by Beth Ciotta
“I know. But I’ve only ever been with one man, and I was faithful, and so was he,” she managed between throaty gasps of ecstasy. “I think. I just wanted you to know.”
That only-ever-been-with-one-man blew his mind and made him cherish her all the more, but the last thing he wanted to do just now was delve into their sexual history. All right then, his history. She didn’t have a history. One man, her husband no less, did not constitute a history in his eyes. It damn near made her a virgin.
He didn’t know which ached more, his heart or his dick. The only certainty was the primitive need to take this woman now. He ravaged her mouth, hi-jacked her senses by fingering her into another shuddering climax. Christ, she was priceless.
Crazy with need—oh, yeah, here’s your bone-deep lust, baby—he spread her legs, groaning as his shaft grazed wet and wild heaven.
She tensed, dug her fingers into his shoulders and coldcocked him with a panicked gaze. “Not like this, Colin, please. This is how Terry—”
He silenced her with a kiss. The last place he wanted her ex-husband was in his goddamned bed. Whatever that bastard had done, he’d done in the missionary. Murphy obliterated the emotional connection by flipping Lulu onto her stomach. He kissed the nape of her neck, her shoulders, the small of her back. He whispered words, tender, raunchy as he explored neglected pulse points. Reveling in her soft sighs and mews, he soothed his hands over her sexy body and coaxed her onto hands and knees.
Taking her from behind would probably count as kinky in her book, and it would sure as hell rock his world … another time. The first time, he wanted to see her face when she came. He wanted slow and meaningful, but just now she needed him to slay dragons. In a compromise, he swept her from the bed and pinned her against the wall. She cried her approval, wrapped her hand around his shaft and guided him home.
He nearly lost it on entry. Christ, she was tight. His world blurred as she grabbed his ass, telegraphing her needs loud and clear. He thought he heard “harder” and “faster,” but that could have been his imagination at play. His heart pounded like a mother in his ears, drowning out all but her high-pitched squeals.
He tangled his fingers into her wild curls, steadying her as he savaged her mouth with his teeth, lips, and tongue. His other hand roamed over her beautiful curves as he laid claim to her body.
He wanted to excite, to satisfy, to eliminate that fucking ex from her memory. He wanted to be the first.
He felt her shudder, eased back and watched as she screamed her release, a throaty cry that pushed him over the edge. Hello, God is that you? It was better than the first time, surpassed countless pornographic dreams. Making love to the princess was like making love to royalty. A rare privilege.
Spent, he dropped his forehead to hers.
She sighed. “That was …”
“Yeah.” Apparently, being in love added a new and exciting dimension to physical intimacy.
“OohRah,” she whispered.
In that instant he knew exactly how she’d spent her morning on the Internet. He wondered what other information she’d tripped upon aside from the Marine battle cry. But his curiosity maxed out in under a minute. He had other things on his mind. Like getting busy with this woman a second time, and breaking her of her fear of the missionary.
As if reading his mind, Lulu smoothed her hands down his back, nipped along his jaw line. “How would you feel if I gave the aggressor thing another whirl?”
Thank you, Jesus. Problem solved, at least for the present. Smiling, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. “Let’s rock and roll.”
Love sucked. Rudy rolled down his window and winged his book-on-CD outside. The silver disc soared like a Frisbee into the grassy medium as he whizzed the limo west on 195. Let some other poor schmuck listen to Dr. Marvin’s advice on dating, mating, and the joy of fidelity. The concept was lost on him. There was no joy in relinquishing your heart and having it trampled.
Cursing, he veered right, taking the exit toward Freehold. If only he hadn’t walked in on Jean-Pierre while he was on the phone. He’d heard, “I’ll think about it,” “I miss you, too,” and “Luc,” and his mind had filled in the blanks. He’d backed out of the room before Jean-Pierre saw him. Like a coward, he’d ducked into the bathroom where he’d swallowed four aspirin in anticipation of a blinding stress headache. Unfortunately, he couldn’t find any medicine to annihilate the green-eyed-monster.
Okay, yes, he’d told Jean-Pierre to jump on the opportunity, but he’d been referring to the job, not the chance to rekindle an old flame. “I miss you, too.” What the hell?
Even now, hours later and miles away from Jean-Pierre, jealousy and resentment coursed through Rudy’s veins like poison.
He pounded a fist on the dashboard, damning fate. Two days ago his life had been near perfect. Last night he’d acknowledged, to himself anyway, that he loved Jean-Pierre, and today he was miserable. No, worse than miserable. He couldn’t even think of a word to describe his severe angst. All he knew was that he’d never felt like this before. It was powerful, painful, and ugly.
He’d never hurt like this in the old days. The King of Quickies. Master of a stiff prick with no conscience. He’d had it made. No emotional entanglements. What the hell had possessed him to turn his life around, investing a fortune in books, meditating, and chanting affirmations? I am open and ready for a serious, long-term relationship. Like hell he was!
One of two things was going to happen. Either Jean-Pierre was going to turn down the job, only to regret the decision and resent Rudy later down the line. Or he was going to take the job, and reconnect with an old lover—a younger lover. Either way, Jean-Pierre was going to leave him. It was only a matter of when.
Hot tears pricked his eyes. Great, just great. He was crying in his beer over a man, sans the beer. Could this day get any worse? Steering into his appointed pick-up’s housing development, Rudy snatched up his cell phone and speed-dialed Afia. He needed someone, something to make him feel better. What he got was her message machine. He sighed heavily. “Hi, honey. So is it better to let go and see if they come back or to hold on and see if they let go?” A bastardized version of a quote or a song lyric, he couldn’t remember. Rational thinking had gone out the window the moment he’d heard Jean-Pierre speaking with Luc. His voice hitched. “Uh, call me.”
Rudy tossed the cell on the seat, parked the limo, and thumbed back tears. Shake it off, Gallow. He straightened his tie, exited the limo, and knocked on the door of an upscale rancher. He’d deliver Perry Davis aka Sucha Tramp to Ruby Slippers and then go somewhere and drink himself blind. All he could think about was numbing the pain.
The door eased open. Perry greeted him in clingy sweat pants and no shirt. Like Rudy, the man had a love affair with free weights. Rudy would have to be dead not to admire the Muscle Mary’s buff body and devastating blue eyes. He wasn’t dead, just bleeding profusely from his broken heart.
Perry quirked a coy smile as he acknowledged Rudy’s not-so-subtle appraisal, and returned the admiration. “You here to pick me up?”
Rudy fidgeted. “I … uh …” Yes, Rivelli asked me to deliver you to Oz, would have been the appropriate answer. Since when had he allowed harmless flirting to rob him of sense and speech?
Since Jean-Pierre had commandeered his heart and soul.
“I’m a little early. I …” Couldn’t stomach a confrontation with my lover, so I blew out of the house ahead of schedule.
Perry reached out and tenderly touched his shoulder. “You look like you could use a friend. Want to come in for a beer?”
Rudy’s emotions spun wildly, his future uncertain. Your life is out of control because you have no control in your life. Isn’t that what he’d told Afia months ago? Love had robbed him of control, and now he hurt like hell. He took comfort in the thinly-veiled interest in Perry’s gaze, told himself that his past was safer than his future. He followed the man into his house and kissed Christmas in Vermont good-bye.
Chapter Eighteen
Cheating bastard.
Sofie refused to acknowledge how striking Chaz looked leaning against his luxury Mercedes in his single-breasted, pinstriped Armani suit. So he was classy as hell, and GQ gorgeous. So he had a lot of money. He also had a string of girlfriends. She could forgive many things. But not infidelity.
She willed her nerves steady as she thanked Trixie for the lift, and waved good-bye. Of all days for JP and Rudy to be fighting. The tension pinging off Rudy when he’d driven her to the Carnevale had been excruciating. She’d decided not to spend the night at their townhouse in the hopes that they’d talk things out, kiss, and make up. She’d phoned JP to let him know she was staying over with a friend, a bald lie, but if he knew she planned on spending the night alone at Viv’s he would have pitched a fit. Or called Lulu. The lie seemed the easiest solution. She certainly didn’t believe she was at risk.
Then again she hadn’t expected Chaz.
She summoned a mask of indifference as she walked toward the asshole who’d robbed her of her dreams. “Go away.”
He pushed off the car and nabbed her elbow. “We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t.” God, he smelled good—cedar and musk—his cologne, like his clothes, designer chic. But beneath the classy exterior beat the heart of a snake-oil salesman. If she wasn’t careful, in less than five minutes, he’d have her believing that those other actresses forced themselves into his bed, and that she was his one-and-only love. He was that smooth.
He grasped her other elbow and pulled her close, his blue eyes serene and as enticing as Caribbean waters. “I’ve apologized.”
She steeled her heart, hardened her voice. “Chocolates and roses. It’s like applying a Band-Aid to an amputated limb.”
He shook his head as though disappointed by a child. “Dramatic as always.”
A jab. Good. It hurt. Even better.
She smirked. “Me, dramatic? A professional actress? Imagine that.”
“I made a mistake, honey.”
“So did I.” I believed you when you said you loved me.
“I miss you.”
“You mean you miss the commission you made off my bookings.”
He pulled her into a warm embrace, tempted her with a seductive gaze. “Come home.”
She swallowed hard as the sky faded to purple and the automatically-timed security lamp flicked on, bathing the yard in romantic, pink light. “I am home.” Okay. That felt weird. Like she hadn’t dreamed of busting out of Jersey since she was old enough to walk.
His gaze flicked toward the house. “Rough neighborhood.”
Compared to Manhattan? Was he nuts?
Chaz studied her face, grazed a thumb over her lower lip. “I’m ready to take this to the next level, Sofia.”
Her heart pounded. Not in anticipation, she realized, but in dread. He was going to kiss her, he was going to propose, and she was going to forgive everything.
He claimed her lips, his hands sliding to her ass. Chaz had a real thing for her firm, but plentiful booty. He seared her mouth with a ten-alarm kiss. She should’ve been on fire. Where was the heat?
He eased back and smiled, an arrogant tilt of the lips that used to melt her bones. “I can give you what you want, Sofia. Security and countless orgasms. You’re a handful.” His gaze slid over her body. “But worth it. Come back to the city and move in with me.”
Move in? Okay. She felt something now. Insulted, betrayed, disappointed, angry. Good enough to be his lover, but not his wife? “Fuck you.”
The bastard actually laughed. “I love it when you’re pissed.” He clasped her right hand, placed it over his bulge. “It means hot sex.”
She knew she was rattled, because instead of squeezing his nuts and inflicting much deserved pain, she wrenched away and slapped his face. Big wussy deal.
He laughed. “God, you’re hot. Let’s take this inside, baby.”
Tears stung her eyes as he hooked an arm about her waist and maneuvered her toward the house. The sex, it was all about the sex. So what? She gave the best BJ out of his roster of lays, and as an award he was going to make her his live-in mistress? Numb with grief, she stumbled blindly forward. She was such a loser. Why didn’t she deck him? Why was she crying?
“Hey, asshole. Mind taking your hands off of my girl?”
Chaz froze, and then slowly swung around.
“Joseph?” Dammit, her voice actually cracked.
Murphy’s sinister-sexy friend quirked a dark, dangerous smile. “Hi, babe. Sorry I’m late.”
Dressed in holey bell-bottom jeans, a bulky black sweater, and a sock cap, he looked like a thirty-something home boy. She didn’t know why he was here, but he offered her a means to save face. She swiped away tears, hoping it was dark enough that neither noticed the waterworks. “I only just got home, so … your timing’s perfect.”
Joe nudged Chaz aside. “Do you mind, dude?” He grasped Sofie’s hand and gave a gentle tug. She moved into his arms. Willingly. Naturally. He reeked of that horrid aftershave. She wanted to drown in it. He nodded toward Chaz. “Who’s the suit?”
Drawing strength from Joe’s badass attitude, she shot her ex a deadly look. “A salesman. But what he’s offering, I’m not buying.”
Joe smoothed his palm up and down her back, a comforting gesture as he eyeballed Chaz, and shrugged. “You heard her, pretty boy. Hit the road.”
Chaz smirked, gave Joe the once-over, then glanced at Sofie. “I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it.” She wanted to hurt Chaz Bradley. She wanted him out of her life forever. That’s the only reason she wrapped her arms around Joe’s neck and instigated an open-mouthed kiss. He didn’t seem to mind when she stuck her tongue halfway down his throat. In fact, he immersed himself in the ruse, palming and squeezing Chaz’s favorite part of her anatomy while kissing her blind.
Chaz cursed, at least she thought he cursed. Add deafness to the list of lost senses, along with smell. Touch and taste, however, ruled. Stone muscles and velvet tongue. Spearmint and licorice. For an instant she forgot this was an act, and gave over to the raw passion attacking every fiber of her pliant body. Joe’s kiss was so deep, so tender, she wanted to weep in admiration of its beauty.
“Make sure to get your pole smoked before you leave, Joseph. No one gives head better than Sofia.”
Now that she heard.
The kiss ended abruptly. Although Joe didn’t just stand there staring after Chaz as he sulked toward his Mercedes. Unlike her, he hadn’t been stunned stupid by the vicious taunt. He clamped a hand on Chaz’s shoulder, jerked him around, and socked him in the jaw.
The designer suited man staggered back, touched his manicured fingertips to his mouth, and spat blood. “Crazy hoodlum!”
“You’re half right, Chaz.”
Sofie blinked as Joe advanced on her ex-lover, a man he knew by name. He reached back, pulled something out from under his sweater. A gun? Jesus, was that a gun? It was dark now, and they’d moved out of the wash of the yard lamp. Next thing she knew a door slammed and the Mercedes squealed away from the curb. She palmed her forehead as the red taillights faded quickly from view.
Joe stalked toward her readjusting his sweater. She didn’t see a gun, but she was certain he had one. Relatively certain. Whatever he’d done or said, he’d put the fear of God into Chaz-I-could-charm-a-snake-into-buying-shoes-Bradley. “You’re crazy,” she whispered.
“That’s the half your ex got right.” He grasped her arm and steered her toward the house. His touch was gentle, unlike his tone. The man was pissed. “Why didn’t you clip him in the balls or shin rake the bastard when he took liberties? I know you have it in you. I have the bruises to prove it. What the hell was with the girly slap?”
Her stomach rollercoastered as she tried to reconcile this volatile man with the one who’d kissed her into a blind stupor. “Just how much did you witness?”
“Enough to know you weren’t happy about him being h
ere. I wasn’t going to interfere, but you disappointed me, babe.”
She jerked out of his grasp. “Don’t call me that. And screw you.” She was more angry with herself than Joe. He was right. She should’ve defended herself better. She practiced martial arts, for chrissake. But where Chaz was concerned it wasn’t that simple. A part of her, a desperate part, she thought with disgust, still clung to a dream. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk with Murphy.”
“He’s not here.”
“I gathered. Otherwise he would’ve been the one chasing off pretty boy.”
Sofie chafed. “I can take care of myself.” She could.
“What the hell’s that?”
She moved forward and squinted at the gooey mess on the porch steps. “Someone smashed in Lulu’s jack-o-lantern. Damn, I thought the kids in this area were better behaved.”
Joe plucked a penlight from his pocket, shined it at the door. The culprit had used pumpkin pulp to finger paint a message on the window. “Any chance this is pretty boy’s handiwork?”
Sofie blinked at the word ‘TRAMP’ and moistened her lips. So this is what Chaz meant by rough neighborhood. He must’ve approached the house before he knew she wasn’t home. She shook her head. “It would’ve meant getting his hands dirty.”
“Wishful thinking on my part,” Joe said. “Preferable to the alternative.”
Sofie shivered. “Lulu’s stalker?”
“Doesn’t make sense,” he muttered while gesturing to her to hand over her keys.
She turned the knob, pushed open the door. “Lock’s busted.”
He shot her an exasperated look and then stepped in ahead of her.
“Be careful,” she warned, even though he was being a jerk. “There’s stuff everywhere.”
“I’ll say.”
She shimmied past a stack of boxes, peeked around his shoulder and gaped at a gigantic teddy bear and an array of floral bouquets blocking the main entrance. Her stomach churned with dread. Outside destruction. Inside seduction.