Hot Spot (11 page)

"Oh, yeah…" Arching her hips upward, she reached for nirvana.

"Showtime," he whispered, sliding into her, shutting his eyes against the warmth and exquisite tightness, pushing against her yielding flesh until her pubic hair met his and there was nowhere else to go.

The world disappeared in that first rush of pleasure, the heated surge melting through their bodies—ecstasy inundating their senses.

Her pulsing tissue sent a thousand little messages of bliss to her brain and skin and tantalized receptors. And like any addict would, she said, "More—give me more."

"How much?"

Something in his voice, something raw and capricious, brought her gaze up. But his eyes when she saw them were amused, softened by his smile, and her moment of apprehension vanished. "Don't tease," she whispered. "I'm too unstrung."

She wasn't the only one operating on the edge. He'd almost gone over when she'd asked for more, his libido working overtime tonight with the insatiable Miss Stella who wanted cock almost as much as he wanted to give it to her. "Just let me know when to stop," he said, husky and low. "Holler if I don't hear you."

He settled into a hard, driving rhythm, giving her what she wanted, bringing her to climax fast like she liked it, following her a millisecond later, knowing even as he came that it wasn't enough. She was whimpering, asking for more—as though they were both in sync tonight… on some headlong race for the ultimate in sensation.

Impelled by an unquenchable lust, he was more than willing to give her whatever she wanted—no questions asked and rock-hard as if he'd never come. He pounded, hammered, and met her stroke for stroke. It was as if a mute and voiceless where-have-you-been-all-my-life sexual spin of the wheel had brought them together, and bent only on slaking their raging desires, sexed up and horny as hell, they found orgasmic heaven together again and again.

More focused perhaps, or in some mindless attack mode, he didn't notice her hitting his chest and shouting "Stop" until she held her hand over his mouth and nose. The word
stop
was suddenly audible. "Christ," he whispered. "I'm sorry." And rolling off, he tried to catch his breath.

It was as if he'd come awake from some killer weed where you could last all night and the next day, too. But he was straight; his hallucinogen tonight was one voluptuous lady with a smokin' appetite for sex and a soft, welcoming cunt.

That had apparently reached its limit.

He turned his head. She was staring at him. Oh, fuck.

Stella arched one tawny brow. "You need to check your hearing."

"I'm sorry—really. Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head. "Overload that's all. Break time."

"You can hit me or something."

She smiled. "I'll try the something next time."

Shifting onto his side, he smiled back. "I really am sorry, but if we're talking drugs of choice tonight," he murmured, brushing a fall of hair from her forehead, "no way Pfizer can compete with you. I was in the zone." And then he kissed her gently, without a hint of fever or randiness.

It unnerved her momentarily, a kiss like that, all softness and honey-sweet languor. One of those split-second debates about letting yourself care about a guy like him raced through her brain. She pulled back.

He was leaning over her, his gaze close. "What?"

She glanced at the clock on the bedside table. "Nothing." How do you say you're freaked 'cuz his kiss was too nice? He'd think her more looney than he did already. "I could use a drink of water," she said, needing one of those down moments to get her brain unscrambled.

He did a double take, then said, "Ice, bottled, tap?" like her request hadn't come out of the blue.

"Tap's fine."

She watched him walk to the bathroom, or what she assumed was the bathroom, and did some fast talking to herself. It didn't take long to understand that she was in a position to have some of the better sex of her life tonight. Now wasn't the time to question anything so innocuous as a kiss. He probably kissed all the women he knew that way. It didn't mean a thing. Problem solved.

She stretched and looked around: high-quality prints on the wall—nice; a worn leather jacket tossed on a chair back, a couple shirts in a pile on the floor—he wasn't a neat freak; she glanced at the books on a nearby shelf—mostly nonfiction; and then she caught a glimpse of something metallic half buried under some magazines on the table by the fireplace. When her cognitive functions correctly identified the item a second later, she jumped out of bed, walked across the room, and pushed aside the magazines.

Picking up a pair of handcuffs, she turned around to find Danny standing in the bathroom doorway, a glass of water in his hand.

"Do these fit you?" she asked.

"Don't know."

That more or less told a story. "Wanna try?"

He hesitated.

"Consider it payback," she murmured, grinning, "for you being hard of hearing."

He shrugged. "I guess I owe you one."

There was something about his reluctance that turned her on. Or maybe just looking at him, nude and ready for action like he was in training for stud of the year was the turn-on. "I'll be gen-tle," she teased.

His dark lashes lowered infinitesimally. "Good idea."

That look. It sent a little shiver down her spine. Sweet kiss or not, Danny Rees was more familiar with being in the driver's seat. Not always a bad thing, she reminded herself, her body revving up at the memory of his recent compelling performance that had given her numerous orgasms. "Whenever you're ready," she said, waving the handcuffs toward the bed, already in tune with her sexual readiness.

He moved toward her, his erection hard against his stomach, the engorged shaft oscillating faintly with his stride.

His standing tall penis drew her eye, another ripple of arousal sliding up her vagina. She didn't know how he did it without Viagra, but clearly he did. That was one massive hard-on.

"Drink?" he said upon reaching her, holding out the glass.

Her gaze came up and met his smile. "Don't look so smug."

"Sorry." When he clearly wasn't. "Do you want this?" He lifted the glass.

Taking it from him, she took a sip and set it down next to the magazines.

His brows nickered up and down. "Not too thirsty?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Not for me."

"Good."

He laughed. "You and Marky B have a lot in common." He gave her a raking glance. "Including your great bods. Let me know when you're rested up."

"You have to pay penance first."

"Whatever you say."

Ignoring the hint of irony in his tone, she nodded toward the bed.

Well-mannered, he complied, and moments later he was seated with his back against the headboard. "Like this or lying down?"

"Lying down." She climbed onto the bed.

"Do you know how to work those?" he asked, his gaze flicking toward the handcuffs.

"I think so. Is there a key?"

"In the drawer." He indicated the bedside table with a nod.

His tone was like "Let's get this over with," and for a fleeting moment she considered saying, "What the hell, let's just fuck." After all, that was the point, wasn't it? Climaxing. Or at least it was her ultimate goal—or goals, plural, in this case with Danny Rees and his continuous hard-on.

But she decided she'd prefer the tantalizing prospect of him handcuffed and at her mercy. As if. But that's what games were all about. Make believe.

Leaning over, she took the key from the drawer, opened the cuffs, and snapped one and then the other on Danny's wrists. They were a tight fit; he wasn't exactly average sized. But mission accomplished a few moments later, she stretched his arm upward toward one of the bed posts. Scratches circled the mahogany finish on the spiral upright—handcuff marks unless she missed her guess. Not that it was any of her business. Snap—one wrist secure. Stepping over him, she lifted his other arm and fettered the second wrist to a post.

Moving to the foot of the bed, she surveyed her shackled centerfold.

Nice.

More like perfection, from the top of his ruffled black hair to the bottom of his tanned feet with everything in between hard muscle and raw virility. The term
mouth-watering
came to mind— a definite thought. Although not just yet; she was too selfish to opt for that right away.

"You look like you're glad to see me," she murmured.

"You're my type, babe."

"Female and breathing you mean."

"Uh uh. We like comic book girls."

"How much?" she teased, when it was patently apparent.

"More than you know." Which was the honest-to-God truth, not that he was going to elaborate.

"So there might be a second act?"

He grinned. "Plan on a long run."

"I wish I had more patience," she murmured, moving closer, intent on that first act.

"Why? When we both want the same thing." In fact, if he could have moved, he would have taken over about now. He was pretty much in attack mode around Stella Scott.

She eased one leg over his thighs and, straddling him on her knees, positioned herself over his pulsing cock. "You're going to spoil me for the real world," she said with a smile.

He flexed his hips and grinned. "Our pleasure, babe."

"How nice. Are your wrists okay?" Although she was focused on sensation more than his reply, centering the head of his erection for easy entry, wiggling a little to ease it in a fraction.

"I'll survive," he murmured, sucking in his breath as she began to lower herself.

Shutting her eyes against the exquisite friction, inhaling slowly on her descent, she sighed as she came to rest—blissfully impaled. Moving her hips faintly, she groaned, bewitched by the heady pleasure.

Intent on more fevered sensation, Danny arched his spine, flexed his quads, and thrust upward.

Stella gasped, every sweet spot awash in ecstasy. "Do that again," she breathed.

"Say please."

A distinct tone of command underlaid his words. Looking up, her gaze flicked to his wrists, then back to him. "Why would I?" She took orders poorly.

He gave a nod downward. "For practical reasons."

"I can climax without you moving."

"Maybe." A wicked grin lifted his mouth. "I could think of rotting corpses or something and go limp."

She debated less than a second. Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn't, but why take the chance? "In that case—by all means—please," she sportively replied.

His smile had warmth now. "You're easy."

"I never argue about great sex." She lifted her shoulder in the faintest of shrugs. "I prefer going for the brass ring."

He laughed. "Definitely a Marky B quality." He winked. "And loveable as hell. Hang on, babe. The merry-go-round is about to start."

It was one of those lush, salacious games with her hanging on and him accommodating her and both of them holding their breath on every powerful upstroke when he crammed her full— maybe even the faint sound of calliope music keeping time in their unconscious. Her pink-tipped breasts bounced on each upthrust, and flexing his fingers, he wished he could touch them. She rode him with abandon, her head falling back, exposing her silken throat, her wild craving so provocative he could have stayed hard for days.

She felt like a sex fiend with him, like she could never get enough, like she would die if he wasn't inside her.

He was thinking he'd found the perfect nymphet for the satyr in him, and beyond that he wasn't thinking at all.

No one said it was a match made in heaven.

But the feeling couldn't be discounted.

Finally sated, she collapsed on his chest, his cock still inside her.

Sated wasn't an operational concept for him, but he could restrain himself if she needed some rest.

Her head was lying on his shoulder, her hair brushing his chin. "You're unbelievable," she murmured. "I'm seriously considering mystical intercession of some kind."

"Hey, babe, forget mystical and unsnap these cuffs."

"Oh, sorry." After all he'd done for her. Quickly moving off him, she reached for the key on the bedside table.

The air was suddenly cool on his penis, although his libido was still fired up and on the prowl. He glanced at the clock. How long did courtesy demand he wait for a rerun?

"I can't get the key to turn," she muttered a second later, struggling with the lock.

"It goes left."

She gave him a look.

"What? They're mine. I should know."

Of course he should know. She didn't even understand why she should care how many women he'd shackled to his bed to have the posts scratched so badly. And she didn't. Really. Not one speck. "I can't get this key to move. Let me try the other wrist."

"Never mind." Slamming one cuff against the wood post, he split open the latch. "They're break-aways," he said, wacking the second cuff against the post.

She scowled. "Why didn't you say so."

"I didn't want to spoil your fun."

"Hmpf!"

"Don't be mad." He pulled off the cuffs and tossed them on a chair across the room, his aim perfect. Turning back, he reached over, took her face between his hands, kissed her on both cheeks, and smiled. "Why don't I let you pick out some Kama Sutra pages you like? As atonement."

"Maybe I don't like the Kama Sutra," she said, although anyone in their right mind knew the Kama Sutra and Danny Rees would make a dynamic duo.

He grinned. "I could probably convert you."

"You're very annoying," she sniffed.

"We could play cards if you like."

"Are you serious?"

"What do you want to do then? You tell me."

There was a point when being pouty was impractical. She fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "There might be a couple Kama Sutra things I like," she said.

He could barely hear her, she'd spoken so quietly, but he knew when tact was called for. "Which ones?" he asked, like she wasn't being sulky.

"I can't remember their names."

At least she was talking. "Let me grab my book," he offered. "You can find them."

And wouldn't you know, he had a copy under his bed. If the edition hadn't been such a beautifully illustrated version, she might have been more likely to persist in her sulkiness. But it was really difficult to remain angry with—you know—the man's sexual nonchalance when that little throbbing was beginning to warm her sex as she surveyed one after another full-color, lascivious depiction of men and women screwing.