Crazy For You (22 page)

Almost.

There was a part of her that wasn’t cooperating, that was still a little mind-whacked that she was with Nick, that wouldn’t give up hanging on to reason, that wouldn’t give up
thinking.
His mouth would move on her breast, and she’d go under, loving it, squirming under him as the dark closed in, and then she’d remember,
wait a minute, this is Nick,
and she’d feel herself break through the surface,
do I really want to do this? the hassle could be enormous,
and then he’d suck harder, or bite her shoulder, or yank her zipper down—
oh, god, that feels good
—and she’d go under, mindless until logic would pop her to the surface again,
are we sure about this? is this something I’ll regret?
After half an hour, she felt like a fishing float. What did they call them? Bobbers, that was it. She felt like a—

Nick slid his hand into her underpants and she went under again, only to bob up again in a minute when he shifted to yank her jeans down.

Okay, I’m pretty sure this is what I want, it’s why I came over here, but Zoe is going to kill me
—

Actually Zoe wasn’t her problem, it was this concentration thing: lust or logic, lust or logic. If she didn’t get her mind around one or the other soon, she was going to go crazy from carnal whiplash.

She really wanted the logic, she decided as Nick tugged her jeans down past her knees, the part of her that could step back and say coolly, “Well, he’s a little rough, but he seems to know his way around a vulva,” the part that wouldn’t go into the dark beckoning void she started to slide toward if she wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had sex before, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had orgasms before, plenty of them, lovely little vanilla orgasms, and now there was Nick and he seemed to be dealing in dark chocolate and she just wasn’t sure she was the dark chocolate
type
and if not—

Nick licked her stomach and went lower, and she let her head roll back and dumped logic for a minute. Then she shoved his head away so she could kick her feet free of her jeans without braining him, and he stripped off his shirt and pants, and they were naked. He was gorgeous, lovely and lean and loosely muscled, reaching for her—

“Well, this is different for us,” she told him brightly, trying to be urbane and cope with the situation as he rolled against her.

Oh, hell, we’re naked,

“Different, fine,” he said, his voice husky and his eyes unfocused, and he pulled her close on top of him—all that hair on his chest where Bill had been smooth—and slid his hand down her stomach so that her mind flipped and flopped—
lovely hands, really
—slid his hand between her thighs so that she lost a good five minutes just moving against him—
yes, there
—his fingers slipping inside her—
don’t stop
—he rolled on top of her, the stroke and the pressure of his hand dragging her under again—

This is Nick,
logic said.
Isn’t this interesting? Note the differences from the other times
—

She felt him lean across her, his weight squashing the about her lungs—
not very erotic
—and then realized he was going for a condom in the bed table drawer—
there, see, a gentleman
—

And then he spread her legs with his hips, his hand slipping between them, making her crazy, mindless again, his fingers finally parting her—
wait a minute
—and then he was inside her, and she arched under him because it was so good being filled like that, solid, hard, and full, arched to take all of him she could, digging her nails into his shoulders because he felt so amazingly good.

He said something, choked it out, and she couldn’t hear through the haze of heat, but the sound of his voice was enough to get her mind back.

Am I doing this right?

He thrust harder inside her and she fell into him again and then climbed back out—
let’s not lose our heads here
— then he moved again and she went back to heat and shudder and rhythm—his rhythm—
I think I’m off a beat, if he ‘d slow down, I could catch up, it’s sort of a rumba
—She’d never had second thoughts like this before in bed, but she’d never been this terrified and bedazzled, either. A woman could lose control doing this. Imagine the problems that could lead to.

Nick moved higher up her body and rocked into her, and she lost herself again, only to reel herself back because she should be doing something productive, surely he was used to more, all those agile twentysomethings he’d dated,
and I could stand to lose a few pounds, too, well, ten, not a few
—

He slid out of her, and she clutched at him, but he kissed her hard, then moved down to take her breast just as hard, then moved lower to bite her stomach and lick into her—so
wet,
she thought,
why would he want
—and then his tongue found her and she writhed under the shock, his hands held her hips in place and she couldn’t bring her mind back any more, he was too much, and she moved into the tension he was building, crying out mindlessly as the dark loomed in front of her. She was going to fall if he didn’t stop—
don’t stop
—and then he did, and she reeled herself back, grateful and disappointed until he slid up her body again and plunged into her hard. He rocked into her, saying
yes
in her ear, not gloating at all—
Oh, God, Quinn,
he said—and made her clutch inside, made her twist against him, and she caught herself once more—
what are you doing? you’re out of control
—before he ripped her back down to his darkness, his hand rough on her face, his eyes black from being tight inside her. He said,
“Come on!”
through clenched teeth, and she looked into his eyes and he was
Nick,
and that was all she needed to break under him, shocked and startled, fast and sharp and hard.

Then he collapsed against her, and she clutched him as she tried to remember how to breathe. He slid off her body, letting his hand slip across her stomach where he’d been, down between her legs so she moaned, up to her breast so she rolled to feel the pressure. Then he leaned over and kissed her breast—she curled into him—and then her mouth—he tasted hot and strange and delicious—and then she let her mind come back permanently while he rolled over on his back beside her.

“My God,” Quinn said.

It was hard to feel depressed after good sex, but he was managing it. It had been a great idea, sleep with her once, kill the magic, go to work the next morning a new man, free of all those stupid fantasies once he knew that she was just like all the other women, lovely, fun, worthwhile, but still one of a series, women who’d slept with Nick Ziegler.

Except she was still a mystery, and he wanted her again.

Get out of this bed,
he told himself, but his hand went to her anyway, she was so hot and round, and he raised himself up on his elbow, so tired it took all his energy just to look.

She didn’t look like Quinn, not with short tousled hair, not naked and flushed with sex, not curled next to him mindless and sated. She looked exotic and erotic, she radiated heat, she was the kind of woman every man wanted to fuck, and he wanted her again. He studied her body, trying to make her ordinary, gauged the slope of her breast, noted the faint appendix scar on the swell of her stomach, measured the thickness of her hips, not a perfect body, not unless you wanted to sink into those hips, not unless you wanted a woman who was lush with flesh, hot and strong and giving. He slid his hand down her stomach so he could watch her arch and moan like any woman—
Make her real,
he thought,
make her like anyone else
—but she blushed and curled toward him instead, covering her breasts with her arm, using her thigh to push away his hand, modest after everything they’d done, and he wasn’t tired any more.

“Nope,” he said and pulled her arm away. He bent to take her breast in his mouth, felt her nipple harden on his tongue, the heat from her body on his hand, and she was so soft as she shuddered under his touch that he tightened his hand on her to feel her flesh mound between his fingers. He slid his hand down her back, bumping over vertebrae as he sucked and made her sigh, curved down to the round fullness of her butt, pulled her close to touch her everywhere, all his fantasies made flesh, wanting her under him and open again, wanting her soft and round and wet and moaning. He kissed her hard, stroked down her stomach, slipped his hand between her legs, and looked at her and looked at her and looked at her, taking her all over again with his eyes.

“You’re staring,” she whispered, and grabbed at his hand, trying to pretend she wasn’t dizzy and only looking dizzier because she was pretending. Confused by the heat, she was gloriously vulnerable and absolutely his.

“I get to stare,” he said. “It’s my bed. I get you any way I want.” He thought about rolling her over, pushing against her firm butt, cupping her full breasts from behind; about pulling her down to straddle him on the end of the bed, impaling her while he took her breasts with his mouth; about going down on her, licking into her, tasting how hot and wet and sweet she was, driving her mindless—

She leaned up suddenly and kissed him, surprising him as she slipped her tongue into his mouth, and then she pushed him down onto his back and pinned him to the bed, all soft flesh and searching hands, biting his lip, moving against him. When he laughed and looked up at her, suddenly she looked like Quinn again, only Quinn transformed, her eyes dilated with lust, her mouth bruised and red because he’d taken it so hard so many times, Quinn looking debauched, like she’d been thoroughly had, done, laid, screwed, bit, sucked, and fucked—

“Jesus, you’re beautiful,”
he said and took her mouth, her body hot under his hands, his hands tight on her flesh, full of her flesh,
this is mine,
wanting to make her part of him, take her, claim her, absorb her, invade her,
keep her
—

He stopped, his breath rasping, appalled at the way he wanted her and wanting her anyway. Keep her?

Get out.

He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see what he was giving up and rolled his hips to tip her off and then rolled the other way to sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m starving,” he said, reaching for his pants, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “How about a pizza?”

Quinn struggled to sit up, ungainly in her surprise, still coming back from the heat. It took everything he had not to jump her again.

“Pizza?” she said, disbelieving, and he tossed her sweater to her so he wouldn’t have to look at how amazing she was naked.

“We burned up a lot of fuel,” he said, making his voice chipper. “Any preferences?”

“Preferences.” She sat there naked with the sweater in her lap, and he turned away from her so he wouldn’t have any more stupid thoughts.

“Pepperoni, mushroom—”

“I’m not hungry,” she said flatly.

“Well, I am.” He escaped into the living room, shoving all naked memories of her away, and tried to figure out how the hell he was going to get her out of his apartment. Maybe he could send her out for pizza and then move. That would be right up there with the rest of his bright ideas lately.

But when she came out fully dressed five minutes later, she picked up her coat without prompting.

“I’m going to go now,” she said, “but I have to tell you, your finish needs work. Really lousy, Ziegler.”

He was torn between feeling insulted and feeling relieved. “Hey, you came.”

“I was being polite,” she snapped, and stomped out the door.

“You were not,” he yelled after her. He’d felt her give under him, felt her arch and shudder and go soft till there wasn’t anything left in her, and he’d had to work damn hard to get her there, too. He tried to feel aggrieved, but all he could feel was how great it had been to work that hard on Quinn’s body.

Quinn’s body.

“The hell with it,” he said, and went to shower and change his sheets, determined to get her completely out of his apartment forever.

He took a deep breath and rubbed his head which had started to ache again. Then he put the car in gear. He’d drive by her house to make sure she got home all right, home to her dad and Darla, home where she’d laugh and talk more, without him, but that was all right, because they’d be together soon.

He’d see to it.