Then finally, finally, they were inside the room, lit by faint, blue-tinged light. From the moon? Streetlights? Who cared? As long as she could see him once she got him naked, she wasn’t going to complain.
Her purse hit the ground before the door swung closed behind them.
She pushed the jacket off his shoulders, and he indulged her, letting go of her with his one arm so she could free him from his right sleeve, before doing the same with his left. The leather made a muted thwap against the carpet, and suddenly she could feel him, really feel him, through the thin material of his T-shirt.
She explored the ridges of his shoulders, fascinated by the shifting and bunching of warm muscle beneath her palms. He walked them over to the bed, but instead of dropping her on it, he surprised her by crawling onto it with one knee, then the other, before his palms stroked down the backs of her thighs, wordlessly urging her to unlock her ankles from around his waist. And just like that, they were both kneeling on the bed without so much as breaking their kiss, and he was tugging her sweater up her torso as her fingers explored his pecs.
“Lift your arms.” The order was muffled against her mouth, but she obeyed without question, waiting until the last possible second before breaking the kiss so he could get her top over her head.
He stared down at her, and she followed his hungry gaze to her breasts, watching as he traced one big finger along the lacy edge of her red bra, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. Her nipples puckered, straining against the cups. Not enough contact. Not enough pressure.
“So fucking pretty,” he breathed, and it sounded like the dirtiest of desires and the sweetest of compliments all at the same time. Then he lowered his head, kissing the swell of her left breast, sucking her nipple into his mouth, and between the scalding heat of his tongue and the delicious scrape of the lace against her sensitized skin, Chelsea was halfway to wherever he wanted to take her. He groaned, and the sound ricocheted along her nerve endings, drawing her deeper into his sexual spell as he dragged his mouth to feast on her other breast.
She buried her fingers in his hair, holding him hostage to her desire.
When he finally lifted his head, breathing hard, staring down at her like he had big plans, Chelsea was desperate for whatever he had in mind. But first, she needed to see him. All of him.
“I want to take your shirt off, now.”
His eyes darkened and he nodded. “I think you should definitely follow your instincts and do that.”
She reached out, set her palms against his chest, liking the sharp intake of his breath as she made contact. She could feel his heartbeat, and she took a moment to enjoy the intimacy of that before running her hands down his chest, following their path with her eyes. His T-shirt was soft against her fingers. “You were supposed to be wearing a suit,” she mused.
“Suits are overrated,” he countered, his voice gruff.
She smiled at the sentiment, agreeing completely as her fingers traced the ridges of his abs, moving inexorably down until they reached the end of the line, snagging on the waistband of his jeans. “I was supposed to be drunk.”
He stiffened at that. “Are you drunk?”
Chelsea shook her head. Raised her face so she could meet his eyes. “I’ve only had the whiskey. Are you drunk?”
“Not even close.”
Her fingers curled against his belt, her knuckles brushing the soft skin near his hip bones. “You promise you’re not going to change your mind?”
He lifted a hand, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Not a chance in hell of that happening, Red.”
“You almost did in the elevator.”
The quirk of his mouth held an edge of self-deprecation. “That wasn’t me changing my mind. That was me listening to my conscience and trying to be a good boy.”
That word again. She was in bed with a hot, handsome stranger who had honest-to-goodness abs, and still it haunted her. “I’m sick of being good.”
He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Well now, you’ve just said the magic words.”
And then, instead of letting her unwrap him, he just reached back over his shoulder and pulled his T-shirt off in one fluid movement that left him bared to her gaze.
Yum.
He was all pecs and abs and low-slung jeans, and his right arm was dark with a full sleeve of tattoos that were so dangerously perfect that her breath came faster. He looked like a model. Hell, maybe he was. That was the beauty of secret, sexy liaisons. They could be whatever turned you on most.
And to think she’d been worried this night might not live up to her expectations.
He reached for her, pulling her close, crushing her breasts against his hard chest, and Chelsea was lost.
“Put your arms around my neck.”
She did, and he picked her up again with one arm, and then leaned forward, placing his other hand on the mattress, lowering her until she was on her back, head on the pillows, with him over the top of her. Her body was crying for the heat of him, the weight of him, but he pulled back.
The disappointment was short-lived as he lifted her leg toward the ceiling and slowly dragged the zipper of her boot from knee to ankle before tugging it off and resting her calf against his shoulder. He repeated the same sensual steps, removing her other boot, and then the incredible man kneeling between her legs reached forward with one hand and popped the button on her jeans with a flick of his thumb and made short work of the final zipper in his way.
Chelsea thought she might die of anticipation.
She was sure of it when he hooked his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and the elastic of her panties and gave them a tug.
Yep. She was going to die and miss the most exciting night of her life.
She focused all her efforts on remembering to breathe as he peeled the denim and lace over her hips and down her thighs before dragging them straight up and off, and this time, when her calves came to rest against his shoulders, there was nothing but the heat of skin against skin as he stared down at her body.
Thanks to the angle of the window, one side of his face was cast in shadows, making him look dangerous and predatory. She shivered as goose bumps flooded her skin.
“Pass me one of those pillows.”
Chelsea did what she was told. She’d do anything, she decided, if he would just ease the ache that was spiralling inside her. But instead of relief, he made it worse by grabbing her thigh and lifting it up so he could wedge the pillow under her hips.
Frustrated, Chelsea couldn’t take it anymore. “Look, I don’t want to sound ungrateful or like I’m second guessing your methods, but can you just come here and kiss me already?”
The wicked grin that swept across his face stole her breath. “That’s the plan.” But instead of leaning forward and pressing his mouth to hers, he leaned down, sending her heels gliding down the muscled length of his back as he settled himself between her legs. The stubble of his cheek scraped her inner thigh, and the sudden realization of what was about to happen made the air whoosh from her lungs.
“Better hold on tight, Red. I’m about to blow the house down.”
Chapter Four
She tensed up as Brett lowered his head.
“No, it’s fine! You don’t have to—oh. Oh, God!”
He looked up from between her legs to inspect the result of his handiwork. She’d fallen back against the pillows at the first swipe of his tongue, and he allowed himself a self-satisfied smile. He hadn’t even gotten to the advanced moves yet. “I know I don’t have to,” he told her, watching as her eyelids fluttered open. “I want to.”
To prove it, he lowered his mouth again, teasing her with intimate, open-mouthed kisses until she stopped bracing for them, and relaxed into the pleasure he was trying to give her.
Then, just when she’d settled into the rhythm, he licked up the center of her, and the keening sound she made galvanized him.
“Nobody’s ever… I’ve never…”
Something smug and possessive
and pure caveman spread through his chest at the implication, and he redoubled his efforts to blow her mind.
She was incredible—soft and sweet and so goddamn responsive he had to reach down and adjust himself to keep from breaking the zipper of his jeans.
Fuck, he needed this. To not think about hockey. To lose himself in the lust. And there was something about this woman that was…different. He couldn’t quite figure out why, but it was like one-night-of-fucking with her didn’t have the jaded cynicism that one-night-of-fucking usually inspired. And it was awesome.
He zeroed in on her clit, focusing his efforts, vindicated when she buried her fingers in his hair, holding him in place, allowing her soft pants of desire to guide him as he alternated between licking and sucking.
She was close. The restless rocking of her hips grew more purposeful, and he followed her lead, getting her all worked up for the finale.
He shifted to the side, never letting up with his mouth as he ran his knuckles up her inner thigh. She was so wet for him that he groaned as he slid his finger inside her. His cock jumped, frantic for the same treatment. Brett tried to remember the last time he was so desperate to be inside a woman, but she cried out as his finger brushed her G-spot, and his brain stuttered at the sound.
He withdrew his finger completely, adding a second, and increased the pace of his hand, even as he slowed his tongue. Her fingers flexed against his scalp, and then she was coming, hips jerking with pleasure.
“Jesus,” he breathed, kissing his way slowly up her stomach.
She laughed, a breathless chuckle that made him feel like a king. “I think that’s my line.”
This woman. Everything about her was everything he needed tonight. He leaned in to capture her lips, but something caught his eye, and he dropped his gaze to her spectacular boobs, plumped enticingly by that red-lace bra.
He quirked an eyebrow at her, and she glanced down. A condom package was melded to the curve of her breast.
She blushed as she peeled it off her skin and held it up. “Safety first?”
The woman had no game. And he’d never been harder for anyone in his whole life.
Brett scrambled up off the bed, his body revving up when her eyes widened as he undid his belt, when her breath hitched as he unbuttoned his jeans, when she bit her lip as he tugged down his zipper.
He couldn’t shove his pants down his thighs fast enough. Every cell in his body was desperate for her. He was so damn hard that his cock slapped against his abs when it cleared the band of his underwear, and he hissed out a breath at the pleasurable sensation.
He was finally, blessedly, naked, but when he reached for the condom packet, she pulled her hand back, just out of reach.
“Can I?” she asked, tucking a lock of brown hair behind her ear with a hint of nerves that was goddamn adorable, and so goddamn sexy, that he wished he’d thought to turn on the lights so he could see every nuance of the expression on her gorgeous face.
Could she put her hands all over the nine inches of him that was so ready to be inside of her that he had a moment of misgiving about letting her do exactly that, in case he embarrassed himself?
“Oh fuck, yeah.”
He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but there was only one answer to a question like that, and the provocative curve of her lips said she didn’t mind his foul mouth.
Then she crawled over to the edge of the bed, positioning herself on her knees in front of him, and he froze, entranced by the sight of her, wearing only the red-lace bra that had driven him wild before he’d removed a single piece of her clothing, as she opened the condom with such precision and focus.
Then she turned that concentration on him, and his dick jumped in anticipation as she lifted her hand.
A thousand swear words ran through his head at the first tentative brush of her fingers, or maybe it was the same curse a thousand times. But either way, his thighs shook as she wrapped her hand around him with a tentativeness that made him crazy. He groaned outright when she dragged her fist up his length, and it took all the willpower in his arsenal—missing a wide-open net in overtime, taking a puck to the face, the stench of ripe hockey gloves—not to explode when she brushed her thumb over the pre-come glistening on the tip of his cock.
His world had narrowed to the throbbing pulse between his legs, and he breathed through the exquisite torture as she rolled the condom to the base of his shaft.
His lips were on hers the split-second after she finished her task, one hand buried in her hair, the other executing a one-handed bra removal that was so damn smooth, he would have spared a moment to be impressed with himself if his brain could manage a single thought beyond Must. Fuck. Now.
Then he was pushing her back onto the bed, and his forearm was braced beside her shoulder and her breasts were pressing into his chest and their bodies were lined up for the kind of face-off that they were both going to win.
Brett reached between them, positioning himself at her entrance so he could tease her until she begged him to put them both out of such perfect misery. But when she pressed a soft, sweet kiss against the hollow of his throat, his hips jerked, and he was inside her and powerless to do anything but enjoy the slow, slick ride.
She made a sound he could only describe as a purr, and he was lost. Claiming her mouth, he let the spark between them grow into the inferno he craved, rocking his hips and taking everything she was willing to give him. The bite of her nails against his back let him know she was right there with him, so he let himself speed up a little. And when she nipped his bottom lip and shifted restlessly under his big body, he hoped to hell that meant she was as close as he was, because he only had six strokes, seven tops, before he wasn’t going to be able to stave off the fire set to consume him.
It only took her three, and the sound of her cry, muffled against his mouth, combined with the way her body clenched around him, drawing him even closer, was more than he could take. He came so fucking hard, he wasn’t entirely sure if the waves of sensation radiating through his body were made of pleasure or pain, or some intoxicating hybrid. All Brett knew was that she was holding him close, fingers stroking his hair, and in his entire life, he’d never felt so sure he was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.
…
She needed to go.
Tonight was supposed to be about super hot sex. One night of rebellion. And she’d tried to make it that, she really had.
But despite her experience with Dustin and a litany of stand-up comedians’ warnings about men and cuddling, she seemed to have found the exception to the rule. When she’d turned away to give him some space, he’d slung that big tattooed arm over her hips and tugged her back against his body until she could feel his heart beating against her back. She’d dozed, sated and happy, with his hand cupping her breast, and it had been the most perfect end to her most perfect night. He was truly a top-notch snuggler.
When she’d tried to extricate herself from the spoonage, he’d growled a sleepy protest, rolled her onto her back, and proceeded to kiss her with such slow, deep thoroughness that she thought she might spontaneously combust just from having his mouth on hers. Then he’d retrieved a condom from his wallet and rocked her entire world in slow motion in a leisurely bout of lovemaking that was so completely different from anything she’d ever experienced, she couldn’t help but wonder what the next time might be like.
She tried to blame the thought on idle curiosity brought on by relaxation and sex hormones, but then another hour passed, and she was still there, and she realized that she was in big trouble.
Because now that the orgasms were over, this whole experience was turning into something else. Something sweet. Something that made her wonder what his name was. Made her want to tell him hers.
And that wasn’t part of the plan.
Chelsea slid to the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb him as she got to her feet. The hotel room wasn’t pitch black, but it was too dark for her to discern more than
the vague shape of him on the other side of the bed.
It was probably for the best. Chelsea felt around with her bare foot to locate her clothes. The sight of his muscled torso might lure her back for round three, and the more time she spent here, the more chance there was to mess up what had been a perfect night.
Well, an almost perfect night, she decided, tugging her sweater over her head. Getting dressed in the dark was a lot more awkward than she’d expected and was kind of putting a damper on the “leave quickly and quietly to preserve a sexy air of mystery” part of her plan. She was so nervous about waking him up that she’d pulled a pair of jeans to mid-thigh before she realized they were his. She exchanged them for her own, and in a fit of romanticism, she decided to leave the lacy red panties behind. Like a token of thanks? The lingerie equivalent of writing “Chelsea was here”? She wasn’t sure, but she just wanted him to remember her the next day, even for a moment. It felt…important somehow.
Then she gathered up her boots—she’d put those on in the hallway—and her bra, with every intention of leaving, but doubt made her pause. Panties were a dirty little love letter. And tonight hadn’t felt dirty at all. Chelsea grabbed her underwear and shoved it in her pocket, before tucking her bra underneath the pillow instead.
He’d probably think she was ridiculous, she decided, making her way toward the door.
A bra was…laundry.
Maybe she shouldn’t leave anything. She could just—
The sound of him shifting on the bed made her freeze, and she held her breath as she waited for him to ask her what the hell she was doing.
The words never came, though, and after an excruciatingly long minute ticked by on the digital alarm clock beside the bed, his breathing evened out again. Chelsea made a beeline for the door.
She pulled it open, used the hallway light to locate her purse on the floor, and then hurried toward the elevator with her boots and her purse clutched to her chest. She stared at herself in the mirrored confines of the elevator.
Taking a Shot Page 3