Windstar (13 page)

His hand lowered to her breast and for the first time he cupped her and a shiver rippled down his body. He turned into her so they were touching from chest to groin, his palm molding her soft flesh as his hand shook.

“I have waited so long to do this,” he whispered against her mouth.

She worried about him seeing her in the time-worn condition in which her body existed. She worried about all the things she’d told Sharon screamed her age. In the heat of passion it was easy to overlook imperfection but in the clear light of day such deficiencies are all too effortlessly seen. This man who held her was perfection, in the height of his masculinity, his flawless male beauty. He was strong and firm and sleek and all that was ideal for a man his age and the most telling word in that observation was age.

“Rory …,” she said, her forehead creased with concern.

“You think too bloody damned much, wench,” he grumbled. He sat up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I just think ….”

“You think too bloody damned much,” he repeated as he peeled the shirt from his wide shoulders and firm chest.

She stared at the powerful anatomy beside her own and felt even more inadequate.

“Take off your clothes and let me have my way with you or--by the gods I swear it--I’ll rip ‘em from you,” he growled at her as he swung his legs from the bed and began removing his jeans. He yanked off his socks and dropped them on the floor. As she had come to realize all too well, the man disdained the use of underwear and when he lay back down and turned to prop his head in his hand to stare at her, she exhaled loudly.

She lifted her hips and pulled her long dress up then sat up to pull it over her head. Her bra was just an ordinary cotton garment as were her briefs. There was nothing sexy or enticing about them but then again--to her way of thinking--there was nothing to excite a man in the way she looked, anyway. What she wouldn’t have given for the bra to have been a lacy little wisp of see-through material and her panties a sexy black thong and her body suited to show those things off to advantage.

“Well, at least you aren’t wearing bloomers,” she heard him snort and when she looked up into his devilish eyes she saw him grinning wickedly. He wagged his eyebrows and made a gurrr sound deep in his throat.

“You are awful!” she proclaimed and wrapped her arms over her breasts, but then groaned for doing that only pushed her tummy out in a most unattractive fold of fat.

“I’m horny as hell, wench,” he said and before she could react, he’d leaned over and tugged her panties down in one fell swoop, eliciting a squeal of outrage from her.

She batted his hands away as he would have snagged her bra and they tussled for possession of it. His fingers found her ribcage and he tickled her, flinging a long leg over hers to sit up and wrestle with her until he had her laughing from his marauding fingers.

Rory knew what he was doing. It wasn’t just the grief over losing her best friend in such a terrible way but Angela’s natural shyness, her worry that he wouldn’t find her alluring that he meant to vanquish. He wanted to get her laughing, make her forget, and then lead her into a stunningly beautiful session of lovemaking that would make her stop thinking about anything other than him. He wasn’t all that egotistical but he knew himself to be a skilled lover and he intended to use every weapon in his arsenal to push all negative thoughts from her head.

He finally took possession of the bra and lifted his arm high out of her reach, swung the thing around and around over his head, whooping in victory before flinging it across the room. As she wriggled beneath him in an attempt to get up, he all but fell on her, wrapped her in his arms and long legs, and flipped over to his back with her lying imprisoned atop him.

“Now, let’s see which one of us is gonna yell uncle first,” he said in a low, husky voice. He tightened his grip on her. “I intend to turn you inside out, wench.”

Looking down into his beautiful face and those bewitching eyes that were now more blue than green she lowered her head and slanted her mouth over his, thrusting her tongue between his lips. His grunt of surprise made her happy and as she ground her lips upon his and claimed him as she’d wanted to for years, all her inhibitions and worries and doubts and qualms melted away. By the time he turned over so she lay beneath him with his lower body wedged between her legs, she had completely given up all control to Rory Keith.

He kissed his way to her breasts and when he took her nipple between his teeth and looked up through his eyelashes at her, a grin on his lips, she put her hands on his cheeks.

“I wish I had hair to hold onto,” she said, her gaze settling on his shorn hair.

“It’ll grow back,” he said, not releasing her nipple, stabbing the tip lightly with his tongue as he spoke so his words were garbled. “Grab hold of me ears if you must.”

She laughed. It was his irreverent sense of humor, that terribly devastating grin and the way he crinkled his nose when he teased her that made her love him all the more. He was all man but he was a little boy at heart and the combination of those two was why women found him so damned adorable and irresistible.

“You’re thinking again. Stop that,” he said and suckled hard on her nipple to distract her.

She gave herself up to his delicious lovemaking, closing her eyes as he shifted to her other breast then kissed his way down her belly, licked her navel then moved lower still.

“If you do what I think you’re gonna do, I insist on equal time,” she said, not opening her eyes.

She felt his head pop up and when she opened one eye and looked at him, his face was positively alight with delight.

“You’re gonna gobble me dangly, wench?”

“Gobble it, lick it, suck it ….” She closed her eyes. “You name it, I’m gonna do it to it, stud, until you cry uncle.”

He moved so fast she gasped as he slithered down in the bed like a hot little eel and his mouth closed possessively over her clit. Just as he was with everything he did from acting to singing to sword play to dancing to just looking mouthwatering in black leather, he plied her body with an ease and expert handling that had her panting and writhing beneath his knowledgeable lips.

His slid his index and middle fingers slid into her cunt, twisted them gently, then turned them so they were crooked upward and she knew he was searching for that illusive spot many sexperts did not believe existed as he pushed deep. His free hand was on her lower belly--pressing down gently but firmly--as he sought her g-spot and when he found it, when she moaned and arched her hips upward, he chuckled low in his throat.

“Gotcha,” he said and moved his fingers so he tugged against her pelvic bone then he began lifting his hooked fingers up, using the same rhythm he would if it were his cock inside her.

“Oh my God!” she gasped. Not only had he found what he was seeking, he knew damned well how to ply it. Her ex-husband had certainly never located it and she doubted he would have known how to stroke it if he’d stumbled on by accident.

It wasn’t really a stroke Rory was using but rather than an upward rhythmic pressing that was turning her inside out, reducing her to mush. Her head was thrashing back and forth on the pillow and since he had little hair to grasp, her fingers were buried in the sheet beneath her arching hip.

“That’s it, wench,” he said in that husky brogue. “Find the tempo and let it take you.”

It felt as though she had to pee and yet she knew that wasn’t the case. She knew enough about the legendary g-spot to know the pressure was good, that it was the precursor to one helluva of an ….

She tensed, going stiff as she felt it rushing at her.

“Oh, yeah. Come for your man, baby,” he ordered. “Come for him hard and juicy.”

A rush of intense pleasure shot between Angela’s legs and pulsed like a caution light--pleasure-release-pleasure-release-pleasure ….

“Rory!”
she cried out, twisting the sheets as wave after wave of the most delicious spasms rocketed through her. She bore down on his fingers, felt something trickle from her sheath, and he tugged gently at her pelvic bone as her muscles continued to squeeze around him.

“That’s it, my love,” he whispered. “That’s what you needed.” He flexed his fingers inside her. “That’s exactly what my woman needed.”

She felt like a deflated balloon drifting down to collapse on the mattress. Her legs and arms were like lead weights, unable to be lifted. Her breath came in a ragged pant as she strove to get her pounding heart under control and she felt so vulnerable lying there motionless, legs splayed wide as he bent to lick at the juices that had seeped from her warm channel.

Angela shuddered as his tongue dragged over her sensitive flesh. She heard him make a sound as though he had consumed the sweetest nectar to be found and then she was staring down past her quivering belly as he raised his head and gave her a look that would have melted titanium.

He simply said, “My woman.”

She used the last of her waning strength to hold her arms up to him. “Come here, Boss Man,” she said. “Let your woman hold you.”

He crawled up her and laid his full weight upon her, understanding that was what she wanted. He was heavy but her arms settled around him and she seemed to pull him down even closer. His head rested on her shoulder as she stroked his back, running her fingernails down his flesh to raise gooseflesh.

“I like that,” he said on a long sigh.

“Um hum,” she muttered.

When he was almost asleep, she nudged him off her to lie on his back. He grumbled for a moment, but when she moved down in the bed, his eyes snapped wide open and he lifted his head to look at her as she positioned herself between his thighs, looking up at him with a mischievous glint.

“My turn,” she said and lowered her head to take him in her mouth.

Chapter Six

In January of the following year, the nominations for the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences coveted awards were read. Among those nominated for Best Actor was Rory Keith for his role as famed Scottish chieftain Rob Roy MacGregor in the epic Wild Lowland Wind. And in March he escorted Angela to the Kodak Theater located at the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue in Los Angeles. As they walked upon the red carpet and video cameras recorded the moment, paparazzi hurled question after question at the couple the whole world had come to refer to as the Bandit and his Wench--a term taken from the western the actor was making when he and his housekeeper became an item.

In the beautiful designer dress Rory and she had designed together, Angela looked radiant. She’d lost fifty pounds working out with him and though he had argued stringently against it, she’d had a light face lift and liposuction done. She looked much younger than her fifty-nine years and felt twenty years younger than that.

Making their way into the theater, they stopped to talk to friends and pleasant rivals alike, for Rory to do a few short interviews or to make tentative appointments with the movers and shakers of Hollywood, his hand either at the small of Angela’s back or with fingers entwining hers.

“Nervous?” she asked him as they took their seat. She was so proud of him in his tuxedo with his hair at the length she loved so much.

“Did you bring the barf bag like I told you?” he countered.

Angela leaned against his shoulder. “You’re going to be fine, Boss Man.”

“I’m gonna make a fool of meself and puke on the stage when I go up to present the Oscar for ….” He stopped, eyes flaring. “Sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What the fuck am I presenting the Oscar for again?”

She stroked his thigh and felt the muscle bunch beneath her palm. “Will you just relax?” She gave him a tender look. “You’re going to win, you know.”

He shook his head firmly. “No, it’s Brosnan’s year. He’s gonna win playing that psycho.” He glanced around then lowered his voice. “This is the first time all five nominees have all been Celts. Did you know that? Brosnan and Liam are both Irish, Ewan and Sean are Scots, and me, I’m Scots, too.”

“You are?” she asked with a gasp. “By the plaid of the MacGregor, I didn’t know that, Rory John!”

He crossed his eyes at her. “Behave, wench, or I swear to you, I’m gonna blow chunks in your fucking lap.”

Throughout the evening, they held hands when Rory wasn’t up presenting and exchanging witty banter with his co-presenter, Camryn Manhiem, who had been his co-star in The Wayward Wind western.

When it came time for famed actress Dame Judi Dench to announce the nominees for Best Actor, Rory’s right leg was bouncing up and down violently and he was chewing on a thumb nail.

“Brosnan,” Angela heard him saying under his breath. “It’s gonna be Brosnan.”

“Keith,” she countered. “It’s gonna be Rory.”

He shook his head. “Brosnan. It’s gonna be ….”

“And the Oscar goes to Rory Keith for Wild Lowland Wind,” Dame Judi proclaimed with a pleased smile.

“See?” Rory told Angela. “I told you Brosnan ….”

“Keith,” she corrected him. “Rory Keith won for Wild Lowland Wind.”

All around him people were clapping and he just sat there, stunned, the cameras recording his pale face, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. He truly had not expected to win, hadn’t even prepared an acceptance speech.

“Get up, you lousy Scot,” fellow actor and pal Josh Lucas said from the seat behind him, poking him in the back. “You won the damned thing. Go get it!”

“I won,” Rory said, turning his head to look at Angela. “Wench, I fucking won!”

She had to push him out of his seat but once up, he was pumping his fist in the air and practically running up the steps, throwing his arms around Dame Judi once there and lifting her from the floor, swinging her and her expensive silk gown around in a circle. He gave her a reckless kiss then set her down and the world watched the elegant actress fan her face like a teenage girl.

“Oh my God,” Rory said as he clutched the Oscar to his chest and stared out into the audience. “Oh my God.” His gaze fell on Angela and he grinned like a little boy. He held the Oscar up with one hand and pointed to it with the other. “Look what they gave me, wench, for just havin’ fun!”