Windstar (4 page)

He put his hands on her arms and circled her wrists within his fingers, holding her as she was plying his aching flesh. When he could take no more of her tender torture, he pulled her hands gently from him and spread her arms wide and leaned toward her, pinioning her hands to either side of her head. His long, lean body slithered down hers and his knees pushed hers apart, settling himself between her legs as he slanted his mouth across hers and took her in that manner.

His mouth tasted of brandy and his scent was all male, purely intoxicating and it worked its dark magic into her womb and through her loins to settle in her bud to make it throb with want and need and a lust so pure it pulsed. She longed to wrap her arms around him but he held her hands captive as he tongued her mouth in a way Angie had never known. He probed her, lapped at the edges of her mouth. He flicked his tongue over her lips then he thrust deep, withdrew, thrust against and ground his mouth against hers as though they were copulating in that fashion.

Though she had lain with her husband of thirty-four years many times, she had never known such sweet delight as she found in the arms of Lord Kendryck. He was an expert in the art of seduction, a master in the skills of lovemaking. He wove a tight web around her body and around her heart and held her to him without the aid of chains or ropes. She knew she would forever be linked to this beautiful man, her heart having been handed into his keeping.

He pulled his lips from hers and rained kissed down her cheeks, beneath her chin, down her neck and across her ear, nibbling at the earlobe until she was squirming under him. He moved lower still to lick at the hollow of her throat then down her chest and around the dark spiral of her nipple.

“Milord!” she moaned, for such ecstasy would surely kill her.

His tongue was moist and hot as it flicked over her nipple a moment before he drew the bud into his mouth and suckled her as a babe would at its nursing. He slid across to the other breast and did the same, tasting each in turn over and over again until it seemed he had his fill before he went lower yet to taste the indention of her belly.

She lifted her head and followed his progress and when he stared at her belly with a deep frown upon his face, she asked what troubled him.

“These marks,” he said. “What caused such scarring, wench?”

“They are stretch marks, Milord,” she said, ashamed of the ghastly stripes that crisscrossed her abdomen.

He lowered his lips to one such scar. “Did they hurt you?”

“Nay, Milord,” she said. “ ‘T’was merely the babes growing inside me that brought them about.”

He kissed the scars over and over again as though his lips could erase the brutal signs and heal her, then he moved up her again until his cock was poised at the apex of her thighs.

“I would taste you but not all women like that,” he said.

She blinked. “Taste me, Milord?” she questioned, not knowing what he meant. Had it been his intention to take a bite out of her?

“Your honey, wench,” he said and released her left wrist to run his hand down her arm, her side, her hips only to slide it across her and between her legs. “The honey that seeps from your sheath.”

Angie’s face burned red and she turned her head away.

“Nay, wench,” he said, reaching up to cup her chin. “ ‘Tis a wondrous thing between a man and his woman. I would know your taste if you would allow it.”

Though embarrassment stained her cheeks, she nodded hesitantly, not sure what it was she was agreeing to but thrilling to the look of pleasure that lit his green eyes. As he moved down her again—releasing her other wrist as well so he could put his hands to the damp bush at her thighs and part the hair—she gasped for he took her into his mouth and her hips arched up from the mattress of their own accord.

“Milord!” she cried out and she buried her hand in his thick curls.

She heard him laugh, felt his hot breath along the folds of her sex and then he was doing such wondrous, delightful, surely wicked things to her that all she could do was grip his hair and hang on lest she fly clear off the bed and out the window into the heavens.

Of their own accord, her knees crooked and she wrapped her legs around his shoulders, his hands going under her hips to lift her higher for his feasting. His mouth was moving over her, his tongue licking at her folds, stabbing gently into her channel and his teeth grazing her bud until she was panting with need, her head whipping back and forth on the pillow, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

She felt him pull away from her and lifted her head to complain, to whimper but when she saw the light of desire burning in his green gaze she bit her lip.

He moved up her again and put a hand to his stiff shaft, nudging her legs farther apart as he positioned himself at her entrance. Her legs were quivering as she held them in the air that way—clear of his hips until he slid smoothly and firmly into her cunt.

“Ah,” she heard him sigh and he went as deep as his steely rod would allow, filling her to the brim, completing her as she’d never been complete before.

And when he began to move within, easing out, pushing in, increasing his speed, increasing the depth, thrusting harder and swiveling his hips so his cock twisted a bit inside her, she wrapped her legs around his waist and clamped onto him harder.

“Aye, wench,” he said. “That is what I want. That is what I need! Tighter. Tighter! Hurt me if you like!”

She squeezed him as he bucked atop her and pummeled her expertly with his fleshy sword. He thrust and she parried, arching to meet him as he strove to elicit from her pleasure such as she’d never known.

His cock was large and long and thick and it stretched her almost to the point of pain and when he seated himself as far inside her as he could go, she grunted with the delicious force of it. Her hands were still in his hair, her legs at his waist and when the first spiral of release began undulating through her, she cried out and increased her grip on his lower body even more.

“Aye!” she heard him shout and he poured into her as the spasms of delight took hold of her and carried her to a place she knew only in her dreams.

“I love you, Rory!” she whispered. “I love you ....”

* * * *

Angie woke with the bedclothes soaked with her sweat and her pillow clasped tightly between her aching thighs. She was breathing heavily and knew a moment of such devastating loss that it brought tears to her eyes.

In her dreams she could have him. In her dreams he was there to take her as she longed to be taken, and it was in her dreams that Angela Evans knew the only true sexual satisfaction she had known in many years.

Chapter Two

Angela fumbled the key to Rory’s apartment out of her purse, nervous at seeing him again the next morning, still unnerved and aching from the dream she’d had of him, still unable to believe she would be working in close proximity to a man for whom women all over the world lusted. It was too good to be true and she had pinched herself several times already as she rode uptown in the cab, her meager belongings encompassing six suitcases and a few boxes that would be arriving by messenger later in the day.

Leaving her things in the lobby under the watchful eye of the doorman, she took the private elevator up to the loft, her stomach doing nervous little flips, hands shaking, palms sweating. The elevator doors opened and she stood staring down the short hallway at the door to his apartment, swallowing hard as she forced one foot ahead of the other to leave the cage. With the key firmly in hand, she only made two misses at putting it in the slot then the lock disengaged and she opened the door, half expecting the smell of sandalwood and myrrh to flood over her.

He’d left the vertical blinds open on the wide sweep of industrial size windows that ran along the north of the loft. She suspected the glass had been changed to privacy panes to keep people from looking in. The apartment was filled with the gray wash of the day, for clouds still lurked on the horizon and rain threatened.

Setting down the one bag she’d brought up with her, she glanced at the opened door to what she suspected was his bedroom. The room was dark and as she listened closely, she heard the rumble of snoring echoing forth and that put a smile on her face.

“Heavy breathing, huh?” she said to herself as she went on into the kitchen area of the open space.

Working quietly, she set a pot of coffee to brewing and began looking through the cupboards, finding where everything was, taking out plates, mugs, silverware, and cookware as silently as she could.

It was the cough that alerted her that he was awake. She’d heard such morning coughs from her father who had been a heavy smoker and she glanced toward Rory’s bedroom and froze.

He had obviously thrown the drapes aside in the room, for she could see clearly all the way to the massive Spanish armoire in front of which he was standing. Her lips parted and she couldn’t have moved had her life depended on it. Her mouth went dry for a moment and then flooded with saliva. When he turned his head and looked at her, her eyes widened, jerking up from the object of her attention to his grinning face.

“Are you staring at my naked bum, Angie?” he asked her.

Indeed she had been, she thought as color flamed in her cheeks and she spun around, swallowing hard as she reached into the pantry. She knew she’d not get the image of his smooth, broad back and lean hips and that killer ass out of her head for the rest of her life. With his long legs standing braced wide apart as he opened the armoire door, his butt cheeks flexing, his back muscles stretching, his scrumptious nudity had rocked her to her very foundations.

She heard him behind her and glanced around, her face still hot. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans he’d left unbuttoned at the waist as he padded up to the peninsula of the bar area.

“You were, weren’t you?” he said, hooking a leg over a bar stool and sitting down, leaning his forearms on the bar top. He grinned like a little boy. “You were staring at my bare ass.”

“If I’d had a camera, I could have become a very wealthy woman selling pictures of it to the tabloids,” she said as she rummaged through the bags of groceries. He’d told her not to bother putting them away the evening before when the market delivery boy had shown up while they ate supper. The only things he’d allowed her to put away had been the perishables.

He propped his chin on the heel of his hand. “So what did you think of it? My bare ass, I mean? Its world class, ain’t it?”

Her lips quirked. “I believe my exact thought was that you could bounce a quarter off it,” she replied, deciding he was in a good mood, something the agency had warned her was not usually the case with actors and actresses the first thing in the morning.

His eyes lit up and he came to attention like a puppy will when its master produces a rubber ball. “Wanna try?” he asked eagerly. “I can shuck off me jeans and we can ….”

“I’ll take a rain check,” she countered.

Shoulders slumping, he sighed. “You’re no fun.”

“How do you like your coffee?” she asked.

“Brewed,” he responded.

She sighed. “Sugar, cream?”

“Nope, just black.”

“What about your eggs?”

“I like them cooked,” he replied.

She wouldn’t let that pass, just raised an eyebrow, and looked at him.

“Oh, you meant
how
do I want them cooked?” he queried. He shrugged. “Scrambled with a bit of salt and pepper.”

“Do you like grits?” She walked out of the kitchen and to the bag she’d brought with her.

He frowned as he twisted around on the bar stool, watching her as she lifted the bag to a chair and unlatched it, reaching in for a box of what apparently was grits along with a small glass jar of something else.

“I’ve never eaten any. What do they taste like?” His frown deepened. “Are they good for you?”

“Good
to
you,” she corrected and proceeded to pour a portion of the grits into a microwaveable measuring cup.

“I’ll try anything once,” he said, propping his chin in his hand once again. He watched every move she made.

“Bacon or spicy patty sausage?” she inquired as she stood with the fridge door opened. “Which do you prefer?”

“Don’t know her but Kevin and I’ve played ball together,” he answered. “If she’s real spicy, let’s have Patty. I’m game.”

Angela hung her head. “You are absolutely hopeless,” she told him. “Make yourself useful and do the toast.”

“How do you do toast?” he asked as he slid off the stool. “Do you just wrap it around your dangly and …”

“Enough!” she laughed. “I can’t take so much irreverence this early in the morning!”

He surprised her by coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling her neck. “Stand aside, wench,” he said, “and let me at the butter. Can’t do toast properly without slathering her little backside with butter and getting her all oiled up, you know.”

She moved aside, slipping easily out of his arms, her entire body tingling from the contact of his bare chest. She shook her head as he chuckled at her like the mischievous little boy she was beginning to understand he liked to pretend to be.

“You’re lucky you didn’t go to work for Mike Gibson,” he told her as he took slices of bread and popped them into the four-slot toaster. “He likes to play practical jokes on people. Once Saran-wrapped a girl’s toilet seat shut.” He fetched a butter knife and a plate for the toast. “He’s particularly fond of plastic dog shit.”

She let that pass though she felt him eyeing her, no doubt gauging her response. The timer on the microwave went off, letting her know the grits were cooked. She had sliced four patties of sausage and it was sizzling in the pan as she cracked eggs into a bowl and added a bit of half and half.

“Damn me, if that don’t smell eatable,” he said of the sausage. The first of the toast popped up and he began slathering it with butter.

“Trust me,” she said, flipping the sausage. “You’ll like it.” She asked him how much toast he was going to make since he’d put four more slices in the toaster.

“I like me toast,” he said then tucked his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment and she knew he was about to say something off-color. “I should say I like doing me toast. Getting it all hot and buttered.”