Uncommon Pleasure (3 page)

“Perfect.”

“It’s a local place that rents by the week. By the interstate,” he clarified when she continued to look bewildered. “It’s not gonna win any travel awards.”

“I just got off an oil rig,” she said patiently. “I don’t expect a five-star restaurant and turndown service.”

Nothing about this was following the standard operating procedures, but the breeze plastered that fine silk dress to her breasts and thighs, and his brain shut down. “Fine.”

“I’ll follow you.”

Getting from bar to hotel with a woman who was both sober
enough and smart enough to drive herself was a unique change to his typical first night off the rig. Come to think of it, he was both sober and alert enough to note a flash of discomposure over the worn cream stucco, dented green shutters, and anemic landscaping. The emotion disappeared when he put his hand at the small of her back to escort her up the stairs to his room, because the whisper of silk over skin as she moved left no doubt she was naked under the dress.

He pulled the key card from his front pocket, opened the door, and led her inside. She let the door close behind her, leaving the west-facing room in an odd gold-dipped darkness as he went through the automatic motions of dumping keys, wallet, and sunglasses on the scratched veneer dresser.

When he looked up she was still standing by the door. The weird light from the setting fall sun lay against her like she’d been painted
with it, highlighting the curve of her mouth, the drape of silk over her breasts, the sleek muscles in her arms, the jut of her hip bone against the fabric, the slightest hint of her mound.

While he stared at her she let her purse drop to the floor at her feet. The casual, almost taunting move set off something dark and primitive inside him. He stepped close and gripped her wrist, turned her to face the door, flattened her palms at shoulder height, then covered her hands with his.

She went stock-still, but when he leaned into her she pushed back with hands and hips, pressing her ass against his cock, her back into his chest. He neither gave way nor pushed back, simply let her strain, and fail, to move him. Her hot, wracking shudder told him all he needed to know. She’d tested her strength against his, liked the way the struggle tasted. She’d liked losing, too.

In a flash he revised his assessment of Lauren Kincaid. A whole range of possibilities lit up in bright, hot, digital clarity in his mind’s eye. Mysterious, unspoken places they could go. Steamy, secret things they could do. Starting right now.

“We have a problem,” he said.

She cut him a glance over her shoulder, first meeting his eyes, then her gaze dropped to his mouth. “What?”

“This dress.” Their cheeks aligned, and the musculature of her nape and shoulders that looked so sleek and strong at the restaurant was now newly vulnerable and bare inches from his mouth. He bent his head, his breath coming in soft, hot gusts as he used his unshaven chin to nudge the spaghetti strap of her dress to a precarious position on her shoulder, then watched a shiver race over her skin. “This dress looks very, very fine, and if I get my hands all over it, it’s not going to look so fine.”

To demonstrate he laid his palm flat on her shoulder, then ran his hand down her bare arm, calluses and rough spots rasping
against her skin. No amount of cream or oil softened his hands, and he’d given up trying.

“Oh,” she managed. “I’ll take it off.”

She reached for the hem, but he gripped her right hand and brought it down to her thigh. His hand on hers, he encouraged her to work the silk up her leg, until he could lay his palm flat on her thigh, his thumb in that secret, delicate hip crease, and leave it there while he licked and nibbled at the sensitive spot where her neck and shoulder joined. Trapped between his body and the door, she stared straight ahead at the diagram explaining the location of the emergency exits, not seeming to breathe, then her throat produced a low, soft sound. Her nipples hardened, her shallow breaths sending the silk shifting over the peaks.

She shifted, her quadriceps trembling under his hand. He turned his fingers inward to grip her thigh, each movement slow and dark and hot. Then he drew his hand up, the thumb moving to her hip bone, palm flat against her mound.

“No underwear,” he said, stating fact.

“No,” she agreed, her voice almost inaudible.

A dark, molten heat simmered low in his belly, and his hand tightened on her hip bone. “When I come off the rig, Lauren, I want a woman. Bad.” With his booted foot he widened her stance. “Did you want a man tonight?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And if I’d stayed away? Would you have gone home with someone else?”

“No,” she said, her soft, hot body a distinct contrast to her firm voice.

“Choosy,” he said, amused.

“I know what I want,” she said.

That gave him pause. “You wanted me.”

She gave a brief nod. He wouldn’t ask why, because it didn’t matter. Here she was, face-first in his door, his hand under her skirt, her excuse for a dress hanging on her body by one shoulder strap and her tight nipples. Great. Fine. Go with it.

“Hold your dress up.” Tone and wording snapped together to form a command.

Her breath caught in her throat. She bent slightly, groping blindly for the lace hem, pushing her ass against his erection, then pulled her dress to her hips. Forearm flat against the door, curved over her back, he nudged forward and brushed his thumb over the outer lips of her sex. The way this worked for her astonished him. He used one hand to sweep the fall of hair over her left shoulder, then cupped the back of her head and tilted it forward, exposing the bumps of her spine to his mouth. Teeth, tongue, lips, and within moments she sagged back into his body, the hot, sweet pressure eroding what passed for control after a month offshore.

“Tell me what you want.”

“More,” she whispered.

“More what?”

“More anything.”

Lots of room for inventiveness in that statement, so he said, “Pull your skirt all the way up,” and urged her hands to gather the fabric, leaving her bare from the waist down. He took in the view while he automatically unbuckled his belt and unzipped his cargo pants, then pushed down just far enough to free his cock. Each bump of his knuckles against her bared ass and the zipper’s rasp sent a tiny shudder through her.

He put his feet outside hers, forcing her legs close together as he tucked his erection between her thighs. Fuck, oh fuck, they were a near perfect fit. She gathered her skirt in one hand, slapped the other against the door, and pushed back, wriggling to get him inside.

“No,” he said, low and rough, pinning her hand to the door
with his, weaving their fingers together to keep her where he wanted her. “Close your legs around me. Tight. Fuck…like that. Oh, that’s good.” And it was. He was snugged up against her hot, wet sex, trapped between her taut thighs, bareback, pinning her body to the door, and her pulse was pounding under her ear. He found a rhythm he liked, measured and steady, paying attention to her breathing, the way her muscles quivered, the way she choked back the soft whimpers.

With a low moan she let her forehead drop to the door by her forearm and ground down against him, pushing back. With his next thrust he forced her forward, and then they were simulating sex, his abdomen pressed hard against her bare buttocks, the door thudding into the frame from the combined impact of their bodies. She was strong enough that he had to work to keep her in place as he thrust into the hot clasp of her thighs, felt sweat and her juices slick him up. Sweat shone on her shoulders. In the back of his mind he wondered why the AC hadn’t kicked on yet, but no fucking way was he stopping for climate control now, because Lauren was winding tight; soft, pleading noises were trapped by her teeth clamped on her lower lip.

He spread her slick, silky folds, exposing her clit and stroking his fingertip over the swollen nub. She tried to spread her legs, that primitive female response awakening base impulses of his own. He tightened his legs around hers, using his body to control hers, her movements, her pleasure. Somehow both tight and soft, she let out a pleading little gasp, then began to quiver as he thrust in time to his strokes along the side of her clit, his cock clasped between her thighs as he rode her, and the edge. Her nipples strained against the silk. She pressed her thighs together, muscles in her bottom and stomach tensing and releasing as she squirmed and shifted.

“Ty, please!”

“No.” He could be just as blunt as she was. Her head tipped
back, came to rest on his shoulder, baring the flushed length of her throat. “Gotta make you hot and wet,” he said, his attention focused on his tanned hand, fingers dipping into her creamy folds. “After you come, I’m going to fuck you hard.”

Lauren Kincaid must have one hell of a visual imagination to go with that analytical mind, because she came. Her eyes dropped closed, shudders wracked through her body, reverberating into his, and fuck, when he made that happen when he was inside her, it was going to rock his world hard, maybe as hard as he’d just rocked hers. Only when she went limp did he let go of the wrist he’d pinned to the door.

He waited a beat to make sure her knees and the door would hold her, then stepped back. Two seconds to turn the AC up full blast and grab a condom, then he took up position behind her and smoothed on latex. The promise of oblivion tormented him, just beyond his reach. He stepped back into her, this time tapping her ankle to spread her legs apart and nudge into those soft, swollen folds. He had both hands on her hips, forward momentum powering him inside, when she went up on tiptoe against the door and gasped, “Wait!
Wait!
”

Lauren didn’t think he’d wait. She really didn’t. Every muscle in
his body was taut against her, fingers tight on her hips, ridged torso braced against her back so she had nowhere else to go, the door flat and warm against her breasts and cheek. She tried to soften, relax into the sharp sting that threatened pain.

He stopped.

A shudder ran through his body, but he stopped, the thick head of his cock wedged just inside her. A moment passed, giving her time to register the teeth of his zipper against her ass, his lightweight khaki pants against her inner thighs, the way her leg muscles trembled from exertion. She ran thirty miles a week, and he’d reduced her legs to noodles.

A groan snared in his throat, but he stepped back, putting space between them. Lauren sank down to flat feet and turned to face him, her dress slithering down her thighs as she did.

“It hurt,” she started.

“Yeah, I got that.” He considered her for a minute, his face
expressionless. He stepped close, and her heart kicked hard against her breastbone. His eyes were heavy-lidded as he stared at her, hands on his hips, thick shaft jutting from his opened pants. “Take that off,” he said, lifting his chin at her dress.

The room seemed to shimmer a little as she hesitated. He stepped forward, took her chin between his thumb and forefinger to peer into her eyes. His gaze swept over her swollen mouth, the flush still standing high on her cheeks, heating her throat.

Without looking away from her eyes, he slid one rough fingertip under the thin silk strap and popped it free from the bodice. The fabric slithered down, lace rasping over a nipple desperate for any stimulation at all. “Unless you want to drive home naked, take it off.”

She went still, drowning in the primitive electricity crackling in the room. His whole demeanor was utterly arrogant Southern male, but behind his dark eyes flashed something naked and vulnerable she might call need, so she kicked out of her shoes as she reached for the hem, pulled the dress over her head, and dropped the fabric in a puddle beside her purse. His gaze swept her like a physical caress, from mouth to breasts to sex and down the length of her legs. With his hand between her shoulder blades he guided her to the bed. He braced the two thin, limp pillows upright against the headboard, then sat back and pulled her down to straddle his lap.

The pace had slowed, the moment stretching between them like hot, soft taffy, so she reached for his shirt collar and fisted her hands in the fabric, popped the first mother-of-pearl snap on the shirt, slid her hands down and popped the next. He quirked an eyebrow at her as his hand stroked her thigh. The darker brow disappeared into the blond hair tumbling into his eyes.

“I like to look, too,” she said, then released the next snap. Darkly tanned skin appeared in the widening gap. He wasn’t heavily muscled; there just wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. As she unfastened
the last snap and spread the fabric wide to expose his torso, smooth, flat pecs gave way to a delineated abdominal wall, the skin abruptly lightening just above a thicket of darker blond hair. His erection arced over his belly. Lethal power. This was no bodybuilder, playing around with weights and spotters and reps.

“Oh my,” she said, her gaze focused on his cock. It wasn’t especially long, but it was thick. Very thick. Dark red.

“Told you I wanted a woman.”

The dark, blunt words sent lava pulsing through her veins to pool between her legs. A woman. A hot, wet, available body. Some analytical corner of her mind, still operating under the spell he was weaving, considered this.
Getting laid
implied an act. Simple release.
A woman
hinted at something else. He craved more than getting off. He wanted the dark dynamic of stripping a woman of her clothes and pushing his cock into her body. Using the slick, clinging grip of her pussy. Tonight, she was his to use. The thought sent sensation coursing through her. Despite the orgasm, the hot, dark scenario against the door wasn’t sex, and she had needs, too. She wanted a man, a dark, edgy, demanding man, inside her, and for a good, long time.

He pulled his shaft back from his belly and, other hand on her hip, guided her up so she was centered over him. Then those dark brown eyes snared hers. “Been a while?”

She nodded, straddling his big body, and waited for his cock to stretch the slick, anticipatory walls of her pussy. The waiting was torture of a completely different kind. Pressure, promise of a ride like she’d never had, made her shimmy.