Killian: A West Bend Saints Romance (73 page)

"You're… so…
fuck
…" I want to tell him how cocky he is, how ridiculous… I want to tell him that no one has ever spoken to me like this, told me exactly what he plans to do to me. But I can't put anything into words when this ridiculously arrogant man has his fingers buried so deeply inside me.

I can't think clearly when this man makes me drunk with lust, shutting off the rational part of my brain, the part of me that makes smart decisions.

Decisions that are exactly the opposite of this one.

Then Luke whispers into my ear. "You fucking love it, Red," he says. "It was written all over you, from the first day I saw you. You wanted me from the second you laid eyes on me, too. You just like denying it. But I know you've been wet between your legs for me."

"That's… oh, God… not… true."

Luke pauses, unmoving, and I moan, the sound needy, unable to help myself. "Are you saying you want me to stop, Red?"

Do I want him to stop?

I
should
want him to stop. He's immature, young, reckless. I don't do spontaneous. I don't have one-night-stands. And I certainly don't let a guy a decade younger than me rip my jeans down my thighs and finger me in broad daylight in the doorway of my house.

But I look into the eyes of the man who's doing exactly that, and I don't want him to stop. "No," I finally answer, the word barely more than a whisper.

But he doesn't move, doesn't give me the release I crave. "Sorry, Red. I'm not sure I heard you."

I swear my knees are about to buckle under the weight of my neediness. "
No
," I say. "I do…
not
… want you to stop."

Luke chuckles, pressing hard against that spot inside me, the one that makes me moan. "That's better," he says. "Now, sweetheart, I want you to come for me, because I've been dying to put my tongue between your legs since the first time I saw you, and I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

He covers my mouth with his before I can even react, stroking me harder, and the combination of everything overwhelms my senses. I come with blinding intensity, clinging to him as my touchstone when I crash over the edge, my moan muted by his mouth.

When he pulls back, he gives me a look that’s so self-satisfied, so damn pleased with himself that I’d slap the smirk off his face if he weren’t so sexy. Then he squats down and yanks my jeans down my legs in one swift pull and looks up at me, his eyebrows raised. “Pants off,” he orders. “Now.”

S
he doesn't argue
, doesn't open that smart fucking mouth of hers, that damned self-assured smartass mouth that inexplicably makes me so hard, ready to bend her over and fuck her at a moment's notice.

And that is exactly what I want to do now. I want this girl on her knees, her sweet lips wrapped around my cock. I want to bend her over, put her palms against the door, and thrust my cock inside her. I want to yank her hair, feel her tighten around me, hear her call my name when she comes, the way I know she wants to.

I want this girl in every way possible.

I want to claim her.

I want to own her.

The thoughts pop into my head and I force them away – especially the last one. It’s a stupid fucking thought, one I’ve never had about anyone before. And I don’t spin her around. I don’t put her palms against the door. I don’t bend her over or smack her ass while I thrust inside her.

Yet.

She looks down at me, face flushed, lips plumped and swollen from mine being pressed against them, her breasts heaving as she gasps, and I know by the expression on her face that no one has made her come like that before.

That makes me want to take my time with her.

I slide my hands up her legs around her thighs until I reach the sides of her panties. Her hands go automatically to them, as if she’s trying to keep them on self-consciously, which makes her somehow more endearing.

I wasn’t lying when I told her I’d been thinking about the way she would taste since the second I saw her. Since I first looked at her, I’ve been thinking about how her face would look when she let go of the prim-and-proper bullshit and finally came on me.

Grasping the edge of her panties, I tear the shit off her before she can protest. She squeals – literally squeals – which just makes me want to do it again. "Luke!"

"What?" I ask. "Were you attached to those?"

I toss them, watching as they land perfectly in one of the bowls she has perched on a table in the entryway, this wooden decorative bowl that holds her keys and her sunglasses.

Now it holds her panties, too.

Kneeling between her legs, I spread her thighs apart with my hands, my thumbs grazing her pussy lips. She's freshly waxed and groomed, and I realize that’s for me. Despite all of her protesting, she’s wanted this. She’s anticipated it.

Shit, I could come right here and now at the thought of that.

"What?" She looks down at me, her voice breathy. "You're making me nervous."

“Nothing. You’re just hot as hell.”

Her cheeks flush a deeper shade of red. “No one’s told me that in a long time.”

My hands on her thighs, I lean closer to her, inhaling her scent. I want to drink her in. “The men you’ve been around must be fucking blind.”

She moans before I even touch the tip of my tongue to her pussy, and it spurs me on. I lick the length of her, slowly, trailing my tongue along her until I reach her clit. When I take her clit into my mouth, sucking it, she leans against the door, watching me with hooded eyes. All I can think about is what those eyes would look like as she comes.

Her fingers run along the back of my head, and she moans my name as I lick her, her breath coming shorter and shorter as I fuck her with my tongue. She’s whispering my name over and over like it’s come kind of mantra – until she stops, this time saying it with a hint of alarm in her voice: “Luke!”

I look up at her, not stopping until she says it again. “Shit. Luke! The nanny is back early. She’s pulling in the driveway. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

And just like that, she’s pushing me away, scrambling for her jeans and grabbing the rumpled clothing from the floor. “Luke,” she says. “Shit. I have to put clothes on. You. What are we doing with you?”

“Well, a half-second ago, you were about to come on my tongue.”

Her face goes scarlet, and she looks like she’s about to break into a run, the lower half of her body naked. “Oh, shit. I mean, there’s a bathroom downstairs for you to clean up. Oh, God.”

She’s darting upstairs before I can tell her she left her torn panties in the bowl on the entryway table. I slip them into my back pocket before the door swings open.

Greta, the nanny, stands there with Olivia on her hip, her eyes going wide. “Oh! Luke… I didn’t know anyone was home. We came home early instead of going to the park because it looked like it was going to rain. Autumn is usually out in the – “

“Usually what?” Autumn’s voice comes from behind me, and she passes me without a second glance, scooping Olivia up in her arms. “Hey, my little baby. Did you have fun?”

“We sang lots of songs,” the nanny tells her.

“Mr. Saint was just giving me some ideas for the reorganization of the orchard to increase efficiency of the crop,” Autumn says quickly.

“Efficiency,” I agree, stifling the pang of irritation that runs through me. The way she avoids eye contact with me makes me feel like she’s ashamed of what happened, and for whatever reason, that annoys me.

“Are you staying for lunch, Mr. Saint?” asks the nanny.

Autumn clears her throat. “I think he probably has a lot of work to do,” she says, interrupting me before I can speak.

“Yeah.” I’m annoyed that she just interrupted me, like she’s afraid of what I’m going to say or something. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Work that I’m basically doing for her as a favor. I don’t need this job.

I don’t know why I’m so annoyed that she just brushed me off, but I am.

I
send Greta home early
, too shaken up by what happened with Luke to even focus on work right now. I swear she knows there’s something going on. She gives me a funny look when I send her home, like our encounter is written all over my face, my personal version of the scarlet letter.

As if she can tell that I was just pressed up against the front door of my own house, in the middle of broad daylight, with Luke Saint’s face between my legs.

This is not something I do. I don’t throw caution to the wind, and I don’t have flings. Edward was my college boyfriend, and the handful of boyfriends I’ve had before him were all the same – responsible, business-oriented, and… boring.

But Luke…

His touch still lingers on my skin, his taste still on my lips.

I focus my attention on Olivia, mentally chastising myself for my attention drifting. “Is that yummy, Liv-bug?”

Olivia grins up at me, her mouth stuffed with spaghetti noodles, and then opens wide, her tongue sticking out, dropping half of the chewed food onto her highchair tray. “Eew, see-food. Gross, Liv-bug.”

She cackles hysterically, slapping the highchair tray, delighted at my reaction. I know it’s not something I should encourage, especially if I want her to develop any manners, but she’s so pleased with my faux-disgust that I can’t quite help myself.

I talk to her while she finishes her lunch, then read her favorite story,
The Three Little Pigs
, in a rocking chair in her bedroom until she’s rubbing her eyes. When I put her in her crib, she’s out like a light.

Which leaves me alone with my thoughts. And those thoughts inevitably return to Luke Saint.

Luke, with his grin, the one that hints of mischief.

Luke, with a body made for sin – broad shoulders, rock hard abs, and the tightest ass I’ve ever seen.

Images of Luke flash in my head, one right after the other.

Luke’s fingers down the front of my pants, underneath my panties, touching me. Then, inside me. Luke on his knees, pulling my jeans down over my hips. Luke’s tongue on me, exploring me. Tasting me.

I get into the shower to clear my head, lingering under the pounding water as if it will wash away thoughts of Luke. Closing my eyes, I will the images away, focusing on the water pouring over my skin.

But the more I try not to think about Luke, the more I can’t stop thinking about him.

I imagine being on my knees, his cock in my mouth, tasting him. I think about how he would feel inside me, how he’d ride me until I came on him, over and over. I don’t want Edward to have been it for me – five minutes of lights off, missionary-style sex until he came, his face screwed up and his eyes closed, before rolling over and falling asleep.

My body is still on edge from what happened with Luke in the hallway, and I’m already near the edge almost immediately as I run my palms over my breasts, slick with water. Waves of arousal crash over me as I picture Luke’s mouth wrapped around my breast, his tongue flicking over my nipple again and again until I cry out from the delicious agony of his touch.

I picture him sliding his fingers inside my slickness. I imagine myself pulling him against me as I kiss him, my tongue warring with his until I can’t wait for him any longer.

I run my fingers over my clit, so swollen with arousal that it’s almost painful to the touch. The warm water from the shower runs over my shoulders and down my breasts as I move my fingers over my clit. I’m so ready, so on edge from where we were interrupted before, that it doesn’t take me long to hurtle toward the edge of climax.

And the whole time, I’m picturing Luke, his strong hands gripping my ass, lifting me up in the shower and holding me against the tile wall. I think about wrapping my legs around him as he thrusts inside me, harder and harder, his cock bare.

I slip my fingers inside me, my palm pressing against my clit, imagining that it’s Luke who’s there. I think about the dirty things he’d say to me as he fucks me harder and harder, and I clutch wildly at his shoulders and his back, leaving my mark on him.

When I come, it’s so intense that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. It’s a minute before I catch my breath, my heart pounding so loudly in my chest that I swear I can hear it over the white noise of the shower.

The orgasm should be a relief. It should quench my thirst. It should dampen my desire for him. But as I finish showering and pull on clothes, the throbbing between my legs still begs for attention, insistent despite my attempts to ignore it.

I tell myself to think like a mature adult and not a woman infatuated with a younger man. I go through the rest of my afternoon, ignoring thoughts of Luke. They don’t intrude as I spend the rest of the day hanging out with Olivia, cooking her dinner, doing her bedtime routine.

The next day, I somehow manage to avoid Luke all day long. I tell myself that I need to focus on my daughter, focus on my business, focus on my friends. I don’t need my attention to be shifted to Luke Saint. I tell myself I don’t need to have a fling. I tell myself that what happened between us won’t happen again. I tell myself all of that, all of the reasons I shouldn’t want him the way that I do.

But then every ounce of sense I thought I possessed goes out the window as soon as I hear the knock on the door.

Luke stands in the doorway leaning against the doorframe, his t-shirt rumpled, holding two brown paper shopping bags. “Hush,” he says, interrupting me before I even begin to speak. “Don’t even pretend like you were about to cook anything decent for dinner because we both know you weren’t.”

“You can’t just keep coming over here and taking over my kitchen,” I protest, but only mildly, because I remember the last meal Luke cooked and my stomach rumbles.

Luke brushes past me, bags in hand, and leans close to my ear to whisper softly. “Well, I do prefer your pussy being on the menu.”

Heat rushes to my face, but Luke is already passing me, ambling casually down the hall as if he didn’t just remind me that his mouth was between my legs only yesterday.

“Hey Olivia-girl,” he says, and she toddles after him, rounding the corner into the kitchen. He asks her if she likes salmon, talking to her like an adult, and she grins at him and nods, even though she has no clue what he’s talking about. Then he reaches into the bag and takes out a toy car, squatting down to hand it to her. “Does she like cars? I don’t know what kids like.”

Olivia giggles and grabs it from his hand. “Car,” she says. “Car.”

“Olivia, what do you say to Mr. Saint?” I ask.

“Car! Car!” she yells, pushing it across the kitchen floor.

“Or, thank you,” I suggest, but she ignores me. “That’s nice of you, Luke.”

He shrugs. “Actually, it’s
Mr. Saint
to you.”