Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  She said, “Yeah. I know,” and started to unbutton his shirt, and when she’d done it, stepped into him, put a gentle hand behind his head, kissed his mouth, smiled into his eyes like the goddess of living things, and said, “I love you. It’d sound better to say it’s because you’re such a good man, giving my mate Jim a job and all, not to mention letting some mad sheila drive the Batmobile.” She dropped to her knees, then, took off his shoes and socks, and then undid his belt. “Of course, it could be your brilliant kitchens, or all those houses. Which you didn’t tell me about, because why would a fella tell a girl he’s trying to impress about his enormous fortune? You’re a drongo. That’s Aussie. Means idiot.” His pants came off, and she picked up his clothes, tossed them on the bed, pulled off her socks with a face that told him they were soaking wet and that she had blisters, and said, “Go get in the shower. Need a hand to do it? You safe?”

  “This is some kind of test, isn’t it?” he asked. “Seeing if I’ll accept all this . . . softness. And I love you, too. If I didn’t know it before, I sure knew it tonight. But I knew it before.”

  She seemed to consider that while she pulled the purple wrap sweater over her head. “Well, good. And on the other thing—I think it’s just that I’m dying for a shower, and it’d be too selfish to run in there by myself. Go on. I’m coming.” She was wriggling out of her stretch jeans, and he wanted to watch, but his stamina was gone. He headed into the bathroom, twisted the dial of his most intense showerhead all the way to hot, thought, I need one of those steam things. And a bench, set his crutches against the wall, hopped into the heat, and shuddered all over.

  A haze of blessed steam, and Willow stepping in with him, looking like a water nymph putting a delicate foot on a lily pad, then wincing as the water hit her toes and spoiling the illusion. “Oh, bloody hell,” she said, “that stings. And don’t you dare be sympathetic. You’re halfway to death yourself. The doctor said ‘gradual.’ That wasn’t gradual. Lean back against the wall before you fall over.”

  Willow, adjusting the showerheads, then putting shower gel on a washcloth and starting to rub him down. He closed his eyes and let the warmth start to ease the knotted muscles. She turned the heat up so it was as hot as he could stand, and he breathed in the steam, felt the rasp of nubby, wet cotton over his chest and down his abs, and thought, Thank you.

  “I love this stuff,” she said, washing him for real now, and taking a moment to kiss his shoulder. It felt great. “Smells like your dream man. Cocoa, pepper, and sandalwood.”

  “Good job,” he managed to say. “Chef.” His body was cooperating after all. It didn’t take much Willow to make it happen.

  “Not really. I read the label. I’m using it on myself, too, even though it says ‘Pour homme.’ Don’t tell.”

  “I’ve got some . . .” He was getting a little hazy. Pain, pleasure, and sheer relief. “Body oil in the bedside table. In . . . case.”

  “We’ll get out in a minute, then,” she said from her spot on her knees, where she was washing his thighs and calves, her hands tracing gently over the tender lines of his healing incisions. “And use it.”

  Willow, patting him down with a warm towel, then handing him his crutches and not commenting on the fact that he was managing absolutely zero weight bearing. Pulling back the bedding, and waiting until he rolled himself into it, then finding the oil in the table, pouring a few drops into her palm, and holding it to her nose. “Like walking through a spiced forest,” she said, before she got a leg over him, all the way down near his feet, and started rubbing and kneading her way up his calves.

  “That’s what . . .” he said, and closed his eyes. “What I thought when I came to Australia. That it smelled good all the time. Some kind of sweetness, like, ah . . .” She’d reached his thighs, had replenished the oil, and gone to work on the left one, where his quadriceps had knotted into ropes. It hurt so good. “Vanilla. Then I thought it was you. The way you always smell so delicious.”

  “You’re the one who smells that way now,” she said. “More like cinnamon, though. I could have to lick you all over, except that right now, I’d kill you. Turn over. I’m guessing your back’s even worse.”

  He did it. To tell the truth, he’d have done just about anything. And when she got her hands on the knotted muscles around his shoulder blades and set in to work? It hurt. It also felt like the angels were singing. She had strong hands, and she was willing to use them.

  She worked his muscles over like she had all night. Like she hadn’t had a shock, then had him walk away from her as if she didn’t matter, or as if he were still in love with somebody else. Like she hadn’t missed her lunch, been lost, been exhausted and scared and wet and cold, and hadn’t known if he’d care enough to come and get her. He wanted to tell her that he knew all of that, and also that he wasn’t in love with Nia anymore, but he couldn’t manage it. Once his muscles started to let go, they had nothing left to offer. And when she was sitting on his back, her hands stroking over his biceps and down his forearms, kissing his ear, then sticking her tongue inside it like the sweetest, dirtiest girl you could ever hope to have for your own, and whispering, “Turn over for me?”

  He did it. This time, she didn’t mess around. Right to the spot, and he had his head thrown back, was shifting under her mouth, her hands, had fallen all the way under her spell.

  After a minute, or possibly an hour, she asked him, “Do you want to watch me ride you?”

  He did. She kissed her way up his body, then murmured, “Watch this.” And he opened his eyes.

  Oh, yeah, she was turning around. He closed his eyes again, because he had to feel her impaling herself on him. And then opened them again, because he loved that view.

  You could never get a woman to show you that without some serious asking, as if she couldn’t believe you really wanted to see and hold that gorgeous ass, but Willow had done it. She rode him like his body was there to pleasure her, and she was happy to use it. Slow, sweet, and easy, rocking him like she needed this as much as he did. And when he grabbed her hips and started to move her, she started touching herself for real.

  This wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . . She was going up, and it wasn’t how it had to be. He needed to . . . show her.

  Shoving her off of him wasn’t easy. Rolling to one side, though, pushing her shoulders gently down, saying, “Get on your knees,” and watching her do it? That wasn’t easy, either. “Easy” didn’t begin to describe this feeling.

  It was awkward, putting most of his weight onto his right knee and his palms. It hurt. And it burned.

  Willow, breathing hard now. Willow, starting to moan. Starting to rock, one hand under her face, the other one helping herself out, and her hair spilling onto the white sheets. He got a hand under it, shoved it up so her neck was visible, and said, “I . . . need . . . this. This is mine. It’s mine.” And heard her gasp and start to spasm around him.

  He didn’t have to make her say it. They both knew it.

  He filled her up. He took her over. He rode her all the way home.

  He was too heavy on top of her, and she didn’t want him to ever get off. His lips were at the nape of her neck, and he was biting her there. Gently, but like he meant it.

  He said, his voice warm, deep, and possibly a little shaken, “This is where you make a joke and assert your independence. I’m waiting for it.”

  Her sigh came from somewhere down deep. “Don’t have the energy. If you’re going to be that kind of lover, mate, I . . .” She wasn’t sure where to go with that.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Ditto. And you have a beautiful body.” He rolled off her at last, but kept a hand on her bottom, rubbing over it. “This is one of my favorite parts, but it’s a tough contest. And you finally said the words. I’m just going to lie here and let that soak in.”

  She should roll over herself, but it was easier to say it when he couldn’t see her. “Do you want to know why I did?”

  A pause, then, “Yeah. I sure do.�
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  She didn’t want to say this from down here after all. She turned onto her side, put her hand on his chest, and said, “Because I realized, sometime before I started freezing to death, that Nia was wrong. You did let me be your hero. My aunt said something about people not changing, about being the same person they were at twenty, and I thought—No. He’s not. You told me about Claire, and about how much it hurt. You told me about your dad, and about how, both times, you felt you’d failed. And when you were lying under that rock with your leg broken, you wanted me to hold your hand.”

  He groaned, and she laughed and said, “No worries. It worked. And I don’t hate that you’re my hero, either, every single time. Even when you’re on crutches, my boofhead boyfriend is trying to shove you around, and the hero bit doesn’t quite work. I love that you tried.”

  “Except today.” She could tell the words had been pulled from him. “I walked away and left you.”

  “Yeah, mate.” She had her hand on his side. “You did. That hurt too much.”

  When he started to shake, she wasn’t prepared for it. She grabbed his shoulder and asked, “What?”

  He tried to answer, she thought, but he couldn’t. His body was shaking too hard. All she could do was wrap her arms around him, so she did. It hurt her, like the pain was going straight from his body into hers, but she knew it hurt him more. He had a forearm over his face. Hiding. She let him keep it there, and she held him and let him shake as long as he needed to. As long as it took.

  Finally, he was still. Spent. And, maybe, at peace. He lowered his arm from his face at last and said, his voice quiet, choked, “I don’t know how I got you. But please stay.”

  She thought, How can I? A conversation for another day. Instead, she said, “You know—I’m not the best. I’m not the most. Nia had the sharpest brain you’d ever seen, she’s a lawyer, and she’s a stunner. That’s not me. I have a temper, I’m impulsive, and I can get obsessed and forget to take care of life things. I’ll also never be rich, my maths skills are rubbish, and I don’t always want to talk things over. And that’s just off the top of my head.”

  He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close, so her head was on his shoulder. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, and her body jerked back despite herself. “Maybe that’s the point. Maybe neither one of us has to be the best, or the most. I’ve figured that was the road my whole life, but maybe it isn’t what matters after all, not for this. Because one thing’s for damn sure. You’re my everything.”

  Brett’s life was like being a ping-pong ball, Willow thought. How could he stand to live from place to place like this, with no center? In the Army or the Diplomatic Corps, you moved, but you always had a home. He left clothes and toiletries in every house, he’d explained to her, so he didn’t always even travel with a suitcase, but the whole thing just seemed . . . odd.

  Except, perhaps, that he was the center. “Wherever you go,” her aunt Fiona liked to say, “there you are.” It was certainly true of Brett. However different the company, he was exactly the same bloke. Polite, interested, listening more than he talked. And all his attention right there.

  Last night, they’d been trying to roll tortilla-like bread in messy fillings using only their right hands, laughing at how rubbish they were at it, in the unpretentious surroundings of the Abyssinian Kitchen. Willow’s taste buds had nearly exploded at the flavors of Ethiopian food, the chiles and spices, the simmered legumes and fermented-wheat flatbread. Brett hadn’t even minded when she’d spent a rapturous twenty minutes chatting with the owner, because how could she pass up a chance like that?

  This afternoon, thanks to another private jet—and, yes, Brett did own a fractional share in a company that provided a fleet of them, and also yes, he’d told her it was “more practical, because I don’t waste as much time in airports”—she was driving another Batmobile, a little more confidently this time, beside a river, and smelling something much less pleasant. Sweet and sickly, like an animal had died under your house, and you’d tried to counteract it with one of those too-strong plug-in air fresheners. The smell, Brett had informed her, of a pulp mill.

  “You get used to it,” he said when she commented. “It’s worse today because there’s an inversion, where the air gets stuck over the valley. The smell’s worse in summer. It’s hot and dry, too. It looks much better in winter.”

  It didn’t look all that fab to Willow even with the snow covering the hills, but then, she didn’t like low spots much. They made her feel trapped.

  Brett hadn’t said anything since that, though. Surely that was odd, when you were in a fella’s hometown, about to meet his family. She hesitated, then went ahead and asked. “Are you being quiet because it’s your birthday, and you’re one more year older than me? Or because you’re worried about me meeting your mum? Or . . . what?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Although old.” She could tell that had made him smile, though she didn’t dare look. The road had been scattered with bits of gravel, but it was still unnervingly slippery, and she kept getting an image of crashing through the guardrail and bang into a river that would be infinitely colder than the one in Brisbane, although probably containing fewer bull sharks.

  Oh. Wait. She asked, “Was it this river, or someplace else, that your dad died?” Yes, she’d gone ahead and asked. How else would she know?

  “This one,” he said. “A little farther down. It was a long time ago.”

  Which didn’t mean that it wasn’t still a shock to see it, every time he came back. She’d bet he didn’t look when he drove by, and that he held his breath a little even going over a bridge. No point talking about it, though, since she got it. She followed his directions instead, and pulled up outside a medium-small dark-blue ranch-style house on a street of entirely similar houses.

  While he got down from the car with the aid of his cane, she was pulling their bags from the back. He was so clearly biting his tongue to keep from saying, “Don’t do that. I’ll get them,” because he absolutely couldn’t, that she had to laugh inside. “Let me guess,” she said. “You told your mum she could live anywhere, and how about some gorgeous spot with a beach or a ski field or”—she waved a hand—“a palace, maybe. Monaco. London. Possibly Disneyland. And she said, ‘Why would I want to move away from my mates?’ And then you said, ‘Let me build you a better house here, then, up on the hill, that has everything you want,’ and she said the same thing. And it bothers you every time.”

  He said, “Could be,” and that was all, because the door of the house had banged closed, and a woman was pulling on a down parka not too different from Willow’s and heading down the steps, with a big white dog behind her. Her hair was cut short and was grayer than Aunt Fiona’s, and she had more wrinkles, but the strong body wasn’t so different, and neither was the smile.

  “Hey, baby,” she called. “Happy birthday.” The dog was wagging its furry tail and uttering a few joyful barks, and as the two of them got closer, his mum’s arms went out like it was an automatic reflex.

  Willow could see the exact moment she saw the cane. Her arms went down again, and she asked, “What did you do to yourself? Can I hug?”

  “You can hug.” For once, his face wasn’t wearing that mask, and Willow got a glimpse of the little boy he’d been. Serious and determined, surely, working hard at mastering whatever was in front of him, but she’d bet he’d been so sweet. “Just don’t knock me off my feet, I guess. Broke my leg, is what I did, but it was almost four weeks ago, it’s fastened together again, and I’m healing more every day. I didn’t tell you because you’d have worried, and there was nothing to worry about. This is Willow. My mom, Joan. The dog’s named King, and he’s friendly.” Since he was thumping the animal in question right now, and Willow was patting its flank, that was obvious.

  “I’ll hug her instead, then, until you’re someplace less slippery,” his mother decided, and did it. It was a pretty good cuddle. “And of course I’d worry some,” she told Brett onc
e she’d let go. “So what? Would you want a mom who thinks, ‘Oh, well, I’ve got two more where that kid came from’? Bet not. But come on inside and tell me about it, and everything else you haven’t said on the phone, because I’d just worry, and who wants that from their mother? And I’ll show you the new washer and dryer you bought me, not that I needed anything that fancy, and besides, it was only the washer that conked out.”

  She grabbed one of the suitcases—Willow’s. Brett said, “Mom. Don’t,” and she said, “What? I’m not going to get any stronger by not picking things up,” and headed towards the house. Fast, even in the snow, and even though she had to be over seventy.

  “It has wheels,” Brett called out, and she flapped a hand back at him in a way that made Willow laugh.

  Not as much of an ordeal as she’d feared, then.

  Willow wasn’t allowed to help with dinner, and she didn’t insist. People could get odd around chefs, the same way they did around cops, although possibly with less worry about being arrested. She told Brett, during a quiet minute while they unpacked before dinner, “I owe you one. Your mum’s a much easier prospect than my uncle Colin. Not to mention Jace and Rafe.”

  Brett smiled. “True, but you still have my sister and brother-in-law to go.”

  “Pity I don’t get to meet both your sisters.” She sank down on the bed and fondled King’s ears. He’d come in with them. Clearly, he adored Brett, since Willow was the one patting him, and Brett was the one he was looking at. She thought again about that everywhere-and-nowhere-is-home lifestyle, and how you wouldn’t be able to have a dog. Or mates to watch the footy with, or workout partners, or whatever Brett actually did during his relaxed downtime. When he scheduled that. Could lying on a bed with her, watching a movie, have been a big indulgence for him? She was thinking the answer could be ‘yes.’ Which just showed you how much he needed to do more of that.