by White, Pat
With her hands splayed against his skin, she pulled his shirt up and off, tossing it across the room. Her fingers trailed down, lower, and unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants. She coaxed him back against the featherbed. Her fingers reached lower, below his waistband, over his boxers.
And all he could do was lay there, arms spread across her bed, letting her do whatever she wanted. His conscience wouldn’t let him do anything else. Only a true bastard would take the lead in this situation.
Her warm, wet tongue kissed his neck over and over again, her hand sliding beneath the silk material of his boxers, touching him, bringing him to life.
“You’re so sexy,” she whispered into his ear.
He lost it and ripped her shirt clean off her body. She didn’t look surprised, or scared. She looked determined. And so was he. He was determined to get a taste of her sweet breasts, to sheath himself inside of her, deep, and for as long as possible.
She must have read it in his eyes, because she snapped off her bra, exposing the most amazing pair of breasts. He leaned forward, licking the tips like frosting off a cake. But he couldn’t get enough of them, couldn’t get good access, so he flipped her over, pinning her beneath him, licking her and enjoying her squeaks and moans.
He kicked off his jeans and straddled her, sucking on her breast, grunting as he pushed her sweatpants down and over her hips. Her mound of femininity grew warm and hot at the touch of his fingers.
“Oh God, Jason.”
He was anything but a god. He was the devil masquerading as someone who cared, the devil who was about to screw her brains out.
She slid off his boxers, and with a squeak she pushed him away from her breasts.
“Damn, I was hurting you?” he rasped.
“Kiss me on the lips,” she pleaded.
The most intimate place to kiss a woman. She demanded a face-to-face, emotional connection she just claimed she didn’t want. He was a goner.
“You sure?” he asked.
With a nod she pulled him close, the gentle connection of their lips spiking his blood pressure. Warmth, innocence and goodness seeped through her mouth into his soul, shaming him for stealing such a treasure from this girl and using her like this.
But she was using him, right?
Don’t bullshit yourself, McBain. He had to be honest with himself even if he couldn’t be honest with the rest of the world.
Her tongue touched and flirted with his, and he knew any control he’d been holding on to had dissolved into a puddle of need.
Suddenly she broke the kiss. “Wait,” she said, barely breathing.
Hell, he was crushing her. He pushed away and she grabbed hold of him.
“Don’t even move,” she ordered.
How could he, with her hand squeezing him like that?
Hard and throbbing, he ached to release his soul into her, leaving a part of himself, claiming her in a way no other man could.
Because she was unbelievably hot and turned on and only Jason could do this for her. She’d said so herself.
Don’t stop now. Not when I finally feel something.
He understood. She’d been accused of being frigid, and somehow he was the one chosen to break the spell.
She grabbed something from the nightstand, a condom. Shame curled his gut. He should have been prepared. Instead, he’d nearly had unsafe sex. Hell, like having sex with this woman could be safe in any way?
Regardless, he’d been caught with his guard down, almost did the unthinkable by having sex without protection. How could this have happened?
Simple. He couldn’t think straight with her body so close to his, naked and wanting.
“Wait,” he said, touching her hand as she slid the protection in place. “You’re sure?”
She smiled, flipped him onto his back and arched against him. In that one swift motion he was inside of her, not because he put himself there, but because she consumed him with her body, her breasts taunting him, her legs squeezing and pinning him right where she needed him.
“What…are you,” she breathed, pushing forward, slowly, “afraid of?”
Afraid? Him?
“You want this?” he asked. He thrust once, twice.
She moaned and leaned forward enough for him to grab a nipple between his teeth. He pinched down, she moaned, and shame coursed through him. He knew no other way of screwing a woman: hard, fast and frenzied.
Screw her? More like hurt her because that’s what he was good at.
Lick, bite, suck. Thrust forward. Faster.
“You want it, don’t you? You want it hard and fast.”
He pushed and she gasped, shifting her hips and sitting up slightly. He lost contact with her breast.
“Lean forward,” he ordered.
Her eyes widened. Excitement? Fear? A little of both, he decided.
“I need to taste you while I screw you,” he said.
He pushed and she arched, shoving her other breast within reach of his mouth. And he took it fully, nipping at the nipple, then tickling it with his tongue.
Once, twice, three times. She wanted it, so he’d screw her. That’s what he was good at. Screwing people. Hurting people.
The guttural moan from her throat made him even harder. He needed to come inside of her, break her down to her core.
“Do it!” she cried.
He grunted, thrust forward and squeezed her hips with his hands.
The world exploded like an incendiary device powerful enough to destroy a small country. His body shuddered and lights flashed behind his eyelids. He’d shut his eyes, not wanting to see who he was screwing: the innocent, sweet girl.
You bastard.
No, she wasn’t that innocent. She was dealing.
And this the best screw of his life.
She cried out and collapsed against his shoulder, her hot breath burning his skin.
Shame ate away at his stomach lining, shame for using her and prostituting himself—shame for liking it way too much.
A few seconds passed. Now what? He’d have to get the hell out of here because he couldn’t stand to see the afterglow on her face.
“Ya’ know,” she paused, “that wasn’t all that bad.”
He tried to talk, but couldn’t at first. He cleared his throat. “Not bad?”
She propped herself up on her elbow and grinned. Not a sweet-girl grin, a wicked grin.
“It could be better,” she teased.
“Ouch, you just leveled my ego.”
She smiled. “You know what Cosmo says to the boys?”
He hated thinking about the boys, the organization, and his assignment. He wanted to just be here, in her bed, because she wanted him here and not because he was on assignment.
“What does Cosmo say?” He brushed a strand of blond hair off her cheek.
“He says the difference between a pro and an amateur is that the pro does it over and over until he achieves perfection.”
Damn, if she wasn’t pretty near perfect with her mischievous green eyes and flushed cheeks.
“Do you consider yourself a professional?” she asked.
“I know I’m a professional.” A professional user.
“Good.” She flashed that wicked smile. “Let’s do it again.”
* * *
Sandy jumped out of bed, stretched her arms and sighed. It was a good day. No, a fantastic day. The bedroom sheers glowed with the shine of daylight. She ripped them open and glanced up at the blue sky. Heavenly, simply heavenly.
But then, life was heavenly. The spell had finally been broken and—
She whipped around. The bed was empty. A pang of regret burned in her tummy.
“It’s okay,” she comforted herself. She’d wanted last night to be one night of incredible, passionate lovemaking with an amazingly, sexy man. She’d wanted to prove that she was okay. That she was all woman.
“It was amazing.” She grinned and snatched an oversized T-shirt from her futon chair. Amazing or not, she sho
uld find the man who’d given her this power and properly thank him. He was probably in the living room reading the newspaper.
She went into the master bathroom to wash her face.
“Wow,” she said, placing her hands on her cheeks. She looked ... radiant. With a giggle and a shrug, she splashed water on her cheeks, then squirted foam cleanser on her hands. Madame Bovary weaved between her legs.
“Well, hello, you.”
Even the wicked cat looked happy. Happy. Yes, that’s what this felt like; yet even more than happy, she felt whole. Not because of Jason, The Stripper, but because she’d finally unleashed her sexual self and it felt incredible. She wasn’t broken anymore. She was a whole female, attractive, seductive and able to have an orgasm—a wonderful, glorious orgasm.
Rinsing her face with cold water, images of last night floated across her thoughts. Gawd, they’d had sex three times. By the third time she had multiple orgasms thanks to Jason’s magic hands. Cripes, she didn’t know a man could make her feel that way, over and over again.
She straightened. This wasn’t about Jason. No, it could have been any man, any man better in bed than Cody Monroe. It could have been Decker Smitts, couldn’t it?
Sure, why not? Any man had the potential of being a good lover if he listened, and Jason was an expert listener. He’d asked her what felt good, what felt better, and when she could no longer speak he knew he’d hit the mark. He listened to her and learned what turned her on. If he was trainable, other men had to be, right?
And then she did the same for Jason, who answered her questions with moans of pleasure. She, too, had listened and learned last night. She knew what turned a man on, and she’d take that knowledge into her next relationship, possibly with a prospective husband.
It was time, time to open up to the possibility of a future with a man. For now, she’d enjoy her time with Jason, learn more sexual secrets and enjoy her newfound power. She was a sex goddess!
She opened the vanity drawer and pulled out an eyelash curler and mascara. She wondered if it had an expiration date. Not seeing one, she applied a light coat of lash-darkening makeup, and brightened her cheeks with blush.
Beautiful, and all female.
Glancing down at Madame Bovary, she said, “Let’s find The Stripper.” A part of her thrilled at calling him that, probably because she hoped he’d give her a private show.
She ambled down the hallway. “Jason?” she said into an empty living room. She opened the door to her apartment. Why, she didn’t know. It’s not like he’d be sitting out in the hall waiting for her to let him in. He’d already been in. Way in.
“Huh. Love ‘em and leave ‘em,” she muttered.
Well, this is what she’d asked for: hot sex, no strings. She was okay with that, she really was. Yet she wished he would have at least said good-bye. Funny that he wasn’t more sensitive to an issue like saying good-bye, considering his father’s abandonment.
She put the kettle on and picked out green tea. What an absolutely glorious day. She’d take a walk, maybe put Madame Bovary in the cat stroller and bring her along.
Glancing at the sink, she noticed clean dishes in the drying rack. At least he was a polite one-night stand.
She brewed tea in a purple pansy teacup she used for special occasions. “What’s it like outside, Madame?” She padded toward the balcony and slid open the glass door. Stepping outside, she tipped her face to the sunshine and closed her eyes
A man cleared his throat. She spun around and spotted Jason in the corner of the balcony, holding a coffee cup. She thrilled at the sight of him in his hip hugging jeans and tight T-shirt. Good thing they swung by his hotel to get some clothes, otherwise he’d be walking around naked all weekend.
There could be worse things.
She smiled. “Whatcha’ doing in the corner?”
“Thinking.”
“Okay.” She chuckled.
She’d done a lot of that this morning, a lot of chuckling and smiling. It felt good.
“It’s a gorgeous day.” She turned her face to the sun.
“Yep.”
“You sleep okay?”
“Nope.”
She eyed him. “I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He winked.
A throbbing started between her legs. Good grief.
“I have a hard time sleeping, period,” he said.
“They say that’s caused by a guilty conscience.” She leaned against the balcony railing and studied him, trying to decide why he looked different than the man she brought home last night. He seemed almost deflated, even scared, with his knees pulled up to his chest and arms crossed over them. A confident, proud man would be standing, leaning against the balcony, soaking in the sunshine. A confident, proud man would pull her against his chest and lay a big, wet kiss on her lips. He wouldn’t be cowering in the corner.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like I disgust you.”
“You’re reading me all wrong, Stripper.”
He jumped to his feet. “Don’t call me that.”
“Sorry, hey, I’m kidding. Actually, I was hoping you’d give me a private show tonight.”
“Not funny.”
“It wasn’t meant to be funny.”
He reached for the door.
“Jason, stop.”
He did. She was shocked.
“Look, this doesn’t have to be awkward,” she said. “I had fun last night. You did, too, right?”
He turned to her. “Fun? That’s what you call it?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong with the word fun?”
He took two steps and pinned her against the balcony. “After what I did to you last night?”
“It was mind-boggling, explosive, perfect.”
He stepped back. “Perfect? Good God, I practically forced myself on you.”
“Oh, get over yourself.” She pushed past him and went inside. She sensed him following her at a distance.
“I don’t know where you were last night, but I was in my bed, having blazing-hot sex with a gorgeous man.” She opened a cabinet and poured granola into a bowl.
“Oh, I get it. You’re into S and M.”
“Knock it off. You weren’t that rough. We were on fire, sure, but there was nothing perverted about it.”
“Okay, whatever.” He shook his head and went into the living room.
She followed but kept her distance. “Look, Jason, everything’s okay. Don’t mess this up for me.”
“Like I haven’t already messed you up?” He swung his arms in frustration and knocked over a table lamp.
Madame Bovary, not liking violence unless she was the instigator, jumped from her kitty bed and raced across the bookshelves. Three pictures frames topped over along with a small statue of an Indian princess and Sandy’s porcelain cat collection.
“Stop!” Sandy cried, in hot pursuit of the frantic feline. “You spooked her,” she accused Jason. The Madame continued racing like a greyhound at the track. “Shush, kitty. It’s okay.”
But the Madame knew it wasn’t okay. Jason’s negative energy and sudden motion set off the cat into the low end of her bipolar scale. It was going to take a good ten minutes to calm her down.
“Shush, kitty, kitty. Shush,” Sandy implored with her arms out. “You try,” she ordered Jason.
“Get over here, damn it!” he commanded.
Sandy planted her hands on her hips and glared. The cat not only ignored him, but picked up speed, hitting the on button on the stereo. Great, now the three of them were in a mass of motion with Beethoven’s Fifth blaring in the background.
“Get over here!” he shouted over the music.
“It’s okay.” Sandy tried to soothe Madame Bovary, not scare her hairless.
“I said come here!”
“Be nice!” she shouted at him.
“Screw nice!”
“Knock it off!”
Madame scamper
ed, clawed and knocked over books, another plant and a picture of Sandy with her dad and brothers.
“Damn it!” she cried. “I said stop!”
Her condo door burst open with a crash and her big brother Curt stumbled through, followed by Decker Smitts. Curt’s eyes blazed fire as he glanced at the mess, then at Sandy.
Then he charged Jason.
Chapter Fourteen
“Curt, no!” Sandy cried.
It was bad enough to be ashamed by his behavior last night but now Jason had to fight off Sandy’s big brother and the wanna-be boyfriend.
Big brother charged, and J’s instincts kicked in. With an evasive move, J got a hold of Curt’s wrist, twisted and applied a headlock that rendered the man helpless. Sandy punched off the music and stepped in front of her brother.
“This is not what you think,” she said to Curt then to the wanna-be boyfriend, who looked poised to defend her honor. “The cat went crazy and trashed the place,” she explained.
“Let me go, you son of a bitch,” Curt hissed.
Sandy got in her brother’s face. “You promise not to attack The Stripper again?”
J bit down hard at the use of his stage name. When was the woman going to stop seeing him that way?
“Fine,” Curt agreed.
J let go and—
Curt swung around and threw a punch. J let this one hit its mark—his gut. He fell to his knees. Hell, he might as well let the guy get some satisfaction out of defending his little sister. Besides, J deserved the sucker-punch after last night.
“Stop!” Sandy grabbed her brother’s arm before he could throw another punch. “The cat went nuts, okay? You know how she is,” she said to Curt, then shot Decker a pleading look.
Crap, she didn’t need that jerk’s help.
“The cat’s insane. I’m telling you, she went crazy. Curt, you’ve seen her dark side.”
Curt glared at Jason who leaned against the wall, sucking air between his teeth.
“But this guy,” Curt started, “we heard him yelling at you.”
“He was yelling at the cat.”
Curt eyed Sandy. “But it’s after lunch and you’re still in your robe.”