Dead and Loving It (3 page)

S
he did very well. Polished it all off and then ordered ice cream. He watched in pure delight. And thanked God again he was nowhere near his Change.

Keeping his hands—and mouth!—to himself was beginning to be a sore task. It hadn't been a problem when she'd been so miserably ill, but she was obviously feeling better…he could hardly talk to her; his tongue felt thick in his mouth. She was just so—just so adorable—alive and sexy and fragrant. When he'd tugged on one of her glossy curls, it had taken nearly everything he had to keep from plunging both hands in her hair and taking her mouth.

He'd been wild with worry for her and hadn't left her side for a moment since she threw up her lunch on his shoes. He was going to see that chef 's head on a pike—or his name on a termination slip—before the sun set again.

“That's better,” she sighed, patting her mouth with a napkin. It was a lovely mouth; wide-lipped and generous. When she smiled, her upper lip formed a sorceress's bow. He had to concentrate very hard on
not
sucking that lip into his mouth. “Now about my imminent departure. Not that you haven't been a perfect gentleman. Because you have. Yes, indeedy! But, bottom line, I haven't known you for twenty hours.” She stood and began pacing. “So I'm definitely not sleeping in your hotel room. Anymore, I mean.”

“S'dona sleep,” he teased, catching her hand and pulling her toward him. Her dark gaze caught him, held him. A line appeared between her eyebrows as she frowned. He kissed the line.

“Now listen here, Grabby McGee…ah!”

He kissed the sweet slope of her neck and was lost. He might not have been, had she not instinctively leaned into the caress of his mouth. He reached up, found the soft splendor of her hair, and caught her mouth with his. She smelled like surprise and vanilla-bean ice cream.

“Oh, God,” she said, almost groaned, into his mouth. “You're like a dream. The best dream I ever had.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“What? I'm sorry, your accent—” She giggled and kissed his chin. “It's so thick I can barely understand you. Which, by the way, I'll take as a compliment to my own massive sexiness.”

“Y'should. Stay with me.”

“I can't.” She was wriggling—regretfully, but still wriggling—out of his grasp. Trying, anyway. He had no trouble whatsoever keeping her in the circle of his arms. “I'm sorry. I'd love to. I can't. Leggo.”

“But you must.” He found her breast—not easy, given its encasement in sensible gray flannel—and cupped it in his palm. The firm, warm weight made his head swim. “You're for me and I'm for you, lovely Giselle. Besides, I'm not going to let you leave.”

“What?”

“Besides, what if you heave?”

“Oh. I thought—look, I feel fine. I don't think I'll be sick again.”

“But what if y'are? I promised Dr. Madison I'd look after you for the next twenty-four hours. It's only been about six.”

“But I feel fine.”

“But I promised.”

“Well…if you promised…and if it's doctor's orders…” She was weakening. She wanted to be persuaded. So he'd persuade her, by God.

O
ne minute they were having a (reasonably) civilized conversation, and the next his hands were everywhere. Her nightclothes were tugged, pulled, and finally torn off her. His weight bore her back on the bed.

“Alec!” Surprise made her voice squeakier than usual. “For crying out loud, I feel like I'm caught in an exercise machine—yeek!” “Yeek” because his head was suddenly, shockingly between her breasts, his long fingers were circling one of her nipples and then tugging impatiently on the bud. Heat shot through her like a comet. And speaking of comets, what the hell was
that
pressing against her leg?

“I don't think this is what the doctor had in mind—” she began again.

“Giselle, my own, my sweet, I would do nearly anything you asked.” He was having this conversation with her cleavage. “But will you please stop talking for just a minute?”

“Forget it. I reserve the right to chat if you've reserved the right to rip up my nice new nightgown,” she informed the top of his head. And her old panties. Well, at least it wasn't laundry day. No granny underpants on her, thank you very much!

She was striving to sound coolly logical and matter-of-fact, but his mouth was busy nibbling and kissing and licking; it was too damned wonderful. Distracting! She meant distracting. She ought to kick him in the 'nads. Why
wasn't
she kicking him in the 'nads? Or at least screaming for help?

Because he wouldn't hurt her. Because he wanted her with a clear, hungry passion no man had ever shown her. Because she had a crush on him the size of Australia. Because if she screamed he might stop.

“Uh…help?” she said weakly, a moment before he rose up and his mouth was on hers. He smelled clean and masculine; his lips were warm and firm and insistent. His tongue traced her lower lip and then thrust into her mouth. Claimed it. His groin was pressing against hers, and she could feel his…er…pulse.

She tore her mouth from his, not without serious regret. If he kissed her like
that
again, it was all over. Good-bye, good-girl rep. Hello, new life as a slut puppy. “Condoms!” she shouted into his startled face. “I'll bet you a hundred bucks you don't have any.”

“Of course I don't,” he said indignantly. He was—
ack!
—shrugging out of his shirt. His chest was tanned (in December!) and lightly furred with black hair. She actually moved to see if his chest hair was as crisp as it looked but then pulled her hands back and clenched them into fists. “I didna come here to mate. Have sex, I mean. I'm here on business. I never thought—”

“Yeah, well, that's a problem, Buckaroo Banzai, because I didn't exactly line my bra with prophylactics, either. Which means looky but no nooky. In fact,” she added on a mutter, “we shouldn't even looky.”

“But you're on the pill—ow, dammit!”

She'd formed a fist and smacked him between the eyes. The only way he would have known she was taking birth control pills is if he had gone through her purse while she was sick; she'd stopped at the pharmacy on the way to work and picked up her prescription.

“We had to,” he said, as if reading her mind. He rubbed the red spot on his forehead, which was rapidly fading. “Dr. Madison was concerned we'd have to take you to the hospital. She needed to know if you were taking any medication.”

“A likely story,” she grumbled, but it sounded plausible, so she didn't follow up with a headbutt. Not that she'd ever done one in her life, but how hard could it be? “And it's the minipill, Mr. Knows-So-Much. Besides, I'm not worried about getting pregnant—”

“You should be,” he teased. Except she doubted he was really teasing.

“I'm worried about catching something. Without condoms, our options are—thank God—limited. Saran Wrap and a rubber band? Forget it. For all I know you could be crawling with disease. I could be taking my life in my hands if I let you bone me!”

“
Bone
you? Crawling—” He got up off her—
weep!
—and started to pace, shirtless and with an interesting bulge beneath his belt buckle. She struggled to keep her gaze on his face. Well, his shoulders, at least. “First of all, my family—we don't—that is to say, I've never been sick a day in my life, and no one I know has ever had—er—problems in that area. Second, I know for a fact
you're
disease free.”

“How?” she asked curiously. He was right, of course, but how'd he know?

“It's hard to—never mind. And third…third…” He laughed unwillingly and ran a hand through his hair. It stuck up in all directions, but instead of looking silly, it only made him look immensely likeable. Adorably rumpled. “Giselle, you're unlike any woman I've ever known. You—” He shook his head. “There's just something about you. I can't put it into words. Come back to Scotland with me.”

She'd been busily arranging the covers over herself, though it was a bit late for modesty, and looked up. “What? Scotland? You mean, like a visit?”

“…sure. A visit.” He grinned. “Starting tomorrow, and ending never.”

“Yeah, yeah. Look, if you still feel like this tomorrow…later today, I mean…I could leave you my phone number.”
And never hear from you again, most likely.

“We need Santas in Scotland,” he said seriously. “It can be a verra lonesome place.”

“Oh, come on!” She started to get the giggles and laughed harder when he pounced on her like a big cat. A good trick, as he'd been standing several feet away from the bed. The man was in great shape, no doubt about it. “Now, cut it out…get off, now! I told you, no condoms, no nooky.”

“What if I could prove I wasn't—er—how did you put it? Crawling with disease?”

“Prove it how?” she asked suspiciously. Part of her couldn't believe they were having this discussion. The last time she'd had sex had been…uh…what year was it? Anyway, the point was, this was
so
unlike her.

Well, why not? Why not jump without looking for once in her ridiculously dull life? The most interesting thing about her was her name…Mama Smith had been Jane Smith, of all the rotten jokes, and wanted her kid to be remembered. It didn't work. Short, plump women with brown hair and brown eyes weren't exactly noticed on the street.

Until today.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “and back off a minute. Let me think.” She pinched his nipple, hard. He yelped and reared back. “That's better. Okay, if you can prove you're disease free, I'll stay the night with you.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. Her face was so red she was sure her head was going to explode, like that poor schmuck in
Scanners.
“I'll do anything you want until the sun comes up. You've got my word on it. And a Smith never goes back on her word. This Smith, anyway,” she finished in a mutter.

He looked at her, wide-eyed. Then he turned so quickly—snake-quick, it was uncanny—and grabbed for the telephone.

“Wait a minute, who are you calling?” she asked, alarmed. She hadn't thought he could prove a damn thing at two o'clock in the morning. “If it's some buddy in Scotland who's gonna back you up—”

“I'm calling Massachusetts General Hospital,” he said, grinning widely. “Good enough? Dr. Madison has staff privileges there. She's been looking after my family for years and years. She'll tell you all about my medical history if you like.”

He put the phone on speaker so she could hear the hospital operator. Dr. Madison was paged and soon came to the phone.

“How are you feeling, dear?” she asked. She also had an accent, this one the clipped intonation of a blue-blooded Bostonian. “I had a terrible time calming down Alec while you were ill.”

“I'm—ack!”

“No idle chit-chat,” Alec said in her ear and ran a finger all the way down her spine.

She turned and slapped his hand away and then grabbed for the receiver so Alec wouldn't hear the rest of the conversation. “I'm fine, much better…listen, does Alec have any STDs that I, as a potential—
ack!
—sexual partner should know about?”

“STDs? You mean like AIDS or—oh dear—”

Giselle held the phone away, the better not to be deafened by the woman's shriek of laughter. A few seconds later, Doc Madison had it under control. “Sorry about that. I give you my word as a physician and a lady, Alec has never been sick a day in his life. Nor any of his family. They're a…a healthy lot.” Another chuckle. “Why do I have the feeling I'll be seeing more of you, dear?”

“Beats the hell out of me. Okay, then, tha—” That was as far as she got before Alec was tossing the phone across the room and her back on the bed.

A
h…”

“Don't be afraid.”

“I think this is an excellent time to be afraid. For one thing, a) you're a lot bigger than I am, and b) I'm pretty sure you'll tackle me before I get to the door.”

“A) you're right, and b) you're right. You're welcome t'try, though.” His eyes gleamed. “I like to play chase.”

Oh, Jesus.
She slid from the bed, and he was right behind her. “Now, now,” he said, almost purred, “a promise is a promise. Right, Giselle sweetie?”

Odd, the way he said that…like it was one word:
Gisellesweetie.
She liked it. Liked him. And a good thing, too, because they were about to get down to it. “You're right. I gave my wor
mmmphhh!
” His mouth was on hers, he was pulling her toward him, and she went up on her tiptoes. His tongue was in her mouth, jabbing and darting, and she could actually
feel
that between her legs. One of his hands was on the back of her neck, holding her firmly to him. The other arm was around her waist—luckily, he had long arms.

He broke the kiss—with difficulty, she was delighted to see. As for herself, she was panting as if she'd just run a marathon. And as elated as if she'd just won one. “Now,” he said, almost gasped. “You said anything. That you'd do anything. Until the sun came up.”

“Yes.” It was hard to breathe. Black excitement swamped her. A promise
was
a promise, dammit, and she had his personal physician's word that he wasn't sick. More, she trusted him implicitly. She had been handed a fantasy on a plate, and she meant to take full advantage. After tonight, she'd never see him again. But by God, she had tonight. “Yes, anything. Anything you want.”

“Ooooh, verra good,” he crooned, almost growled. He sank to the bed and pulled her down with him—and kept pushing her down until she was on her knees, facing him. “Un-buckle my belt. Please,” he added with a wolfish grin.

She did, with fingers that were clumsy and stupid. She finally pulled the belt free and wordlessly handed it to him. He tossed it in a corner. “Since you're keeping your promise—so far—we likely won't be needing
that.
” She gulped—what the
hell
had she gotten herself into? “Now. My slacks, love. All the way off.”

She did so, and then, when asked, relieved him of his boxers. It was too dark in the room to see their color—navy blue? puce?—but by their slippery feel she guessed they were made of silk. No flannel for
him.

“Now,” he breathed. “Kiss me.”

She understood him perfectly, kissed the head of his cock, and then rubbed her cheek against him like a cat. He smelled warm and musky and undeniably male. He was also quite thick; she had difficulty closing her fingers around him. “Again,” he groaned, “kiss me again, Giselle sweetie.”

She did so, tasting the saltiness of pre-come. She licked it off and then licked up and down the length of him. She could feel his bristly pubic hairs tickling her chin on the down stroke. His hand came up and caught and fisted a handful of her curls. “Now,” he growled, “open your mouth. Wide.” His voice was so gritty she could hardly understand him, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to understand what he wanted—needed. Then he was filling her mouth, her throat. He withdrew in time for her to take a breath and then was in her mouth again. His hips were pistoning toward her face, and she realized he was
fucking
her
mouth.
While part of her was wildly excited, her practical side reminded her that although she could count the number of blow jobs she had given on one hand, she was definitely
not
a swallower.

His other hand had found her breasts, and he was kneading, squeezing. The sensation of his hands on her and his cock in her mouth was as exciting as it was overwhelming. She tried to pull back, but his grip tightened and then she felt him start to throb. Shockingly, suddenly, her mouth was flooded with musky saltiness and she reared back, but he had a grip like iron. In a second, he had pulled free of her but clapped a hand over her mouth. “Swallow,” he murmured in her ear. “All of it. Right down.”
Aoull oof it. Ret daeown.

She did. “Bastard!” she cried, making a fist and smacking him on the thigh. “A little warning next time, all right?”

“I promise,” he said solemnly. “The next time I'm about to come in your mouth, I'll give ye ample warning. Ouch!”

“I've never done that before.”

He was rubbing his thigh where she'd pinched him, hard. “I could tell.”

Incredibly, pierced vanity was now warring with outraged propriety. “Well,
hell,
I'm not exactly known as Slut Girl around here, and besides, I didn't exactly plan—”

He stopped her with a kiss. “You were wonderful,” he said warmly. He nuzzled her nose for a moment. “And I'm verra sorry if I startled ye. But I needed ye t'do that for me. Now I can touch you wi' a clear head. Now the fun can
really
start.”

“You're still a bastard,” she said sulkily. She could still taste him in her mouth, her throat. “You didn't have to make me—”

His smile flashed in the dark. “Well enough. But now it's y'turn, sweetie.”

Her irritation lessened as he eased her back on the bed and knelt between her legs, and disappeared entirely as she realized he was going to be as good as his word.

It seemed as though he spent hours between her thighs: kissing, nibbling, sucking, and licking—ah, God, the licking. Lots of it, slow and steady; the man never got tired. In no time, her clit was enthusiastically throbbing, and that's when he started paying special, extended, loving attention to the little button Giselle hardly thought of unless she was enjoying the evening with Mr. Shaky.

His tongue darted and stroked. She could feel its warm, wet length sliding and slipping between her throbbing lips. She felt him sucking on her clit with a single-minded enthusiasm that was as exciting as it was astonishing.

After a while she was squirming all over the bed, trying to get away from the delectable torture of his mouth. He wouldn't—he—he never stopped, never got tired, just kept at her, at her, at her. Lick lick lick and suck suck suck and even small, tender bites. She could feel herself getting drenched and would have blushed if she hadn't been so close to shrieking. She'd start to feel her orgasm approach, and he'd somehow know and back off. Instead of giving her the last few flicks of his tongue to push her over the brink, he'd move to her inner labia and gently suck them until she was no longer close to coming, or his tongue would delve inside her—so deeply!—leaving her clit bereft.

“Oh,
God,
y'smell so damned good!” After that breathless declaration, he buried his face between her legs and commenced tormenting her anew. His hands spread her thighs so wide her knees were almost parallel, baring her fleshy mound for his hungry mouth. He started licking her in long, slow, agonizing slurps, from bottom to top, over and over and over. Her back bowed, and she was certain she was about to lose her mind if she didn't come
now.

So she squirmed and wriggled, and when she made progress getting away from him, he simply grasped her thighs and pulled her back to his mouth. This went on for about seventeen years, until he tired of playing with her, sucked her clit into his mouth, and slipped two fingers inside her. The feeling of his warm lips on her and his long fingers in her was exquisite, brilliant. His fingers moved, stroked, and pushed hard inside her, pressure that was just short of discomfort, pressure that was amazing, mind-boggling. His lips had closed over her clit while his tongue flicked back and forth with dizzying rapidity. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, and she shrieked at the ceiling.

When he came up to lie beside her, she was still shaking. “Better?”

“Oh my
God.
Do you have a license to do that? You ought to be against the law.” She reached out and did what she had longed to do an hour ago: gently stroked his chest hair and then followed a path down to his groin. She found him thick, hard, and ready for her. He sucked in breath when she gently closed her fingers around him. “By the way,” she added cheerfully, if breathlessly, “I'm on to you. There's no way you're an ordinary guy. Not that I mind.”

He stiffened, though whether it was from what she had said or what her fingers were doing, she couldn't tell. She was squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing. Her other hand slipped lower until she was cradling his testicles in her palm, testing their warm weight. “You've got a butterfly's touch, Giselle sweetie,” he said, almost groaned.

She almost giggled. She'd never pictured her plump self as something so light and delicate as a butterfly. Alec was no doubt mumbling nonsense because all the blood had left his head some time ago and gone significantly southward.

She slipped her hand up, down, up, down, with excruciating slowness, with all the care he had shown her a few moments ago. She wasn't terribly experienced, but she
was
well read. She'd been buying Emma Holly's books for years. “That's why you shouldn't mess with a bookworm,” she whispered in Alec's ear. “We know some pretty good stuff.” He didn't answer her, but because she had brought her palm across his slippery tip and circled, circled, circled while her other hand stroked, she didn't expect him to.

She had meant to keep playing with him as long as she could draw it out, but he suddenly jerked away from her and kneed her thighs apart. He was terse, silent, but oh, how his hands were shaking. “Shouldn't you buy me dinner first? Again, I mea—
eeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEE!
” He entered her with one brutal thrust, all the way, all at once. She was slick and more than ready for him, but it was startling—a little frightening, even—all the same.

He started to drive himself into her.

She squirmed beneath him, felt her eyes roll back in her head…ah, Jesus, this was almost too much! Almost. “Alec.”

His hips were shoving against hers, his eyes were tightly closed; his mouth was a narrow line.

“Alec.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “M'sorry. Wait. I'll be—nice again. In a minute.”

“Alec.”

“I can't—stop. Just yet. S-Sorry. So sorry.” His hands were on her shoulders, pinning her down, keeping her in place for him. His sex was rearing between her legs, into her, out of her. Digging, shoving, filling her.

“Alec. If you do it a little faster, I'll be able to come again.”

That
got his attention; his eyes opened wide. And then he smiled, a grin of pure male satisfaction. And he obliged. She heard the headboard start slamming against the wall and didn't give a tin shit. She wriggled for a moment until he let go of her shoulders and then brought her arms around him and her legs up. She started doing a little pumping of her own. Their bellies clapped together, a lustful, urgent beat.

His eyes rolled back. “Ah,
Jesus
!” His mouth found hers, and he kissed her savagely, biting her mouth, her lips. Then he abruptly pulled back, as if aware he was nearing a line he wasn't ready to cross with her—absurd, given what they were engaged in. His head dropped, and she could feel his face pressing against the hollow between her neck and shoulder. There was a sharp pain as he bit her.

He's marking me,
she thought. She heard a purring tear as he tore the sheets.
He's making me his own.
That thought—so complicated, so strange, and so completely marvelous—spun her into orgasm.

He stiffened over her as she cried out and his grip tightened—painful for a split second—and then he relaxed. “Do that again,” he growled in her ear and then bit her earlobe.

“I can't,” she gasped, almost groaned. And still he was busy, still he was fucking her with long, fast strokes.

“Yes.”

“I—can't!” Pump, pump, pump, and her neck stung where he had bitten her. As if sensing her thought, he bent to her and licked the bite and then kissed her mouth.

“I need to feel your sweet little cave tightening around me again,” he said into her mouth. “I must insist.”

“I'm done. Please, I can't anymore. Please, Alec—” Oh, but her body was betraying her. She was arching her back to better meet his thrusts, and she could feel that now-familiar tightening between her thighs, the feeling that told her she
would
do it again, thank you very much. “Alec, please stop, please, I can't. Stop! St—” Then it was singing through her,
tearing
through her, and this one made the other two seem like mild tickling in comparison. This one was the biggest thing to ever happen to her.

She felt him stiffen above her again, but, oh, Christ, he wasn't done, he was still thrusting. He seized her knees and pushed them wide, spreading her, making her wider for him. She screamed in pleasure and despair; more of this was sure to kill her. It'd be the best death ever, but it'd still be death.