Hot and Bothered (8 page)

“I know that. You've always been strong and capable.”

Yeah, she'd certainly been that when she'd been crying in the bathroom.

He brought her up the stairs and into her room, then her connecting bathroom. The marbled counters, floors, and walls all seemed so unfamiliar, inconsequential, and she pulled away from him, coming to lean against the sink. She wasn't using it to hold herself up this time. No, she was gripping it, still angry.

So damned angry at not being able to control what'd happened today. Angry that everything seemed to be whirling away from her, whether it was this creeper shit or even that night seventeen years ago when she'd lost control in the most personal way possible with a boy named Gideon.

God, she wished she had some of that control back.

In the mirror, she saw herself: her dark, disordered hair, her skin still dotted by juice stains even though she'd splashed herself with water earlier, and her pale pink vest spotted red.

Gideon stood next to her, their gazes locking in the reflecting glass. Aside from his thick, mussed hair, he looked as composed as ever, stalwart and solid, like that Old West sheriff she'd pictured him as the other night.

“Here,” he said, reaching over to a stand-alone wrought-iron shelf that held the linens. He came away with a washcloth, which he ran under some water from the faucet.

Without asking, he brushed it over her face. She closed her eyes at the jerk in her chest. It speared downward, through her gut, toward her sex.

The adrenaline started up again. A very good kind of adrenaline this time.

“Did I even thank you for what you did?” she whispered, opening her eyes.

“You don't have to worry about that.” His voice was as soft as it'd been when they were kids, in the dimness of that barn. Intimate, as if it were just the two of them and no one else in the world. But this was a different intimacy now—the closeness of having endured something that could have ended in tragedy.

He stroked the cloth over the rest of her cheek, washing her with such care that she nearly forgot that he was supposed to be keeping his distance.

“Thank you,” she said anyway. “It seems like such a lame thing to say when you could've gotten so hurt, Gideon.”

“It's my—”

“I know it's your job.” But had he also been just doing his job in the limo when they'd been zooming away from the saloon? Had she only been imagining the utter fear in his eyes as he'd held her face in his hands?

Was he just doing his job now?

The thought heated her blood that much more, heated her all the way through. Maybe he wasn't the type of quick-draw guy who'd ever stick around, but she was more convinced than ever that she wasn't just a client to him.

And it didn't help when he dragged the cloth down to her neck.

Her tummy flipped, and she leaned into his touch, instinctively rubbing her jaw against the back of his hand.

He would've taken a bullet for me . . .

She grasped his black T-shirt, her mind fuzzy with desire and the need to make things right with him and a thousand other emotions that cut and scraped against each other in their rush to come to the forefront. She wasn't sure of what she was doing, only that she was lifting his shirt and sliding her hand over his waist.

Oh, he was chiseled, muscled even beyond what she'd guessed.

He dropped the cloth and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

“Shel . . .”

“What?”

She angled her head so that their gazes were linked again, and what she saw shocked her: naked passion. A reflection of the night they'd had each other only to part with disappointment hanging in the air.

But there was one more thing, and it was all Rochelle needed to see: the yearning to have her again, whether it was because of a postadrenaline rush or because he'd also fantasized about a reset.

She'd never felt closer to anyone than she did at that moment as she threw all her reservations away and surged toward him, pressing her mouth to his.

***

Stop
, Gideon told himself as she kissed him, the air clutching in his lungs while his hands opened helplessly.

She's a client
.

She's untouchable
.

But here he was, letting her kiss him, his hands beginning to fist as he fought himself.

It was just that
she
had been battling so hard to retain her dignity, and he knew Rochelle Burton never misplaced her cool—not when she'd been a lost little rich girl on the ranch and definitely not when she'd come to hire him as a bodyguard. That's why he'd let himself get a little closer to her.

Big mistake, because now, what could he do when she was crushing her lips to his, making a moan build up in his chest until it threatened to come out on a rough curse and . . .?

God
dammit
.

Instead of telling her this couldn't happen, he lost his own battle, digging his hands into her hair, and the thickness of it . . . Shit, it drove him wild, because he'd dreamed of feeling that hair so many times, of tightening his fingers in it, of bringing her closer to him until she gasped beneath his mouth, feeling how his cock was already responding to her.

“Gideon,” she whispered against him, and when she wiggled her hips to grind even nearer, he cursed out loud, holding her harder.

She made a soft sound of protest . . . or maybe sharp longing . . . or maybe a hundred other things his brain wasn't able to decipher. Whatever she was feeling, his libido had already taken over, even as his brain offered a few trailing, reason-filled gasps.

Client . . . Her cousins will kill you . . . It's too soon after an emotional event . . .

Nope, his cock didn't hear any of that.

Her lips parted under his, and he slid his tongue into her, slowing down the kiss as he went deep. He tasted her, devoured her, pressed his thumb to her neck where an artery thudded like something rolling and bumping down a hill, runaway and rogue. It echoed his heartbeat pound for pound.

Grasping for oxygen, she pulled in a breath, leaning back, her chin against his. “It's about time,” she whispered, the words warming his mouth. She nipped at his bottom lip and did it again, pulling him into her and then sucking off of him. He felt her hand creep down from his shirt to his cock, and he groaned.

Stop now
, he thought.
Now or never . . .

“Shel, . . .” he said.

“Don't talk yourself out of this, damn you.” She cupped him, and he flinched with hunger. “Don't you dare.”

Like he had the strength, even if there were still echoes of his much smarter and wiser brain ricocheting through him.

Client . . . Her cousins . . . Off-limits . . .

But blood was thundering in his dick, and he was already straining against his zipper. She traced his length through his trousers, coming to his head, using her thumb to circle it.

Damn, she'd learned a thing or two over the years. The Rochelle he'd been with hadn't known what to do with a cock—not that he didn't find that challenging. All he'd wanted that night was to be her first, to hear her sounds of surprise and discovery.

So much for good intentions.

And the last of
his
blasted out of him when she gave him a gentle squeeze.

“Fuck,” he gritted, tightening his grip on her hair. Suddenly he wasn't the bodyguard who'd always resisted his clients, no matter how sexy or beautiful. He was reduced to the sum of his male parts, all throbbing and kicking at him to have her. And to do it right this time

As she kept her hand against him, she swept him into another kiss, but this one was more desperate than the last. It was sloppy, messy, just like when they'd been kids.

He didn't care, because a red haze had blanketed his thoughts, and only one final warning had made its way through.

Last chance . . .

But he was a slave to his lust, and he ripped at her vest, buttons popping off. She opened her mouth against him in another gasp. Flailing, she helped him strip off that vest, then her bra.

Fast
, he thought. Going so fast, like he was at the wheel of a car that'd hit an oil slick and he was careening all over the road . . .

Yet that didn't stop him from working at the button of her pants, ripping at it, fumbling with her zipper in his haste to have her bared to him.

And when she was, he almost exploded altogether, because this Rochelle . . .? Not like the old Rochelle.

She leaned back against the counter, watching him as he ravenously took in her breasts with his gaze: round, heavy, with delectable coral tips that beaded into stimulated nubs right before his gaze. In fact, she was all curves, from the indentation of her waist to the luscious flare of her hips to her long, voluptuous thighs that slimmed into shapely calves and ankles.

“So has anything changed over the years?” she asked.

No
, he thought, because he was damned well about to come all over her like he was eighteen again. Not that he'd been so fast on that night . . . but he'd always regretted that what they'd done hadn't lasted longer.

But how could he last with a body like this in front of him?

She latched onto the bottom of his shirt, brushing his belly with her knuckles. His muscles jumped, the lining of his gut violently contracting.

“Take it off,” she said.

Was this the woman he'd been comforting not so long ago? Because she'd sure taken charge. That didn't exactly surprise him, seeing as he suspected Rochelle would fight back at any of her weaknesses with this kind of fervor. Was this just about regaining her composure, showing him and herself that she didn't get weak?

He started to also wonder where the reserved, curious girl he'd known so long ago was, but then she pulled at his shirt, yanking it upward. His mind blanked again.

The material stuck to his back and side because of the dried juice, but he let her take that shirt off, throw it across the bathroom, then sweep her gaze over him. After she'd finished checking him out, she smiled. Then, much to his damnable amazement, she took him by the belt and tugged him back to her.

When she leaned toward him and licked his chest, tasting the juice that had trickled down from his face and neck, it was as if she was proving a couple things at once: she was giving it right back to the saloon creeper, flying in that woman's face and showing her she could drink up anything that was tossed at her, plus she was showing
him
that she was no shrinking violet anymore.

She bathed him with her tongue, laving around his nipples, his fingers clenching her shoulders as that red haze returned to cloud his vision, deepening, blocking out every thought again—all except for one.

Deep down, Gideon had something to prove to Rochelle, too, and he was sure as hell going to get it right this time.

Rochelle could feel the moment Gideon fully gave in, and sparklers went off in her, spitting needles of fire all through her.

A fantasy in motion.

A true reset.

And she delighted in every bit of it—the tang of the forbidden cherry juice on his skin, the way he entwined his fingers with her hair as she kissed and sucked his nipples, bringing them to hard peaks.

Then she made her way down, trailing her lips over his ribs, to the center of his stomach, and he groaned. She smiled against him, undoing his belt. This was how it should've gone in the first place with them, and the thrill of being able to revise their first encounter sent tingles all over her.

But as she fumbled with his belt, she told herself to stop thinking. Just
enjoy
because, hell, look at him—a cut, sleek, godlike cowboy at her fingertips. How could she go wrong now?

Unfortunately, those fingers were fumbling because she was so damned excited.

“Well, shit,” she whispered, still wrestling with his belt.
Slow down, Shel
. Even so, her hands shook, and the clang of the buckle filled the room, along with her heavy breathing, his heavy breathing.

Was his belt actually some kind of medieval contraption? It felt like it.

“Shit,” he echoed, and he sounded exponentially more frustrated than she was. But at least his hands were steady as he helped her, succeeding with the belt as they both went for his zipper, their fingers grappling with each other.

Finally, with a huff of lustful impatience, she let him take care of it. Okay, a drawback—definitely not as spectacular as what she'd imagined their makeup sex would be like—but why dwell on that when they had a ways to go?

A
long
ways, too
, she thought, reaching in and bringing out his cock.

She paused, giving it a shameless go over, feeling the weight of him in her palm. She hadn't gotten a good look at him when they were teens—the barn hadn't been illuminated except for some slants of moonlight through the cracks in the walls. And when he was inside her, she'd been so anxious about actually doing it that she hadn't thought about anything except how uncomfortable it was to have him filling her.

She gazed up at him from under her lashes. He towered above her, and she gave in to the wanton urge to run her other hand over the ridge of muscle over his hip. She let her fingers wander over to his happy trail, the line of fine hair traveling up from his cock to just below his belly button. When she dipped her thumb into that indentation, he closed his eyes.

There. They were back on track. And it seemed she'd found one of his “places”—an erogenous zone.

Score one for her.

The rush of control she'd been looking for when she'd started this up fueled her desire, and she felt all-powerful, on top of the world when, just less than an hour ago, she'd been at rock bottom.

God bless sex.

Slowly, she licked the tip of him, taking in the slight beads of moisture that'd gathered there. The taste was salty, mixing with the trace of cherry juice still in her mouth. Emboldened even more, she swirled her tongue around his head, reaching up to draw his trousers down a little. At the same time, she lifted his shaft and eased her tongue under him, licking all the way up and then taking him into her mouth.

One of his hands let go of her hair, and she could feel his weight shift as he braced himself on the counter. She slid her free hand between his legs, caressing his sac, and he moaned as if she were torturing him.

The reset was
definitely
going her way now.

She worked her mouth on him—up, down, around and about. He shifted his hips, and she followed his motion.

“Dammit,” he said as if he was about to lose it. “You've learned some tricks.”

And she was just getting started.

Again she told herself to stop thinking, to feel the pleasure as much as he was feeling it, because too much thinking was what had caused her to be such an embarrassed disaster with him the first time.

So she stopped thinking. She enjoyed. She loved him all the way, satisfying him until—

He came into her mouth, and she let him, every bit of hot, sticky, salty wetness a testimony to how she'd just rewritten history.

But obviously
his
mission wasn't accomplished.

Without warning, he roughly pulled her up, bringing her against his mouth with a fever that she wasn't prepared for, and they bumped teeth.

As they pulled back from each other, she pressed a hand to her lips. He said another “fuck.” But then they were right back at it.

Still, they were in such a hurry to get at each other that their rhythms were off, yet he solved that by changing pace, cupping her ass, lifting her up, pushing her onto the counter. Her skin slid against it, giving her a burn.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“No sorry,” she murmured back.

She couldn't even speak English, because her mind had blipped out of order, leaving a field of buzzing static as they fell into a kiss again, making up for lost time. The
only
thing she could think was that, when they were done, both of them would have the other out of their systems. No more wondering, no more aching . . .

He pushed her legs apart, and she heaved in a breath, breaking away from his lips. She liked how he'd taken charge, liked how he wasn't hiding how much he wanted to bang her.

“Let me see all of you,” he said gruffly, hitching his arms beneath her legs until they were hooked over his elbows.

Spreading her wide for his eyes only.

That's how it seemed at least as he visually drank her in. Air beat against her clit, and she was so wet for him that she was sure she was glistening down there, pink and ready.

His gaze was famished, his hair a mess, giving him a rapacious and wild look. “I never saw all of you that night,” he said. “But I could imagine. And you're beyond imagining, Rochelle . . .”

A burst of ecstasy twirled through her just before he guided one of her legs to the side of the counter, where she braced her foot against the iron linen shelf. He traced his fingers under her bottom, coming dangerously close to her pussy.

The look on his face sent a bolt of pressure through her, dividing her down the middle, leaving a pulsing force that threatened to split her open.

“How many men have done this to you?” he asked.

“Enough of them.”

“Is that how you know how to work me so good?”

She started to answer, but he only smiled cruelly, sneaking his fingers over her bottom and walking them through her folds to her clit.

Mindlessly, she kicked at the linen shelf, and it wobbled.

When he fluttered his fingers around her pussy, she kicked again, sending the shelf crashing forward.

The slam of iron against marble tile startled her, and she sat up on the counter as he glanced over, too.

Whoops?

But he didn't seem to mind her spastic response all that much, because he bent down, burying his face between her legs, kissing her until she lost her grip on the counter and started tumbling forward.

Shit!

As she fell off the counter, he managed to catch her and roll her to the floor. Then he was back between her legs, laving and devouring.

Sloppy, inept . . . she was unhinged, moaning with every stroke of his lips and tongue, and her mind wouldn't shut the hell up again.
Could
she be the best he'd ever had, even after the bumbling? Because after their first bad sex night, that's all she'd wanted to show him—that she could've been so good, his best ever. His ultimate . . .

She winced in joy as he used his fingers to spread her pussy, to go deeper into her with his tongue, making her arch off the floor. Was he also out to wipe away the memory of every other man she'd ever been with?

As he pressed on her clit, she mewled. Damn, he was
great
at this, and she lay back, trying not to think about all the women he'd had, all the ones who'd overshadowed her over the years . . .

Even as liquid tickles filled her up, splashing against her belly, getting hotter, thicker every time he moved his tongue inside her, she couldn't let go of their past . . . his past . . .

Passion boiled everywhere, still bubbling, going nowhere and . . . God, how long was she going to just bubble and not come?

As long as she kept
thinking
?

She felt him stop his oral attentions, realizing that he was watching her, his hands holding her hips, his chin resting on her belly just above her mons. She flushed from head to toe.

“Just relax, Shel,” he said.

Was he giving her advice on how to orgasm?

The old embarrassment covered her inside and out. Long ago, she'd been unable to please him as much as she'd wanted to. Now it seemed history was repeating itself.

Anger—at herself for not being able to let go—joined the embarrassment. No, it overtook it.

“Are you in some kind of hurry?” she asked, defensive. “Because we haven't finished.”

“It'll be a bit before I can finish anything on my end, girl. But I don't mind being down here all day if that's what it takes.”

Girl?
Did
he still see her as that inept teen who'd only grown into an inept woman?

She closed her eyes. Awkward sex, part two.

As if sensing that, he didn't say another word, just pushed her legs so she was open for him once more. He gave her another rousing kiss, and when he touched his tongue to her clit, she rocked against him.

He chuckled. “Now that's how to relax, baby.”

She stiffened up, still defensive, and he sighed against her, and she knew for certain that she wasn't the only one thinking they couldn't get their act together.

Should she tell him to just get back to it? Her body wasn't exactly cooling off—not with his mouth an inch from her sex—and she wanted to strike while the iron was hot. Then, when he recuperated and
his
iron was hot again, they could really close the deal.

But why was she still feeling like an inexperienced dweeb of a virgin while he was the master of hot sex? She hated being the dorky one, which was exactly how she'd felt after sex the first time.

He eased up from her body, his sweaty chest over hers, remnants of the juice still sticky between them.

“Rochelle . . .” He kissed the underside of her breast, and the weight of it lifted, coming back down again when he was done. The sensual movement spiked her. “I'm not telling you how to do anything. It's just been a stressful day, and I want to make you feel good.”

He kissed her other nipple, ran his tongue around it. Rochelle shifted her hips beneath him, feeling his cock against her thigh, not quite ready to go yet.

But as long as he kept kissing and nuzzling and pumping her up, they'd make it there eventually . . .

As he kept loving her breasts, he reached between her legs, slipping his fingers into her, curling them up until he touched a part of her she hadn't known existed.

Was it her mythical G-spot?

Oh, God.
Oh. My. God
.

He kept hitting it, too, and her mind started to go utterly blank, zapping in and out like an electric toy sparking, malfunctioning in a spray of growing sparks . . .

When she heard a ringing in her ears, she thought it was her at first. But then Gideon said the loudest “fuck!” yet and paused in his expert diddling, reaching for his trousers.

His phone?

Seriously?

As it kept ringing, reality came back to her, slowly but surely. It hadn't been more than an hour ago that she'd been attacked at the Rough & Tumble. Life was still going on outside of this room.

Everything she'd been trying to avoid couldn't be avoided.

Gideon answered it. “Yeah?” He was still hunched over her, looking into her eyes, as if he was starting to face reality again, too.

The speakerphone was on, and so was Suzanne's voice. “Gideon? I've been trying to call Rochelle but she's not answering.”

Great. She'd left her phone downstairs—brilliant move.

“She's fine,” Gideon said. “I'm looking at her right now.”

And Rochelle couldn't look away from him. She ran her gaze over that dimple in his chin, the firmness of his jaw, the dark gunpowder burn that beckoned to her. Without thinking, she touched it.

He turned his face aside, and Rochelle's hand stayed motionless. Did he regret what'd just happened with them? If so, that would be a special bonus of humiliation.

“Rochelle?” Suzanne asked. “Are you there?”

Rochelle had the feeling that Suzanne had already asked the same question while she'd been off in the ether. The expression on Gideon's face confirmed it.

“I'm here, Sue,” she said.

“I was so worried when you didn't answer your phone.”

“My mistake.” It occurred to her that she was naked and talking to her manager, who was a grandma. She scooted away from Gideon, her body protesting the whole way, still beating for him, her clit pierced with an ache. “Is everything okay?”

“Relatively. The cops have been trying to contact you about the incident at the Rough and Tumble, so you'll want to listen to the message and call them back ASAP. Also, I've straightened things out with the press and rescheduled your interviews later today at one private location that they're not to disclose. They're very sympathetic about these creepers.”

A flicker of anger traveled through Rochelle again at the thought of how the creepers were ruling her life.

She should show them—go out, post it all over social media that she was having the time of her life, flip the bird to them, and show them that terrorizing her won't work.

Cherry wouldn't have stood for that kind of crap. Why should she?

Suzanne kept talking, and Rochelle glanced at Gideon, who had gone stone-faced while getting back into his clothing, the fantasy over for now.