Baddest Bad Boys (23 page)

“Then you’ll be pleased to know the waiting is over.”

He cocked his head, sipped his wine.

“I’ve decided your idea is a brilliant way to pass the time.” She got to her feet, and set about turning off the two lamps. The wild blaze in the grate was light enough. She walked to where Mac stood by the mantel. “And making love—sorry, having sex—is a great way to relieve stress.” She gave him a sideways gaze. “You okay with being a stress reliever?”

 

Mac hadn’t known what to expect, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. Had to be the wine. The fire. The inevitability. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, eyed her, and, not sure what to make of her, said nothing.

She looked frustrated, then irritated. Maybe because he hadn’t jumped her bones the minute she opened her mouth, like any man with half a brain in his dick would have. “What part of yes didn’t you understand?” she asked.

Oh, he’d caught her yes message all right, but it didn’t sit right. Too easy. “Just like that?” He looked down at her. So damn close.

She lifted her chin, and he spotted a tremble around her mouth, an appealing uncertainty. “Are you disappointed?”

“Only that you needed to snort wine to do it.”

“I did not snort! That would be much too unladylike.”

He clasped her chin to scan her face. Read it. “You sure about this?” His ears had registered her affirmative; now he wanted to see it in her eyes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

“No.” She pulled her face from his grasp. “When is anyone ever ‘sure’ about sex?” She took the wineglass from his hand, set it by hers on the table. “But I’m sure of one thing. Biology 101. There’s no way you and I are going to spend a week here—alone—and not sleep together.”

Mac reached for her. “Why the hell would we want to?”

This time, when he took her in his arms, took her lips, he wasn’t going to let go. Not tonight, at least. Tonight, Tommi Smith was his, all his, and he planned to savor every soft, silky inch of her. “God, you taste good.” He raised his head to look into her already half-closed eyes. “Your mouth is a damn miracle.” His own eyes heavy, his erection a hot ridge of need behind his zipper, he added, “I can’t wait for the main course.”

She stepped away from him, stripped off her sweater, bared her fantastic breasts and smiled at him. “Your turn.”

He grabbed the pillows from the sofa behind her and tossed them haphazardly on the carpet in front of the fireplace; then he went to work on his zipper, with extreme caution. Now was not the time for a sports injury.

When he was done, Tommi dropped to her knees in front of him.

She stroked him through his briefs, pulled them down, and when his erection was free, iron-hard and long against his belly, she stroked him again, softly as if he were made of glass. Then she nuzzled him, planting air-light kisses along the length of him.

Blood thundered, thick and furious, through his veins. Jesus, she was going to do him! Tommi Smith was going to do him.

He closed his eyes, lifted his chin skyward. His neck muscles strained, wire-tight. He held her blond head in his hands, stopped himself from coiling his fingers in her hair—until she drew her tongue along his length.

The breath he let out matched the gale-force winds blowing outside the lodge, and he dragged her to her feet, before he crumpled at hers. No way was he going to shoot off like a goddamned teenager. The smile he tried failed—couldn’t make it through the pain. “You trying to kill me here?”

“I’ve wanted to touch you since the Springs. You’re beautiful. Big.” Her eyes were dark, her lips glossy, and when she looked down at him—the iron upright between his thighs—she moistened her lips. “And…I wanted a preview of what’s coming.”

“What’s coming is me—too damn soon, if you do something like that again.” Even as he said it, he prayed for it. He tackled the sweatpants she was wearing. Elastic at the waist, they were a heap at her feet in a nanosecond. This time the triangle was red lace, deep scarlet red.

Red for go. He stripped them off.

Tommi was a natural blond.

When she was naked, he grasped her by the waist, ran his hands along the curves of her hips, and gripped her buttocks to pull her hard against him. Skin to skin, his temperature rose a hundred degrees.

She sighed, stood on tiptoe, and rolled her hips into his. “We’re going to be good together. I know it.”

“Better than good.” Heated by their bodies, flush to one another, he kissed her slow and deep. Her breath was minty, her lipstick—what was left of it—held the faint taste of strawberry. “I probably shouldn’t admit this, Smith, but I’ve wanted you since I was thirteen.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughed into his eyes. “I’d love to say the same, but…”

“The bony knees and attitude didn’t do it for you, huh?” He cocked a brow, ran his hand down to cup her. Molten gold. Slick, plump, and creamy.

“Hmm…” She closed her eyes, pushed deeper into his hand. “You’re doing it for me now.”

He explored her opening, slipped his finger inside, ran it lightly between her velvet folds. Wet. Ready. “Lie down.” His voice was low to his ears, and harsh.

She did what she was told, and when she was on her back, she stretched her arms above her head.

He stared down at her, soaked her in. She was a vision in firelight, a vision that locked Mac into place—some kind of time warp.

His body thrummed with need, but he refused it and continued to gaze down at her. Hell, it wasn’t every day a man’s fantasy lay spread in front of him unashamedly naked, with everything on offer. His breath shortened painfully. Jesus, he’d dreamed of her like this, open and waiting for him. Only him. There’d been more women in his life than one man deserved, but none of them was Tommi. Not even close.

He wanted this image—her lush curves burnished by firelight, her blond hair tumbling across a blue cushion—imprinted on his mind forever.

But a man’s patience had its limits.

“Open your legs,” he said, his voice ragged. “Wide.”

She complied, and he sank to his knees between them. The dew on her pubic hair glistened, beckoned. He touched her once, then pulled back, to brace his hands on her knees, push them farther apart. “I want to look at you.”

“I kind of figured that.”

“And”—he bent his head, licked her seam—“I want to feast on you.”

He saw her breasts heave, her tongue come out to dampen her lips. When she spoke, it was a whisper. “Be my guest.” Again she licked her lips, this time with an edge of nervousness. “But it’s been a while for me, so be prepared.”

Mac had been preparing for Tommi for over half his life, and he knew what he wanted from her, what he wanted to give her.

He separated her folds, already dripping with the slick juices that would pave his way. Stroking her, he watched her eyes close, listened to her uneven, shallow breathing, then moved his gaze to her sex—the heaven he’d imagined as a boy and was about to experience as a man.

He dipped into her, first one finger then two, in…out, in…out…Each entry and withdrawal rhythmic and deeply penetrating.

When she started to thrash under him, he put a hand on her stomach to calm her, and bent his head.

He knew exactly where he was going.

Nestled in her soft folds, her clitoris was stiff and waiting. He drew circles around it with his finger, made it stand alone, then took it in his mouth and tasted her. Sweet, salty, spicy. Exotic.

He damn near exploded!

To stop himself he eased back, took his mouth from her and blew softly on her swollen pubis.

“Oh, God…more, Mac, more…please.”

When she thrust herself upward to his mouth, he went down hard, soft bites, licks and suckles. His cock was a spike, diamond-hard and past ready, but it didn’t stop him from the glory under his tongue.

He pulled the nub of her deep into his mouth, let it go, and gave it one long rasp of his tongue.

She purred, moaned, screamed his name, and came apart in his arms.

His breath coming so loud and fast he was deafened by it, he slipped on a condom, lifted her hips, and centered himself.

He rode in deep, the last of her contractions shimmering along his throbbing length. He pulled back, thrust again, his mind a whiteout, his skin too tight for his body. He was in Tommi, he was home, so deep in…

He erupted, flamed out, split into a million shards—a planet too close to the sun.

The cedar log in the fireplace crackled and hissed—like Mac, its last drop of moisture consumed by the flames.

Knowing he was heavy on her, he rolled onto his back, covered his eyes with a forearm.

In the large room the only sound was their breathing—first, short and sharp; then, long and languid.

Tommi rose up and over him, her breasts squashed against his chest. She smoothed the hair back from his damp forehead, brushed her lips over his. “Not bad. Not bad at all.” The words were playful, her tone oddly sober, implying she was as shaken as he was.

He opened his eyes to look into hers. He should feel empty, want to sleep. Instead, his gut felt thick and warm, and he was more awake than he’d been in years. He ran his knuckles across her smooth cheek. “I was inspired.”

“Yes, you were.” She stared at him a long time, her expression turning to one of puzzlement.

“What?” He pulled her face back to his, raising a brow.

“Nothing. I was just thinking I should have taken up no-strings, recreational sex years ago. I could get used to this.” She got to her feet. He looked up, past her still-damp mound and flat stomach, to her mouth. A half-smile played there. “And given that your particular form of inspiration caused dehydration”—her smile widened—“I need some water. You?”

He wasn’t sure how he felt about being the catalyst for her renewed sex life, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to get in any deeper with her than he already was. And post-fuck conversation was a hell of a lot more dangerous than the sex. So while she got the water, he dealt with the condom and stoked the fire.

He watched her cross the room toward him, two glasses of ice water in her hands. He was impressed with how casual she was being naked. He was impressed by how uninhibited she was making love.

He was impressed. Period.

The million-dollar question was, where the hell did he take it from here?

7

Tommi handed Mac his water and sat down beside him. “That was a first, you know,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“A double orgasm. That’s never happened to me before.” She turned her dreamy blue eyes full on him. “You knew exactly when to…”

He drank some water. For some damned reason, his neck was hot.

“I’ve embarrassed you.”

“You always so talkative after sex?”

“When I have orgasms like that, I am.” She tilted her head, looked amused. “I guess I figured inquiring minds would like to know.” She paused, frowned. “I’d forgotten how shy you were.”

He laughed. Shy, he wasn’t. There was just something about Tommi. “That was a long time ago. I was a kid.” He set his water glass down and pulled her over to sit between his legs, her back to his chest. Jesus, the second her ass collided with his cock, he sprouted like a goddamn magic beanstalk. It was his turn to smile. Maybe he was still a kid, when it came to Tommi. “Speaking as a man, I’m delighted to hear about your double orgasm—and envious as hell.”

She smiled at that and settled against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His brain damn near melted when the scents of sex and shampoo wafted up his nose. He covered her breasts with his hands, and kissed her hair. Roses, her shampoo smelled like roses. He started to play with her nipples and she sighed, snuggled back into him. A sigh was good. A moan was better. He slipped his hand between her legs, played inside her cleft. In seconds he had his moan.

“I gave you a rose once, did you know that?” he whispered against her ear. Where in hell had that come from? Wherever it was, he wanted to shove it back.

She covered his hand with hers, held it still, and turned to look at him, her misty eyes going sharp. “I don’t remember.”

Hell! “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Tell me.”

When she got to her knees and turned to face him, it was his turn to sigh. Damn big mouth. “I was fourteen, maybe fifteen.” He stopped, twisted his lips. “You came for dinner. It was your birthday. You were leaving the next day.”

“When I was nineteen! I remember. It was the day before I moved to Seattle. It was kind of a good-bye for me and…Hugh.”

“Right.” A good-bye that brought Hugh to his knees. That night he’d seen his brother cry. He’d never forgotten it.

“But I don’t remember a rose,” she said, prodding him to continue.

“It was red. I sneaked in before dinner and left it on your plate.” Jesus, his neck was heating up again. What the hell was wrong with him?