Saving Scott (Kobo) (24 page)

He sat,
absorbing her warmth, her scent. Small talk seemed trivial. Shop talk would
upset her. He set his glass beside Ashley’s empty one. The click as it
connected with the wood seemed to scream his intentions.

She lifted
her head, her eyes bright, her pupils dilated. “I’m glad you’re here. I feel … relaxed.
Mellow. I don’t think it’s the cognac. It’s not that kind of tipsy. I know I
should be worried about the bakery—”

He put his
finger over her lips. “No worrying tonight.” He caressed the curve of her
cheek. Ran his finger down her neck. He waited for a sign that she was okay
with this, that last night hadn’t been a one-time deal.

She tilted
her head, answering his question. He shifted, replacing his finger with his
mouth. Her breath hitched. That tiny sound sent his blood south. He nibbled at
her earlobe. She squirmed. Made little whimpering sounds. He worked his way
down her neck, along the contours of her collarbone. She arched her back.

One by one,
he unfastened the buttons of her blouse, revealing a black camisole. He traced
the edge of the lace trim, and couldn’t help but notice the way her headlights
shifted to high beam beneath the fabric. A faint chuckle escaped her lips.

“Ticklish?”
he asked.

“No, I was
thinking about how I thought if I wore the cami under my blouse, I wouldn’t be
sending messages that I wanted—to do what we’re doing.”

“Do you want
me to stop?” His voice rasped.

In response,
she took his hand and placed it over her breast. “No. But I’d like it if you’d
kiss me, too.”

“That can be
arranged.”

Time stopped
as their mouths met, their tongues thrust and parried. He pulled her onto his
lap so she straddled him. Not the best idea, as her bottom pressed against his
arousal, and he feared control would become a serious issue all too soon. He
kneaded her breasts. She rocked against him. Slowly. Rhythmically. He couldn’t
help but follow.

“Please,”
she whispered. “I want you. I want you tonight.”

He paused.
Was it Ashley or Hennessy speaking? She’d said she wasn’t drunk. He was very
close to not caring, but a scattering of brain cells nagged him that he shouldn’t
be taking advantage of her if she wasn’t sober enough to make a rational
decision. “You sure? Because in a few minutes, there won’t be any going back.”

“I’m sure.
Life is about moving forward, not going back.” Her voice dropped to a faint
whisper. “I’ve wanted this before tonight. Before last night.”

His brain
attempted to process the pros and cons. Pros were easy. They were sitting on
top of him, driving him almost brainless. The cons were in there somewhere.
There were always cons. But right now, the pros had it.

He put his
hands at her waist and shifted her up and back, away from the source of his
dilemma. “Bedroom?”

She slid off
his lap and extended her hands. He grasped them, accepting that she was
offering the resistance he needed to lever his way to a standing position. Once
upright, he wrapped his arm around her.

At the
doorway to the bedroom, he stopped, turned her to face him seeing her eyes
looking back at him in anticipation. Cradling her face, he kissed her forehead.
“Last chance.”

***

Ashley
tilted her face upward, wanting Scott’s lips away from her forehead and back on
her mouth where they belonged. Was she crazy? So what if she was? She’d finally
escaped living under the “We know what’s best for you, honey” sphere of her
parents, of Barry. Over their objections, without their support, she’d picked
up and followed her dream. Everything planned. Everything mapped out. Every
option researched. Like a cake recipe. Baking was chemistry. You couldn’t get
crazy or you’d end up with a disaster instead of cake.

Then Scott
had appeared, bringing a new kind of chemistry. With him, planning and research
disappeared from the formula. And doing something crazy—not that she thought
there was anything crazy about the way she felt this minute—was her decision.
If her cake fell, she’d deal with it. Every now and then an impulsive addition
of a new ingredient turned into a delectable creation.

When he
kissed her again, she was ready to empty her entire pantry into her mixer and
to hell with the consequences. Tomorrow she could be sensible. Still lost in
his kiss, she clutched Scott closer, dragging him into the bedroom. The back of
her legs hit the bed, and she went down, bringing him with her.

He hissed.
His breathing shifted. Still rapid, but not the same. Her heart rate spiked.

“Oh, my God.
I hurt you. I forgot all about your accident.”

“Forget it.”
His voice was a low growl. “I’ll be fine. Just a twinge. Caught me off guard.”
He rolled off her and lay on his back, panting, his legs hanging off the edge
of the bed.

She rose to
a sitting position. The grimace on his face said it had been more than a
twinge. Men. Macho above all else. “Should we even be doing this?”

His grimace
passed, replaced by the lazy grin that made her tingle in all the right places.
He pulled her down so she lay beside him. He stroked her cheek. “I was distracted,
that’s all.” The grin faded. “But if you’ve changed your mind …”

While the
mood wasn’t broken, given the way her tingles went off the scale simply from
his touch, she took a moment to be sensible. “No, I haven’t.” She propped
herself up on an elbow. “Do you have any … you know …?”

He reached
into his pants pocket and tossed a condom packet onto the bed.

“So, you
planned on this happening. Or are you always this prepared?”

“I was a
cop, remember. Protecting people is ingrained.” He grinned and traced the lace
on her cami again. “Shall we continue?”

“How about
we get more comfortable?” She stood, then tugged at him, eyeing him warily for
signs of pain. It was clear he had some difficulty rising to his feet, but she
saw nothing but his gaze, fixed on hers. And then his mouth approaching for
another kiss. Damn, the man could kiss.

Somehow, she
managed to work the bedcovers down. She shrugged out of her blouse. Scott
slipped a finger under the strap of her cami and eased it off her shoulder. His
fingers moved beneath the lace, finding the nipple that begged for his touch.

She sought
the buttons on his polo, yearning to bare his torso, to remove the layer of
cotton between them. To put her hands on his chest. And lower. “Off,” she
mumbled around their kissing. She pulled at the hem of his shirt. “Off.”

She felt his
smile against her lips. Reluctantly, she released the connection. He winced as
he worked the shirt upward.

Okay, so he
was still in manly macho mode. Later … much later, she hoped … she’d tell him he
was being a jerk. But not ready to spoil the mood, she pressed her hands
against his shoulders. “Sit. I want to undress you.”

As she
worked the shirt over his head, it was clear he favored one arm. She ran the
tips of her fingers along his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what
happened?”

“Dislocated
shoulder. Broken collarbone. Not quite back to normal.”

He didn’t
offer to elaborate. She straddled his lap again. “Does this hurt you?”

“Not nearly
as much as stopping would.”

She took his
hands, kissed his fingers, and placed them on her breasts, wriggling her hips
and squirming against his touch. He removed one hand and nibbled her through
the nylon cami. Pleasure shot through her. She closed her eyes, threw her head
back. Reveled in the sensations coursing through her. He nipped harder.

She reached
between them, for his belt buckle. “Now who’s doing the distracting? I wanted
to undress you.” She got off his lap and worked the leather free. When he tried
to help, she shoved his hands away. “Is there something about
me
undressing
you
you don’t understand? Hands off.” She dealt with the
button, then slowly … ever so slowly … worked at the zipper, the quiet rasp and
their breathing the only sounds in the room.

“Wait,” he
said as she tried to work his khakis over his hips. “Shoes.”

She knelt at
his feet, removing the brown leather loafers. Shiny brown leather loafers. The
faint smell of shoe polish—and what it meant—excited her further.

“So, condoms
and freshly shined shoes? You came here with expectations?”

“Mom always
stressed how important it was to make a good impression.”

She laughed.
“I’m guessing you’re wearing clean underwear, too. Boxers or briefs?”

“Keep doing
what you’re doing and you’ll find out soon enough.”

Shoes and
socks dispensed with, she moved up to his hips again. Eased his khakis over
them. He didn’t seem to have trouble lifting himself enough to make that move
possible. When she’d lowered them to his knees, he wriggled his legs, as if
hurrying the process along.

Then she
noticed the scars. She ran her finger over the pink lines along his thigh. He
tensed beneath her touch.

“Same
accident?”

He grunted. “Busted
leg.”

Oh, there
was more. But the important parts still worked, evidenced by the bulge in his
underwear. Boxer briefs, she noted. Gray. She pulled the khakis all the way
off. “That’s better.”

“Your turn,”
he said, reaching for her.

She shook
her head. “Nope. I can manage.” She kicked out of her flats and unfastened her
slacks. About to yank them down her legs, she slowed. Instead, she undulated
her hips as she inched them toward the floor. She fixed her eyes on his,
knowing if she thought about what she was doing—a damn strip tease—she’d die of
mortification. She’d
definitely
have to find a new place to live, for
sure. And what if he didn’t like her clumsy attempt at seduction?

His hooded
eyes, his parted lips, his rapid breathing said he did.

The cami
came off a lot faster and a lot less seductively—who knew you could get turned
on taking your own clothes off? Anxious to speed things along, she reached for
her bra clasp.

“Please. Let
me,” Scott said, his voice husky. “Come closer.”

Breasts
aching, she stepped toward his outstretched hands. He embraced her, working the
clasp behind her with his fingers while his mouth worked on the parts in front
of her. She balanced herself on his shoulders, hoping she wasn’t hurting him,
but knowing she’d dissolve in a puddle if she didn’t.

“I’m
thinking this might be a good time to get horizontal,” she said.

He scooted
onto the bed, lying on his side. She faced him, putting his hands back on her
breasts. He kneaded, nuzzled, nibbled, nipped.

“You like
that?” he whispered.

“God, yes. I
could almost … you know.”

“What about
this?” His fingers wandered down her chest, pausing to circle her navel before
moving lower. He slipped one inside her panties, then inside her. She was
wet—embarrassingly so. He teased, in, out, around, avoiding that spot craving
attention. She squirmed, wriggled, thrust, an involuntary, demanding quest for
release.

His grin
widened. “Guess so.”

Finally,
finally, finally, he rubbed her where it mattered. The world centered on that
one spot. Her hips bucked. She moaned. “Oh, yes. Yes. Yes.”

He captured
her mouth with his, swallowing her scream as the universe exploded around her.

Gasping for breath,
she waited for her world to reassemble. Scott turned away, and she feared she’d
done something to upset him. She shoved her hair off her sweat-filmed forehead.

“I’m sorry,”
she said, afraid to touch him. “That was … selfish. I should have—”

He turned
toward her, toying with a strand of hair. “You goin’ somewhere?”

“Me? Now?
No. Of course not? It’s just that—”

“My mama
taught me ladies first. I’m not sure this is what she had in mind, but it seems
like a good policy for all things.”

“I like your
mother. My former fiancé … well, lets say it was all about him, and forget it.”

He knelt
above her, and she noticed he’d sheathed himself. That’s why he’d turned away.
His lazy grin turned on those tingles. She and Scott hadn’t even had actual sex
yet, and already it was a million times better than anything she’d experienced
with Barry.

He lowered
himself to kiss her, and she heard the quick hiss, saw the barely suppressed
grimace. Damn. What was the proper way to handle the male ego in a situation
like this?

Scott’s arm
trembled, and a sharp pain stabbed through his shoulder. He dropped to his
elbows, relieving some of the pressure. On his arm, anyway. His leg throbbed,
and he had a fleeting vision of collapsing on top of Ashley, squashing her beneath
him.

He gazed
into Ashley’s questioning eyes. “You mind being on top? It … um … might be
easier.” He eased himself next to her, onto his back.

Was she
smirking? Before he could decide, she’d rolled over and positioned herself
above him, thrusting her breasts in his face. “My pleasure.”

“I hope so,”
he mumbled around a still-turgid nipple. If he’d learned nothing else about her
sexual preferences, it was that she enjoyed having her breasts touched. Licked.
Sucked. No small sacrifice, since he enjoyed the hell out of touching them.
Licking them. Sucking them.

And then she
straightened, grasped him. She lowered herself, taking him inside all too
slowly. He gasped.

She stopped
mid stroke. “Am I hurting you? You know … your … injuries?”

He reached
for her face and pulled her toward him, thrusting upward at the same time,
trying to seat himself more deeply. “Hurting me? No. You’re torturing me, but
that has nothing to do with my injuries.” To prove it, he rocked his hips.

She
tightened around him, matching his rhythm, then taking charge as she moved up
until he feared she’d break the connection. She paused, then moved down.
Slowly. Too slowly. With one hand, he reached between them. With the other he
kneaded her breast, thumbing her nipple.