Just My Type (5 page)
She’d also, at some point, gotten old enough to understand a lot of the things her brother and his friends talked and joked about…before they’d realized it. She’d heard things she was quite sure they’d all be shocked to know she’d heard and understood.
For instance, Mac liked wild women. A lot of them. Sometimes more than one at a time.
The women that turned his eye were generally toned, dark-skinned—created by regular visits to a tanning bed or by the good Lord, it didn’t matter—dark-haired and gorgeous. They also all had an edge.
They were so not the sweet, little-sister type who spent their time in social work.
They were practically the opposite of Sara in every way. Her sister was brunette, but Sara and Sam were blond. Sara’s hair fell in natural spiral curls, she had a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, she rarely wore makeup because she didn’t need it, and she couldn’t walk past a tanning bed without burning. She knew
sweet
was the word most often used to describe her. Up until a few years ago, she’d taken pride in that.
Until she’d realized Mac didn’t want sweet.
He wanted wild. Sophisticated. Experienced.
She could be those things.
Would be
those things. With some practice.
“I don’t think you know
all
about my women,” Mac said.
“I know enough.” She took another sip of her drink. She didn’t want to think about his women.
Except they were all she’d been able to think about since realizing she was going to have to do something drastic to convince Mac she was what he wanted.
“I’m not sure you do.” His spun the seat of her stool until she faced him. “You think you know what you’re getting into?”
She really didn’t. Her sexual experiences thus far had been pretty conventional and not all that amazing. Nothing that gave her tingles thinking about it later. Not like Mac did. They hadn’t even had sex, but she could think of him and get warm and tingly just like that.
“Are you going to tell me?” It was the strangest thing, but her heart began racing at the thought of Mac teaching her all the things he liked and wanted. It was fear, in part, along with a healthy dose of excitement.
26
Just My Type
She didn’t know if Mac liked leather or orgies or some other things she hadn’t even heard of, but what she did know was that Mac would never do anything that would scare or hurt her.
“Of course not.”
She pretty much expected that. “Why not?”
“Sam would kick my ass.”
Yeah, probably. But she should be worth it, dammit.
She picked up her half-full glass, considered dumping it on him, and instead removed the umbrella and tipped it back, swallowing the contents in three consecutive swallows. She set the glass back on the bar and swiveled her stool around to face the beach, having to push his knees out of the way. “I guess I’ll have to stick with my videos and books. And the Internet, of course.” She slid off the stool.
She heard him choke slightly and smiled, refusing to turn. Three seconds later, she felt his hand grab her arm and spin her around.
“Videos?”
She just looked at him.
“What videos, Sara?”
“The videos I’m using to learn about sex.”
He grimaced. “Books?”
“And a few magazines.”
“Such as?” His voice was gravelly.
She fought a smile. “Most of the books are about understanding men and relationships, but there are a couple about sex too.”
“I don’t have to ask about the Internet.”
She did smile then. “Lots of information there.”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“So I’m sure I’m bound to stumble across something you like eventually.”
“What the hell is going on, Sara?”
“I’m working on becoming a woman you want.”
He cleared his throat. Then he shook his head. “No.”
“No?” she repeated. Interesting response. “It’s not up for a vote, Mac.”
“It, um…” He cleared his throat again. “It won’t matter what you learn.” It was her turn to frown at him. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Then I guess I’ll have to use my new skills on someone else.”
“The hell you will,” he growled.
Ah-ha. Not as nonchalant as he’d like her to think.
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Erin Nicholas
“Tell you what. I’ll focus on learning it all right now. We can worry about who else gets to benefit later. I have other things to do too. I’ve never been drunk, I’ve never stayed up all night, I’ve never skinny-dipped…”
He closed his eyes, tipped his head back and pulled a long breath in through his nose.
“I should just throw you on a plane home right now,” he said to the sky.
“You’re not going to?”
He kept his head back. “No. As damned stupid as that is.” He smelled so good. Sara was momentarily distracted by the scent of his laundry detergent, the Tic Tacs he ate to keep from smoking and the underlying scent that was all Mac. He’d hugged her, sat next to her, even danced with her often enough in the past ten years she would know that scent even in a pitch-black room with fifty other men.
“Why not?”
He frowned down at her. She knew a lot of people found Mac intimidating when he frowned like that.
Which was helpful when he was facing down a drunk, angry, abusive husband on a domestic-violence call.
With her, it had never worked. Probably because she knew Mac was one of the biggest softies ever made.
“You’d find another way or time of doing…this. And you might not tell me about it next time.
Especially if I tell your brother. You want to let loose and be crazy? Go ahead. No problem. I’ll be here to be sure you’re okay.”
It was so not liberated, but she loved the protective tone in his voice and the look in his eyes. “Does that mean cutting in every time I’m dancing with a guy?”
“Depends on the guy.”
“You get to be the judge?”
“Yes.” He said it in no uncertain terms.
“And what are we looking for in this guy?”
“Someone who keeps his hands to himself, for starters.” She tipped her head and focused on his mouth for a long moment. Then she licked her lips. “That’s going to make things difficult.”
He tipped her chin up so her eyes were on his. “It will make things easier on my blood pressure.”
“It’s going to be difficult to have multiple orgasms if he keeps his hands to himself.” The grip on her elbow tightened. “
Excuse me
?”
“I told you I was coming down here to get a little crazy.”
“Drinking, dancing, wearing…” his eyes dragged up and down her body, “…almost nothing.” Sara felt her breath hitch as his eyes traveled over the skin exposed by her tiny top and short skirt.
“And having sex.” Her voice sounded like she had a bad chest cold. “Lots of sex.”
“No sex,” he said firmly.
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Just My Type
“Listen, Mac,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m not going home without trying some of that stuff on the Internet. Period. That leaves us two options.”
“Two?” he asked, his scowl deepening. “You willing to entertain the option of experiencing multiple orgasms with another woman?”
She couldn’t help it. She smiled. “Would that make it better?” He growled. Actually growled. A low, deep sound from the back of his throat.
Even though it was a sound of frustration, Sara felt like she’d touched a live wire. Every cell in her body seemed to stand at attention in response to that masculine sound.
“It would be…not better,” he managed to grind out between his gritted teeth. “Not much better anyway.”
She put her hand on his chest, remembering how she’d touched him at the reception and the kiss that followed.
The kiss that had made her imagine all the other things she wanted Mac to do to her, the kiss that had given her hope.
Now, her hand on his chest felt different. She could feel the pounding of his heart and the rapid rise and fall as he breathed in and out. The hot, firm muscle under the soft cotton. That wide, strong chest made her feel so feminine and small and protected.
“The options are: one, I find a guy here and finally have not-blah sex,” she said. “Or two.” She stroked her hand over his left pec. “You do it.” She let that sink in for a few seconds. “Either way, I’m not leaving here until I’ve had an orgasm I didn’t have to give myself.”
29
Chapter Three
Hell had nothing on standing on the white beach of St. Croix, looking down at Sara dressed in only scraps of material and listening to her talk about having sex. With him.
Since he’d stepped foot on the beach and honed in on Sara, he hadn’t been able to truly breathe right.
She was barely covered, for God’s sake! How was his brain supposed to focus on things like oxygen and carbon dioxide exchange when Sara was practically naked?
She wasn’t tight and muscular like he usually liked, nor was she dark or as endowed as he generally preferred. She was blond, soft, pale and less than voluptuous.
And his body was hard and ready to go. Here and now. If he let it.
It seemed he was destined to stay that way for the foreseeable future too. She was talking about learning the things he liked sexually, from videos, books and the Internet.
Thinking about, hearing about, not to mention
watching
her explore the wild world of porn was doing nothing to protect him from needing psych medications, putting his fist through a solid object and
not
doing all of the things to and with her that Sam would—justifiably—kill him for.
There was good reason he’d always ignored his attraction to Sara. Yes, she was younger than him, and his best friend’s sister. Even more, she was the opposite of what he liked now. She was one of the sweet girls. The girls he had a horrible track record with. The girls his own grandmother had told him to stay away from. He was no good for a girl who didn’t like to get her hands dirty, was always surrounded by friends, liked high heels and manicures and had no idea how great nipple clamps could be.
So now what?
There was no way in hell he could sit here and watch her seduce someone else. Or more than one someone else. A quick glance around the bar ensured him it wouldn’t take her much more than a hip swivel and a smile to have five or six young studs begging at her feet.
He couldn’t book her on the first flight out of here like he wanted to, for all of the reasons he’d told her earlier, and because he’d promised not to.
That left him only one option at the moment: sit at the bar, drink, cut in when necessary and keep his zipper zipped.
He watched her dance with two guys at one time for about four minutes before stomping across the sand again. Of course, stomping on sand wasn’t nearly as satisfying as stomping on firm surfaces.
“Let’s both drink,” he said.
Just My Type
She spun to face him, still undulating her hips as she looked up at him with a smile. “I already had a drink.”
“You need more.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. Then lower. He’d never seen her bare stomach, or back, and he was enthralled. To say the least.
Her sarong had slipped down slightly as her hips moved and three silver loops caught his eye.
Without thinking he reached out a hand, inserted the tip of his index finger in the top of the skirt and pulled it lower. His touch effectively stopped her movements. She froze as the pink, yellow and blue flowered material slipped down, revealing an intricate looping design that looked like vines. It spanned from one hip bone to the other just under her belly button and above the top edge of her bikini bottoms. The ink was a silvery color that sparkled in the light of the tiki torches and setting sun.
“What the fuck is that?” he demanded. He was aware the back of his finger rested against the warm, silky skin of her stomach still inside the top edge of the sarong, but he was much more concentrated on the pattern marring that skin.
She stared up at him. “Just for fun.”
“Is it a tattoo?” he asked, watching her lick her lips. She seemed nervous. Or something. She was breathing quickly and the only thing moving besides the rapid rise and fall of her chest was that tongue.
“Um…body paint.”
He wanted to wipe it away, leave her unmarked. Yet, he also wanted to trace the design. Over and over again. With his tongue. It was sexy as hell. Even as he hated it and the fact someone had applied it to a part of her body he’d never seen, not to mention touched, he was incredibly aroused. Dammit.
“Not permanent?” he asked.
She shook her head and swallowed hard. “I’m still deciding.”
“On?”
“The tattoo.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t decided what to get. Or where.”
“You’re getting a tattoo.”
“Yes.”
“Is that right.”
She frowned slightly. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“You like tattoos.”
“I do?”
“Almost every woman you date has one.”
“How do you know?”
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Erin Nicholas
“I’ve seen them. Samantha had that one on the back of her neck, Holly had one on her lower back and Kate had them all over.”
“Why did you say almost?” He hadn’t realized she’d seen so many of the women he dated. He supposed he hadn’t thought she’d care enough to make note of them. Or their names. Or their tattoos.
“I didn’t see one on Karen or Anne.”
“Doesn’t mean they didn’t have one,” he said. It wasn’t a big secret he had seen all of those women naked. It wasn’t like he dated them because they sang first soprano in the church choir.
“You’re right,” Sara agreed, not seeming overly upset to be discussing his sexual exploits and their body art. They could have been discussing how the women wore their hair for as much emotion as she showed. “So I could get it anywhere, I guess.”
He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it. He let his eyes drop and travel slowly over her body, mentally making note of all the places he’d love to see a little tattoo. Maybe a butterfly or a lady bug or something else sweet. Better yet, a sparkly princess crown. Because little Miss Sara Bradford was nothing if not a princess, used to always getting her own way, convinced eventually everyone would give her what she wanted. Even if what she thought she wanted was bad for her and the people around her. She thought she wanted him. It was about damned time for Sara to learn not everyone jumped when she said jump.
