Forever (5 page)

Switching on the ignition he said, “Nothing like a couple of pain killers washed down with some chocolate milk to stave off a hangover, sweetheart. I don’t want you crashing on me before we’re done.”

Really? His concern was touching, even if it was all about him. “And the lubricant?”

“Didn’t know how adventurous you were, Amy, until you took that stage.”

Her pussy, already wet, gushed, and she fought to get a full breath. “That was new for me. I’ve only watched before.” Breathless, she still forced the protest out.

“New, but you’ve been thinking, fantasizing. We’ll see how we go.”

An experienced man. Hopefully as interested in her pleasure as his own.

“I’ll take care of you.” A dark, sultry promise in response to the words she hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud.

“Turn into the far side of the drive and get right up to the bumper of my car. The neighbor will have you towed if you put a hint of tire on his side or kiss the sidewalk.”

Dean parked where she bade him, coming up nicely short of her beloved Audi Cabriolet, her on
ly extravagance and one she’d paid dearly for in more ways than one. “I’ll deal with your neighbor.”

She laughed and opened her own door, stepping out with her purse in one hand, the plastic sack hanging from the other. She didn’t need a gentleman. He joined her on the sidewalk, catching her arm. “Something funny?”

“When do you suppose you’re gonna deal with him?” Slipping his hold, she made her way up the walk and rammed the key inside the lock, knowing she was inviting her own personal sexual vampire inside. He’d drain her dry and move on. Nothing she hadn’t known beforehand and nothing she couldn’t surmount if she worked hard at it. This was sex—pure fucking—and there was nothing different or special about it. Wishful thinking wasn’t a crime, but a dire disappointment.

Chapter Two

Dean followed her into the brightly lit little house, the solid
-wood door shutting firmly behind them. He’d noted it was a square box of a place, wooden siding, turn of the century, with shutters edging the windows at the front. It didn’t suit Amy Copeland. She should be surrounded with upscale, clean contemporary lines, a hint of kitsch to speak to that side of her he saw on that stage. The unexpected. And all of this introspective thinking wasn’t easing the painful thrust of his cock.

She’d paused at a keypad just inside the entry
. Noting the two deadbolts and the security system, his interest was piqued. Women living alone wanted to feel safe, but this spoke of fear, or total awareness of the monsters lurking everywhere. His last words to her played back in his head, that he’d deal with her neighbor. Her warning about the man had woken a protective instinct within him, something he didn’t feel unless it involved the job. She was right. He wouldn’t be around to intercede on her behalf if the neighbor acted like an asshole. Or around to find out why she took her security so seriously. Funny how that didn’t sit right—neither part of it. But he didn’t take care of women anymore.

Setting his boots beside her shoes, he took in the surroundings. The place had recently been painted in a soothing shade of green, the hardwood floors refinished. A huge desk took up most of the living space, two of them actually, pushed together, a laptop and a PC on the surface, a pile of paper and a container stuffed with pens and highlighters. The drapes were tightly closed, and there was nothing on the walls to draw the eye. There was only one chair, an armless thing, sort of like a chaise lounge, aside from the one on rollers at the desk. No television. He hoped she at least had a bed.

The open concept kitchen, clearly a recent renovation, appeared spotless, only the bag from the pharmacy cluttering the counter, where she’d placed it. A granite-topped island delineated the area from the living room, but the appliances and cabinets were standard. Amy stood by the island, tossing something into her mouth, chasing it with the chocolate milk straight out of the carton. Taking the aspirin, ensuring her stamina as he planned. He watched her throat work and surreptitiously palmed his crotch. He planned to shove his cock down that throat as deep as she could take him, in very short order.

Tossing the carton into the trash can in the corner, she faced him, tongue hooking out to chase an errant drop of milk. She smiled. One of those powerful, feminine smiles he never allowed his women.

“Come here.”

A slow blink, a rise and fall of long lashes over those violet eyes, and the smile softened. She walked to him, long legs scissoring, breasts gently lifting and falling with each breath, and he lost himself in his need. Lost his control, knowing it showed. Her eyes widened
, but she kept her smile. Equal. He allowed her that for now. They came together, mouths crashing, lips mashing against teeth, tongues dueling. He fisted one hand in her thick hair to anchor her against his sensual assault until he pulled away to breathe. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, and when her eyes fluttered open they were dazed with lust and lack of oxygen, the purple hue soft, lighter than the flowers of the same color.

“Do you have a bed?” He hardly recognized his own voice
, raspy with lust and dark need.

“Door on the left.” Hers was barely above a whisper.

Dean snagged the bag on the way by, dragging her along with him, reluctant to release her for an instant. She pushed open the door she’d indicated and flicked on the light switch. Her hand trembled and he could
feel
the desire rolling off her like a tangible thing.

Two small lamps beside the bed illuminated a room sharply contrasting with the austerity of the rest of the house, very different from the kitchen and the work space. This w
as a retreat, a cocoon. A queen-sized bed predominated, a tall, brass headboard and foot board anchoring it to the hardwood floor, the thick nap of an area rug squaring off the perimeter. A puffy, white comforter scattered with tiny, white flowers covered the mattress. Several pillows layered the head of it, a small black stuffed animal tucked into their midst. A chair with classic lines filled one corner. He took his surroundings in with the skill of long, necessary practice before his attention was wrenched back to Amy.

Setting her crossed hands at her waist she tugged the bottom of her shirt up and over her head, tossing it across the chair. Busy fingers worked her jeans button and zipper, next pushing them down the long length of her legs. She stepped out and kicked them aside
, then advanced on him. The pink lace of her bra didn’t cover the darker points of her nipples, and the little briefs clung to her wet apex. The evidence of her need further diminished his control. Dean impatiently yanked his shirt out of his jeans and popped at least one button taking it off. His jeans barely cleared his ass before she was on him, her silken length a sensory explosion against his skin. They tussled for control, falling crossways across the bed, the comforter huffing beneath their combined weight.

He pinned her wrists above her head, feeling the fine bones under his hand. Looming over her to stare into her eyes, searching for something
, maybe a reason for his need to pursue her, his physical need superseded it. She panted beneath him, small whimpering sounds emerging on every exhale. Easing the fine chain of her necklace aside, setting his lips on the pulse beating at the base of her throat, he suckled her, then traced a path with his tongue to the point between her breasts where her bra thwarted him. He popped the front clasp with his thumb and her mounds spilled forth, pushing the cups aside, umber nipples beaded into tight points. His mouth closed around one tip, a hand molding the other breast, fingers rolling and pulling the bud. Amy whimpered louder and arched into his touch, her legs writhing to push between his, her heels hooking over his ankles.

He couldn’t hold back, and released her hands to slide down her body, kissing and licking a path to her underwear, slipping them down over her hips and off her body as he knelt between her legs. A swollen, pink pussy was unveiled, wet and welcoming, the scent fresh as the sea. Fuck. He wasn’t coming in his shorts like a teenager with his first impending lay. The box of condoms resisted his fumbling hands, the cardboard finally tearing, a shower of foil packages spraying to fall over them like confetti at the Super Bowl. Ripping open a package, Dean pushed his boxers down and sheathed himself, wincing at the sensitivity of his begging cock.

Amy spread her legs wider, labia parting in invitation to reveal slick, red, inner lips, and he literally mounted her, a stallion in rut, resting his weight on one hand planted beside her, the other guiding his erection to notch it at her gate.

Incredible, wet heat engulfed his cockhead, sucking at it like a little mouth
, and he pushed against the outer ring guarding her entrance, gaining entry with some difficulty. She was soaked, wet and slippery but so very tight, the walls of her sheath grudgingly parting to allow him deeper access, squeezing him, making him pant with the effort to hold off his release. Sweat beaded on his brow and broke out at the base of his spine. At last he was seated to the hilt, balls cradled against the curve of her buttocks. Amy moaned beneath him, her hands fluttering the length of his back, soft, full thighs rising to grip his hips. When her calves locked behind his knees, her hands settling flat against his shoulders, Dean reacted to the way she held him, close, wrapping him up. For a moment he gloried in this feeling so
right
, like coming home, before his brain automatically rejected the intimacy and his lust took command.

Thrusting deeper, withdrawing and pushing back to open her wide to his demands, he fucked her hard, without mercy, dislodging her tender hold on him, taking control, stripping away her power. He pounded her into the mattress, mindless with sexual need, grappling against a greater necessity he couldn’t begin to identify. His anus tingled and his balls drew up in preparation to spend themselves. He managed to get a hand between them, seeking the engorged nub of her clit, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. He forced her climax seconds before he came, her channel clenching around him in a long, slow, flinching kiss of liquid heat,
a low cry wrenched from her throat.

Dripping with sweat, he pushed up and struggled to stand, pulling Amy’s apparently boneless form with him, holding her up while he stripped the comforter and top sheet back, dislodging the throw pillows to scatter across the floor. He rolled with her onto the mattress lengthwise and laid his head on a pillow with relief. Amy rested beside him, their hips and shoulders touching, skin cooling.

She didn’t speak, not a single comment on his performance, no sweet nothings. It irked him, because he didn’t want her to be different than all the other women who praised his prowess, yet it soothed him at the same time. She just breathed, in sync with him, as though there was no need to speak about what they’d just shared. And, in truth, he didn’t want to try and find the words.

After a few minutes she slipped from the bed
, and he watched her tall, curvaceous body cross the room to pass through the doorway, full buttocks flexing, two small dimples resting right above them. He longed to press a kiss on those tender indentations. His cock stirred at both the thought and the sight, and he shut his eyes in mute protest.

He should be thinking about getting up and finding his clothes, or planning round two, not resting comfortably and complacently in this woman’s bed. Like he had all the time in the world. He wasn’t resistant to change. His business was always changing, and he needed to be flexible, but this was different.

Amy came back, wrapped in a pale pink robe, wiping her hands on a pink towel. She lay back down after tossing him the towel and sighed.

Breaking the silence, he asked, “Bathroom?”

“Right across the hall.”

Was she regretting the sex? Wishing she hadn’t brought him home? Holy fuck, he was second
-guessing himself like a callow youth. Before he kissed her and revealed any more, he took himself off to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Disposing of the condom, he washed up and struggled not to react to the explosion of color. The bathroom was pink. Really pink. Baby pink walls, bright pink towels, sprays of pink flowers embellished on the shower curtain, fluffy, pink bath mat. Even the soap holder was pink. Who
was
Amy Copeland? And why did he care? This would be over soon, although he was thankfully considering round two, thinking he rushed round one.

The man reflected in the mirror looked the same, if out of place in this pink room. There was no momentous change to note, nothing obvious, and he pushed any thought of her being different far away. The thought of peeling Amy out of that robe strongly appealed, and his cock shifted from its crouching rest against his thigh. Stiff cock, no conscience and all that.

****

Holy shit.
That
wasn’t what she’d expected. Somehow she figured the man would rip her clothes off and explore her, do her and be done with her. Amy hadn’t missed the fraction of closeness that went past pure carnal interest, like they knew one another from someplace else. She dismissed her fanciful thoughts. He reacted adversely to that weird connection and damn near put her through the mattress with his fucking. Being taken so fiercely by a man, with such determination, yet with a care to her pleasure was a novel experience. But he’d be planning his exit strategy. Hell, he didn’t need one of those, having already set the parameters. She knew it and went into this with eyes wide open. Raising her protective barriers against the expected rejection she slipped deeper inside her head and once again drifted.

The bed dipped and her eyes popped open at the touch of his hand on her calf, stroking upward. An enigmatic look drifted across his face as his other hand tugged at the sash on her robe. The tie fell away and the material parted at his urging to reveal her nakedness beneath. Silvery grey eyes darkened and his cock tapped his belly, the broad head nearly purple, glistening with precum. Again? Well, she’d deal with the rejection later, not at all reluctant to fuck this man again. It was just one memorable night to hold against all the anticipated empty ones in her future.

“Get up, sweetheart.”

Amy obligingly swung her legs off the mattress as Dean stood to give her room. She squirmed upright and he yanked the sash from the robe as he pulled the garment from her body. He leaned in for a kiss, big hands sliding down her arms to coax
them behind her back, the terrycloth sash wrapping around both wrists. Kissing her, tying her hands by feel. The man could multitask, and her former arousal returned in a rush. Her sex drew up and soaked with a renewal of her cream, and her breasts became heavy, nipples hardening, aching.

Dean whispered his tongue over hers and drew away. She opened her eyes to see him crouch to scoop up a throw pillow and
plant it at his feet. He gestured and she dropped to her knees, grateful for the softness, appreciating how he held her shoulders to ensure she didn’t land without support. His pulsing cock was at the perfect height, aligned with her mouth and Amy made to lean into it. Dean forestalled her, working his hands through her hair, holding her in place.

“I’m clean. I don’t fuck without a condom.”

She nodded.

“Pool your saliva and then open. Tilt your head back.”