Hot Spot (8 page)

"I like them anyway," he said, as capable of making banal conversation as she. Although, less susceptible to spiritual connections, he was damned hard-pressed not to pick her up, carry her to her bed, and have sex with her in less than three seconds.

Not a normal sensation for him—that degree of impatience and unbridled lust.

He tried to disengage from his ramming speed mentality.

Unfortunately, he'd been thinking of little else all day, and sublimation wasn't working.

How bad would it look
, Stella wondered,
if I said, "I can't wait," the moment we entered the bedroom
? "I can't wait," she heard herself say as they walked into the room—her libido apparently immune to discretion. "Really, I can't wait a minute." Okay. That time it was her.

"Sweet." His voice was gruff, the word rumbling up from deep within his throat as though long repressed. And sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her to her bed without so much as a nod to civility or a by-your-leave, which suited her just fine because she didn't want him to say another word.

Not one.

She just wanted to
feel
him—
instantly
! Sooner if possible.

He seemed to understand, or maybe he never talked during sex—a circumstance she might investigate later—as in
after
her orgasm.

Which wasn't in question at the moment.

In fact, if he didn't hurry, she'd have it without him.

But he seemed to understand what "I can't wait," meant and was already kicking off his shoes as he lowered her to the bed. His shorts and boxers were discarded a second later, and when he looked up, she was staring.

"Wow." It was a little breathy, eyes-wide-open whisper.

A flash of a grin acknowledged her utterance. "You weren't the only one waiting," he said, huskily, stripping off her sweats and panties, tossing them aside, and settling between her legs a second later in a supple flow of well-honed muscle.

Resting for an infinitesimal moment, his erection nudging her cleft, he held her gaze. He just wanted to be sure everyone knew what they were doing.

"Now," she breathed, "or I'm going to go on without—" Her high-pitched cry exploded into the night air as he plunged into her hot, dewy sleekness, accommodating her and, more selfishly, himself.

Buried to the hilt in the sweetest of cunts, his fantasy of the day now blissful reality, he flexed his legs and forced himself in to the very stopped-in-one's-tracks end.

Shutting his eyes against the high-pressure jolt walloping his pleasure centers, he choked back a gasp.

Sinking her fingernails into his shoulders, she suddenly went still beneath him and wondered why she'd ever thought about refusing him when they fit like the quintessential ying and yang of carnal pleasure.

He moved.

Shattering the perfection. "No, don't," she wailed.

"Look… look," he whispered, gripping her hips, pulling her closer still. "How's that?"

But she wasn't capable of answering. Her brain was exploding.

He smiled and hit his marks after that without any complaints.

They moved together in an absolute, zen-perfect rhythm, her little panting cries warming his throat on each downstroke.

Him whispering, "Here, here—take it all," as though he knew, as though he knew
exactly
.

It felt as though they'd done this a thousand times before.

Which made her seriously consider the paranormal, because in the end, it took her less than two minutes to come like it was old home week.

Five seconds later he came, although he wasn't entertaining any possibilities of otherworldly phenomenon when he'd been wanting to come in her since he'd first met her. Firmly planted in reality—a very lush, soft reality—he was damned glad he'd taken a chance and driven over tonight. Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he blew out a breath and smiled. "Sorry about that warp-speed performance. You've been on my mind. I'll take it slow next time."

She smiled. "I couldn't wait, either. You must have been on my mind, too." It wouldn't pay to add to his more-than-adequate ego by telling him the truth: that she'd been thinking of him more or less twenty-four, seven.

"So," he murmured, moving inside her. "Any requests for the second act?"

Ohmygod. He was huge again—or still huge—or whatever he was, she could feel the hard length of him on every shimmering, wet, randy, intemperate surface of her vagina. "When it feels this good, I'm not fussy," she whispered, raising her hips to draw him in more deeply. "More of the same will do just fine…"

"But not so fast… okay?" he breathed, sliding his hands under her bottom and lifting her up as he slowly drove forward.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Pleasure streaked up and out, coiled deep inside her and made her conscious of the very huge thank you she owed Buddy. If he hadn't recommended her store, she might not be lying here right now, impaled by the most sensational cock and so near orgasm again, she could already feel it racing downward.

"Hey," he whispered as she began to whimper. "Not so fast."

"Too late," she panted, and a second later her scream exploded, her body exploded, every nerve ending in her body shouted hallelujah and whatever fireworks were taking place outside were incidental to those detonating in her.

He met her in climax as if he were on the same hair-trigger orgasmic schedule, and barely breathing hard afterward, he gazed down at her rosy cheeks and closed eyes and smiled. She was hotter than hot, and it was still early. He had a real good feeling about the rest of the night.

Her eyes opened, and she smiled back. "I'm making up for lost time."

"Lucky me."

She grinned. "As long as you're suitably grateful."

"Definitely. I'm composing a sonnet in my head."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a series of additional orgasms."

"So you're more practical than romantic." He raised himself up on one arm, pulled his T-shirt over his head, switched arms, tossed his shirt aside, and settled back on his elbows.

"Practicality can be"—she swiveled her hips ever so slightly, all those taut, flexing muscles really turning her on—"much more
satisfying
."

He grinned. "I'm with you there," he murmured, driving in deeper. "And here." His lower body swung back, then forward. "And
here
," he softly growled, moving that infinitesimal distance forward.

She gasped, raw bliss flooding her senses, every brain cell and nerve ending focused on the shimmering path to ecstasy.

Wanting more, she moved her hips.

And he accommodated her, adept at reading female arousal, more adept at making women come. He took his time—or made the attempt, he thought with amusement, and as she began to race toward another orgasm, he withdrew marginally and said, "This time we're doing it my way."

"No!" She was already peaking.

"Yes," he whispered.

Which only aroused her more—male authority a distinct turn-on in the throes of passion—that dominant-submissive association like X-rated flashing neon. A score of carnal images instantly flooded her mind—triggering another climax.

A mind-blowing one.

"I don't know, Stella baby," Danny softly drawled a few moments later. "If you don't start listening—I might have to spank you…"

The lazy words hovered on the fringes of her largely unfocused mind, the husky amusement in his voice drifting through her glutted senses. She thought about opening her eyes and saying, "Thank you very,
very
much," and she would just as soon as she could make the necessary connections from brain to vocal cords to tongue. And when she was mentally alert again, she might take him up on his enticing proposal—being spanked by him was likely to trump feminist principles any day of the week. But right now, all she wanted to do was wallow—in the better-than-Krispy Kxemes, Shangri-la of pleasure with this sweet, sweet man who seemed to know exactly where she most liked to feel him—like ohmygod…
there
!

She came. Again. Just like that.

As if he knew exactly where to push her G-spot, or O-spot, or hot spot.

Then he did it again—with some magical sense of place.

And then
again
!

She hoped he wasn't some vampire who would eventually suck out her soul, but right now she didn't really care. Time enough to get out her silver cross and wooden stake when she couldn't come anymore.

Having earned his wings in the practice-makes-perfect school of sex, Danny kept it simple, getting her off ultimately in his self-interest.

Not that he hadn't climaxed more than enough in the process to bring a smile
to
his face. But he was thinking long term with a hot fuck like Comic Book Girl.

But there came a time when she whispered, "Stop, stop… please, please… I can't come anymore…"

"You sure?" he murmured, braced on his elbows, his voice mild as though sexual marathons were an everyday occurrence on his side of the St. Croix River.

"You must be popping Viagra." Half breathy, half pettish, she gazed up at him.

He grinned. "Maybe in twenty years."

For some ungodly reason that made no sense, she found herself resenting his last-for-hours expertise. It had to do with other women, of course. "Sorry," she muttered, recognizing the idiocy of being jealous of women she didn't know. "I should be thanking you instead of being bitchy."

"The pleasure was all mine," he said, urbanely. "And if that was being bitchy, be sure you call me up when you're in a sociable mood."

She laughed. "We did have a certain rapport."

He grinned. "Oh, yeah. That kind of rapport could run the generators in New York for a week."

"Oh, good. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

He laughed so hard he almost rolled off the bed.

"Hey!" She shoved at his chest.

Catching himself, he relinquished his hold on her and, still chuckling, hung in limbo half on and half off the bed. His gaze on the floor, he abruptly went quiet, an array of studly comic book heroes staring back at him from the pages scattered under the bed. Reaching down, he swung around and tossed a full-color, inked drawing on the bed. "Who the hell's this?"

Oops
, she thought, her mind racing to come up with some suitable subterfuge to explain a comic book hero who bore a remarkable resemblance to the man frowning at her. "Marky B's new sidekick," she said in what she hoped was an offhand manner.

So
some of her comic book sketches happened to be in a mess under the bed.

So some of them might bear a resemblance to persons living or dead.

She was an artist. The genesis of creativity was obscure.

"That guy looks like me."

She came up to a seated position, grateful she hadn't had time to take off her T-shirt. "It's just a coincidence," she said, pulling down her shirt hem over her crotch, as though sudden virtue might be a defense against his critical gaze.

"Fucking A it's a coincidence." His gaze was laser sharp. "And what's with all the other guys?"

He thought she was some nutcase. There really was a deep gulf between Mars and Venus. "You want to know their names?"

"No. Just whether they've slept here. Whether you're keeping some fucking record."

She wasn't sure she liked his tone. "I didn't know you had a problem with records." She could be snappish, too. "But then every man does, doesn't he? For your information, they're comic book characters, friends of Marky B."

"Or you."

"Does it matter?"

It took him only a second when she was looking at him like that to understand he had more to lose than gain by this conversation. So she'd slept with them. So what. It didn't affect his fun and games tonight. "Sorry. It took me by surprise, that's all."

"Maybe you have that superhero look."

He grinned. "Maybe you've been smokin' something. Nice artwork though." The sketches were in brilliant color, a couple of Marky B as well, flying through the air, her various cohorts at her side, the perspective flawless, the realism flesh-and-blood authentic. "How long does it take you to finish one of those drawings?"

"It depends." Her bland civility was as selfish as his. "Not too long. A couple hours at most."

"I'm impressed."

She glanced at his erection. "So am I. No pharmaceuticals. How do you do it?" What with the inherent Mars/Venus differences, the sooner they got off the subject of her superhero sketches, the better.

"You just need the right incentive," he drawled.

"Is that a compliment?"

"A very large one."

"Speaking of large—"

He lazily stretched. "Ready again, are we?"

"If you'd rather not. I wouldn't want to be demanding."

"Look, darling," he murmured, rolling on his side, running his finger up her thigh and sliding it into her wet slit. "You can have whatever you want."

"Mmmmm. It almost makes one greedy." He was stroking her in a really delicious way.

He looked up and grinned at her. "
More
greedy?"

"Are you complaining?"

"Hell no."

"Just checking," she cooed.

"Check this out." Tumbling her backward, he dipped his head and added his talented tongue as adjunct to his deft fingers.

The beauty of having your own personal superhero licking your clit gave new meaning to the phrase
sexual fantasy
. That he was a veritable virtuoso of oral sex only confirmed her longheld belief that if you wish hard enough, dreams really do come true.

The fact that a great deal of experience was needed to acquire his particular finesse was relegated to useless speculation.

She felt way too good.

Her climax lasted so long that time she couldn't decide if she was grateful or mildly resentful of his competence. A short debate as it turned out. She was walking-on-air grateful.

And it was only polite to return the favor.

Or so she told herself to offset the incurable lust incited by his really beautiful, perfectly formed erection. It was wondrous in every respect—width, breadth, length, and best of all… indefatigability.