Never Been Kissed (22 page)

Her eyelids lowered slightly and her smile wobbled. “So are you,” she whispered and her hand came up to his elbow; he felt her fingers, cool and small, slip under the sleeve of his T-shirt, slide over the sensitive skin of his arm.

That was bullshit, him being special, because if he were he wouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking about her. He wouldn’t be wondering if he could lift her up onto the sink and push up her—his—shirt. He wanted to cup her ass in his hands and pull her against his chest and cock until they couldn’t tell who was who.

But she was injured. And Ashley Montgomery. And he was supposed to be taking care of her, not fucking her on a bathroom sink.

Not for you.

That’s why he was fighting this—because it was the right thing to do.

He dropped his hands.

“Brody—”

“Stitches are out. Good night.”

She was going to do it again; throw herself at him. Kiss him. It would seem fate had a crazy sense of humor and demanded a repeat performance of the most outrageously humiliating moment of her life.

“No,” she said, pleased that her voice was as firm as it was.

But he didn’t stop, he just kept walking, his broad shoulders passing from the bright bathroom into the dark living room.

“Brody!” She walked after him. If she weren’t so sure, so totally and completely sure that he wanted her as badly as she wanted him, she wouldn’t do this.

But the knowledge was alive in her.

Brody wanted her.

She grabbed his elbow and was immediately caught up in the heat and strength of the man as he turned, put his hands at her hips, and walked her backward till she was pressed against the bathroom door.

It didn’t hurt, none of it hurt, he was so gentle, so controlled.

But barely.

Oh, that shouldn’t be so exciting. But it was. Her body was liquid with excitement. Her breasts ached, between her legs she hurt, she wanted him so badly.

“What do you want?” His hot breath poured over her lips and she wanted to breathe him in, open her mouth and suck him into her body.

“You,” she whispered, her voice shaking because the
inferno was burning down her body. “Just you, Brody, please …”

The growl from his throat was the end, she couldn’t take any more, so she stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him. It wasn’t careful or tentative or sweet. It was needy and angry and scared.

She kissed him with her own wild heart. Each emotion that she was scared of or couldn’t figure out or didn’t have room for in her life, she released it from the box and used it against him.

She lifted her fingers to his hair and gathered it into her hands. He groaned and surged forward, pressing her tighter against the door.

Her ribs felt that but she swallowed the pain, because if she let on, he’d stop. And she didn’t want this to stop.

His tongue pushed into her mouth and she let it, she pushed her tongue into his mouth, and there was no way you could tell who was kissing whom. He crouched and lifted her until they were pressed together, hard, from lips to hips and she felt his erection through his jeans and she pushed herself into it. Wanting every part of him touching every part of her. Wanting him inside of her.

Wanting him.

She’d felt empty in her life before, she’d felt the absence of love and sex, but that was nothing compared to the emptiness she felt right now. She felt empty of
him.
The specific explicitness of it broke her.

He dropped his hand to her ass and she held her breath, feeling his big wide palm over her and waiting to see what he’d do next, wanting whatever it was so badly she nearly climbed up his body like it was a palm tree. She bit his tongue, sucking it hard into her mouth and he squeezed her ass with rough hands.

It was so exciting, this place, where his careful faltered and became rough and she made a sound, a whimper.

And he stopped.

“No,” she whispered into his mouth. “No, Brody. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

He pulled away and the look on his face froze her. He was furious.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“What … what do you mean?”

“Don’t play stupid, it doesn’t work for you.” Her head snapped back at that. Oh, he was really angry.

Well, she wasn’t a child and she wouldn’t be pushed away again because he thought she needed protecting. She was a full-grown woman who wanted to have sex. With him.

Good Lord, this shouldn’t be so hard!

His eyes toured her body. Putting on his shirt had been a rare stroke of femme fatale genius.

“You have your own clothes, Ashley.”

“Are you talking about the way I’m dressed?” She tilted her head. “All my clothes are dirty. Does it bother you?” she asked, playing with the hem of his shirt.

He breathed in hard through his nose and she felt a surge of delight. Of glee. He was unpredictable and slightly terrifying, but he wanted her.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the futon, his legs out wide in front of him.

“Come here,” he whispered, beckoning her with his beer bottle before taking a sip.

It didn’t even occur to her not to.

Don’t do it,
he thought.
Don’t be so reckless.

But Ashley Montgomery was the personification of reckless and so of course she crossed the room to stand between his outstretched legs.

“Take it off,” he told her. He sat back against the arm of the futon and drank his beer, like he was settling in for a show.

Her eyelids flickered and her pink tongue touched her lips.

“Take … take what off?” she whispered, her eyes never straying too far from the erection in his pants.

“My shirt. The one you’re wearing. Take it off.” The beer bottle hit the table with a hard thunk and she jumped. Her eyes met his, wide and disbelieving.

See,
he wanted to say,
you’re not cut out for this. You’re no match for me. You think this is what you want, but everything I have to give you is so much less than you deserve.

He sighed. “Ash—”

Her fingers grabbed the hem and in one not-so-smooth move she pulled the shirt up and over her head. She was naked but for a pair of polka-dot panties. They were pink. The polka dots were white.

Stupid thing to stare at. But he was reduced to stupid. With lust and surprise, she’d made him a dumb beast.

He couldn’t breathe. Slowly, his eyes traveled her body, those perfect round breasts with the nipples that matched her panties. The muscles in her stomach, clenching and
unclenching as she panted. The bruises on her ribs were beginning to turn yellow around the edges, still green and purple at the center.

His hand cramped and he realized he was holding on to the futon so hard so he wouldn’t grab her. The silence stretched, broken only by her heavy, shattered breathing.

“Oh my God, Brody,” she breathed, her hands fluttering like birds from her legs to her breasts. “Say something …” Her voice cracked and she grabbed her shirt from the floor, held it to her chest and stood ready to flee. To run, ashamed and probably scared, to her room.

“No.” He caught her by the arm and pulled her to stand in front of him, trembling between his spread knees. He pushed himself forward on the futon, his mouth inches from her belly. The silly little white bow at the top of her panties.

He could smell her arousal.

“Don’t be mean,” she whispered. “Please …”

Oh, she just killed him, just put a knife right through what was left of his heart. There were no words at his disposal to tell her how beautiful she was. How brave.

Slowly, so she could leave if she wanted, not a scared animal but a beautiful woman with the right to reject any idiot who didn’t know how to behave around a woman like her, he pressed his mouth to her stomach. The small swell of it under her belly button.

She jerked at the touch, her body stiff, and he held his lips there, against her skin, waiting, eyes closed for her to run.

Run,
he urged silently.
For both our sakes. Run.

But after a moment she sighed and imperceptibly pressed against him. Her fingers, like butterflies—or hummingbirds or anything else painfully fast and light and unsure—touched his shoulder, his hair. Her thumb brushed the edge of his ear and he was so turned on it hurt.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her, licking her skin. His
hands swept up from her knees, to her thighs, over her waist, across the bruises, barely touching them, like he was a low-flying plane studying her topography, the gorgeous curves and plains of her body. And finally her breasts, warm and real and soft—his hands slipped over them, his thumbs found her nipples and he brushed against them, feeling her slight jerk. He did it again and she gasped.

“Every part of you is beautiful,” he said. Risking a look up at her face, he found her staring down at him, her eyes wide and dilated, her lips parted.

She was past turned on. She’d been planning this, orchestrating his ruin, just like she had ten years ago.

“If I touch you, will you be wet?” he whispered, looking up at her.

“Brody …” she gasped. He squeezed her nipple again and her eyes fluttered shut, her hands tightened into fists around the neck of the shirt he was wearing.

“Will you?” he asked, not letting her off the hook, because she certainly hadn’t let him off. “Answer me, Ashley.”

“Yes. Yes, I’m … wet.”

He bent his head, pressed his mouth to the polka dots over her sex and she jerked so hard he grabbed her waist to steady her. Right over her bruises, and she hissed.

Immediately he dropped his hands, sat back in the futon. He’d forgotten her bruises.

But her hands in the neck of his shirt didn’t let go and she jerked him forward, with surprising strength. “I’m fine,” she said. “You just … startled me.”

“Ashley—”

“I’m an adult, you don’t need to protect me from what I want. I want you. I’m wet, Brody. For you. I’m dying. For you. Are you going to do something about that?”

It was a challenge. She was a challenge and he loved
it. Without looking away he lifted his hand, slid his fingers over the damp cotton between her legs.

She sagged, her neck, her back, her knees, all of her sagged. Her hands fell to her sides, but then she pulled herself back together and when she stared at him, nearly naked but proud and strong, it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.

“Spread your legs, honey,” he breathed and she did, her calves hitting his knees, and he spread his legs wider to give her room. The elastic edge of the panties was easily breeched and one finger slipped into the curls between her legs.

“Ah … ah …” she gasped. Her hands flexed open and then tightened into fists, like she could only hold on to herself in this.

So he pulled her knee up onto the futon and she braced her hand on his shoulder. He slipped his finger inside of her, the wet, tight opening of her sex, and she shuddered against him.

She was so tight, a clenched fist around his finger.

“Relax,” he breathed, leaning forward to kiss her breast, to find her nipple and pull it into his mouth. He sucked and she cried out and the muscles around his finger spasmed and relaxed. “You like that,” he said against her skin.

“What?”

He bit her. Gently. But she still jerked in reaction.

Yeah. She liked that.

Her hand abandoned his shoulder to clutch the back of the futon. She was now arched over him, balanced on her knees, braced with her hands. He kissed her breasts, nuzzled the soft slopes, and she sighed and moaned, twitching over him.

Carefully, he slid another finger into her body and she winced and tried to pull away. For all her bravery, her body was tentative. Unsure.

He pulled the second finger away.

“Shhh,” he said, sucking her nipple into his mouth. She put her head on the back of the futon, her breath blowing hot and hard against the side of his face.

He ripped her underwear getting his thumb against her. Then followed her slit from where his finger was buried inside her up to the top, where her clit waited. He paused, his thumb poised just beneath it until he felt her sinking toward him, urging him closer, and then he rubbed the wide pad of his thumb against her, pressing hard at the top.

“Ha!” The sound exploded out of her. He did it again, no teasing, just hard sure strokes. “I don’t … Brody … Oh God, what are you doing?”

He turned his head to look at her, but her eyes were squeezed shut against the futon as her body shook over him.

“I’m going to make you come,” he breathed into her neck before kissing her there. He twisted his hand, his fingers. Stroked her harder with his thumb. Faster.

She coiled tight, tighter, every muscle arched over him in use, in his ear she was gasping, soft little huffing breaths.

“Come on,” he breathed.

And then she jerked, muscles taut, her head knocking his. She made a soft keening sound in her throat and collapsed on him, her body twitching.

Her hand covered her eyes and she rolled into his lap, against his dick, and he groaned. Electrified, he pushed her down onto the futon as carefully as he could.

“Brody,” she sighed, watching him with wide dreamy eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Your ribs?”

“What ribs?” Her smile was drunk and if he were in any other state he might smile back at her. But he was standing on ground that was crumbling beneath him, every second he was losing footing.

“Did I hurt you?” he said more clearly, and she blinked, some of the pleasure bleeding from her eyes.

“No,” she said.

Good. That was good.

He stood, paused for a second to catch his breath, and then walked out of the apartment.

Friday morning Cora’s eternal conflict was solved by Brody’s phone call.

Brody asking her to drop in on Ashley forced her to leave the café in the hands of Bruno, the manager she’d hired months ago but had refused to give any actual responsibilities to.

Bars during the day were sad places, sunlight usually picked up on all the things nighttime hid. Grimy floors, smudgy glasses, cracked vinyl, and worn-out people with nothing better to do with their money and daylight than drink it away.