by Pennza, Amy
He lowered his voice. “Are you saying you want correction?”
She parted her thighs a few inches.
He made a show of standing back and shaking his head, as though she’d earned his disapproval. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
She sighed, and her belly went concave. She spread a little wider. Moisture coated her folds.
He stepped between her thighs and let his pants brush against her skin. She shivered, and he hid a smile. “Not bad,” he said, “but I was thinking more like this.” He pushed her legs up until her feet rested on the edge of the mattress, then pressed her thighs wide. Now she was completely, utterly open, her denuded sex on full display.
Her belly rippled as she moaned. “Smith, please—”
“Oh, I intend to.” He stroked his thumbs down her labia, spreading moisture over the puffy skin. At the top of her sex, her clit stood up—a slick nub begging for attention. He slid his thumbs up and down, up and down, rubbing her juices along the smooth folds. Every few strokes, he circled her clit.
Her mouth opened on a gasp and stayed that way—like she couldn’t catch her breath. Her breasts trembled, her nipples stabbing upward. She gripped handfuls of comforter in her fists.
God, did she have any idea how beautiful she looked? She was like a feast. Moonlight splashed over her skin. Her hair streamed over the comforter like a silver river. The chain between her breasts puddled on her shuddering belly. There was so much to hold his attention, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the glistening bounty spread before him. He rubbed more moisture over her clit. “Do you remember what I told you this morning?”
She looked like she had to struggle to form a coherent response. “N-no.”
“I said I wanted to taste you here.”
A shudder passed down her body, and her hips jerked against his hold.
He wrapped his arms around her thighs to hold her steady, then lowered his mouth to her sex and took her clit in his mouth.
“Smith.” She said his name on an exhale as she began to fall apart.
Sweet. The word ricocheted around his brain. She was soft and sweet on his tongue, as wet and juicy as a peach. His cock throbbed as he nipped her clit with his teeth, then soothed away any sting with his tongue. She tangled her fingers in his hair and held his face against her sex.
“Please,” she gasped, “don’t…stop.”
He hummed against her clit, then darted his tongue in her opening. She bucked, and he clamped his forearms tighter over her thighs. He swirled his tongue around her opening, up to her clit, and back. Over and over. Harder and harder. She let out a low, wailing cry as she shuddered against his mouth. More moisture gathered at her opening, and he lapped it up to her clit and sucked her hard, tonguing her hot, swollen flesh. Above his head, she tensed, every muscle straining. Then she shuddered and screamed her release.
He continued sucking, letting up every few seconds to tease at her opening.
Her thighs shook against his neck. “S-stop.” The plea came out between sobs. “Too…much.”
He pulled back, then scooped his arms under her hips and swung her legs onto the bed. She watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he yanked his belt open and shucked his pants. He made it to the second button on his shirt before he gave up and ripped the damn thing off. Plastic buttons pinged against the hardwood.
She propped herself on one elbow. “You ruined your shirt.”
“I’ll sew the buttons back on.”
“You can sew?”
Wearing nothing but his boxer briefs, he put his hands on his hips. “Of course. Every Green Beret keeps a sewing kit in his pack.”
“That’s hard to picture.”
“What, a bunch of big guys sitting around a fire, sewing up holes in their socks?” He cocked his head. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, but you have to swear not to tell anyone.”
“I swear.”
“Not only did we sew, a couple of the guys did a damn fine cross stitch.”
She laughed, and the sound lit up his insides like a pinball hitting every corner of the machine. He hadn’t joked about his time in the service in…well, ever. And here he was enjoying the hell out it.
Enjoying the hell out of her.
He slid his briefs down his hips, and her smile froze as she gazed between his legs. The banked desire in her eyes flared back to life. His cock swelled under her regard, and a burst of satisfaction flared inside him.
She lifted her gaze to his. “You’re not finished with me yet, are you?”
He shook his head slowly. At the same time, he grasped his length and passed his hand up and down the shaft. Moisture beaded at the head.
Still propped on her elbow, she bit her lower lip as she gazed at his cock. She seemed mesmerized by the steady rhythm of his hand. Up and down. Up and down. With every pass, more pre-cum gathered at the tip.
He let her contemplate it a few more seconds, then asked, “Are you wet enough for me, sweetheart?”
She jerked her gaze to his. “I…” Her voice was hoarse. She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
“Show me.” When she didn’t immediately comply, he smiled and added, “Supply and demand, nena. Show me.”
She lowered herself to her back. After a couple heartbeats, she brought her knees up and parted her thighs wide. Light from the window shone on her pink sex, which still glistened from his mouth and her juices.
“What a sight you are, querida,” he said, going to the bed and climbing onto it. “What a gorgeous…” He wedged his hips between her legs. “…Amazing.” He lowered his chest to hers and let his mouth hover just over her lips. “…Sight you are.” He gripped himself and slid inside her. Scorching heat enveloped his cock.
They both moaned at the same time. He let his eyes drift shut. She’d felt amazing this morning. Now, stars burst behind his eyelids. Electricity blasted up his shaft. Her sex clenched, squeezing him like a vise, and he moaned again. He gritted his teeth against the urge to thrust away like a madman. Give her a minute. Have to give her a minute.
She slid her feet up his calves and thighs, then hooked her legs around his hips. Her damp pussy pressed against his groin.
And just like that, he was done.
He slid out halfway, then slammed back into her. She didn’t gasp or shy away. Hell no. She grabbed his face with both hands and brought his mouth to hers. Jesus. Her mouth was as hot and wet as her sex. He thrust his tongue against hers as he pistoned in and out of her, his balls slapping her ass. The wet sound of his cock driving into her drenched pussy filled the room.
She matched his pace, lifting her hips to each thrust. He reached between their bodies and found her clit. She squealed into his mouth and tightened her legs around his waist as another orgasm flashed over her. He broke off the kiss, rose up, and grabbed her hips. She tossed her head to the side, her breaths coming in little pants as she rode wave after wave of release.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispered. He pinned her hard against the mattress and pumped faster. Her tits bounced. The necklace jumped against her chest. Her legs fell open, giving him a direct view of his cock driving in and out of her, the thick shaft shiny with her essence. Gaze pinned on the erotic sight, he clenched his jaw and hammered her sex. The hairs on his nape lifted, and his balls tingled as he neared the edge. Sweat dripped from his face and splashed on the bare mound above her clit.
Spanish spilled from his lips—guttural phrases that seemed to come from some primitive part of his brain. He dug his fingers into her hips and let go, his mind and body on autopilot. The orgasm screamed down his cock and exploded into her, and he dropped his head back and shouted as jet after jet pumped into her sex. She shook beneath him, another release hurling her into the same current he rode.
He collapsed over her, his face buried in the sweet space between her neck and shoulder. Her pulse pounded against his mouth, and he touched the tip of his tongue to the delicate flutter.
She rubbed the back o
f his head, her fingers sifting through the short hairs.
When he finally caught his breath, he lifted up just enough to meet her gaze. As they stared at each other, he saw the same wonder in her eyes he’d felt that morning.
Just sex. It was just sex. He could tell himself that all day long, but it was a lie. And she might be a good actress, but she couldn’t keep the truth from her gaze any more than he could.
“Ashley.”
She watched him, her heart still pounding against his chest.
“I want…” The truth worked its way up his throat and almost out of his mouth, but he swallowed and said, “I want you to stay the night.”
In a blink, the truth fled from her gaze. It was subtle. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been inches from her face. He wanted to call her out on it—force her to admit she knew exactly what had just passed between them. But he stayed silent. How could he accuse her of hiding the truth if he was too cowardly to speak it himself?
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“One hundred percent.”
“Okay, then. I’ll stay.”
He pulled out of her, left the bed, and gathered up his clothes.
She sat up and shoved the covers down. “We always seem to do this on top of the bedding,” she said, a smile in her voice. She slid under the blankets and pulled the covers over her breasts.
He went to her side, leaned down, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’re not sleeping here? With me?” With her golden hair spread over the pillow, she looked like a Disney princess.
He shook his head. “I can’t predict when I’ll have a nightmare. I could…hurt you in my sleep.”
“You won’t hurt me.”
“I could snap your neck with one hand.” He hated saying it—hated the wariness that entered her gaze—but she needed to know what he was capable of. “The dreams seem so real. It’s like I’m there again, with the sun burning my eyes and sand in my mouth.” He squeezed his fist around the clothes he held as his heart rate picked up. “If I hurt you…”
She grabbed his hand. “Okay. It’s okay. I’ll be fine here.”
He nodded. Then, because she looked so damn beautiful in the bed, with her tousled hair and her mouth swollen from his kisses, he cupped her cheek and rubbed his thumb over her lips. “Thank you, nena. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Lingering wasn’t an option. Lingering meant crawling into bed and curling his body around hers. So he walked to the door and down the hallway, to his lonely room and his cold bed.
Just sex. That was the lie they’d chosen. Now he just had to find a way to live with it.
19
Ashley blew a stray hair out of her eyes as she lumbered up Smith’s staircase, an overflowing laundry basket in her hands. As much as she loved Victorian houses, hauling clean clothes from the basement was a truly shitty chore. A pair of police uniform pants threatened to topple over the side of the basket. She slowed, nudged them back to safety with her chin, and continued climbing.
One week in his house and I’m already doing his laundry. So much for feminism.
To be fair, half of the laundry was hers. After their date, they’d both stopped pretending she had any intention of sleeping at her own place. It had only taken her a day to get sick of hauling clean clothes across the lawn, and she’d eventually given up and brought her whole suitcase over.
Or rather, she’d watched Smith carry it like it weighed no more than a gym bag.
“It has wheels, you know,” she’d called out behind him.
He’d turned and given her a look. “I know. I just like the idea of you admiring my ass while I carry it.”
“Cute, but you’re not carrying it with your ass. Shouldn’t I be mesmerized by your bulging biceps instead?”
“You just don’t want to admit you were staring at my ass.”
She’d walked past him so she could hold the door—and hide the guilty look in her eyes. Because she had totally been glued to his ass.
The uniform pants slid over the side of the basket again. She hitched it higher against her chest. Just as she gained the top step, her big toe caught the edge. Fire streaked up her foot, and she stumbled over the tread. “Shit!”
By some miracle, she managed to stay upright—and keep her grip on the basket. She stopped on the landing and waited for the stinging to stop. Add lighting to the list of things she didn’t love about Victorian architecture. Although Smith had revamped the electrical, he couldn’t do much about the size of the rooms or the narrowness of the hallways. On overcast days like today, it was like walking through a tomb just to reach the bedrooms.
At least the weather had warmed up. Smith had said something about a storm brewing in the Gulf, and she believed it. The air was so thick and heavy, she’d worn cutoff jean shorts and a tank top. Still, sweat dampened the small of her back. Thank goodness she’d pulled her hair into a ponytail that morning.
When the throbbing in her toe subsided, she hefted the basket and headed to Smith’s room. As she approached his door, she turned sideways and used her butt to nudge it open. The door swung wide and bounced off the doorstop. Ass power for the win. She had Smith’s cooking to blame for that. In the week since their date, he’d fed her gumbo, spare ribs, and some kind of shredded chicken that had melted in her mouth.
And he’d made desserts to match.
Last night, she’d finished his homemade apple pie while he rinsed their dinner plates in the sink. She’d leaned back and patted her stomach. “If you keep feeding me like this, I’m never going to land an acting job again.”
Without turning from the sink, he’d said, “Maybe it’s part of my plot to keep you here.”
His words had hit her like a slap in the face. Possible replies had shot through her head. “What does that mean? Are you serious? Are you serious about us?” A second later, a scolding voice in her brain had warned her not to grill him like that. As Pia would say, Crazy Girlfriend wasn’t a good look on anyone. Hell, she wasn’t even Smith’s girlfriend. More like a temporary bed-warmer.
And she’d certainly done enough of that over the past week.
Heat rose in her cheeks as she stood in the middle of Smith’s bedroom. Abruptly, the ache in her arms reminded her she still held the laundry basket. She walked to the bed and dumped the clothes on the mattress. A jumble of her clothes and Smith’s spread across most of the surface. A couple socks tumbled to the floor. She sighed, picked up a white undershirt, and began folding it.
What she really needed was a long heart-to-heart with Pia. They hadn’t talked since the morning after Smith and Ashley’s date. Their conversation had been brief—and mostly one-sided.
Pia had chuckled. “Carpe diem, baby.”
“Really?” Ashley had said. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“It means seize the day.”
“I know what it means.”
“I don’t think so,” Pia said in an airy tone. “According to my dad, the longer version of that phrase, and don’t ask me to say it in Latin, is ‘seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.’”
“Well, that’s bleak.”
Pia sighed. “You’re a pessimist, you know that?” Ashley started to balk, but Pia talked over her. “It means make the most of today and don’t worry so much about tomorrow or the next day. In other words, enjoy your time now, like I told you before, remember?”
“But—”
“Listen,” Pia said. “You like Smith, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“And the sex is great, yes?”
That was an understatement. “Yes.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Now, Ashley folded the shirt and hugged it to her chest. The problem is I’m falling in love with him. Or maybe not falling. She was well and truly fallen.
The question was, was he? Her gaze drifted over his bed. She’d never slept in his room—ne
ver slept the night through with him, actually. Each time they made love, the pattern was always the same: he gave her an earth-shattering orgasm, held her for a few minutes, and then left for his own room. And while she knew his reason for it, she couldn’t help the little twinge of rejection that shot through her as he walked out the door.
Was he really trying to protect her from his memories? Or did he do it to maintain the distance between them? That she cared told her all she needed to know about her feelings.
Oh yeah, she was in deep shit.
She looked down at the shirt she held, then lifted it to her nose and inhaled. Even after a trip through the washer and dryer, the cloth still held a hint of Smith’s scent. The familiar mix of soap and aftershave filled her lungs. She turned and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over his dresser. Even from a distance, her expression held all the yearning of a lovesick teenager. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and went to the dresser.
Like everything else in Smith’s house, his dresser gleamed from a recent polish. Shirt in hand, she opened a drawer. Neat rows of folded athletic socks stared up at her. She closed it and opened the drawer beneath it.
Black socks. She frowned. He color-coded his sock drawers? She shut it and moved on. She looked through two more drawers before hitting pay dirt on the third. Two stacks of identical undershirts lined either side of the drawer. Each shirt was rolled into a fat sausage and tucked in a precise line.
She ran her palm over a row. “Someone definitely needs to get out more,” she murmured. She lay the folded, clean shirt on the dresser top and tried to roll it, only her version ended up looking more like a baguette than a sausage. After a few tries, she gave up and placed the shirt flat on the top. She shut the drawer and nodded.
I make a pretty darn good housewife. As soon as she thought it, her heart sped up. Housewife. Did she want to be Smith’s wife? To live in this house? A month ago, she would have laughed at the idea of being anyone’s wife.
Over the past week, he’d been charming and funny. He’d cooked her dinner and shared details of his day over wine and dessert. And, boy oh boy, had he taken care of her in bed. But he hadn’t once mentioned the future.