Hit Hard

by Amy J. Fetzer

  He opened the back passenger door. His eyes, which were as green as newly minted money, lit up with masculine appreciation as they swept over her.

  “Wow. And here I thought the woman was fictional,” he murmured.

  “Excuse me?” Her body wasn’t the only thing that had gone into sexual meltdown. Sexual images of she and Sloan Hawthorne writhed in her smoke-filled mind.

  She told herself the only reason she was taking the hand he’d extended was that the car was low, her skirt tight, and her heels high.

  Liar. Not only wasn’t she sure she could stand on her own, she was actually desperate for his touch. Not just on her hand, but all the other tingling places on her body.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. Sheepishly rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I tend to talk to myself when I’m bewitched.”

  “I see.” He wasn’t just drop-dead gorgeous. He was cute. It also helped to know that she wasn’t the only one who’d been momentarily mesmerized.

  The butterflies settled, allowing Roxi to pick up a bit of her own scattered senses. “Does that happen often?” she asked.

  “This is the first time.” His gaze swept over her—from the top of her head down to her Revved up and Red-y toenails, then back up to her face again. “That is one helluva dress.”

  “Thank you.” It was your basic black dinner dress. That is, if anything that was strapless and fit like a second skin could be called basic.

  “Did you wear it to bring me to my knees?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, then.” He flashed a grin that would’ve dropped a lesser woman to her knees. As it was, it had moisture pooling hotly between Roxi’s thighs. “You’ll be glad to know that it’s working like a charm.”

  Like so many of the fine old homes in Savannah’s historic district, the Inn had several steps originally designed to keep the dust and mud from the unpaved dirt streets outside the house.

  Sloan put a hand on her back as they started walking up the five stone steps, hip to hip. Although the gesture seemed as natural to him as breathing, Roxi’s own knees were feeling a bit wobbly as a doorman in a burgundy uniform with snazzy gold epaulets swept the door open for them.

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  It was difficult going all the way with a guy when you’re required to wear a tiara, but Michelle Nelson managed it. Barely.

  She just never thought it would occur in the middle of the night behind the pinsetters at Pins & Pints, Carbon Hill’s bowling alley and the only source of entertainment one could have standing up.

  Michelle shifted, her knees aching against the hard cold floor. The alley was closed, the lanes silent, but she was bumping up against ancient, oily machinery. The location hadn’t been her first choice for her first time with her first love.

  It didn’t seem to hold the right ambiance for Ryan Slater, either. “Let’s go back to my place,” he suggested in a husky tone that made her skin tingle.

  She glanced down at him, but the shadows made it difficult to read his expression. Michelle felt exposed as she straddled him, the weak overhead lights almost reaching her. Her evening dress from the J.C. Penney catalog bunched up against her thighs, the pink polyester rubbing her bare flushed skin.

  “No,” she whispered, her heart pounding in her ears. She pressed her hands against his shoulders, pulling at his T-shirt with desperate fingers. “I can’t wait that long.”

  It had to be now. She was leaving for Europe in the morning. Her bags were packed, she’d said goodbye to her friends, but there was this one last thing to do.

  It had taken her all summer to get Ryan Slater. She could have pursued another local guy in a lot less time, but she wanted Ryan and no one else would do. It had been that way ever since she could remember, at least twenty years. Unfortunately, all the prettier, bolder girls wanted him, too.

  No matter what she had done in the past, it wasn’t enough to compete for Ryan’s attention. He never seemed to have noticed her. Not even when she’d worn the tiara and the Miss Horseradish sash for the past year. And God knows those were hard to miss.

  He noticed her now. Had stared at her in awe. Or maybe he was staring at her tiara, which had a tendency to catch the light and blind people. That was probably it, but she couldn’t do anything about it now. The crown was pinned and shellacked to her updo.

  The glittery distraction would serve her well, Michelle decided as she glided the condom onto Ryan. She didn’t want him to feel her hands fumble and shake. Rolling the latex down was not as easy as her best friend, Vanessa, had led her to believe.

  The tip of Ryan’s cock nudged against Michelle’s flesh. The intimate contact made her feel hot. Tight. She grasped him at the base and lowered down.

  Michelle jerked, startled, when Ryan clamped his fingers against her bare hips. “We’ll take it slow,” he said roughly, almost as if he said it through clenched teeth.

  Her heart raced as he guided her. White heat crackled just under her skin when he gently filled her.

  She closed her eyes, her breath hitching, as she relished every sensation. Michelle had been expecting pain. Nothing major, but something unpleasant. Nothing like the delicious heavy ache that flooded her muscles.

  Michelle rocked against him, smiling as the pleasure heated her blood with a shower of sparks. She flexed her hips. Ooh… She swayed the other way. Mmm…

  “Michelle, slow down,” Ryan said hoarsely, his fingers tightening, sinking into her hips.

  She wanted his hands elsewhere. Everywhere. Cupping her breasts. No, squeezing them. Pinching her nipples until she begged him to take them into his mouth.

  She wanted him to thrust. Grind. Drive into her.

  Maybe that wasn’t possible in this position. But she didn’t want to change sides. Here she felt alive. Bold. Free. She was wild. Sexy. Powerful.

  She moved against Ryan, each move fierce and unchecked. Her world centered where they joined. He bucked against her, his moves shallow and hesitant.

  Michelle countered with a deep roll of her hips, but his cock didn’t stretch or fill her to the hilt. She frowned and wiggled.

  “Not like that,” Ryan said, his voice bouncing off the machines. He tensed. “Damn.”

  He lay motionless underneath her. No thrusting, no rocking. Nothing. This was it? Michelle thought. You have got to be kidding me!

  She felt his cock softening, drooping—

  Michelle froze. Oh, no…

  —as it slipped out.

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  George looked easily over her head to scrutinize the scene. “I say. It appears Lord Westfield is heading this way.”

  “Are you quite certain, Mr. Stanton?”

  “Yes, my lady. Westfield is staring directly at me as we speak.”

  Tension coiled in the pit of her stomach. Marcus had literally frozen in place when their eyes had first met, and the second glance had been even more disturbing. He was coming for her and she had no time to prepare. George looked down at her as she resumed fanning herself furiously.

  Damn Marcus for coming tonight! Her first social event after three years of mourning and he unerringly sought her out within hours of her reemergence, as if he’d been impatiently waiting these last years for exactly this moment. She was well aware that had not been the case at all. While she had been crepe-clad and sequestered in mourning, Marcus had been firmly establishing his scandalous reputation in many a lady’s bedroom.

  After the callous way he’d broken her heart, Elizabeth would have discounted him regardless of the circumstances but tonight especially. Enjoyment of the festivities was not her aim. She had a man she was waiting for, a man she had arranged covertly to meet. Tonight she would dedicate herself to the memory of her husband. S
he would find justice for Hawthorne and see it served.

  The crowd parted reluctantly before Marcus and then regrouped in his wake, the movements heralding his progress toward her. And then Westfield was there, directly before her. He smiled and her pulse raced. The temptation to retreat, to flee, was great, but the moment when she could reasonably have done so passed far too swiftly.

  Squaring her shoulders, Elizabeth took a deep breath. The glass in her hand began to tremble and she quickly swallowed the entirety of its contents to avoid spilling it on her dress. She passed the empty vessel to George without looking. Marcus caught her hand before she could retrieve it.

  Bowing low with a charming smile, his gaze never broke contact with hers. “Lady Hawthorne. Ravishing, as ever.” His voice was rich and warm, reminding her of crushed velvet. “Would it be folly to hope you still have a dance available, and that you would be willing to dance it with me?”

  Elizabeth’s mind scrambled, attempting to discover a way to refuse. His wickedly virile energy, potent even across the room, was overwhelming in close proximity.

  “I am not in attendance to dance, Lord Westfield. Ask any of the gentlemen around us.”

  “I’ve no wish to dance with them,” he said dryly. “So their thoughts on the matter are of no consequence to me.”

  She began to object when she perceived the challenge in his eyes. He smiled with devilish amusement, visibly daring her to proceed, and Elizabeth paused. She would not give him the satisfaction of thinking she was afraid to dance with him. “You may claim this next set, Lord Westfield, if you insist.”

  He bowed gracefully, his gaze approving. He offered his arm and led her toward the dance floor. As the musicians plied their instruments and music rose in joyous swell through the room, the beautiful strains of the minuet began.

  Marcus turned, held his hand out to her, and she placed her palm atop the back of his, grateful for the gloves that separated their skin. She appraised him for signs of change. The ballroom was ablaze with candles casting him in golden light and bringing to her attention the strength of his shoulder as it flexed.

  He had always been an intensely physical man, engaging in a variety of sports and activities. Impossibly it appeared he had grown stronger, more formidable. Marcus was power personified and she marveled at her past naiveté in believing she could tame him. Thank God, she was no longer so foolish.

  His one softness was his luxuriously rich brown hair. It shined like sable and was contained at the nape with a simple black ribbon. Even his emerald gaze was sharp, piercing with a fierce intelligence. He had a clever mind to which deceit was naught but a simple game, as she had learned at great cost to her heart and pride.

  She had half expected to find the signs of dissipation so common to indulgent lifestyles and yet his handsome face bore no such witness. Instead he wore the sun-kissed appearance of a man who spent much of his time outdoors. His nose was straight and aquiline over lips that were full and sensuous. At the moment those lips were turned up on one side in a half smile that was at once boyish and alluring. He remained perfectly gorgeous from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He was watching her studying him, fully aware that she could not help but admire his handsomeness. She lowered her eyes and stared resolutely at his jabot.

  The scent that clung to him enveloped her senses. It was a wonderful manly scent of sandalwood, citrus, and Marcus’s own unique essence. The flush of her skin seeped into her insides, clawing deliciously around her vitals, mingling with her apprehension.

  Reading her thoughts, he tilted his head toward her. His voice, when it came, was low and husky. “Elizabeth. It is a long-awaited pleasure to be in your company again.”

  “The pleasure, Lord Westfield, is entirely yours.”

  “You once called me Marcus.”

  “It would no longer be appropriate for me to address you so informally, my lord.”

  His mouth tilted into a sinful grin. “I give you leave to be inappropriate with me at any time you choose. In fact, I have always relished your moments of inappropriateness.”

  “You have had a number of willing women who suited you just as well.”

  “Never, my love. You have always been separate and apart from every other female.”

  Elizabeth had met her share of scoundrels and rogues but always their slick confidence and overtly intimate manners left her unmoved. Marcus was so skilled at seducing women he managed the appearance of utter sincerity. She’d once believed every declaration of adoration and devotion that had fallen from his lips. Even now the way he looked at her with such fierce longing seemed so genuine she almost believed it.

  He made her want to forget what kind of man he was—a heartless seducer. But her body would not let her forget. She felt feverish and faintly dizzy.

  BRAVA BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2006 by Amy J. Fetzer

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  ISBN 0-7582-2000-6