Bayou Bad Boys (24 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bayou Bad Boys
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Rubbing the tired muscles in her lower back, she got up and headed for the house. There was still light, but she was beat. It was Peggy who offered to bring her dinner to her room, and Esme accepted gratefully, her thoughts on a leisurely, warm bath.
Close to nine, there was a knock on her door. Peggy to pick up the tray, she assumed. She tightened the sash on her robe and opened the door.
Dane's eyes swept over her. “Can I talk you into a brandy on my deck?”
Esme was so surprised to see him, she had trouble finding her voice. “I thought you were away . . . for a couple of days.”
“I came back early.” He lounged in the open doorway. “Because you're here.” He'd obviously just showered because his dark hair was damp and caught shine from the light in the hallway behind him. His eyes slid down, over her cotton robe to her bare feet. “You're ready for bed,” he said, his voice intoning nothing, his eyebrows arched. “Which is either convenient for me—or another test of my willpower.”
Feeling oddly disoriented, Esme scrunched up the front of her robe and held it tightly closed under her chin, as if she were a nun facing the devil himself. She had no idea why, because what she really wanted to do was throw herself into this particular devil's arms and let modesty—and any lingering reluctance—be damned. “I was thinking about going to bed,” she said. “Until you showed up at my door.”
“Now, what are you thinking about?” Not waiting for her answer, he touched the hand holding her robe closed and pried it open. He undid the sash, watched the robe fall open to reveal her gray silk night shift. Scoop necked, mid-thigh, and whisper light, it was her favorite sleep wear. “Nice,” he said, his voice low. “Soft cotton on the outside, slick silk on the inside.” He touched the rolled edge at the neck of the shift, studied it a moment, then pulled his hand back. His expression grew intense, locked with hers. “How about that brandy?”
“I don't often drink brandy.”
“Another taboo? Like the no-fuck rule?”
She smiled. “I might get . . . careless, drop my defenses.”
“I should be so lucky.” He smiled back.
“Give me a second to change and I—”
“You don't need to change.” He slid his eyes over her. “You're dressed perfectly for . . . a nightcap.”
Esme looked up at him, saw the deep sensual light in his eyes, knew exactly what he meant by a nightcap. “We're talking about sex, aren't we?”
“I haven't thought about anything else all day. But not just sex. Sex with
you
.” He ran a finger along her jaw. “I want you, under me, over me, and any other way that suits us both.”
She hesitated, tried to think, while his demanding gaze, easy touch, and her own clamoring hormones made hash of her logic. Damn it! She didn't know him any better tonight than she did yesterday—except for her home movie. If she did this, went to his room now, it would be rash, crazy—the most foolish thing she'd ever done.
Dane began a new pattern with his finger, drew it down, under her ear to her throat, down again, stopping at the neckline of her silk shift.
She swallowed . . . decided every woman should be foolish—at least once in her life—especially when a man like Dane McCoy came along. She pulled in a breath, and with a short prayer to the angel up there who supervised the Sexual Affairs department, she said, “I hope it's good brandy.”
He took her hand. “The best.”
The inside of his room—no, Esme thought, looking around the spacious interior, the right word was suite, which was subtly decorated in chocolate and cream and with as little furniture in it as was necessary. Surprisingly ascetic, she thought. Dane closed his bedroom door, strode to the wall on the far side of the bed, and turned on the stereo. Soft piano jazz joined with the moonlight coming in through the high windows to fill the room.
He handed her a brandy. “Are you nervous?” he asked, sipping his drink and looking as if he had all the time in the world.
“No. I think I'm more surprised than anything.”
“Surprised?”
“That I'm here, in your room. So soon.” She paused, took a breath. “And given how impetuous this is—at least for me—I think it's important we're clear about our expectations.” And, God, didn't she sound cool and composed, as if her heart weren't racing, her blood roaring at the sight of him—while he studied her, looking as casual as a customer in a fast-food line with a two-hour lunch.
She went on. “When this is over, we pretend it never happened. No strings. No telephone calls”—she gestured toward the computer in the corner of his room—“no e-mails. Nothing. We'll be having sex, pure and simple. A natural human expression in response to—” She stopped, knew she was babbling.
“Lust at first sight?” He eyed her quizzically, then his brow furrowed. “Are you always this detached about making love?”
“I don't know what you mean.” She moved away from him.
“I mean, do you always over-think it, analyze the outcome ten ways to Sunday?” He sipped his brandy, kept his eyes on her, and waited for her answer—all the while looking vaguely amused.
Esme had no trouble seeing the effect his inscrutable and unblinking gaze would have on his competitors, no trouble seeing how he'd become so successful. Because she had no idea what he was seeing—or what he was thinking. “If you mean, am I cautious?” she said. “Yes. Always.”
And growing increasingly uneasy with your questions.
She prided herself on her openness, her knowledge of sex, her possession of sexual skills that had more than satisfied lovers in the past—and would no doubt satisfy this one. “Does that bother you?” She lifted her chin.
He shook a slow negative. “Not unless you take that caution to bed. There's always the chance the . . .
detachment
required to do your job as a therapist has”—he took a step toward her, and moonlight pierced the amber liquid in his glass, gave it a dull glow—“has blunted your own hunger. Made having sex pure textbook.”
“I don't—”
He touched her mouth and shook his head again. “Don't say anything. I'll answer my own question . . . soon enough.” He finished his brandy, set his glass beside hers on the table. “But if what you want, to set your mind at rest, is a ‘no-strings' addendum, you've got it.” He let his eyes wander over her, his gaze explicit and half-lidded. “Because right now, I'm prepared to give you exactly what you want.”
“So you can get what you want,” she stated, eyeing him closely.
He gave her one of his half smiles. “Exactly.”
“Then we agree; what's between us is sex. Only sex,” she repeated, a surge of something a lot like panic rushing up her throat. “We're moving far too fast for it to be anything else.”
“ ‘Fast?'” he echoed, giving her an amazed look. “Hell, if it had been up to me, I'd have had you naked two seconds after you walked off my plane.” His eyes darkened.
He didn't touch her. And, God, she wanted him to touch her.
So she touched him, his damp hair, the lean strong cords in his neck, his powerful shoulders. Leaving her hands to rest palm-flat against the wall of his chest, she said, “It's up to you now, Dane McCoy.” She kissed his jaw, the side of his neck.
His intake of breath was sharp and deep. “I take it we're done talking the business end of this relationship?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank God,” he murmured. He gripped her shoulders, vise-like, and pulled her hard to his body. He took her mouth hungrily, his tongue tasting all of her, hers tasting all of him, deeply, wetly. The heat was instant, trembling, and their bodies fused, one into the other.
Dane pulled back, took her face in his hands, and dipped his head. “If we don't slow this down, it's going to be no fun at all.” A brief dark smile crossed his mouth. “I guess you know by now ‘detachment' isn't one of my strengths.” He slid his warm hands under the lapels of her robe, shoved it from her shoulders.
The next moment, he'd grasped the hem of her shift and pulled it over her head, let it fall to join her robe on the floor. The moment after that she was cradled in his arms, being carried naked to his giant bed.
He settled her in the center of it, stood back, and started to strip off his clothes—and he didn't waste any time doing it.
His shoulders were broad, his body lean and fit—his erection. . . breathtaking. He gazed down at her in time to see her look at him and blink. “Standard equipment,” he said, his tone gruff.
If what Dane had was standard equipment, Esme had been spending way too much time at the mini-market. Dane must have been the envy of every guy in the locker room.
When he was stretched out beside her, he nuzzled her ear, then raised himself over her to look down into her eyes. Esme forced her unruly heart to ease back a notch, find a steadier beat, but it resisted, pounded harder, seemed to grow under the intensity of his gaze until it felt too big for her chest. He blew some hair off her forehead, smoothed tendrils behind an ear.
She waited for the usual words a man said to a woman freshly naked and in his arms . . .
God, you're beautiful
. . . and waited, and waited.
“One of your earlobes is smaller than the other,” he said, and ran a finger along the shell of her ear. “Did you know that?”
“Uh . . . no.”
He kissed her ear. “This one,” he murmured, and his breath, skittering along her neck, had the odd effect of making her eyes close.
“Good to kno—”
“Shush, no talking. You can make notes later.”
“I don't under—”
He took her mouth again, shutting her down, making her breath rise, spin, and stall in her throat. He ran a hand down between her breasts, over to squeeze her waist, then slid it over the outside of her thigh, up the inside, briefly touching her mound. His hand was hot, the pressure of it expert and strong, and under the heat of it, she started to open for him.
“No, not yet. Keep your legs closed. No matter what I do, keep them closed.”
Esme, dimly aware she was in bed with a man who made his own rules, nodded, met his gaze, tried to see him through the sensual fog that came and went across her line of vision.
He slid his hand up the front of her thigh, pressed his palm against her pubis, then gently probed the tight juncture at the apex of her thighs with one deft finger. Feeling his way to her clitoris, he stroked it slow and easy, building pressure, and breathless pleasure, with each precise rub and swirl of his finger.
Esme gasped and bucked.
In the limited space between her closed legs, everything was pressure, heavy and demanding; everything was confined, uncomfortably, frustratingly caged. She throbbed, tried to thrust herself up, open for him, but he straddled her, his strong legs on either side of hers, a vise, holding them together.
“Dane . . .” She looked up at him, knew her need was in her eyes. “Let me—”
He shook his head, brushed his mouth over hers, then took both her wrists in one hand and held them fast above her head. He didn't stop, neither the warm kisses across her throat and shoulders, nor the mind-numbing rub of his finger, dipping in and out of her tight crevice, making her ache all the while, forcing her to take it, legs closed.
His every move was smooth, expert, and in a distant part of her mind she remembered Marilee saying something about her brother not liking women. Well, if how he was pleasuring her was any indication, Dane McCoy had
liked
more than his share.
“You're wet,” he said, his voice low. “All honeyed.” He took his finger from her crease, slowly ringed her jutting nipple with it, then bent to her breast and suckled her, taking her deep and luxuriously.
His mouth drawing on her, she nearly came off the bed. Delirious, she fought him, desperate to spread herself, feel the warm air on her exposed vulva, feel
him
on her vulva. Still, he kept her pinned beneath him, immobile, desire whipping through her, a hot wind, swirling and fierce, unrelentingly contained.
He moved over her, rested the weight of his erection against her mound, making sensual primitive moves she knew tortured him as much as they tortured her.
He lifted his head, moistened her dry lips with his tongue and kissed her deeply, then he slid down—let his length and hardness rest in the valley created by her closed thighs—and gave his attention to her other breast, pulling the nipple deep into his mouth, lapping at it with his tongue.
Esme felt another rush between her legs, and lifted herself to him, crazed and increasingly desperate, every fiber and nerve in her body fire-driven and scorched.
“Now,” Dane growled from somewhere above her.
She looked at him, so dazed she couldn't understand what he meant.

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