Rich Bitch: Everything's Going to the Dogs

by Nancy Warren

  He deepened the kiss, and she tasted the faint mint of his toothpaste, and the hot taste of aroused male.

  He smelled of the Ivory soap she’d seen in his bathroom, of the herb shampoo she’d uncapped and sniffed when her curiosity about him had surfaced.

  She heard him sigh, heard herself murmur some nonsense that wasn’t French or English, but a muddled mixture of the two.

  He licked at her, toyed with her mouth, seemed happy to make up for the hours of sleep they’d both missed by spending as many hours again standing here kissing her while dawn tracked its slow way toward full day.

  Vince seemed fascinated by every detail of her. Having kissed her mouth until a drumbeat of heavy desire built, thudding inside her with a steadily increasing tempo, he traced the muscles and bone of her back through the slippery silk of her nightgown. He cupped her hips in his big hands and explored her body through her clothing.

  She ran her hands down the front of his body, letting her fingers slip through the coarse hair on his chest. She toyed with the bumps of nipple, hit the smooth warmth and surprisingly silky slide of skin below his rib cage, then slipped her hand into the waistband of his boxers to find him hot and oh, so very . .. She searched her English vocabulary for the correct word. Enorme. Magnifique. Imposing. Yes, she liked that word. A good English word. Imposing.

  He felt so good when she curled her fingers around him. She squeezed lightly, and there was no give. He was like warm, smoothly polished granite.

  She played with him until he cursed softly, his feet shifting like a stallion about to race, and suddenly he was yanking her nightgown up and over her head.

  Panting. They were both panting.

  She felt the relative coolness of air against her skin like a wave as he pulled the gown over her head.

  The wisp of silk floated to the floor, and by the time it landed, Vince had shucked his boxers and tossed them much less ceremoniously to the ground.

  A shiver of anticipation danced over her bare skin. What would he be like? Feel like? Taste like? Now they were relative strangers; soon they’d be as intimate as a man and woman could be. She was dying to get on with it even as she wanted to stretch out this moment of anticipation.

  The moment was soon gone, however. Vince pulled her against him and started touching her naked body, bending down to kiss her. When their height differences frustrated him, he scooped her up with thrilling machismo and laid her on his bed. His big bed where she’d napped, and where the scent of him clung to the bedding.

  “You’re so small,” he said in a voice of wonder, running his hands down her body. Actually, he was the one who was big. Everywhere.

  A tiny doubt niggled at her that she’d be able to accommodate him inside her body, but she did her best to quell it. She was a Frenchwoman, after all. The blood of the greatest courtesans and mistresses in history ran through her veins. She’d yet to meet the man who was too much for her—in any way.

  She was small boned, but on the tall side for a woman, at five feet, seven inches. In France, men tended to be built on a smaller scale, so she was accustomed to feeling tall. But Vince dwarfed her and made her feel tiny and dainty.

  When she snuggled up against him, she fit her mouth to his mouth, breast to his chest, and ended up with the hot pressing length of him against her belly. Her feet ended not far past his knees.

  As he touched her, he talked. Silly, foolish statements. “You have a swimmer’s muscles.” He was right, she did. “Your skin’s so soft.” Oh, and the way he was stroking it, she’d soon be purring. “Your nipples taste so good.” Which was nothing on how his mouth and tongue felt against her sensitive skin.

  She didn’t know a lot of men who talked in bed, but it was a nice quality, she decided. She liked the brush of warm air touching her skin when he spoke against it. Enjoyed the earthy praise he scattered along with his kisses.

  “You’re so slight, I can count your ribs.” Then he did. Kissing the lowest one and running his tongue along the ridge of bone. “One,” he muttered, then climbed to the next rib, “Two,” and so on until he was licking the underside of her breast, and he’d muddled his counting dreadfully.

  When he shifted so he was between her thighs, she opened for him, spreading herself wide both physically and emotionally. That’s how she was about sex. It was never just physical for her, and sometimes it didn’t work out and there was pain afterward, but oh, the pleasure in between.

  So, she opened herself completely, and he entered her slowly, as though making love with her this first time was something he wanted to remember forever. The sky lightened a little more, and a streak of pink lit up the room so she saw the planes of his face more clearly, the dark gleam of his eyes, watching her.

  Then he began to move. Slow at first, and so careful of her as their passion built quietly, until she needed more friction, more speed. She grabbed his hips, digging her fingers into the wonderful tight muscles of his butt and pulling him into her, increasing the rhythm until they were both breathing hard and a drop of warm sweat hit her cheek.

  “Oh, you feel so good.”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.” She felt very, very good. And then better, and then impossibly, wonderfully, heart-stirringly oh, Mon Dieu! as she cried out and shattered.

  One more long, beautiful thrust inside her pulsing body, another, causing tiny aftershocks to radiate deep within her; he wanted to hold himself back, she could tell, just as she knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. His cry was guttural and fierce when he exploded deep within her body. She held him through his shudders, loving the feel of his muscles and skin so damp and hot rubbing against hers.

  They kissed and held each other for a long time and then fell asleep just as day was breaking.

  ***

  Vince woke to silence. He took a moment to stretch and orient himself. A smug grin was plastered across his face where he suspected it would stay for days.

  He reached out for Sophie, as he’d reached for her twice more during their few hours together, each time finding her sleepily responsive, and then wildly so. But the grin stalled when he realized he was alone in the bed. A glance at the clock told him it was ten-thirty. Late for him to start the day, but then, he hadn’t exactly had a restful night.

  Probably, she was making coffee, and breakfast, he thought as he rolled to his back and contemplated all the wonders of a gorgeous, sexy, Cordon Bleu-trained dog sitter staying in his apartment.

  He sniffed appreciatively, wondering what the chances were that she’d bring him the paper in bed. Hmm. Maybe the Doberman could be trained to fetch the Times and bring it to him on the weekends. He sniffed again … but none of the mouth-watering smells from his fantasy were reaching him. No rich, dark coffee aroma, no scent of sizzling bacon.

  It was so quiet he might as well be alone in the apartment. He didn’t hear a single dog sound. No scratching at his door, no snuffling, no clicking nails on his hardwood floors, no howling, growling, barking of any kind.

  He was out of bed and dragging on jeans in an instant.

  “Sophie?” he called out as he yanked open the bedroom door.

  Nothing.

  Even more odd, no clatter of tiny and oversized paws flying hell for leather across the floor to maul him. Only silence. Eerie, heart-pounding silence.

  Sophie was gone. The dogs were gone. He took a second to regroup and try to calm his pounding heart when it registered on his panicked brain that the leashes were also gone. She’d taken off for a walk. Panic turned to anger.

  What was the matter with the woman? A crazy ex was stalking her and taking pot shots, and she was going back out there on foot. Did she have a death wish?

  He was out of his front door and pounding down the hallway when he heard the elevator doors open, and there she was, looking as fresh as a spring morning, with Lady and The Tramp in tow, a brown bag from which heavenly fresh-bread scents arose, and a smile that had his heart pounding all over again. Instead of blasting off at her as he’d planned, he
felt more like the Doberman, who gazed at her adoringly and drooled.

  “Good morning,” she said, in a soft, sexy tone that reminded him of every intimate thing they’d done last night. Her accent was as soft and alluring as a caress. When she spoke he heard the slide of cotton bedsheets across heated, tangled limbs, the pant and sigh and “oh, that feels so good” of great sex.

  It was there in her sparkling eyes and knowing smile, the way he could see her nipples perk to attention flirtatiously as she gazed at him, so he felt his cock stand to attention ready to flirt back. More than flirt.

  He couldn’t blast her, and he couldn’t stand here in the hall with his tongue hanging out about to whine softly for a treat. He had something important to say, and he had to say it.

  “You should have woken me,” he managed.

  Her smile curved higher. “You need your sleep. For later.”

  His lips turned to rubber. Not later, he wanted to say. Now. “I was worried.” And in that second he realized how absurd it was to stand out in the hallway with the still-leashed dogs staring raptly up at the pair of them. The Dob sat, alert, as though at any moment a Frisbee was going to go sailing down the hall and he had to be ready to fly after it. Mimi was fully reclined, her head resting on her ridiculous manicured paws, only her beady black eyes following the conversation, her pom-pom tail wagging softly when she heard their voices.

  Instantly, Sophie’s eyes flashed sympathy. “Oh, Vince. I am so sorry. I did not think. I only went to the French bakery. Come. I will make us some coffee, and you may scold me all you please.”

  She bustled past him, her hands full of dog leashes and paper sack, trailing an illusive fragrance that made him want to get her naked ASAP.

  Pulling himself together with an effort, he followed her into his apartment and to the kitchen. Refusing to act like some boorish brute who let the little woman do everything, he got the coffee started while she put bread, cheeses, and jam on the table. Not to be outdone, he pulled out his plastic squeeze bottle of honey in the shape of a bear. She fussed a little with dishes and napkins. Sliced melon and rinsed fresh strawberries. Put on a CD that one of his old girlfriends had left behind. One of those female crooners with a single bizarre name. Dido, maybe. Or Enya.

  Once they were sitting and he’d poured them both coffee, he took a good hit of caffeine to get his brain in gear.

  “Look, Sophie.” He reached across and took her hand, was about to say, “You can’t do that; you can’t go out without telling me,” when she leaned forward, squeezing his fingers with her own.

  “I had a wonderful time last night.”

  Boom, there it went again, any sensible thought. He’d always thought the idea of a woman blowing a man’s mind was a figment of songwriters’ imaginations or teenage boys with crushes. But nope. Here he was, a thirty-four-year-old man with his mind blown clean of all rational thought.

  Except the completely rational urge to be intimate with this fascinating woman. Nothing could keep the answering grin off his face. “I had a fantastic time, too.” It was almost scary how good he felt this morning. Which only made her safety that much more vital to preserve. “But here’s the thing. You can’t go out like that without telling me.”

  A tiny frown appeared between her brows. “But I have to. The dogs must be walked. I must shop for food.”

  “I’ll walk the dogs until we have that bastard back behind bars.” And if Vince could arrange a half hour or so with Sophie’s insane stalking ex before the police nabbed him, he’d remind him that it was a very bad idea to attempt to hurt Sophie ever again.

  Her frown deepened as she looked at him. Absently, she rubbed the spot where the wood chip had grazed her. “I can’t believe Gregory would shoot at me. It doesn’t seem like him.”

  “I know, honey. I’m sorry. I’ve got some friends who are cops. I’ve already called my buddy Ed. They’ll get him soon, I promise. But until they do you have to stay here and be safe.”

  She pulled her hand away and reached for a slice of baguette, still warm from the bakery. “I must shop,” she reminded him.

  “We’ll go together,” he said. “We can buy in bulk, enough food for a few weeks.”

  Her nostrils flared as she made an expression of disgust. “Shop in bulk? One does not buy good, fresh food in a warehouse, Vincent. I cannot work this way.”

  A jug of wine, a stack of frozen Hungry Man dinners, and thou would do fine for Vince, but he had a pretty good idea she wouldn’t feel that way.

  Food kept you alive. Why did she have to go and make it an art form? “You can give me a list of things. I’ll get them fresh.”

  “But I am supposed to be the caregiver. You can’t do my work.”

  “I think after last night we’ve moved to a different level. Please. I can’t let anything happen to you.”

  “But I’ll be like a prisoner. I can’t live like that.” She rose suddenly, walked to his landline, and lifted the receiver.

  What was she doing? Calling a cab? Cold sweat prickled at his neck. She couldn’t go like this; how could he protect her? “Who are you phoning?”

  “Gregory.”

  He rose, too. “You can’t call him. Are you insane? He’s trying to kill you.”

  She flapped her hand at him in a classic shut up move. He thought about yanking the phone out of the wall, but retained enough sense to realize that acting like a barbarian wasn’t going to reassure her about staying in his apartment 24/7. So he waited in frustrated silence for a few minutes.

  Her shoulders slumped after a minute, and she replaced the phone. “He doesn’t answer. The answer machine is not on.” She flicked a glance his way, and he knew he’d convinced her, at least halfway. If her insane ex wasn’t answering the phone, then where the hell was he?

  Vince strode to the window and looked out, but no lunatic wearing a chef’s hat and brandishing a shotgun appeared to be hanging out down at street level. Still, he was glad he had a gun of his own, and at least one dog he could count on in a crisis. He forced himself to relax and turned back to Sophie. “Let’s eat our breakfast,” he said. She nodded, but somehow the warm intimacy of earlier was gone. A stalker with a gun was hell on a budding romance.

  Chapter 8

  “What are we going to do, then, stuck here all day?” Sophie asked him. She was so gorgeous and so vital, all he could think about was protecting her. Well, and some other things.

  “I have a few ideas.”

  “We can’t make love all day,” she said, shaking her head so her dark hair brushed her jaw and gesticulating with her hands, including the one that held bread spread with strawberry jam.

  In her agitation, she waved the bread about, and a dollop of jam toppled off the bread to land on her shirt, where it covered the upper slope of her right breast.

  “Merde!” she cried, dropping the bread onto her plate and picking up a napkin. He watched the jam, fascinated. It caught the light when she moved and glowed ruby. He took the napkin from her and said, “Let me.”

  He leaned forward. He watched her breasts rise and fall as she breathed, watched the patch of preserves. The scent of strawberry was as sweet as summer. He put his lips to the spot and sucked the jam into his mouth.

  She laughed. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m cleaning you up. I like to do a very thorough job,” he promised her. He was thinking he’d get her mind off her troubles for a while, but the minute he got close to her, he was lost.

  He looked down, and where he’d pulled part of her cotton shirt into his mouth, he’d left a crinkly round wet spot. There was still a little jam left, so he leaned forward and this time pulled more shirt into his mouth, and sneaky devil that he was, he managed to get her nipple this time.

  There was some kind of flimsy bra there as well, but he still made the most of his position, using his teeth gently but firmly to be sure she felt him through all that fabric. She sighed and pushed forward against him, grabbing the back of his head and pulling hi
m tighter against that wonderful round flesh. He smelled her laundry soap, and her skin, and strawberries.

  He launched himself at the other breast until he’d made another patch of wet blouse and bra, and another nipple was hard on his tongue.

  When he pulled back, he was breathing heavily, and so was she. Sunlight spilled through the window, tossing bars of light across the sturdy pine table, the food, and the woman laughing at him breathlessly. Suddenly, he was filled with a lust so strong it was more need than desire.

  “I want you,” he said.

  “I know.” And she did. He could see his own desire reflecting back from her. Beneath the wet patches on her shirt her nipples were rock hard in the wet, wrinkled fabric—almost shocking against the elegant and unmussed rest of her.

  He scooted closer and kissed her mouth, thrusting his tongue deep in his frantic need. She licked at him, nipped him, took over his mouth as he made short work of the buttons down her front. He managed to undo her bra by feel, then kissed his way down to her still-damp breasts, the centers puckered and her beautiful, sensitive, coral-tipped nipples luring him until he took one into his mouth.

  It wasn’t enough. It didn’t seem like anything could ever be enough with this woman. He wanted all of her, now. His hands were under her skirt, reaching. She gripped the seat and lifted her hips so he could strip off her panties.

  Crazed with lust, he stood and shoved their breakfast to one end of the table. He heard a thunk as something crashed to the floor, but he didn’t much care. In the other room one of the dogs let out one muffled bark at the sound, but neither came to investigate for which he was grateful. He didn’t want a crowd watching what he was about to do.

  He pulled Sophie from her seat and hoisted her to the edge of the table. She clung to his shoulders, reaching up so she could kiss him again. He could taste her urgency, feel her mounting desire, and it fueled his own. Or his fueled hers.