Down & Dirty

  “How do you know?”

  “Excuse me?” I half-gesture to my dick, like, what the fuck?

  “I just mean, have you ever been with another guy? It could be that you just have a spectacularly inflexible penis.”

  “My penis is perfectly flexible, thank you very much. And while I have never had sex with another man, I do shower quite regularly with an entire roomful of them. Not to mention I have watched a significant amount of porn in my life. And never have I seen a penis do that.”

  I’m trying not to be insulted, considering Emerson seems to think my dick is somehow inferior to a sculpture’s, but it’s more difficult than it should be. At least until she cracks up, laughing so hard that tears come to her eyes.

  “Your face,” she gasps between outbursts. “If you could have seen your face—”

  “I’m just saying. My penis is exactly the right amount of flexible.”

  She holds up a placating hand, struggles to look serious. “I’m sure it is. Of course it is. Absolutely. I didn’t mean to imply—” She ruins it by bursting into fresh peals of laughter.

  It’s my turn to roll my eyes as I head back to the house. Enough is enough. “Don’t we have other houses to see?”

  She catches up with me a few seconds later. “You’re right. We do. I’m sorry for teasing you.”

  “I can tell,” I say dryly.

  “But seriously. Kudos for not freaking out when I asked if you’d been with another guy.”

  I frown down at her. “Are we back to you deliberately trying to insult me?”

  “I was trying to compliment you, actually.”

  “I’m not a Neanderthal, sweetheart.” I deliberately use the hated nickname, just to annoy her. “I totally support consenting adults having whatever kind of sex they want with whatever other consenting adult or adults will have them. So lay off the dumb, homophobic jock routine. It’s 2017.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.” But I let it go. She’s not the first one to judge me by the sexist jock mold and she won’t be the last.

  “I am. Really.” She starts to say something else, then stops when we make a wrong turn and end up in front of yet another sculpture. “What. Is. That?” she demands.

  “It’s the butter churner,” I answer without thinking. Her eyes grow wide again, even as they dart between me and the sculpture. “You know the name for this one?”

  Recognizing that I might have just stepped into dangerous territory, I do what I do best in hostile interviews. I prevaricate. “Well, you know, it’s not that obscure of a position. Lots of people could probably—”

  “I call bullshit,” she interrupts.

  “Why? I’m sure lots of people have done it. I mean, it’s even got a name—”

  “A name that you didn’t even have to think about.” Her eyes narrow. “And you can evade all you want, but you don’t know the name of that pose from some porn movie or Cosmo quiz. You’ve done this one.”

  “I’m not…I…”

  She raises a brow at me.

  “Okay. I think I’m going to just plead the Fifth on this whole position.”

  “Oh my God. You have done it! Oh my God! How did you keep from breaking her in half?”

  “It’s not as difficult as it looks.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Because it looks freaking impossible.” She tilts her head, studies the lines of the woman’s body. “No way do I want to work that hard for an orgasm.”

  “With the right partner, you don’t have to work very hard at all. Most of it’s on him.”

  She shoots me a disbelieving look. “Really? Because she’s the one balanced on her shoulders with her ankles bent over her ears—”

  “Yeah, but look at where his hands are. If you’re with a guy who’s strong enough, he can bear most of the weight, which frees you up to just feel.”

  She raises a brow. “A guy like you, you mean?”

  She means it to be just another joke, but there’s something in her voice that has my senses going on high alert. Something that has my dick stirring in my jeans despite the fact that we’re in the middle of the most bizarre Greco-Roman-influenced sculpture garden I’ve ever seen.

  I turn to her then, searching her face for I don’t know what. There must be something in my own face, though, because her breath hitches in her throat. And just that easily, humor turns to a powerful, overwhelming sense of sexual tension. So overwhelming, in fact, that Emerson takes a step back, her hand to her throat just as I take a step forward.

  We both freeze, eyes locked as we each wait to see what the other one is going to do. I tell myself that if she backs up I’m going to let her be. I’m not going to pursue her, no matter how much I want to taste her again.

  No matter how much I want to feel her ass in my hands, feel her breasts against my chest.

  Feel her pussy clench around my dick.

  But she doesn’t take another step. She doesn’t move at all except for the sudden, rapid rise and fall of her chest. And the tip of her tongue that keeps darting out to lick her crimson lips.

  That’s what does it. That’s what shatters the last of my self-control and has me reaching for her, my hands locking around her upper arms as I pull her flush against me.

  “If you don’t want me to kiss you,” I manage to grind out even though I can’t take my eyes off those lips of hers. “Tell me now.”

  For long seconds she doesn’t say anything. And then slowly, so slowly, she cups my face in her hands and very deliberately pulls my mouth down to hers.

  Just that easily, the tension between us explodes like a five-alarm fire, roaring through me and into her.

  She gasps, her body swaying into mine, and I take instant advantage, licking inside her mouth to stroke my tongue around and along her own.

  She feels so good, tastes so good, that a part of me wants to stay right here, like this, forever. I’ve been wanting to get my hands—and my mouth—on her again ever since I let her go yesterday.

  I used her as a distraction when we were in my truck yesterday, used her as a way to get out of the mess in my head. To forget, for a little while, what waits for me when I go back to Heather’s place. More, what waits for my sister.

  But the moment she opened to me yesterday, everything changed. And now, as I kiss her, as I hold her, all I’m thinking about—all I’m feeling—is her. She turns me on like nothing has in a long time, her sassiness and sense of humor going a long way to soothe the demons inside of me.

  I don’t know what it is about her that silences all the pain deep inside of me, that beats back the fear and the rage that have been a part of me for so many months, that gives me the chance to just be. To just breathe. I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t care. All I care about is making her feel as good as she makes me feel.

  With that thought in mind, I deepen the kiss, exploring her mouth the way I so desperately want to explore her body and mind.

  She tastes like strawberries and sweet cream and I can’t get enough of the taste. Can’t get enough of her.

  Especially when she makes those little noises deep in her throat, noises that are half-moan, half–desperate plea. They go straight to my cock—straight to my head and I have to have more of her. Have to have all of her. All I can think about is getting her off.

  Keeping one hand on her ass, I slide my other hand up her back to the nape of her neck and tangle my fingers in her hair. Then I twist gently, until the pins holding it up start to loosen.

  It doesn’t take long. There’s so much of the stuff and the curls are so wild that it only takes a few tugs before her hair is slipping its restraints and tumbling down over my fingers and her shoulders like a cascade of wild red velvet.

  I pull away then, just a little so I can get a good look at her. She’s breathtaking, her lips swollen with my kisses, her skin flushed, her eyes glazed. And her hair is a wild, glorious mess of corkscrew curls falling halfway to her ass. Her very round, ve
ry inviting ass.

  “You’re so beautiful,” I tell her, sliding her skirt up her thighs. I want to feel that ass in my hands, want to cup it and mold it and hold her tight against me with no fabric to get in the way.

  I want to pull her skirt up to her waist, rip her panties off and look my fill. And then I want to drop to my knees and bury my face right between her thighs, want to fuck my tongue deep inside of her. At that moment, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything except to keep Heather alive.

  The need to taste her is a razor scraping away at my insides, the need to watch and listen to her fall apart even more so.

  But her hand is on mine as I tug up her skirt, as I start to pull on her panties, her fingers tangling around mine and stilling them even as her body arches toward mine.

  “We shouldn’t,” she whispers, her lips soft and silky as they move against mine.

  “We should,” I counter, taking my time with the kiss before skimming my mouth down the slender column of her throat and over the top of her chest to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the nipples I could feel pebbling beneath the thin fabric of her blouse. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

  She moans then, arches against me as my lips close around her right nipple and I start to suck. “We have another appointment in fifteen minutes,” she finally manages to choke out. “We need to get going.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” I whisper against her breast, “until you come.”

  “The other houses—” She breaks off as I nip at her, her hands tangling in my hair to hold me in place as she arches her back and thrusts her fabric-covered nipple more firmly into my mouth.

  “We’ll get there,” I promise as I bite gently down on her nipple. She gasps and I do it again, relishing the soft broken sounds she’s making. “After.”

  “But you need a house. I found—” Her protests are broken, her body hot as she arches against me. That, combined with her hands—which are clutching at me like a lifeline—are all it takes to convince me she wants me as badly as I want her.

  “I need you,” I say, pressing my advantage as I drop to my knees in front of her. “Please, Emerson. I need…” I break off, clamping my jaw shut on the words that are swimming around in my head, just waiting to tumble out. I can’t say them now, can’t say them ever. Not when touching her has already cracked me open, already lowered my defenses. Not when she’s already made me feel more vulnerable than I’ve allowed myself to be since Heather got sick.

  Maybe even longer.

  Fuck, maybe even forever.

  I close my eyes as the thought washes through me, tilting my face down so Emerson can’t see my eyes. So she can’t see all the emotions roiling around inside of me.

  She isn’t having it, though, her hands tangling in my hair and tugging, hard, until I have no choice but to once again look straight up into her beautiful blue eyes.

  Our gazes collide and hers is so fierce, so determined, that I try to lock myself down. Try to keep my face blank and my eyes veiled. Try to cover up all the shit I’m feeling so she won’t see what a mess I am. Or how much this one stolen moment out of time means to me.

  But as she gazes down at me, as her eyes grow shadowed with a care I can barely let myself acknowledge, I know it isn’t working. And for a moment I think about getting up, about walking away from her and everything she brings out inside of me.

  Too much emotion. Too much pain. Too much everything that I’ve shoved down for months. Because it’s easier to do that than to feel. Easier to do that than to worry about my own shit when I have Heather’s, Lucy’s and Brent’s to worry about.

  I wait for her to turn me away. God knows, I deserve it. She needs a lover, not a man haunted by the myriad things he can’t change, and it’s not fair to expect it of her. Not fair for me to fall apart the moment she gives in to my need for her.

  I start to apologize, start to tell her to forget the whole thing. But then she’s stroking a hand over my cheek, her thumb rubbing back and forth across my lower lip, each swipe a little harder than the last. A little more insistent. A little hotter.

  I part my lips even as I tell myself to let her go, nipping at the fleshy part of her thumb before sucking it deep inside my mouth.

  She gasps at the brief shock of pain, shivers as the heat of it works its way through her. But she never looks away. Never takes her eyes off of mine.

  And it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Watching her pupils dilate with arousal, watching those summer sky eyes of hers turn to darkest midnight, is the last goddamn straw. It breaks my control even as it breaks the dam inside of me wide open. I turn wild, ravenous, until all I can think about is tasting her. Having her. Fucking her.

  And then I’m shoving her skirt up to her waist and ripping her black lace panties off with one desperate yank. I toss them to the ground by her feet as I bury my face in her sex. And then I just breathe her in for several long, perfect seconds.

  She cries out, a loud, desperate sound that slams into me like a goddamn freight train.

  That makes me want nothing more than to hear it again and again and again.

  That makes me want to say to hell with house hunting and spend the rest of the afternoon doing nothing but getting her off any and every way she’ll let me. Starting with her pussy against my mouth. On my tongue.

  I dart my tongue out, slide it along her slit as I savor the dark, honeyed warmth of her. She gasps, her fingers clutching at my hair, my shoulders, the back of my neck. I relish the tugs, the little pricks of pain as I circle her clit until her breath breaks and her knees tremble. They fucking tremble and she falls into me, holding on like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.

  I grab on to her then, try to hold her close, to steady her even as I spike my tongue and take her over. She cries out, arches against me, and I hold her tight. Work her through it. And then start to take her up all over again.

  She’s beautiful, perfect, amazing, and making her come is fast becoming my favorite pastime—on the way to being a full-blown obsession.

  But once her knees stop shaking, her hands are back in my hair and she’s tugging at me, urging me to my feet even as I slide my tongue along her sex.

  “My turn,” she tells me, her voice husky but determined.

  “I know,” I answer, pressing the words into the soft skin of her jaw as I lick my way toward her mouth. “I’ll take care of you.” I start to undo the delicate buttons of her blouse.

  “No.” She fumbles with my belt. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

  And then my jeans are open and she’s on her knees in front of me, her glorious hair a fiery crown around her head.

  It’s so unexpected—so not what I have planned—that for long seconds, I don’t say anything. I can’t. I just stare down at her, completely wrapped up in how goddamn beautiful she is with her flushed skin, her sparkling eyes, her kiss-swollen lips.

  In that moment, I want her mouth on me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But I’ve been offered more blow jobs in my life by more women than any man has a right to, and the last thing I want is for her to do this because she thinks she should. Because she thinks I expect it. And so I cup her cheek in my hand and tilt her face up to mine. And in a voice that is hoarse and more than a little strained, I tell her, “You don’t have to.”

  She grins up at me then, slides her tongue along the perfect bow of her upper lip. “Oh, I have to all right.” Then she leans forward to press a kiss against the tip of my very hard, very aroused dick. “I really, really do.”

  I groan, my hands fisting in her hair. It’s all the invitation she needs as she pulls me inside her mouth, runs her tongue along the underside of my cock. For the first time in my life, my knees are the ones that shake.

  Chapter 13

  Emerson

  I shouldn’t be doing this. I absolutely shouldn’t be doing this.

  Yet I am, and the truth is I don’t give a damn about all the reasons t
his is a bad idea, even though there are a lot of them.

  One, Hunter is a client and the last thing I need is to get the reputation for fucking my high-end clients. Two, Kerry is just looking for a reason to fire me and this is me serving up that reason to her on a silver platter. Three, I may want Hunter more than I’ve wanted any man in my life—and he may have just given me the most amazing orgasm ever—but I don’t really know him. More, I may never get the chance to know him. He’s a professional football player, for God’s sake. He probably does this several times a week. The fact that I don’t, that this is pretty unusual behavior for me, should be the biggest of the huge warning signs against this.

  And yet, it isn’t. Because the truth is, I don’t give a damn. Not about this job I’m probably going to lose and definitely not about what Kerry thinks of me. I’ve never wanted any man as much as I want Hunter right now and I’m going to take him. Even if—especially if—this is my only chance to ever have him.

  Doing this is stupid, I know it with every fiber of my being. Bad for my job, bad for my future, and—crazy as it sounds—I’m beginning to fear it’s also bad for my heart. But how can I not give him this after seeing the vulnerability in his eyes? After feeling it in the way he holds me, touches me, kisses me? He’s a world famous athlete, yet he’s the first man who has ever touched me for no other reason than to give me pleasure, the first man I’ve ever been with who isn’t just out for himself.

  I want to give that back to him, want to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel. Want to get him outside of his head for a while, outside of that darkness I see reflected in his eyes. I don’t know what put the darkness there, but I do know that I want to chase it away, for at least a little while.

  And so I suck him deeper still, scratching my nails over the flat, muscled plane of his abdomen. Down his perfectly defined V-cut. Along the light happy trail that leads from his navel to his groin. He’s beautiful, so fucking beautiful. His skin golden, his hair soft and silky, his muscles lean and defined and strong, so strong.