Bad Boys Down Under (25 page)

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Authors: Nancy Warren

BOOK: Bad Boys Down Under
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Keili emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, looking like she'd redone her makeup based on a Cosmo “how to lure him into bed” makeover. Her face fell so ludicrously when she saw Mark and Bill laughing together that Bron felt she'd paid off a few old scores.
As she'd guessed, she didn't have to do another thing to ensure Mark ended the evening in the same single state he began it. Keili's middle name was not Discretion. Every one of their mutual friends knew within a half-hour that the hot guy from America batted for the other team.
Her plan was working. Mark was in no danger of going home with anyone else. An added benefit, which injected extra sweetness to her plan, was the way she felt his eyes on her whenever she was near another man.
He stared at her as a jealous lover, not as a casual acquaintance, and she did everything she could think of to let him know he wasn't the only man in the southern hemisphere who thought her a knockout.
So he thought she was a one-night stand, did he? Not bloody likely.
By midnight the usual pairing-up and going-home ritual was in full swing. Mark, as far as she could tell, had made a feeble effort at best to talk to anyone but Bill. He'd been polite to the women who'd come by, but his behavior of friendly disinterest only added to the impression she'd given that he was gay.
For which, she was egotistical enough to believe, she was responsible.
“Come on then,” she said, walking over to where he and Bill sat, “we'd best get home. We've got work tomorrow morning.”
When they arrived home together, Mark said, “I haven't struck out that badly in years. The women at that party were all great, really friendly, but as soon as I tried to get to know them a little better it was like they all had to be somewhere.”
Suppressing her smirk was a true test of character.
“It's only your second day in town. You can't expect to get lucky every night.”
“You were the most attractive woman at the party, anyway,” he said with a shrug. “No one else appealed to me at all.”
“Thanks.” She felt the same about him. None of the guys there did anything for her compared to Mark.
“You have a lot of male friends.” He said it with just a suggestion of a question mark.
There it was again, that streak of possessiveness that made a liar out of him and his big talk of casual relationships. Well, if he wanted to know more about her, he was going to have to ask. She shrugged and said, “I have lots of female friends, too.”
“You and Bill seem pretty close.”
No, she didn't have enough character in stock to stifle a smug, “Are you jealous?”
Mark sent her a pitying look. “Bill's gay.”
Her eyes widened as guilt smote her for setting him up, and possibly putting both him and Bill in an awkward position. She shouldn't have done that to either of them. “Did he come on to you?”
“Of course not. He's a classy guy.”
“Then how did you know?”
He rolled his gaze. “I'm from California.”
“Well, he's a very nice man.”
“I thought so, too. He's promised to take me fishing.”
More guilt smacked at her as she recalled how she'd egged Bill on. Running a finger over the arm of the corporate-executive upholstered couch, she said, “You don't think he thinks you're . . . ?”
“No. I told him I got dumped by my girlfriend. He told me he got dumped by his boyfriend. He's a good guy, and we're going fishing.”
She heaved a huge sigh of relief. “I'm glad you made a new friend. And sorry you struck out with the women. Maybe you'll do better tomorrow night.”
He came across the room and took her face in his hands, gazing down at her with those serious/ sexy smoky blue eyes that made her crazy when she looked into their depths. “I brought home the woman I wanted to,” he said, soft and slow, each word licking over her with husky warmth.
He kissed her, and nerves jangled in places that shouldn't have nerves. He kissed her thoroughly, then lifted his head a fraction. “Let's go to bed,” he murmured against her lips.
If she'd ever wanted any man more, she'd blocked the memory. Every part of her, from the soles of her feet to the follicles in her scalp, was shouting the same message:
Yes, yes, yes!
But after a truly heroic struggle with her own hormones, she managed to shake her head.
“Here's how it's going to be,” she said when she could force herself to pull away from the warm, solid feel of him and everything those eyes promised. “I'm not the consolation prize. The little plastic rabbit you get at the show when you miss winning the big stuffed bear. Right?”
“Hey, I'm not suggesting . . . I didn't mean . . .” He looked confused and guilty at the same time, and she realized he hadn't meant to insult her. Still. He had.
Her body was aching for him, but she'd be buggered if she'd be little-Miss-Available whenever he couldn't score with anyone else. “If you want me, you'll need to work at it a little harder, mate.”
She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. “Now get some sleep. You start work tomorrow.”
Chapter Five
For the second morning Mark awoke wildly disoriented, but unlike yesterday, he was alone in bed.
He decided that waking up with Bronwyn had been a lot more interesting than cruising this banana boat of a bed alone. He frowned momentarily to think of her waking similarly solo in her own room.
He took a moment to contemplate the ceiling as he thought back on his night with Bron, but the smug grin abruptly faded when he realized that last night he hadn't remotely wanted any of the gorgeous sun-kissed women at that party—he'd wanted Bron.
In spite of the fact that he'd tried to hide it, she was the one his eyes followed as she flitted from friend to friend—mostly men, he'd noted—like a confident hummingbird from flower to flower. A sip of nectar here, an energetic stationary buzzing there.
No wonder the other women had been so aloof with him. They must have picked up on his infatuation with Bron.
Shit.
Some wild man he was turning out to be. He slept with one woman and immediately developed warm feelings for her. What was wrong with him? This trip was supposed to be his chance to change. And he needed to change. He wouldn't be made a fool of a second time in his life.
Throwing off the covers, he rose from bed and stalked to the shower. He was here in Sydney because Jen, in a move of monumental tactlessness, had asked him to take on this project—because he was the best at what he did. Oh, how he'd wanted to tell her to take the entire inventory of Crane surfboards and stuff them up her ass—or, better still, the ass of Cameron Crane. But if he did that, Jen would know she'd torn his heart out of his chest and stomped on it.
No. He had his pride. Pride had held his emotions in control and his temper on a leash while Jennifer had explained, with a few tears, that she'd fallen in love with another man. He'd been pretty cool about the breakup. Manly. He hadn't railed or shouted, sobbed, or even thrown her unfaithfulness in her face. He wasn't that kind of man.
If any guy had ever let the woman he loved off the hook easier, that man was a saint.
Of course, when she'd returned his ring and asked for his key to her apartment, he'd finally realized she was serious.
That night he'd gone on a bender that had likely done permanent damage to his liver. But even in the depths of drunkenness, he hadn't slobbered his woes all over some poor bartender, or put anyone at risk by driving under the influence. Even as a drunk he was a rule-following do-gooder. And wouldn't you think a woman would want a man like that? he mused as water pounded his body. Wouldn't you think a woman—Jen for instance— would want to spend her life with a man who did his own ironing, supported feminism, and even wore a pink ribbon for breast cancer awareness?
A wave of bitterness hit him so hard he ended up getting shampoo in his eye and cursing. What had being a decent, caring man got him? Dumped for a guy with a corny accent badly in need of a shave.
Would Cameron Crane wear a pink ribbon for anything? He snorted to himself. Not hardly.
Well, the days of Saint Mark were over, he decided, as he dried off and dressed in crisp khakis and a freshly ironed short-sleeved shirt. Jen had warned him the Crane operation was casual, so he'd packed only one summer-weight suit, but nothing was going to make him dress like he'd pulled clothes at random from a thrift shop and then slept in them a few nights. He'd leave that sartorial elegance to Cameron Crane. The bastard.
His former fiancée and her new man were going to be in Sydney during the latter part of his trip. Maybe by the time she got here and saw him in the same room with that bastard, she'd realize what she'd given up in exchange for whisker burn, body odor, and a whole lot of cash.
His plan was so hazy he was barely aware he had one. But he planned that when Jen got here, she'd see that her rejected fiancé was doing just fine and was living life to the fullest. If she saw him enjoying women like they were cigarettes and he was a chainsmoker, then she might pause one nanosecond to think about what she'd so blithely tossed away.
A few months with Cameron Crane might have made her realize all she was missing. She might beg clean-shaven, regularly showered, and crisply ironed Mark Forsythe and his much slimmer wallet to take her back. He smiled slightly as he packed up his laptop.
Naturally, he'd say no.
He'd enjoy that scene very much.
He opened his bedroom door and a slight hint of floral and spice in the air told him that his sexy housemate had recently passed this way.
He paused, inhaling Bron's scent, helplessly recalling how he'd felt driving deep inside her body. He could have had her in his bed again last night if he hadn't acted like a pig. Was he really going to make her move out today as he'd planned? No. He didn't want the most exciting sex he ever remembered to end so soon. And he didn't want to think he'd hurt a very nice woman's feelings because his own were so battered.
He tapped his fingertips reflexively against his computer case as he tried to figure out what the rules were in this kind of situation. Then he realized the rules were whatever the hell he decided they would be. He had to quit thinking of rules, good behavior, politeness.
Rule-breaker, maverick, lone gunman. These were his new ideals. If he wanted to sleep with Bron again, he would. Simple as that. He'd show a little more class about it than he had last night, is all. And with that he strode downstairs and nearly fell over his feet.
The smell of coffee had his taste buds weeping for joy, as did the sight of Bron in a strappy sundress that showed off her tanned, muscular legs, arms and shoulders, and hinted at all the other parts—which he knew from personal experience were just as gorgeous.
He'd been callow and stupid last night to think he could bed her when they'd both arrived home unencumbered. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, but amazingly, when she turned his way, there was no trace of antagonism.
“Morning,” she said with a friendly smile. “I wasn't sure if you liked eggs or whatever on a work day.”
“I, uh . . .” he cleared his throat. “Just toast and coffee.”
She tsked. “Not very healthy. You should eat fruit and protein at breakfast.” She'd managed to make a godawful mess of the kitchen in a short time, but he kind of liked the disorder. It was so unusual in his life.
“What can I do to help?” The dishes, probably. He felt ridiculous being waited on by this woman who also had to go to work today. It wasn't like cooking for him was her job.
Again that sunshine smile flashed. “Handy 'round the place, are you?” Her hair was still damp on the ends and he had to fight an impulse to grab a handful and, holding her in place, give her a proper good morning.
But of course that wouldn't be—
Saint Mark was dead. Badass Mark was in control, and Badass Mark did whatever the hell he felt like.
He grabbed a handful of hair, scrunching the damp strands into a wet rope and, taking advantage of her squeak of surprise, kissed her open mouth.
She'd obviously been snacking on the fruit she'd arranged on the plate, for she tasted like every exotic flavor he knew and some he didn't recognize. Papaya, mango, starfruit, and under it all the elusive salt-sweet scent of the ocean.
For a second she hesitated, then kissed him back with all the enthusiasm he could handle.
“I missed you when I woke up,” he mumbled against her lips as his hands moved from her hair down her shoulders to rest briefly on the small, tight waist.
“You were a dickhead last night,” she replied, nibbling his lips.
He smiled a little. “I was indeed a dickhead,” he agreed, giving the word her pronunciation, which made her chuckle softly. “I'm sorry.”
“I missed you last night, too,” she admitted.
With a glance over her shoulder to the kitchen clock, he saw it was still early enough for what he had in mind.
“I'll show you a California breakfast tradition.”
“If it's anything to do with waffles, I'm not interested.”
He slid the zip down the back of her dress and slipped the straps to her waist. “No waffles. I promise.”
Saint Mark resurfaced only briefly, but long enough to rescue her dress from probable disaster, by the simple expedient of letting go of the straps so it slid with no coy hesitation at all to the floor. He bent, retrieved the dress, and laid it neatly over a chair before turning back to where Bron stood, a half-sweet, half-challenging expression on her face, the sexiest smile he'd ever seen on her lips, and a “come and get me” lilt to her nipples.
He didn't need to be invited twice.
Naturally, she hadn't been wearing a bra, and her salmon pink panties were soon disposed of.
And there she was, dappled in morning sunlight in a bright, compact, efficient kitchen, looking more appetizing than any breakfast he could imagine.
He reached for a papaya slice—orange and wet—and slid it around her nipple. The fruit was cold from the fridge, and she gasped slightly as the cold flesh of the papaya met her warmer flesh. The fruit tracked cold wet juice and goose bumps in its wake.
When he'd finished toying with her he palmed the fruit and smushed it with no elegance but much satisfaction on the mound of her breast. She giggled and sighed at the same time and he bent and licked at the instant fruit smoothie he'd made.
“You said I needed to eat more fruit,” he reminded her, lapping up the orange mush and thinking nothing had ever tasted so incredible. He experimented with mangoes until the yellow juice ran between her breasts and his tongue couldn't keep up, and so he let the juice dribble down her front, hoisting her up to sit on the granite counter.
“Hey,” she protested, “that's cold.”
“I'll warm you,” he promised, bending before her and following the tracks of juice where he'd aimed them. Down her stomach, a dip into her belly button to suck at the small pool there, the fruit scent taking on musk overtones as her own excitement built.
Leaning back on her hands, she let her head fall back as he followed the trail of juice lower to where it mingled with her own juices. When he touched her with his tongue her body jerked against his mouth, kissing him back, and that wonderful humming started deep in her throat. The orchestra pit practicing up for the big crescendo.
When he put his mouth on her, she started to pant. Then moan a little, and she could barely stay on the countertop, never mind keep still. The different juices were all mingling on his tongue, driving him crazy with wanting more. More of her flavor, more of her sweetness, more of Bron.
Her cries grew urgent, her body plumper and slicker, and he swirled once, all the way around, and then thrust his tongue inside her body. And just like that, she exploded.
He didn't stop, couldn't, needing to suck every bit of sweetness out of her until she was sobbing with release.
“No more,” she panted. “I can't take any more.”
He didn't think he could take any more either without seriously embarrassing himself, so he kissed his way back up her body and lifted her down from the counter.
Wondering if Badass Mark had gone too far, he turned away to let her gather herself, when he found himself attacked from behind. His belt buckle was open before he'd quite realized she was after it, and his pants and boxers sliding south.
“What did you—” The sentence ended in a grunt as he felt the cold squish of fruit against his very hot, very hard cock.
“I'm a bit short of vitamin C myself,” Bron explained as she slid to her knees before him. He glanced down and was mildly shocked to see his normally white flesh covered with an abstract arrangement of color and textures. Red, orange, green—all fruit, all squishy, and all cool. Against the fruit mask came the warm, firm swirl of Bron's tongue. Her eyes were half-closed, her mouth faintly curved in a smile like that of a chocoholic biting into her first Godiva's.
Her tongue curled around him, and she made these wonderful sounds of pleasure. Explosion was imminent.
“Condom,” he grunted.
“Mmwhn?”
“Condom.” More desperate, trying to think of the balance sheet of the last company he'd saved from bankruptcy. But all he could think about was the pungent smell of papaya, mango, and orange, and the feel of—no, can't think about that.
Her hands were on his butt now, squeezing, and her mouth was all over him, her tongue so sweet, so warm, so . . . oh, no, one hand slipped lower, between his legs. No, not the balls, please, not the balls.
Too late, gently she cupped and squeezed and it was too much.
A moment of such exquisite delight gripped him that he had to reach behind him for the countertop in order to remain upright.
When she had squeezed the last of his climax from him, he felt soft kisses as she made her way up his body much as he had up hers.

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