Page 24 of Spicy Nick

“The cats, then. You could step on a cat, or trip over one. Youknowthey all think that stairs were made for sleeping on.”

“Bullshit. The cats are?—"

“Right there,” she says, stabbing downward with her finger. “Look!”

I glance down, taking my gaze away from her face for the first time in several minutes and, sure enough. There’s a cat at her feet, lying stretched out along the tread. Buttercup, I think? Although in this light, it’s hard to tell. What’s that thing they say? All cats are gray in the dark? Totally true.

“You could’ve tripped over her right now. And then where would we be? The fall would have killed us both.”

“It would certainly have killed the mood,” I say, pausing where I am—because this conversation is already doing a good job with that.

“Besides,” she continues, undaunted. “You’ve forgotten the drinks.”

“What drinks?”

“The spicy whatchamacallits. We should bring them upstairs with us.”

“Yeah? You think you’re gonna want more of that?

She laughs, a little breathlessly. “Oh, I definitely want more!”

“Fine,” I agree, relenting. “I’ll get the drinks. But you’d better be naked when I get there.”

“Oh, you can count on it,” she says. And, still laughing, she turns and flees up the remainder of the stairs.

I makemy way back to the living room. I grab the glasses, pick the clothes up from floor—since I’m there and they’re there, and who else is going to do it?—and head for the kitchen.

I drop the clothes in the washer on the way, deposit the glasses in the sink once I get there, and then set about making two new drinks. This time around, I add ice and a little ginger ale and skip the whip. They’re different now, more like boozy, eggnog-flavored egg creams, but they still pack some heat.

When I enter our bedroom, a few minutes later, I momentarily lose my breath at the sight that greets me. Scout is naked in our bed, lying on her side, with her head propped on her fist, and a smile on her face, looking beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

“Hm,” I say as I put the drinks down on one of the night tables that flank the bed. “It looks like Santa came early with my present. And it’s already unwrapped.”

“Oh-ho-ho,” she teases. “Is that so? And have you been a good boy this year?”

“This year and every year,” I quip, shucking out of my pants at record speed. “Move over and I’ll show you just how good I can be.”

Scout arches a brow at me. “And what if I want naughty?”

“I can do that, too,” I answer as I reach for her, but she holds me off.

“My turn,” she says, rolling me onto my back, and then leaning across me to grab one of the glasses. Her body slides against mine as she does, breasts pressing softly against my chest, my rib cage. The smell and the feel and the weight of her,the sheer thrill of having her near is overwhelming—even all these years later. And I close my eyes to better experience it.

I hear the clunk of the glass being returned to the nightstand. Then she shifts away, taking all that heat with her. Before I can open my eyes or protest the loss of contact, her lips touch my chest and she begins to drop cool, damp, butterfly kisses there, then down the center of my torso, over my abs. I groan in pleasure as she pauses to circle her tongue in my navel.

I do open my eyes as she moves further south, however. There’s no secret about where she’s heading and the sight of her mouth stretched wide around my cock is not one that I’m ever willing to miss, no matter how many times I’ve already seen it. She licks across my groin and my cock jumps in anticipation.

Laughing, she turns her head to ask, “Nervous or impatient?”

“What do you think?” I return.

Instead of responding she runs her tongue around my crown, and I groan again. “Oh, God, yeah.” It’s like a whisper of fire and ice, cool yet tingly, setting my nerves alight. “Keep going,” I growl as she pauses to gauge my reaction. “Please.”

And now she’s opening her mouth and taking me in, lips ghosting up and down my shaft—warm sparks igniting on the way down, cool stings like ice-burn on the way back up. One hand massages my sac, moving in counterpoint to the swirl of her tongue, exerting just the right amount of pressure. There’s an extra bit of heat there, too, I think. The barest suggestion of flame licking over my flesh. Perhaps just a trace of ginger on her fingers?

And then, just as I’m getting close, she backs off—gradually slowing her strokes, lightening her touch. “Nick?”

“Mm?” I mumble. And, realizing that I’ve closed my eyes after all, I open them again. “’S up?”

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