Page 45 of Sexy as Sin
She laughed. “Where’s my dress?”
“You could wear one of my shirts,” he said. “Closet through the door in the bathroom.”
She walked away. It was a good look. She wasn’t voluptuous, no. She was strong, slim, feminine, and gorgeous, and no matter what that idiot had said, you’d never mistake her for a man, coming or going. Especially not coming. Just thinking about the look of her under him was making him want her again.
Harder this time, though. Better.
She came back, buttoning up a white dress shirt and rolling up the sleeves, and he sighed. What was it about a woman wearing only your shirt? Especially when she was tall, and that shirt only hit the tops of her thighs?
She asked, “What?”
Should he tell her? He was always careful at first. How strange was it that the need to be careful had vanished? He didn’t think it was just the drugs. He said, “I’m thinking about what’s making you look so hot right now.”
She came to sit beside him on the bed. Not the way he’d have expected. On her knees, legs spread, the tails of the shirt falling around her, and, yeah, he flipped the edge up, got his hand under there, and went to work. Her hands went right to the mattress behind her, and she gave in to it, asking for it. Nothing like he’d have expected, but exactly like he should have. The woman who surfed like she was abandoning herself to the waves, and who kissed like she’d been born to please. That was who he had here, because his body had been right all along.
She might take a good long while to trust, but once she was in? She was in all the way. She was the whole teasing, tempting package, and he was also probably going to explode before this night was through. And then she said, “Tell me,” like a woman who wanted to hear it, and pushed that explosion a little closer.
He eyed her. He fingered her, too. She was loving it. “I could be a little...”
“R-rude?” It was a gasp. “Dominant? Mate. You’re... ah... keep doing that. Andtellme. I need to hear it.”
If he hadn’t had this stupid broken leg, he wouldn’t have told her. He’d have shown her. On the other hand, he wasn’t doing too badly at showing her right now, she wanted to hear it, and he wanted to say it. “It’s that you’re mine,” he said. Too blunt? Too bad. “That it’s my shirt, you’re naked under it, and I feel like I can do whatever I want to you right now.”
Her eyes were closed, she was breathing hard, and she said, “Tell me what you’d do if you had... uh...Brett.Oh, do that some more. Please. If you had both... legs.”
“I love your ass,” he said, and got a little rougher, and she went up like a firecracker, making some noise. “I want to watch it while I fuck you. I’d put you standing up, facing the corner of the bed, with your legs spread, and then I’d shove your upper body down flat on the mattress. Slowly. You’re only a few inches shorter than I am, and you’d make it so easy. I’d pull your wrists behind you with one hand, grab you around the thigh with the other, and fuck your brains out from behind while you rubbed against the mattress and I told you what I wanted and made you come. In my shirt. Under control.”
“Oh... God.” It was a moan, and she kept on doing it. She was soaking wet, and he was throbbing. “Say it again. Do it some more.”
“Could be I’d spank you while I did it, too,” he said. Testing. Burning. “Could be you’d ask me to.”
She didn’t even answer. She just moaned again, put her head back, closed her eyes, and came right there. Around his fingers. On his bed. In his shirt. Under control.
Yeah. She was all that and then some. Hungry for it, and for him, and if he had her? He’d never let her go.
And then she brought him a piece of Boston cream pie, smiled at him while he ate impossibly moist yellow cake, silky-smooth, golden-rich custard, and bittersweet chocolate icing, kissed his mouth, his neck, his chest, her hair brushing over his body like feathers, while he sipped red wine that tasted like everything dark and sinful in the world. She stroked her hands up his good thigh, tasted and kissed and teased and took him in like all she wanted in this world was to make him feel like a king, and blew his mind.
When he woke up, it was dark, and the other side of the bed was empty, even though he’d gone to sleep with a hand on her hip, holding her right there.
Something was wrong.
Surely he’d have woken up if he’d heard her van. Woken up, and protested. He rolled to his side, switched on the light, blinked against the harshness of it, and hauled himself laboriously up to sitting. His leg throbbed, and he bit back a groan and saw a flash of pink at the corner of the bed. When he leaned over and checked, it was her dress. And her bra and thong.
Not gone, then, because she wouldn’t have worn just his shirt home, even if she’d had trouble finding her clothes in the dark. She’d have asked him to turn on the light. No matter what he’d said in the heat of the moment, she must know by now that he wasn’t actually that guy, except in bed.
Wouldn’t she know that?
He heard something, then. The call of a night bird, maybe. He held still and listened. A choked sound, then a faint moan.
Not a bird.
Oh, my God. He’d hurt her.
He was out of bed on the thought, swinging his legs around, barely noticing the pain, grabbing for his crutches, and getting upright. He heard the noise again. A whimper.
He was naked, but he couldn’t worry about that. He was down the hall, seeing the strip of yellow light from under a closed door.
Bathroom. And not his.
