Naughty or Nice

by Rachael Stewart

  And those lips...

  She turns to look at me now as she pushes the door open and holds it for me. They curve a little and her lashes lower as I step forward. I want to taste them...to feel them part beneath my pressure...to swallow her moan with the one I know I’d give.

  Because I’ve only tasted them once, and the memory is burned into my soul.

  She says nothing as we cross the harsh white vestibule. It’s all glass, high ceilings and bright lights, but she lifts its starkness just by being there and I can’t look away.

  A warning sparks in my gut—a warning I want to ignore.

  So much time has passed since I loved her. The sweet, feisty, fun-loving girl that she was. So many women have come and gone since, none of whom have inspired a need for more or warranted a trust I feel incapable of giving. I date. I have fun. I move on. They’re not relationships as such. Merely acquaintances who satisfy the basic urge for companionship, sex.

  I want it to be the same with her. Safe.

  But it’s not.

  I had so much to lose back then and it served me well, kept me protected.

  But now there are no barriers against what’s burning between us, and I should be running the other way.

  But I’m not.

  We reach the lift and she presses the button to call it. I half expect her to turn, tell me she’s changed her mind, but she doesn’t and the warning starts to trickle through my spine: Are you sure you can keep a lid on this?

  She sneaks a look at me from beneath her lashes, her thoughts hidden as she nibbles over her lip—that deliciously full lip that I want to trace with my tongue—and a tide of longing drowns out the panic.

  The lift opens and we walk in. It’s vacant and small. I expected it to be vast, to give me room to stave off the heat her nearness is driving. I’ve wanted her for so long. Fantasised about it even when I knew I shouldn’t. And now I’m going to have her I want it to last—not to erupt like my teenage self would have done.

  But it’s impossible to put down the semi-permanent erection I’ve been sporting since sitting between her legs. Hell, even before then. From the moment she gave me that look across the room, daring me to follow her. It was there with her intent, her desire.

  I fist my hands inside my pockets, fix my gaze to the lift doors and count to ten...twenty... The ground shifts to a gentle stop. The top floor. The penthouse. Only the best for the Beaumonts.

  As the doors slide open there’s more white, more glass, more coldness. It’s similar to my place, further into the city, but it reeks of her family—not her. Not the girl I knew. But as for the woman... What do I truly know?

  We should have gone to mine.

  ‘You don’t like it?’

  I realise she’s caught me frowning, my hands still deep in my pockets and my shoulders tense. I force myself to relax and give her a smile. ‘It’s not what I expected.’

  She shrugs off her coat and opens a concealed closet, hanging it up. ‘It’s my parents’ place, and it’s exactly how they like it.’

  ‘Not you.’

  It’s a simple statement, and I guess I could be wrong but I want to know I’m right. I see a flash of colour run along her cheekbones, her lips twitching.

  Not only am I right, I’ve pleased her—and, Christ, does it feel good.

  ‘No, not really.’ She closes the closet and starts to head off towards an open living space. ‘I have a place I’m renovating in Notting Hill. This is a stopgap.’

  My smile grows with my confidence as I follow her. I still know her. ‘What colour?’

  She eyes me over her shoulder as she enters the kitchen and reaches for a glass. ‘Colour?’

  ‘The house...’

  She gives a soft laugh. ‘What makes you think I’ve gone for a colour?’ she asks, dispensing water from the sleek black fridge door. ‘I could have gone for au naturel stone.’

  She leans back against the countertop and takes a sip from the glass, her eyes holding mine.

  ‘Again...not you.’

  She smiles approvingly. ‘Pink.’

  ‘Pink?’

  My brow rises—she has to be teasing. I search her gaze and it dances with humour. I would have had her saying blue—yellow, even—but pink...

  ‘Now you look like my mother when I told her the same.’

  I laugh as I imagine the scene and see humour reflected in her gaze. She looks beautiful, amused, so at ease suddenly, and it warms me through. It feels like old times. When the banter was so quick to spark between us.

  I smile. ‘I bet she was all for yellow—am I right?’

  ‘Yellow, or even blue, anything but pink.’

  She shakes her head softly and there’s a silent exchange, an acceptance that we still work.

  I can feel it.

  And then it’s gone.

  She stiffens as the mood shifts and I grapple to get it back. ‘Whatever floats your boat, I say.’

  She takes a breath, visibly composing herself as she turns away to place her glass on the side.

  ‘You do,’ she says, her eyes coming back to me, her voice low, her eyes intent. ‘Right now.’

  The swift change from light-hearted to sexual unsettles me. My eyes narrow. Is she forcing us back to sex? Taking away our connection? The personal talk?

  You should be happy.

  She gives her head a small flick as her eyes stare into mine. ‘Or have you changed your mind?’

  Fuck that.

  I’m moving before I know it.

  Fuck personal. Fuck talk.

  She’s in my arms, her hands beneath my jacket shoving it down my shoulders. I throw it to one side, pulling her back against me and seeking out her mouth, instinct driving me, making me forget not to kiss her. She turns away, arching her neck and offering up the creamy expanse of skin instead.

  The gesture cuts deep and I scrape my teeth against her—a nip of punishment and acceptance in one—and the whimper it draws triggers a groan of my own. Christ. The series of things I want to do to her, with her, is rampaging through my brain, and my arousal strains painfully between us.

  I run my hands over her dress, seeking out the fastening—a zipper, buttons, anything. It’s frustrating as hell. ‘If you don’t get this off, I swear I’m going to rip it.’

  She laughs at me. The husky lilt driving me crazy.

  ‘So impatient...’

  ‘I’ve had ten years to wait for this. I call that patience enough.’

  Her eyes widen as she stares up at me and she’s momentarily still.

  Shit. Too much.

  ‘Off,’ I command, wanting her back in the moment, to forget what I said.

  And she turns away to pull the escaped curls over her shoulder. ‘The zipper is concealed in the back.’

  I find the fastening and slowly—too slowly for my tortured cock, but too quickly for my struggling control—I lower it, exposing her exquisite skin, her spine that I want to trace with my fingers, my lips, my tongue. Goosebumps prickle where the fabric parts, calling to me, and I press a kiss to the nape of her neck, breathing her in.

  ‘You are beautiful, Evangeline.’

  She shudders on a breath, turning her head so that I’m on the periphery of her vision, her lashes low, her forbidden lips parted. The zipper stops over the curve of her bare arse and I remember her thong sitting pretty in my pocket. I smile. She went to dinner like this, bare and exposed, thanks to me.

  And then all sane thought leaves me as she slips the dress from her shoulders and it pools at her feet. Her perfectly round cheeks are exposed to my hungry gaze and I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t believe.

  Her eyes lift to mine above her shoulder. ‘Are you just going to stare?’

  ‘I’m savouring.’

  Engraving this moment in my memory, worshipping i
t—you, Evangeline.

  I reach out to smooth each mound and she curves into my touch, her teeth biting into her lip.

  ‘Please, Lucas, I want you now. You can savour later.’

  Later? How much later? In an hour? Two? A day? A week?

  I don’t pose the question; the answer is too depressing.

  And if I only get to be inside her once, I’m going to make it the best she’s ever known.

  I bow my head into the curve of her neck, my lips gently brushing her skin as I say, ‘Now who’s impatient, hmm...?’

  I grasp her hips and pull her back against my clothed erection, relishing the moan she gives in return, the feel of her cheeks cradling my arousal. And when I release her to trail my fingers up her sides she doesn’t move away. She stays curved against me, her palms planted on the cold white countertop as she pushes into me.

  I lift my lips to the edge of her ear. ‘What would your parents say to you fucking in their kitchen?’

  She whimpers—she likes my dirty talk. I know it and I love her for it.

  Enough with the love!

  I focus on my hands. I want to touch her everywhere, claim her everywhere, coax out every sound of ecstasy she’s capable of making. I stroke along her back and unclasp her bra. The nude lace obediently falls open, the straps landing loose down her arms before I encourage them off. Her breasts fall free. I can’t see them, but knowing they are there, waiting, has me aching, painful, desperate.

  I trace the curve of her waist around to her belly, higher... I stroke beneath the curve of her breasts, feel their weight shift as she writhes.

  ‘God, Lucas, please.’

  I grit my teeth against her heated plea, feel my control fraying as I rotate my palms and surround each breast. I shudder on my own breath even as I feel her do the same, feel her hardened beads pressing into my palms. I roll her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers, making them harder, prouder, feeling the tautness in the ripples that surround them.

  Just perfect.

  Perfect and mine.

  For now.

  I pinch them tighter and she inhales sharply between her teeth.

  ‘God, yes.’

  ‘You like that?’

  My voice is strained, my balls heavy. I’m so close, and I know she is too.

  ‘Yes...’

  It’s practically a hiss as she leans back, her body arched. Her bra hits the floor as she flicks it away so she can raise her hands to my neck, and I do it again and again, making her writhe. Her naked body against my clothed one. It’s one hell of a contrast and it’s pushing me over.

  I’m tempted to make her come like this. It’s clear she would. But I need to feel her—feel her wetness, the evidence of her need.

  I trail one hand down her belly and she sucks her tummy in.

  ‘I can’t get your pussy out of my head,’ I tell her, kissing her shoulder. ‘The way you taste...’ I nip her skin. ‘The way you move...’ She claws my neck as I cup her and her legs shift apart, granting me all the access I need. ‘The way you’re wet just for me...’

  I move, sliding my middle finger in deep, and pull back until her clit is beneath my fingertip. Slowly I rotate it over her and she whimpers, the noise sending my balls heavenward. The smooth undulation of her hips is pushing my release and I grit my teeth.

  Not yet.

  * * *

  I’m losing it.

  It’s the only way to explain how we’ve got to this point. In my parents’ perfect, clinical abode. All orderly and cold. Me naked. Him clothed. Me on the brink. Him...

  Oh, yes...

  I can feel he’s close. Every taut muscle is pressing into my back, and his stance as he rocks with rigid precision against me is so fucking hot. I ride my arse against him, staving off my own release.

  I want him to come. I want him to come inside his clothing. I want to feel that power—to know that a man like Lucas Waring can lose it, still caged inside his underwear, over me. It’s that which keeps me just this side of sane.

  I drop one hand to move it with his and feel his body jerk.

  ‘Christ, Evangeline.’ His breath rasps. ‘What are you doing to me?’

  I smile through the salacious heat whipping around us, pushing his fingers lower, encouraging him to sink inside me as I move with him.

  He breathes into my neck, his stubble grazing my skin as he buries his face there. His other hand drops to my thigh and grabs it, lifting it, granting himself greater access, greater friction over my clit as his wrist rubs against me and his cock presses harder, more urgently.

  ‘Yes, Lucas, yes...’ I pant, and my control is slipping.

  But his is too. He’s trembling against me, his body ever more tense, and then I am gone. Wave after wave crashes over me, and my head is swimming with ecstasy. And then I feel him, hear his growl into my shoulder, feel his teeth biting as he bucks and shudders, his own release wild and sudden.

  I hang off his neck, holding him to me, keeping us locked together, and my lips stretch in a triumphant smile. I look to the pristine white ceiling, catch our reflection in the rim of a chrome spotlight, and it’s a reminder that this is real. So very real and so electrifying.

  I should be scared—scared of what it means for the future, scared about whether I can give this up. Instead I’m content in his arms, naked and at home.

  ‘Fuck, I haven’t... I shouldn’t have...’

  He shakes his head and his disbelief, his sudden vulnerability, resonates through me. I turn and hook my hands behind his neck, eager to see off any hint of real emotion—because that I can’t deal with.

  ‘Oh, yes, you should...because that was erotic as fuck.’

  He lifts his lashes; his eyes meet mine and I am winded. They are almost shy as they search, seeking out a lie that doesn’t exist. It was fucking hot. It was everything I wanted.

  ‘You have to be kidding me...?’ His hands drop to my behind, soft, yielding.

  He doesn’t believe me.

  ‘No.’

  I almost kiss him—can feel the urge burning through my veins. But where would that leave us?

  And then his crazy statement replays in my mind: ‘I’ve had ten years to wait for this.’

  Shit.

  I push it away. I can’t think about what that means. It’s too hopeful. And I learned my lesson once. I won’t go there again. Focus on the sex. It’s tangible. It’s what he came for and it’s the one thing I agreed to and can give. For tonight.

  ‘Just thinking about it turns me on all over again,’ I say.

  As if on cue my nipples prickle into his shirt and I run my teeth over my lower lip. I’m not kidding. Three orgasms and still I want more. I know it’s a bad sign, but as I curve into him, breathing him in, I couldn’t care less.

  Slowly his smile lifts, his eyes with it, and he presses his forehead to mine. ‘Keep talking like that and I’ll be taking you to bed next.’

  ‘I like the sound of that...’ I smile, all sultry. ‘But how about a shower first?’

  I take his hand and before I can question my senses I head to the bathroom, loving how he comes with me. No question. No hesitation. This feels like a dream.

  One that I don’t want to wake up from.

  Again, it’s a warning. Again, I ignore it, pushing open the bedroom door and heading straight for the en suite bathroom.

  Lucas releases my hand and I look at him over my shoulder.

  ‘I’m stripping for this,’ he says.

  Then it hits me—we’ve done so much but I’ve not seen him naked. Not yet.

  I reach into the bathroom to set the shower going before sauntering towards him. He’s placing his cufflinks on the dressing table that blends into the shelving system that runs along one wall. His dark, erotic presence is at total odds with the crisp white room. He doesn’t belon
g here. Hell, neither do I. But it only makes my blood rush faster, my ache build.

  He’s tugging his tie undone when I reach him, and I go to work on his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers and moving on to the buttons. My eyes follow my progress, and my mouth dries further the more skin I unveil, the more muscle, the more toned ripples that are triggered with each scrape of my fingers.

  I’ve seen him shirtless before. He only ever slept in lounge pants when he stayed with us. And he was captivating then—in a boyish, trim way. But now he’s all hard, lean muscle and I can’t believe I’m getting to strip him.

  ‘I’ve waited ten years for this...’

  His voice reverberates through my mind. Ten years ago he refused me, and didn’t give me a backward glance. Or so I thought. Now he’s hinting at something else...something more.

  My insides twist. My heart aches. I want this to be about sex. I don’t want to feel anything else—not on that level.

  ‘Hey, are you okay?’

  I realise I’ve stilled, my eyes unseeing on his chest, my fingers frozen.

  You fool.

  ‘Of course,’ I say softly, pressing a kiss to his chest and breathing in the thought-obliterating scent of him as I tell my brain to shut down. To go with the flow.

  I release the last button and smooth my hands over his shoulders, coaxing off his shirt, exposing the beauty of him to my appreciative gaze. He really is exquisite. I’ve had men—of course I have. I almost married one in trying to forget Lucas.

  That foolish move seems ever more idiotic as I drown in a sea of sensation over the man before me now.

  I could never forget Lucas. Never carve him out of me.

  I trace his pecs, watch them flicker, then I lick my lips as I trail my hands lower, over the taut expanse of muscle to the hint of hair that thickens above his belt buckle.

  I move to unfasten his trousers and he catches my wrists, halting me. I look up, questioning, praying I can hide the swirl of emotion running away inside me.

  ‘As much as you found it a turn-on,’ he says with a lopsided smile, ‘I’m taking myself in there and getting these off alone.’

  He steps around me and I watch him go, mesmerised by the movement of his shoulder blades, by the sharp waist and the curve of his behind in those trousers.