Hot Spot (16 page)

"How quiet?"

"What? Are you the morality police?"

"Humor me, and I'll be sure you come with every one of those fucking dildos and vibrators."

"If you must know I haven't had a date or sex or whatever you want to call it since, Christ, probably February or March. Until last night, of course. I've been busy with this store and hadn't even missed it." She smiled. "And now, thanks to you, I'm damned near a nympho. Naturally, I will expect suitable compensation for my disclosures."

He grinned—everywhere actually… from his toes to his probably maladjusted brain that took strange pleasure in her recent celibacy. "A promise is a promise—if you want, we'll go down the whole line of those sex toys. Although I intend to get off, too. I'm not that unselfish."

"We better not compare selfish motives, 'cuz I'm way ahead of you. In fact, I'm thinking a Bangkok quickie."

His brows rose into his hair line.

"I just read a thriller set in the red light district in Bangkok. Very enlightening. But I just meant a wham, bam, thank you ma'am would be very nice first. If that's all right?"

"Or we could use one of those G-spot dildos if you're looking for instant gratification. They're pretty intense."

Her gaze narrowed. "You must have read that in a book somewhere."

"I believe I read that same Bangkok book as you."

"Swift."

"Not always. As I recall, sometimes you like it slow and easy."

"That's it." She reached for the zipper on his jeans. "I have to come in the next two minutes, or I'm going to explode."

"No toys?"

"Only this one," she murmured, sliding the zipper down on his jeans and helping herself to what was inside his boxers. As her fingers curled around his engorged penis, she exhaled a little sigh.

Neither moved for a very long time—with the exception of the blood rushing through their veins. He finally said on a suffocated breath, "Let go a minute."

She shook her head.

Her eyes were shut, she was trembling, and it didn't take a genius to understand there wasn't much time. Holding her around the waist, he lifted her just enough to carry her to the bed without dislodging her grip. But there was no way around it once he dropped her on the bed and he murmured, "Just a second," when she cried out at losing him. Unzipping her jeans, he jerked them off, then her panties, and shoving her thighs apart, he entered her. He felt like he was being graded for speed, but what the hell—it wasn't as though it was a hardship to give her a quickie. It wasn't as though he hadn't thought about burying himself inside her sweet cunt for most of the day. Just. Like. This…

His eyes went shut, his brain went retrograde in primal mode and fingers splayed, he held her hips and jammed himself in so deep he felt the jolt all the way up his spine.

"Oh, God," she whispered, shuddering beneath him, holding him in a death grip, and arching up to meet his down thrust. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh,
God
!"

She came like she did with utter stillness and an explosive scream, and he came a second later with a muffled grunt and a series of ejaculations so powerful he was thinking about screaming, too.

Long moments later, when the world had expanded beyond the orgasmic microcosm, when she was once again capable of speech, she softly sighed. "You
have
to come over more often."

"Who said I'm leaving?" he murmured into her shoulder, his weight braced on his elbows through sheer instinct, the concept of actual movement still not registering on his sensory receptors.

"You're big," she whispered. "I really like that."

"Here?" He moved inside her—ever so slightly.

"Everywhere." She ran her hands down his back, resting her palms in the dip of his spine, feeling deliciously overwhelmed by his size, inside and out. Feeling dominated in the nicest sense of the word. Feeling small when she wasn't—every feminine hormone in her body quivering in delight. "I think there's something to be said for—"

"Quickies?" He lifted his head and grinned.

"Absolutely. And also for—"

"Simultaneous orgasms?"

"Do you mind? I'm trying to be profound."

He laughed. "It might be wasted on me, but shoot."

"I was going to say for compatibility—or a connection… like—I don't know… but something's different, that's for sure. I almost blew my head off that time."

"I did. And as soon as I catch my breath, I'm gonna do it again."

Ah, the great divide. She was feeling all cuddly and wistful, and he was avoiding talking about anything but fucking. Not that she ordinarily even brought up the subject of feelings after intercourse. Every woman knew it was a major taboo. "Who says I'm going to let you do it again?" she playfully murmured, not about to lose out on the best sex she'd ever had by being too earnest. She knew when to change the subject.

"Who says I'm gonna ask?" he murmured, doing one of those mortar and pestle circles inside her vagina.

He was hard again or still hard or what the hell—perfect. There was no way she was going to argue with him when his enormous cock was touching all her quivering nerve endings with virtuoso precision. "You won't hear a discouraging word from me." She gazed up at him, flexed her vaginal muscles, heard him suck in his breath, and smiled.

Virtuoso talents were not exclusively a male preserve.

They took it slow and easy that time, like they were plowing the north forty on a hot, sultry day and there was no point in working up a sweat to get the job done.

He'd smile once in a while and kiss her, his lazy rhythm unaltered.

She drifted in that never-never land of uncensored, grandiose pleasure, not sure how long she could last, but hoping forever and a day was not solely a poetic phrase.

"Tell me when," he whispered, as if she could.

She couldn't even begin to form a sentence.

And long moments later—or was it hours later—he breathed, "Now," as if he could fine-tune the synapses in her brain, as if he could do anything. Instantly, an incredible rush of pleasure inundated her slippery vaginal flesh and overwrought senses, flooded her brain, and melted through her body.

And neither one made a sound that time when they came.

As though they were awed spectators at the beginning of the world.

He rolled away afterward and lay on his back, utterly still, his arm over his eyes.

Had she done something wrong? Not that she was going to ask; his silence was intimidating. At least if he was leaving, her climaxes had been so fabulous she could run off the fumes for months. She decided to just be grateful.

As the silence lengthened, a couple hundred thoughts streaked through her brain—none of which she verbalized. She hated when men shut down, like they'd moved to another universe. All that Mars and Venus stuff was for real. Women talked about their feelings—not now though, with him looking dead over there. And men never did.

Which left her lying here pretending it wasn't quiet as a tomb.

She gazed at the ceiling, looked out the window, counted the neighbor's roof shingles until she got to a hundred and lost interest. Should she get out of bed and find something to eat? Order a pizza?

She found herself fixating on her hunger. And with good reason, she decided. She hadn't eaten much today—a couple cookies and an iced tea at the store—maybe a half dozen cookies if she was counting. Okay, eight or nine, but that wasn't so much for all day. Would she sound overly gauche if she asked him if he was hungry?

Was such a question out of place in a situation like this— postcoital, with a man she didn't know very well? Other than the ultimate intimacies of hot sex, of course, which didn't help much when it came to the question of his appetite for food or the lack thereof.

She finally blurted out, "Are you hungry?" because the question had risen to her lips at least twenty times before it just popped out of its own accord.

Food was one of the basic human drives, too.

Not just sex.

Raising his arm marginally, he turned his head the smallest distance possible to see her and said with what could only be described as incredulity, "You mean food?"

She nodded her head like a bobble doll. "I was thinking about a pizza." In the postcoital hush, pizza had gained prominence in her thoughts—one of those deep-dish ones with a cheese crust, lots of mozzarella, and everything on it including black olives and anchovies. She'd burned off more than enough calories. Sex was excellent exercise.

"I'm not hungry."

Now what did she do? "I'd like one," she said. Coy wasn't one of her strong suits. She also had this tendency to obsess.

He slid up on one elbow. "Then order one."

"You don't mind?"

"Why should I mind?" What he minded and what was bothering the hell out of him were the sensations she aroused that had nothing to do with sex. Like wanting to see her outside of bed and thinking of her more or less constantly. That she might be a thief only increased the muddle in his brain. On the other hand, his not-wanting-to-get-in-too-deep reservations had to be weighed against the awesome orgasms he'd recently experienced. Not really a contest there—so what the hell. He shrugged away his misgivings.

"Could you eat some?"

Having dismissed worrisome perplexities of emotional distance or the lack thereof, his grin was instant. "Depends on what you mean."

"Cute. I'm ordering an everything pizza. Okay?"

"Fine."

"Should I order a large?"

"Go for it. There's money in my jeans' pocket."

"I can pay for it." Leaning over, she reached for the phone.

"I was going to take you to dinner. Let me."

"We could go to dinner later." She found herself considering his dinner invitation with a dewy-eyed susceptibility that must have something to do with his talented cock. She was never dewy-eyed, and her alter ego Marky B didn't know what susceptibility meant.

"If you want to." Suddenly, he wasn't sure he'd meant it, those keeping-your-distance habits of a lifetime kicking in again.

She turned her head at his gruff tone. "What was that?"

"Nothing." Christ, be civil. "Sorry."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "Too much caffeine today," he lied. "I get jumpy. Why don't we go to Dominic's later," he said, telling himself a dinner was just a dinner, not a one-way street to commitment. "They're open till one."

There. A normal tone. Polite. "Sounds good," she said, reminding herself not to get wrapped up in some guy she'd sworn not to look at a few days ago. A guy who had women running after him big time. No way was she going to be added to
that
disposable list.

While she was ordering the pizza, he slid from the bed and walked over to the dresser. He was here for sex. He wasn't here to make any changes in his life. Getting back on track, he lifted one toy, then another, checking them out with a quick once-over until he reached the Hitachi Magic Wand. "Where's the attachment?" he asked, half turning to glance at her as she hung up the phone.

He was nude, apparently not shy about his nakedness, and Lordy, Lordy, look at that lovely erection. With the partial turn, his arousal was beautifully profiled. She didn't know if she was in need of that G-Whiz attachment or not when she had the real thing larger than life and looking mighty available. "I must have left it in the drawer."

"Let's try the Nubby G then." He picked a clear plastic vibrator. "The pizza won't be here for a while."

His tone was neutral, like he couldn't decide if he wanted to be here or not. "You're not paying for this," she said, taking offense at all that cool equanimity. "You don't have to get your money's worth."

"I thought maybe this equipment"—he indicated the toys with a wave of his hand—"meant
you
wanted your money's worth." So he wasn't quite back on track yet.

"I'm satisfied," she said in place of "Screw you."

"If you're done, you don't have to be polite. You can go home."

"Do I look like I'm done?"

He'd turned completely now, and there was no doubt he was primed and ready.

She should have said something equally rude. She should have insisted he leave. But a cock that hard and long was difficult to turn away, especially after having experienced the full gamut of its capabilities. "I don't know what the hell you're mad about." Oops, that wasn't going to get her access to that fabulous dick. On the other hand, when had she found it necessary to beg for sex? "Look, you don't look like you want to be here—other than Mr. Happy there. So…"

He was trying real hard to tell himself this was just another hot babe who happened to be into sex toys. He liked hot babes with sex toys. This wasn't the time to foul things up by thinking too much. "I don't feel like leaving," he said, polite now, back in the program. "If that's okay with you?"

She smiled. "So stay. I ordered a large." Her smile widened. "Pizza that is. As for you, I must have just gotten lucky."

She was switching gears, keeping it light. Anyone with half a brain would follow suit. Right now his brains were pretty much in his dick, so ignoring knotty questions was becoming easier by the second. Lifting the Nubby G, he moved toward the bed. "Does your G-spot feel lucky?"

"I feel lucky everywhere," she said with a smile, stretching with a languid arch of her back that brought her lush breasts into prominence.

"Then open up," he murmured, back on full auto-pilot. Nudging her legs apart, he slipped the wide curved head of the vibrator into her sleek flesh. "Mr. Nubby has first pass, but I'm comin' in next."

And he did both—Mr. Nubby first and then himself—with the kind of finesse and skill she'd learned to expect and adore.

Until the pizza man rang the doorbell.

"I'll be right back," he said, withdrawing and shoving the Cherry Top glass dildo inside her so quickly she only squeaked faintly as the cool, ridged glass met her hot flesh. "Don't move."

Not likely, or not very much anyway, considering the dildo was glass and she was too lazy to actually move her arms when she had a sexual provocateur of the first magnitude at her disposal. Eyes shut, she heard the zipper on his jeans zip, heard the bedroom door open and shut, and left to her own devices, considered how fortunate she'd been to go to the parade with Megan, happen to see Buddy, and bump into Danny Rees again.