Heaven Can't Wait

“Do you, Lissy Charteris, take me, Will Fraser?” He looked down at her, his dark hair damp with sweat, a half-grin on his face, and nudged the thick, hard tip of his cock inside her.

Lissy could wait no longer. Her legs caught above his shoulders, she lifted her hips, reaching for fulfillment. “Yes! Yes! Oh, now! Yes!”

An amused gleam in his blue eyes, he withdrew, his thumb drawing lazy circles over her swollen, aching clitoris. “Uh-uh. You’re supposed to say, ‘I do.’”

She moaned in frustration, clutching fistfuls of linen tablecloth, her body about to combust. “I do! I do! God, I do, Will!”

“That’s better.” His gaze locked with hers, and his big hands seized her hips.

Then with one slow thrust he filled her.

“Oh! Oh, God, Will!” His name was the last coherent word she spoke, her voice unraveling into a long, throaty moan as he pushed himself in and out of her, thick and hard.

It felt so good. It felt better than good. Having him inside her was both bliss and torture.

He groaned. “Damn, Lissy! You drive me insane!”

But she was the one going crazy, the sweet, slippery friction of his thrusts fueling the raw ache inside her, forcing her to the jagged brink.

She would never, could never get enough of him. She wanted to touch him, frantic to feel the rasp of his chest hair, the iron ridges of his muscles, the velvety softness of his skin. But he was just beyond her reach.

He took her ankles in his hands, spread her legs further apart and forced her knees to bend, opening her completely, exposing every bit of her to his view. He was watching—watching where his body slid into hers, hot and slick and demanding.

“Jesus, Lissy, sweetheart!” He drove into her deep and hard and fast, penetrating her to her core.

In a heartbeat, she hovered on the radiant edge of an orgasm, the shimmering ache inside her now a tight, pulsing knot.

“Look at me, Lissy!” he growled. “I want to see your eyes when you come!”

She did as he asked, found herself staring into eyes dark with lust, with hunger, with love.

And then, even as his gaze held hers, it took her—blinding-bright and shattering.

Orgasm surged through every inch of her, a merciless rush of white-hot ecstasy, ripping a cry from her throat, her muscles clenching greedily around him as he kept up a relentless rhythm, prolonging her pleasure with forceful strokes.

Then she saw his pupils dilate with the shock of his own climax, his forehead furrowed as if he were in pain. He groaned, arched his back, his body shuddering with the force of release as he drove himself hard into her once, twice, three times, coming deep inside her.

Lissy had no idea how long she lay there on the dining room table, floating in the musky scent of sex, listening to the sound of their mingled breathing, feeling him pulse inside her. She probably could have stayed that way forever, body and heart and mind utterly satisfied.

She felt him press kisses against her moist skin, paying special tribute to her now ultrasensitive nipples. Then he wrapped her legs around his waist and drew her into a sitting position so that she was pressed against his bare chest, his arms around her, her bottom resting on the edge of the table, his erection still hard enough to stay inside her.

He kissed her hair. “God, woman, I can’t get enough of you!”

She rubbed her cheek against the damp curls on his chest, let her hands explore the smooth muscles of his back. “That’s good to hear, because two weeks from tomorrow you’ll be Mr. Lissy Charteris, and you’ll be stuck with me.”

He chuckled, a warm sound that vibrated deep in his chest, then held her closer, his lips still pressed against her hair. “Please tell me you don’t have any damned shows or gallery openings tonight.”

“Not a one.” She snuggled more closely against him, savored the hard feel of his body against hers. With the demands of her job as fashion editor and his as a sports columnist and football commentator, it was rare for them to have a Friday night at home together.

“Good, because I intend to keep you naked…all…night…long.” He punctuated his words with kisses, then nipped her lower lip.

She nipped him back, then smiled. “So I guess if I’m naked, you’re picking up the takeout, right?”

They’d ordered some Thai from the place down on Colfax—the best Thai restaurant in Denver—but had gotten distracted before either one of them had gone to pick it up. Clothes lay scattered in the hallway beside shoes, briefcases and cell phones.

With a frustrated groan, he withdrew from her, lowered her to her feet. “I guess so. But you have to stay naked—no bathrobe, no towel, nothing but your gorgeous hair and a smile. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She watched him gather up his clothes and dress, enjoying the sight of him naked, his back to her—his broad shoulders, the bulge of his triceps, the powerful V of his back as it tapered to his waist, the tight mounds of his bare ass, the hint of testicles any time he bent over.

There were definite advantages to being the fiancée of a former football star.

When he turned to face her, his trousers were already up to his hips, so she caught only a glimpse of his wonderful cock. But his chest, with its dark curls and flat brown nipples, was still bare. She let her gaze follow the groove between his pecs down past the ridges of his belly to where it disappeared in a trail of curls beneath the waistband of his pants—and nearly moaned when the white fabric of his shirt ruined her view.

He grinned, revealing his dimples. “Hold that thought. And stay naked.”

Then he grabbed his wallet and keys and was gone.

Lissy quickly picked up her clothes and sorted them into piles headed for the dry cleaner’s or her own washing machine. Then she went into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub and began to rinse between her thighs.

How had she gotten so lucky? And it had to be luck—or divine intervention.

She hadn’t liked Will when she’d first met him years ago. They’d been introduced when he first joined the staff of the paper as its new celebrity sports columnist and she was assistant features editor. Instantly repulsed by his hotter-than-hot looks and the knowledge he’d once been a college football hero of some kind, she’d turned up her nose at him, regarding him as a brainless jock with little going for him beyond a perfect body, thick dark hair, gorgeous blue eyes and a devastatingly handsome face.

How wrong she’d been.

She stood, patted between her legs with a fluffy towel, then took up her comb and began to work the tangles from her hair.

It hadn’t been until that Saturday morning she’d gone jogging in City Park and stepped into a sprinkler hole that she’d gotten to know him. She’d wrenched her ankle badly and was sitting on the ground, in pain, calling herself names for not bringing her cell phone, when he’d emerged from a group of little boys who were playing football on the other side of the park.

Dressed in faded jeans that accentuated the perfection of his ass and a black T-shirt that seemed stretched across the muscles of his chest, he’d knelt down, carefully removed her running shoe, and gently peeled her sock away to reveal an ankle that was purple and swelling.

“You don’t need a ride home,” he’d said. “You need a ride to the hospital. If you can wait a few minutes, we’re almost done for the day. Otherwise, I can call a cab.”

Thank God she hadn’t asked him to call a cab.

He’d carried her to his beat-up Chevy pickup—weren’t football stars supposed to drive flashy sports cars?—and driven her to the ER. Then he’d waited with her while the doctor examined her ankle, took X-rays and pronounced it broken.

“I’m so sorry about what happened. Not much you can do to come back from an injury like that,” the doctor had said to Will, seemingly out of the blue. “Can I have your autograph? What did you think of the TV movie version? Made my wife cry. It must have been weird to watch your own life on the screen.”

“I didn’t watch it,” Will had answered, graciously signing his name in black felt marker on the doctor’s blue scrubs.

TV
movie version
?

Lissy had gone online that night, done a little research and discovered there was much more to Will Fraser than she could possibly have imagined. According to archived newspaper articles, he’d been raised by a single mother who’d worked as a waitress in Aspen, where he’d grown up in poverty amid wealth. He’d excelled both in academics and in sports in high school and had gotten a full scholarship to the University of Colorado at Boulder, where he’d been their starting wide receiver—which, Lissy’d later learned, had to do with catching the ball.

He’d been on his way to a lucrative professional career, when his knee had been shattered in the second-to-last game of his college career. He’d been in the second of four surgeries when CU had won the Orange Bowl that year. His football career abruptly over, he’d graduated magna cum laude with a degree in history, only to learn that his mother was dying of lung cancer. Though he’d spent every dime he’d earned by selling the rights to his story on the latest medical treatments for her, he buried her less than a year after he’d buried his dreams of playing professional football.

For several years, he’d worked for CU as a receivers coach. Then he’d joined the staff of the
Denver Independent
, covering football, commentating for the local ABC affiliate and coaching inner-city kids in his free time.

And Lissy had thought him a mindless jock.

On her first day back at work, she’d hobbled over to his desk on her crutches to thank him for his help and had asked him if she could repay him with dinner at his favorite restaurant. He’d accepted, and the two of them had ended up on her floor rutting like wild animals until dawn, as he’d helped her find creative ways of keeping her ankle elevated.

A month later they’d given up on pretense and moved in together.

Eight months after that, he’d proposed, getting down on his bad knee and offering her the most beautiful engagement ring she’d ever seen—a two-carat antique oval diamond set in filigreed white gold. She’d barely been able to speak, but somehow she’d said yes.

She set her comb aside and glanced in the mirror, smoothing her hands over her auburn hair and down her naked body, mostly content with what she saw and even more pleased by the way she felt—warm, languid, sexy.

She reached for her bottle of Chanel, then stopped.

He’d said naked—nothing but her hair and a smile.

She walked around the condo, lighting candles, her pulse quickening in anticipation of the pleasure to come. Sex with Will was…indescribable. No man had ever made her feel the way he made her feel—as if life began and ended in his arms.

She loved him more than she’d ever thought she could love anyone.

She had just turned down the covers on their bed, when the phone rang. Knowing Will would be back in a few minutes, she was tempted to let it ring through to voice mail. Then she saw the number on caller ID.

Lead in her stomach, she picked up the receiver. “Hello, Mother.”

Will stepped around the orange cones that blocked the sidewalk in front of their condo complex. Lord knew how much longer this construction project—which seemed to eat more of the street and sidewalk every day—would take the city to complete. He couldn’t wait until they moved out of this place and into the old Victorian they’d bought a few blocks away on Capitol Hill. He’d finished fixing it up last week, and they’d started moving their belongings one pickup truck–load at a time. When they got back from their honeymoon in France, they’d rent a U-Haul, and Will and his friends would make short work of the rest of it—furniture, clothes, dishes, the new plasma TV.

He took the front steps to their condo two at a time, oblivious to the pain in his knee, the spicy-sweet scent of chicken pad thai wafting from the plastic bag in his hand. He was ravenous—in more ways than one. The thought of Lissy waiting for him, warm and willing and naked, was making him intensely horny.

He slipped the key into the door, pushed it open and saw a handful of candles lit on the coffee table. He smiled. “Honey, I’m home.”

Saying it amused him, pleased him. Perhaps it was the suburban normalcy of it. Or perhaps it was the fact that at age thirty-two he’d almost given up on the idea of having a honey to come home to. Not that there hadn’t been lots of women in his life, but most of them had been more interested in fucking his name than in having a relationship with him. Once they’d discovered he wasn’t rich and realized how mundane the life of a sports journalist was, they’d moved on to the next bit of beef in a jockstrap.

But not his Lissy. The very things that attracted other women to him had left her cold—perhaps because she knew how little money could buy.

That and she’d had a pathological loathing for sports.

He found her in the dining room, setting china plates, silverware and water glasses on the table they’d so recently sanctified, her long coppery hair swaying as she moved, her luscious round ass bare. She looked over her shoulder at him, her lips curving in a smile that made his blood run hot.

Then he saw the look in her green eyes.

He set the plastic bag on the sideboard. “What’s wrong?”

She turned toward him, hair spilling over one soft shoulder, and walked into his arms. “Nothing really. My mother called.”

He ought to have known. He pulled her closer, felt the tension in her body, reined in his own temper. “What was it this time? ‘He’s marrying you for the money,’ or ‘He’s marrying you for sex’?”

“Both. Maybe we should just elope so she’ll give up.”

“Since I’m after your money
and
your body, I’ll do whatever you want to do.”

She laughed. “What I want to do is eat! I’m starving.”

It wasn’t until hours later, when the pad thai was long gone and other appetites had been temporarily satisfied, that Will got an idea as to what her mother must have said to upset her.

She sat before him in the tub, her back against his chest, her head resting limply against his shoulder, her damp hair clinging to his skin, while he lazily fondled a lush breast.