Wine, Tarts, & Sex (5 page)

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Authors: Susan Johnson

BOOK: Wine, Tarts, & Sex
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“No way. Everything’s good. Lead on.”
Male certainty
, she thought, resuming her ascent. Not that she was surprised. Nor would she have had even a moment of equivocation if any of this was even
remotely normal
.
Au contraire
.
Her hots for Jake Chambers was unusual. She’d never been instantly turned on by a man—and she’d seen more than her share of handsome men on her world travels.
Although trying to figure out why this was happening wasn’t in the cards right now. Her carnal impulses were in charge.
And whether cause or effect was driving her, the goal was the same.
“Holy shit.” Arrested at the top of the stairs, she stared at a very large four-poster bed, its provenance India, if the voluptuous female nudes that figured as bedposts were any indication. The piece of furniture was set center stage in a large room that otherwise appeared to be a living room. “Some of Chaz’s usual subtlety, I see.” She shot a glance at Jake, who had come up beside her.
“You got that right,” Jake said, drily. “Is it too much? We could go somewhere else.” He liked that she hadn’t seen it before, her surprise obvious. That it mattered that she hadn’t seen it before, he chose not to consider.
She glanced at her watch, thinking, could she wait if they went somewhere else? Easy answer: no. Then her friends were waiting, too, so time was a factor.
“Are you on a tight schedule?”
“No,” she lied. “Sorry.” Although why was she even worrying about Shelly et al. at a time like this? Her mother’s courtesy-to-others mantra drilled into her in childhood was to blame.
“So—do you wanna go somewhere else?”
Back in the real, more selfish world, her gaze flicked down to his crotch, then up again. “I vote to stay here.” She smiled. “How’s that?”
He would have been happy fucking her on the dining room table downstairs, but ever courteous, he said, “I second the vote. Come on.” He took her hand. “Let’s see if this
Kama Sutra
bed has any good vibes.”
The magenta satin duvet cover and pillow shams had the same over-the-top bawdiness as the bed, the fabric not only embroidered in gold but befringed and betasseled with reckless abandon.
“I feel as though I should charge you,” Liv teased as they reached the bed. “Is this from a bordello, or is it some decorator ’s idea of camp?”
“Let’s hope it’s camp. Although in my current lustful mood, I want you to know, money’s no object.”
“Cute.” She smiled. “Not that I wouldn’t be willing to open my checkbook at the moment if I had to.” She glanced at his erection. “For that.”
They were both experienced enough and past gorgeous enough to know that neither of them had ever had to pay for anything when it came to sex. They didn’t belabor the point.
“Sit down.” He kicked off his sandals. “Let me help you with your shoes—and don’t look at me like that. I don’t have a fetish. I’m just being polite.”
“In that case”—Liv smiled as she sat on the shockingly pink satin—“I’d be delighted.”
“Louboutin has the sexiest shoes on the market.” Kneeling at her feet, unbuckling one black ankle strap, he glanced up and winked. “Merely an objective observation. I won’t ask to lick your toes.”
She laughed. “I’m relieved. As for Louboutin, the man knows women. I have a closet full of his shoes; they make me feel good.”
Like the touch of your hands
, Liv thought, her senses on full alert, superheightened, as if she’d inhaled an aphrodisiac, and the love potion was kicking in big time.
Any talk of feeling good definitely struck a chord, although Jake’s feel-good senses had nothing to do with shoes or Christian Louboutin’s expertise in interpreting female psyches. He didn’t even believe in karma, although an experience like this could make him a convert. It wasn’t every day a sexy woman like Liv Bell walked into his kitchen. He’d give fate a nod on this one.
And maybe an obeisance or two as well.
Or ten or twenty, he decided, deeply appreciative of the scene unfolding before his eyes.
Once sans shoes, Liv had tumbled back onto the bed and was in the process of stripping off her lacy panties, her silken thighs and blonde pussy a damned inspiring sight.
Quick to take his cue, he pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it.
A second later, green silk panties joined his T-shirt on the floor.
He unsnapped his jeans.
She looked up, her dress half off. “This is sooo bizarre,” she murmured, the sound of the snap having buzzed her back from her jazzed-up, take-me-I’m-yours trance.
“Don’t knock it. Karma’s karma.”
“You think?”
He shrugged. “Absolutely.” No way was he stopping. Not with her dress down around her waist and her lush boobs scorching his retinas.
“Okay,” she said, as though maybe she’d needed permission. Then he slid his jeans down his hips and legs, stepped out of them, and any hesitation she might have had instantly vanished. She wanted what was under his boxers with or without karma or reason or practicality. Someday, she’d question her obsession. But. Not. Right. Now.
Back on track, she slid her dress downward, slipped her legs out, and tossed the bright yellow silk aside. Kicking the duvet down to the foot of the bed, she figured she’d worry about whatever there was to worry about later—like tomorrow or never. “Yesss, normal sheets,” she exclaimed. “Chaz has not gone completely Bollywood.” Falling back in a languorous pose that was second nature to her after ten thousand photo shoots, she lay on Chaz’s six-hundred-count lavender cotton sheets and said with a smile, “As you may have noticed, I’m in a slam-bang mood.”
He grinned. “Are you on speed, or something better?”
“I wish I had that excuse. I’m straight and sober, and have no idea why I’m suddenly so impatient. Maybe it’s your eyes; they’re gorgeous. Although your splendid hard-on can’t be discounted, either,” she added, her gaze flicking to his crotch. “Oh, yeah, definitely a factor . . .”
“Speaking of factors,” he murmured, his dark gaze focused on her pussy, prominently on display as she lay with one leg slightly bent at the knee and tipped to one side. A tantalizing glimpse of her pink labia commanded his attention, her soft, plump flesh glistening wet, as in
ready for action
.
“Do you need help undressing?”
His gaze came up, and he grinned. “Can’t wait?”
“No. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t a clue.”
“Give me a second to find a condom,” he said with a smile, quickly stripping off his blue boxers, “and I’ll be right with you. Knowing Chaz, I’m guessing there’s some around.” Jerking open the drawer on the bedside table, he lifted out a string of foil packets. “Score.”
“Thank God. I was about to panic.” His engorged, waist-high erection was making her even hotter. With a suffocated groan, she cautioned herself to patience while every feverish nerve in her body screamed its dissent.
In the act of tearing open a foil packet, he paused at the sound of her muffled groan and glanced over. “You
are
on a real short fuse, aren’t you, babe?”
“Sorta,” she whispered. “I apologize.”
“Hey, don’t apologize. I’m counting my blessings.”
She watched him roll the latex down his stiff prick with swift precision, her cunt pulsing and throbbing in anticipation, all her senses primed and aching to feel that huge dick slide inside her.
The condom in place, he leaned over the bed, setting his hands on either side of her shoulders, and dropped between her legs in a supple flow of muscled strength. “Time to get this show on the road?” His voice was soft, his smile close.
“If you don’t mind.” There it was; courtesy even in extremity.
“Do I look like I mind?”
She smiled. “You have my eternal thanks, believe me.”
He almost said,
Who would have nailed you if I hadn’t asked?
But seconds away from sinking his dick into her cunt, he whispered, “My pleasure, babe.”
He didn’t even have to use his hands.
She shifted her hips slightly, adjusting her wet-with-longing cleft over the head of his penis . . . until she was right on target.
He pressed forward, entered her, and gave it up to whatever was making him feel this good.
Everything proceeded in perfect harmony—faultless to a fault, as Robert Browning would say—the quintessential fit of slick cunt and hard cock, of time and circumstance, of uncomplicated desire.
She gasped softly as her G-spot nerve endings made contact with his hard, rigid penis.
He heard her gasp but neither paused nor stopped, single-mindedly intent on sinking hilt-deep into her silky warmth. Slowly forcing his way in, he felt her flesh gradually yield to his size and length, and when he eventually reached bottom, he grunted in satisfaction.
That low, guttural sound triggered every primal nerve in her body; all the complexities of civilization vanished, and she became incarnate female to virile maleness. Not necessarily a completely tractable female with her twenty-first-century mind-set, but definitely and certifiably receptive.
Even as she took note of her peculiar reaction, her body shamelessly contrived to further advance the act of mating, flooding her vaginal tissue to allow better access, making her more available, easier to fuck.
Acknowledging the added lubrication, Jake shifted his tempo marginally, moving with less caution now, sliding in and out more forcefully, no longer concerned with curbing his forward motion in order not to hurt her.
She responded, accommodating his rhythm, her hands clutching his shoulders, her feet braced on Chaz’s lavender sheets to better meet the power of his downstrokes. Each time he was completely submerged, she’d arch upward to experience that exquisite, fierce ecstasy, holding her breath as the flame-hot rapture flooded her senses. As he’d withdraw, she’d whimper, reluctant to relinquish the intoxicating pleasure, pleading. “Stay, stay, stay . . .”
He never did—knowing better, intent on the ultimate sensation—and after a millisecond suspended at the extremity of his withdrawal, he’d plunge in once again and smile faintly at her gasp of pleasure.
Her orgasm wasn’t long in coming.
Not that he’d thought it would be in her self-described slam-bang mood.
She quietly climaxed on one of his downstrokes, dying away on a sigh and a wave of molten bliss.
He was surprised at her constraint, having expected something more violent and vocal from a woman who approached sex with such dispatch. As he rested in her, waiting for her last ripple to fade away, she lay motionless and silent.
Christ, had he hurt her?
Or had she freaked out?
Was she some head case? Not an impossibility in the idiosyncratic world of modeling.
Although, primed as he was for his own climax, he decided further speculation could wait. Time enough to worry
after
he came.
Moving into a smooth, practiced rhythm, he’d no more than settled into a lazy rock ’n’ roll undulation than Liv picked up the dance, her hips swinging in time to his, matching each deft flux and flow with gratifying precision. Her little breathy pleasure sounds started up again, too, warming his throat and curiously insinuating themselves into his psyche that had been, to date, immune to such tender sensibilities.
Fucking had always been just about fucking.
Why his psychic receptors were absorbing her soft, frenzied utterances with such clarity was weird, although not altogether bad, he had to admit, bombarded as he was by a full array of seriously prodigal sensation. In fact, it was pretty much the opposite.
“I am
so
turned on,” Liv panted on a particularly deep plunging downthrust. “I’m going to
simply expire
. . .”
“Wait a second. We’ll expire together.” Okay, so his psyche wasn’t completely weirded out. He could still deal with the practicalities.
It took maybe another five seconds—give or take—and once she started to scream, he half-smiled.
That’s more like it
, he thought and proceeded to let himself go and come . . . and come . . . and come . . . in some all-time ejaculatory record.
They were both panting big time when it was over.
“Fucking a,” he whispered, braced on his elbows, his chest heaving.
“Fucking a,” she whispered back, eyes closed and gasping for air.
That they were both experiencing an epiphany of sorts failed to register in either of their brains. Not unusual under the circumstances with them both mildly unstrung. Their incomprehension aside, the eccentric brain synapses were nevertheless stored away, the file drawer shut and labeled for future reference.
The maxim,
Ignorance is bliss
, was appropriate to the occasion.
In terms of immediate reality, Jake came to his senses first, probably through force of habit. He wasn’t a practitioner of touchy-feely after-sex conversation—a common enough trait in males. Easing away, he sat on the edge of the bed, stripped off the condom, disposed of it and, turning back, was about to say something polite in the way of farewell.

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