Flirting With Disaster Page 9

  “Come here.” His two words were a challenge, a command.

  The rasp in her steady breath sounded so loud to her ears. “I would if you ask nicely.” She balled her hands to hide the trembling. “Now, about the gift. How about I give you clues?”

  He tilted his head. “I know what it is.”

  Did he know he was making her nervous? “What?”

  Something lit in his gaze. Yes, he did know. His smile was slow and sexy. “A book.”

  She swallowed and stepped in front of him. His crossed arms gave him a relaxed appearance, but she felt the tension radiating off him as he waited for her to make her move. And still Brooke couldn't read his face. He said he didn't hate her, never had, so cutting out loathing left them with lust. That emotion burned bright in his eyes now as she inched closer.

  The realization sparked a delicious tension in her stomach. Hell, that truth confused her and drew her to the heat of him. That knowledge made it okay for her to reach out to place a hand on his chest, right over his heart. The rapid, nervous thump teased a smile out of her. He unfolded his arms.

  She said, “I don't know if you'll like the book, but you'll know the writer's work. He's...scary famous.”

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and lifted her hand to his mouth. He placed a kiss in the middle of her palm and worked his way down to her wrist. She held her breath, shocked and aroused in equal measure that something so innocent could make her so wet.

  When done, he straightened, pulling her to him. “I like your hands.”

  Warmth spread through her chest at his confession. Everything else about her was as feminine as the next woman's, except her hands. “The author was born after the 1880s.”

  He scraped his teeth along her wrist. She pursed her lips to keep in the moan. His touch reminded her of everything she did her best to forget: the feel of his mouth between her legs, the rasp of his five o'clock shadow on her shoulder blade. She remembered everything about that drunken night. Though it felt as though two other people had drunk themselves silly until one of them was on their knees, licking, sucking... That couple laughed. They didn't argue. They didn't have resentments they put aside. There was no anticipation or pressure.

  She couldn't claim that now while her skin felt tight just letting her mind wander close to what would happen next.

  Dane trailed his tongue over her pulse and met her gaze. “Are you done rambling?”

  “I'm—” She bit her tongue to keep from telling him she was nervous. Those words felt raw in her throat. He was turning the tables on her, controlling this moment between them. “I'm not.”

  He let his fingers climb up her arms, behind her neck. He tugged at the knot holding up her dress but didn't loosen it.

  “What do you want, Brooke?” His voice had become gruffer.

  She started to bite her tongue again, but she didn't want to lie to him, not when she felt the tension practically vibrating through him. Perhaps he was in no better control of the situation than she was.

  “I want you,” she said.

  The pull of material on her nape disappeared. He watched the dress fall to the floor. She'd worn heels too. Even she had to admit they made her legs look long and incredibly sexy. He closed his eyes and then opened them again with the next breath.

  Her nipples pulled tight. His gaze was so hungry, and for her. She started to say something, anything to break the silence, but Dane dragged her against him. The force of his need slammed into her, and before she could process the action, his mouth was on hers. She placed her hands on his chest, spreading them over the firm expanse until she curled her fingers into his shoulders.

  The kiss of air couldn't cool her heated skin. It was too deep inside her, pulsating, and nothing would cool that ache. He teased the outer curve of her breasts with his thumbs before moving down to cup, squeeze, and knead the rest of her.

  Brooke understood he wanted to touch all of her, as much as he could, but she wanted a release, fast and hard. She loosened her hold on his shoulders and unbuttoned his shirt. He hadn't bothered with an undershirt and she wondered if he’d known she'd drop by. The kind of man who wore slacks on an almost-daily basis would have had one.

  “You knew,” she murmured against his mouth.

  He hissed when Brooke brushed her fingers over his skin. His pec was well defined, and it only added to the appeal of his nipple growing taut at her caress. She used her other hand to tug the shirt from his pants.

  He tightened his fist in her hair, deepening the kiss, swallowing her soft moan. Her scalped tingled and that sensation slid down to her stomach, her sex.

  “I hoped,” he confessed and then sighed, a note of reverence in the sound. “I love your nipples. Always so hard when I'm around.”

  He flattened his fingers over them, tracing them until they were aching points. He pinched them softly before caressing her slowly, then faster. That desperate ache turned into a liquid heat between her legs. He seemed to want to work up to that first plateau, earn it, and likely make her beg for it. She was no good at waiting or begging. By now he should have known that about her.

  She dropped her hand down and slid a finger between the crease of her sensitive folds. She gasped. So slick and swollen.

  “Impatient,” he accused, knocking her hand aside.

  She didn't get a chance to voice a protest. His thick finger replaced hers. Dane groaned, taking her mouth again, taking her over the edge with teasing flicks. The message was clear: He gave her pleasure. He wouldn't deny her what she wanted, but he was in control.

  She gripped his forearm, guiding him to touch her just the way she liked, the way she needed at that moment. She was close.

  “Not impatient. Over a week—” A moan chopped her sentence short.

  So. Close. She threw her head back, arching her hips forward. Her fingernails dug into his forearm because he didn't need any more direction from her. Probably hadn't in the first place, but she was desperate for that tightness in her stomach to find an outlet.

  “It's been over a week since I last kissed you,” he finished for her. “I know.”

  Alcohol had blurred memories of the night she spent in his bed, but the low rasp in his voice when he was turned on was stark in her memory. There was Dane who gave as good as he got, and then there was Dane intent on making her moan, making her come. She wanted them both. Couldn't be vulnerable with either, though. Didn't stop her from glancing up, her vision tunneling because she wanted to watch his face when he made her come.

  His jaw was clenched. His gaze narrowed as he fixed all his focus on that one task, and what she saw stole her breath. Nothing pristine about the raw, vulnerable emotion clear on his face, or the way he worked his finger over her clit.

  She clutched him, needing an anchor as she trembled and let the climax wash over her. He wrapped his free hand around her, cursing softly, but he held her until the shudders turned into a languid sigh. He rested his head on hers. It felt natural to stand there in front of him, naked but warm in his embrace.

  She met his gaze, still feeling hazy. “More.” This time, she demanded.

  He emitted a guttural sound. It made her stomach jump and she moaned again. He cupped her ass and lifted her. Without needing to be told, she wrapped her legs around his waist. By her next breath, they were on the floor, he was shrugging out of his shirt, and he refused to stop kissing her.

  The heat from their mouths coupling scorched any protest. Now and on the floor was good enough for her. He could have taken her standing, because that first release was only a tease. She needed him hard and deep.

  There were too many obstacles in her way, like his belt and zipper. Why did he have to have underwear, too? Finally, he was naked, hot, firm, and pressed over her. He shifted his weight to his forearms, his mouth and tongue caressing her mouth, then just his tongue caressing inside her mouth. She arched her hips up, so damn impatient to feel him inside her.

  He lifted his head, his gaze dark and narrowed. “
You want to run the show?”

  “In. Me.”

  He tucked his arms around her and rolled them so she was on top. Her heart skipped at the graceful switch. She wanted like hell to take a moment and bask in how much that turned her on, but her sex felt slippery against the hard ridge of his dick. And right there for the taking.

  In me chanted in her head, refusing to let any other thought settle in. She rose, grasped the base of his cock and guided him inside. That first stroke—her mouth parted on a moan. When she glanced down she could see he'd tilted his head back, exposing his Adam's apple. It bobbed slowly as he swallowed.

  His hands were already reaching for her hips before he looked up. The depth of the need in his gaze pulled at her, and she rocked into it, into him.

  Bracing her hands on his smooth torso, she repeated the action, adding a slow grind as she came down. His nails dug into her hips. He met the next stroke and by the third, he'd propped his legs up for enough traction to pump back.

  Whatever control she had gained was lost. No way to keep it as he gripped her ass and spread her wider, watching his cock slide into her. Heat bloomed in her chest—her cheeks—at his open, wanton perusal. His lids drifted lower, his lips parted. All she could smell was him, feel was him, and he filled her with him.

  He was stripping down her walls, her doubts with every stroke, every deep groan he made. It was the way he grasped her, looked at her as though she was the only thing that mattered. She couldn't be on her guard. The sex was too good. He was too open, and it felt wrong to hold back as he guided her up and down. Needing him closer, she bent down, brushing her lips against his.

  He groaned, the sound full of appreciation and deeply masculine. Her sex tightened around him. He made it again, his hands like a vise on her hips. Dane turned his head, licked her ear and started to tell her how much he loved the feel of her, naked and wet and tight around his dick. With each naughty whispered word, she grew tighter, hotter, wetter. His strokes reached deeper—faster—until that all-consuming heat burned her alive.

  Her breath got caught up in her throat, or maybe she was holding it as that wonderful tension twisted in her stomach, tightened her sex. And then she was awash in euphoria.

  She let out a sharp cry and shuddered as she came. He took over, pounding into her, and all she could do was hold on as that orgasm stretched into another. His sharp gasp tickled her lobe and then he stiffened beneath her.

  “Brooke, I'm close.” He cursed.

  “Yes. Come.”

  “Can't. Condom.”

  That word was like a slap. That in me chant had drowned out all common sense. His groan turned into a strangled growl. She cursed but her hips rocked into him, that need, that pull.

  It was selfish and she knew it, and it was irresponsible. “Wait. Just one more.”

  “Fuck,” he said but reached down between their bodies. He stroked her nub, she ground into him and his hand and she came again within seconds.

  “Brooke,” he said, his teeth gritted.

  Because she had been selfish, she rose and slid down his torso. She closed her mouth over the head of his dick, tasting herself and him. She moaned.

  Dane cursed and then his hands were in her hair, fisted, but he let her set the pace. He was so hard, wet and right there. She flicked her tongue over the slit as she sucked him harder.

  His hips jerked upward, just slightly. Faster, she bobbed her head, licking him. She could feel him pulse in her hand. The broken rhythm of his strokes was followed with a shout. When the salty tang of his pre-come filled her mouth, she rose and stroked him into a heady release. He shuddered as he came on his stomach. The hold on her hair loosened, and she felt his muscles relax.

  A heat started to flare in her cheeks as he used his shirt to wipe off his stomach. But then he looked at her and dropped the shirt. He moved his hands, cupping the sides of her face and brushed a thumb over her cheek. He looked sated and cocky.

  “Mouth,” he murmured. “Give it to me.”

  Her heart was racing, but she slid back up. Their skin was slicked with sweat and that made it interesting as their bodies touched. He trailed his fingers over her waist, wrapped one arm around her, rolling them over again so he'd be on top.

  “My turn,” he said, spreading her legs wider with his own.

  He wasn't hard, but the glint in his eye made her believe he'd find a way to make it his turn somehow. She gave him her mouth without an utter of protest and felt owned as the rest of the world slipped away when she kissed him.

  *****

  The pungent scent of garlic roused Dane from his sleep. He slanted his eyes open, confused at his surroundings until all the memories flooded back.

  He grinned.

  His leg muscles ached because he'd done his best to work Brooke out in every way possible. After going through the two condoms he had in his wallet, she'd taken him home.

  A year's worth of bickering had built up enough frustration they hadn't made it all the way up her stairs. They'd tumbled on a step and figured right there was fine. The only reason they'd made it to the bed was because they were too exhausted to do anything else.

  He took his time to glance around the room. She'd decorated it with silver, purple and lavender. It was so...girly. It didn't entirely surprise him. What did was the expense she'd put into the room. He knew what money looked like and the Queen Anne desk screamed it. Along with the high thread count of the lavender sheets, and the purple down comforter.

  The drift of sleep fell away, and he could hear her now. There was clanging of pots and she was humming. She sounded domestic and that surprised him. He pushed back the covers, searched for his boxers, and remembered they were downstairs, probably at the door. Then his gaze fell on a chair in the corner. His clothes were neatly folded, and his shoes rested beneath the seat. They'd had sex, went to sleep, and then he'd woken up in the Twilight Zone.

  He put on his boxers, checked the time on his cell phone—eight at night—and then made his way to the kitchen.

  Brooke wore a tank top and very tight shorts that cupped her ass perfectly. Her hair was damp but corralled into a loose ponytail. She stood in front of the stove, a frown on her face as she stirred something in the pot that gave off the scent of garlic.

  He couldn't describe the emotion rushing through him at the sight of her. It made him feel happy, nervous, and horny, again. He wanted to close the distance between them and just touch her, smell the fresh scent of soap and shampoo she had used.

  That wasn't good, because he wasn't optimistic at all. He knew what happened between them was sex—not a shift of their beliefs, their doubts or fears about one another. Still, he wanted nothing more than to stand behind her, help her cook and revel in the way her ass fit perfectly along the ridge of his dick.

  “Brooke.”

  She grinned at him. “Look who finally woke up.”

  Whatever part of himself he had braced relaxed. He returned her smile. “You finally let me sleep.”

  She glanced away, but he caught the sudden reddening of her cheeks. She was using one hand to lean against the counter next to the stove. He frowned, looking past her ass to everywhere else. She had little red bite marks along her neck, small and probably only noticeable because he'd put them there. He caught the subtle way she put all her weight on her left foot. Her right ankle was swollen.

  “What happened to your foot?” he asked.

  “You.”

  His brows lifted. “I wasn't that rough.”

  She stirred. “I think it was our fall on the stairs. Wrenched something. Didn't really process how much that shit hurt until I woke up.”

  “First aid kit?”

  She waved him off. “It's not that serious.”

  He ignored the brush-off, and dug around in the freezer until he found an ice pack.

  “Have a seat.” He saw the argument brewing in her gaze. He grabbed the stool near the island and pulled it to her. “Consider this foreplay.”

  “You
woke up bossy,” she said, but sat.

  He grabbed a clean kitchen towel from around the stove handle and took her leg in his hand. His body immediately responded to the contact. He ignored the need and inspected her ankle. A bit red. Not too swollen, but enough to concern him. He braced her foot gently against his chest and placed the ice over it.

  To keep that argument just in her gaze, he grinned at her. “What are you cooking for me?”

  She scoffed, but looked flustered. “Not for you. For me. I plan to be nice and share. I’m starving and a sandwich isn’t going to cut it.”

  “What is it?”

  “The fettuccine is done, simmering for now, but I ran out of garlic spread for the bread.”

  He raised his brows. “And you're making it from scratch?”

  “I'm hungry, but picky.”

  He slid the pack to the other side of her ankle. “But from scratch?”

  Her breathing had changed and because he had gotten to know her body pretty damn well, he knew she was aroused.

  “You're going to make a thing out of this, aren't you?”

  There was no getting each other out of their systems. She'd felt just as good with a condom. He still couldn't believe that happened. His mind had been clouded with the feel of her, the taste of her, and then he’d been inside her, her squeezing his dick, wet and perfect. The only thing that had mattered was staying inside her—fucking finally—because if he’d had to wait another moment, much less another week...

  Touching her now, an innocent embrace, had his dick hard. He’d been happy with just that contact, doing his best to avoid that silent argument. Maybe when he wasn't a deep breath away from smelling her scent he could be disgusted with himself.

  “Yes,” he said, “I am going to make this a thing. When I saw you'd folded my clothes, I had a moment when I thought I was in the Twilight Zone.”

  She laughed and the sound warmed him. Shit.

  Brooke shook her head. “I told you. My mother groomed me to be a wife. Now give me back my foot, you jackass. And since you decided to talk shit, get the bread out of the refrigerator, cut it in half so I can put the spread on.”