, I would have wanted to climb his every ridge. A defined chest with just a bit of hair to trace the swirls of the natural growth pattern that thinned to an arrow-shaped line pointing down, traversing the abs you could do your laundry on, and then further down the happy trail.
There it was, nested in a thatch of brown curls: his cock.
The generous shaft rose toward me; its rigid, swollen head circled by a sensitive ledge. It sat there, looking at me, enticing and challenging at the same time. I eyed it with a mixture of greed and apprehension."
Hey…anybody home?" Raf husked, ‘Little Raf’ just about straining in my direction like a moisture-and-heat seeking missile.
"Just admiring the view," I said and licked my lips.
Then I anchored my hands against his hips and leaned in, letting him feel the heat of my moist breath first.
"Pearson!"
"Hmmm." Not to be distracted by his insistence, I leaned in some more, stroking the side of my neck on his smooth hardness. He gasped and I purred and did it some more, adding my soft cheek.
I Need A Bad Boy: A Collection of Bad Boy Romances Page 15