Hot Spot (9 page)

Less prone to introspection, Danny only welcomed her interest and lay back, prepared to enjoy the experience. Although if pressed he would have had to admit, when her mouth closed over his cock, he felt a kick-ass jolt unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It was flame-hot electrifying, and if he didn't know better, he might have bought into that touchy-feely sappiness about soul-stirring affinity. But that they both had a passion for comics probably didn't matter as much as her passion for cock. And he had a real weakness for tongue action like that and a woman who liked sex as much as, if not more than, he did.

Now that was compatibility. Screw soul-stirring vibes.

The phone rang and then some damnable answering machine kicked in, the mike on. "This is Buddy! I see your truck outside!"

Stella began to lift her head.

"It can wait." Danny held her head in place.

But it turned out to be a major distraction, because Buddy kept talking and talking like drunks did.

But not a
total
distraction—this close to orgasm. Danny tightened his grip.

Stella's options were limited. Although, in her current shameless rut, being held captive did predictable things to her libido. Go figure. You have a hunky, wet-dream kind of man in your bed, and you're not thinking about hearts and flowers.

Aware of the continuing drone of Buddy's voice, but equally selfish, she swayed her hips in a small, frenzied rhythm as she sucked and licked his rock-hard penis, her thighs gripped together tightly to augment her rising pleasure. And sweetheart that he was, he noticed, slipped two fingers up her cunt, and in the best multitasker fashion, brought her to climax in a perfecdy matched orgasm.

They lay panting afterward, the ridiculous sound of Buddy's unending monologue echoing in the room, his party-on message persistent.

Meeting her gaze, Danny grimaced. "Why me?"

"Us," Stella gasped.

"I don't suppose—you feel like turning that off?"

"Not… this—instant."

"Shit." The sound of a car door slamming came in through the open window. "That better not be them," Danny growled.

"We're takin' off for your place," Buddy's drawling cadence went on through the scratchy speakers, followed by a list of companions who would be joining him at Danny's.

"Not me." Stella recognized Megan's voice in the background.

"I'll be there!" The sex kitten resonance was audible even through the poor speakers of Stella's aged answering machine.

"See you at the farm—chop, chop. Over and out," Buddy declared in his slightly slurred intonation. The machine finally stopped, the roar of a motor punctuated the night, and the room went silent.

"So much for any plans we might have," Danny muttered.

"What happens if you don't show up?"

"God only knows. When Buddy's half lit, he's a bulldozer. He sure as hell will call again at least twice, and he might even decide to show up here and give us trouble. So the sooner I get home, the less chance there is of him making a scene in your neighborhood." Danny blew out a frustrated breath. "You're welcome to come along. If you're tired though," he added, glancing at his watch, "I understand."

She wouldn't be a member of the female gender if she let a first-class stud like Danny Rees go partying with Kirsty and her double D's. Not that she was necessarily planting her personal flag on him and taking territorial possession after a few hours in bed. It was more about thwarting that smug look in Kirsty's eyes. You know the one—
I'm drop-dead gorgeous, and my double D's have pretty much gotten me any man I've ever wanted
.

That fucking look.

So call her a shrew, but Stella wasn't in the mood to hand over one studly Danny Rees just because Kirsty thought she was top dog.

Then again, maybe it had nothing to do with peer position. Maybe it had more to do with the position that put Danny Rees' big cock in very close proximity to her happy-camper cunt.

Wasn't there a saying about sex making the world go round?

Or was it love?

Whatever.

Tonight—for her—it was definitely sex. "I'd love to come over," she replied in one of those slightly overplayed soap opera voices that the sweet female character always used. "But why don't I follow you over in my car so you're not inconvenienced."

She smiled and hoped her sweet-as-sugar thingee was flying. Because the inconveniencing was more about her than him.

She wanted to be able to leave when she wanted.

Like a Marky B-type woman.

Take what you want and then fly off. Or in her case, get in her Jetta.

Leaving after sex wasn't
exclusively
a male prerogative.

Except—shit… that meant leaving Kirsty behind.

She'd have to think about that.

STELLA LEFT AFTER DANNY, BUT HIS DIRECTIONS were simple enough. And in less than a half hour, she was turning into a gated gravel drive with a grassy center.

Every old farm in the vicinity had Douglas firs bordering the drive, and Danny's place was no exception. The only problem was that the carriages and wagons that once traveled the drives were narrower than modern vehicles; some new owners had cut down the trees rather than scratch the finish on their cars. Danny hadn't, and she navigated the tunnel of towering trees very slowly. Not that her Jetta was new; it wasn't. But it had to last her a few more years.

Another gate was open at the entrance to the farm yard, the house to the left, the barn and outbuildings to the right, and from the sound of blaring music, it appeared as though the party was in back.

She debated briefly whether she wished to pierce her eardrums or call it a night. Curiosity got the better of her—along with a reluctance to give up the possibility of another few hours of hotter-than-hot sex. So she'd put Kleenex in her ears if the sound was out of hand. What she had in mind didn't require much talk anyway.

Parking beside Danny's truck, she followed the music and a flagstone path around the side of a white clapboard farmhouse with a wraparound porch outfitted with wicker furniture. The reason, no doubt, Danny understood the limits of wicker. Window boxes decorated the first floor windows, the spicy scent of geraniums pungent in the air. Through the lighted windows she saw a cottage-feel interior with bright-colored furniture, book shelves everywhere, and—jeez—flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. The
Midwest Country Living
atmosphere made her suspicious of a possible wife or—God willing—only a decorator. This place definitely didn't look like a bachelor pad.

Nor did the screened-in pool she saw when she came around the corner.

Nor the pool house and strategically placed lighting that illuminated the water and the artfully planted garden bordering it.

Christ—maybe Martha Stewart was a relative. It looked that good.

"Hey—over here!"

Somehow Danny was able to make his voice heard over the Grateful Dead's "Casey Jones," or maybe she was reading his lips. Either way, he seemed glad to see her. Which made her gladder still, considering Kirsty was doing her usual up-close-and-personal style of conversation with him.

She saw him dip his head and say something to Kirsty, then turn and walk toward the screen door that faced the house.

He met her halfway—by a flowering jasmine plant in a oversized pottery urn that hadn't come from Wal-Mart. Sicily probably, or Tuscany.

She was beginning to think "drug dealer" again when he leaned in close, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "Come and make nice for ten minutes and then I'll show you my bedroom."

Really—with an invitation like that, little discrepancies of occupation could be overlooked. Didn't heads of state make agreements with people of less-than-stellar reputation for reasons of expediency—like trade or politics or the greater good of mankind?

In this case, it would be
her
greater good.

And it wasn't as though she was bringing him home for dinner to meet the folks.

"I'll be nice as can be for a reward like that," she whispered back.

His grin was wolfish. "We'll be nice to each other. And
my
bedroom has a lock on the door so these yahoos can stay out."

She wanted to ask why he had a lock on his bedroom door, but under the circumstances, his assurance of security overcame curiosity or scruple. "I should be able to last ten minutes." She held his gaze. "Although, I can't guarantee it."

"With incentive like that, I might drag you away in five minutes."

"Hopefully before my eardrums burst."

"Stay here. I'll turn it down."

And like a chivalrous knight, he sprinted away to serve his damsel in distress. It was charming really, modern-day gallantry so rarely in evidence. She experienced a warm little glow—a nonsexual one… almost a sentimental one.

Regaining her wits a second later, she reminded herself that 1, she'd known him for twelve hours tops; 2, sentiment had nothing to do with sex; 3, he wasn't the boy next door despite his looks— not with a spread like this and no apparent source of income; and 4, one-night stands were by definition not based on tender feeling.

When he returned, she was perfectly composed and once again capable of acting like a mature adult. She'd even reconciled herself to being civil to Kirsty, who had taken off her jacket to expose a little white tank top and her huge breasts. Even from a distance, that improbable combination looked like a catastrophe in the making—the white Lycra stretched to the limit.

"The volume's down now. Your eardrums are safe. Come, have a drink."

"Maybe just a Coke. I have to drive home."

"You don't
have
to go home."

"The store doesn't open till eleven on Sunday, but even that seems early after a late night."

"Can't you call someone to cover for you?"

"At one o'clock?"

"Right. Okay. We do this hello and good-bye in record time. And ignore Kirsty if she says anything rude. She can run off at the mouth."

"I noticed."

Sarcasm like that. He'd better cover his ass. "We're just friends."

"I'm guessing maybe you haven't always been just friends."

"Like those guys under your bed." Some had been nude sketches.