Tempt Me (23 page)

She almost snickered aloud. Would she have to produce her damp panties for peer review?

“Tickle?” Rafe murmured, lifting his head slightly.

“A little.” Suddenly craving a firmer touch, she lifted his hands to her breasts again. She felt his groan of reaction, the unconscious roll of his hips. Reaching behind him, she grabbed his ass, tugging him more tightly against her.

A shudder wracked his body. “Bailey...”

Her need was feral, frantic, clawing for release. “The couch.” Overstuffed and upholstered in bordello-red crushed velvet, it looked completely out of place, yet somehow utterly right. She could already feel its soft nap against her bare skin.

“I like how you think.”

They made their way to the couch, groping, tasting, unfastening buttons and zippers along the way. His sweater and T-shirt, her hoodie and T-shirt, were unceremoniously stripped off, thrown out of the way. They both kicked off their shoes. Rafe lay down on his back, pulling her to lie on top of him.

Barefoot and bare-chested, sprawled on the couch, he was the most decadent treat she'd ever had the pleasure to sample. Lifting his head slightly, he tugged at the elastic band, releasing his long hair from its messy knot with an unselfconscious shake of his head.

Her breath stuttered at the juxtaposition of long, soft hair and hard cobblestone abs, just flat-out locked in her lungs.

His eyes were so hot they burned.

“What?” His voice was low and rough.

“I love your hair.” Talk about the understatement of the decade. Shifting her weight, she perched on the edge of the couch, sitting next to his hips, so she could better see him. “Your dad has long hair, and Lukas is growing his back out again. Is long hair an incubi thing?” Wyatt had worn his hair on the long side, too.

“Our necks, shoulders and upper backs are erogenous zones,” Rafe responded, cupping her bare breasts again. “We grow out our hair to—”

“Turn yourselves on?”

His answering grin was beyond wicked. “Don't knock it till you've tried it.”

She was all too familiar with that particular activity, thank you very much. “I'm never going to be able to look your father in the eye again.”

“So uptight,” Rafe teased. Releasing her breasts, he pressed her hands into his pecs. His tan nipples were pebbled, as erect as hers were, but surrounded by a silky, tawny pelt. “You really want to talk about my father right now?”

“Your father’s very attractive, but... no.” Not when she had over six feet of lean, hedonistic debauchery spread out like a buffet before her. “I have plans for you.”

The fire in his eyes flared. “Tell me more.”

“Not telling. Showing.” She had to touch him, taste him. Take him, over and over again, as often as she could while she still had a chance.

Rafe stilled when her nose touched his chest hair, gasped as she followed the whorl of its growth pattern with her tongue, groaned when she latched onto his nipple. His jean-clad legs shifted restlessly as she suckled. His abs clenched as she stroked her hands south, following the narrow trail of hair below his navel, slightly darker and more wiry than the hair on his chest. When she reached the waistband of his low-slung jeans, he sucked in his breath, his stomach going slightly concave.

Creating more room for her hands. Her mouth.

She lifted her head, releasing his nipple with an audible pop. Stared at him as she tugged, releasing the buttons on his fly. Pride—yes, pride—flooded through her. She’d put that tight, wild expression on his face.

She dipped her head again, licking her way down the same path her hand had just taken. His hands cupped her head, his fingernails scratching into her scalp. Her gasp of reaction gusted onto his stomach.

With a groan, his hips rolled toward her mouth.

He'd read her mind.

She looked at his open fly, framing his erect penis and his tidy nest of pubic hair. Did he ever wear underwear? She nudged the thought aside. Why cover such beautifully-formed flesh? She reached out to touch, running her finger down the underside of his long shaft. Ruddy and heavily veined, silky smooth yet hard to the touch...he was warm, so warm. She could barely see the heavy globes of his testicles, lightly furred with golden hair.

The jeans were in her way. “Lift,” she said, tapping his hipbone with her forefinger. Dropping his hands from her head, Rafe did as she asked, and she quickly tugged the ancient jeans over his hips, down his legs, and off, tossing them over her shoulder.

Holy Mother. He was a mind-blowing juxtaposition of beauty and brawn—brawn she could better appreciate now that he lay naked before her. His lean muscles were a work of art, cut and honed as if Michelangelo had carved him with his chisel. And that hair, tumbled in such abandon, a heavy hank slipping over the edge of the couch... Jesus. Though she possessed zero artistic ability, she yearned for a camera, for a sketchpad, for the skill to capture even a fraction of his splendor.

Her memories would have to do.

His nipples and chest hair were damp from her mouth, and his folded hands rested low on his stomach, almost touching his penis. What she wouldn't give to see those long fingers wrapped around his own flesh, showing her exactly what pleased him.

“Bailey.” His sandpaper voice rasped over her. His eyes glittered, predatory and hot. “Lose the pants.”

She glanced down, surprised to find herself still half-dressed. Her boyfriend jeans sagged nearly to her hip bones, exposing the elastic waistband of her red Wonder Woman underwear.

It figured.

He lay on his back, but the patient pose was an illusion. She could see the coiled power in his muscles, ready to be unleashed at the slightest provocation.

Power flooded into her. Steadied her. She was going to provoke him, all right—right up to the edge.

And over.

Standing just out of arm's reach, she tugged at the button fastening the waistband of her jeans. She heard his breath catch as the jeans sagged a couple of millimeters and then stopped. She fiddled with the tab of her zipper, slowly dragging it down tooth by tooth.

One corner of his mouth kicked up when he saw her underwear, but he didn't say anything. The hands so patiently resting on his own stomach shifted south, tantalizingly close to his twitching penis.

She swallowed, hard. Stared, helplessly.

“Why did you stop?” he asked.

“Why did you?”

Heated approval glowed in his eyes. He inhaled deeply, his face tightening with pleasure at whatever he smelled, whatever he sensed. Eyes on hers, he wrapped the fingers of his right hand around his penis and gave a slow, languid stroke.

Her brain emptied, just poured its contents out like water onto the ground, but she somehow managed to take off her pants, watching him watch her, as electricity arced between them. When she slipped out of her underwear, Rafe's jaw clenched, but he kept his pace slow and steady, using a firmer touch than she'd ever dare. The plump head of his penis was a dusky, ruddy rose, and slick with moisture.

She dropped to her knees beside the couch and covered his hand with hers. Twining their fingers together, she took him into her mouth. His dark, salty taste crashed onto her tongue like a storm at sea. She suckled strongly, trying to get more of his wild, primal essence.

With a growl, he surged upright, grabbing her around the waist and twisting her. Soon she was lying on her back, sandwiched between crushed velvet and his hot, heavy body. His eyes were wild, glowing gold, his teeth bared like a pirate on a looting spree. His chest heaved as he dragged breath in and out of his lungs, choppy and rough. His erection pulsed between her thighs.

She’d done this. She'd driven him to this. And she needed him inside her, rolling and pounding.

Now.

“Rafe—” She couldn't articulate what she wanted, couldn’t put her outrageous, yawning need into words. But somehow he knew—knew she wanted his weight, his heat, his body surging into hers.

“Hang on a sec,” he whispered, getting off the couch. She barely had time to shiver, much less protest, before he was back again, donning a condom with efficient motions. Then his heavy body covered hers again, her hips forming a natural cradle for his. Supporting his upper body weight with his forearms, his hair curtaining their faces, he watched her with an expression she couldn’t read.

With a hard swallow, eyes on hers, he rocked his hips, the broad head of his penis barely nudging her damp opening. He flexed back, inhaling deeply. Threading his fingers through her hair, he rocked again, pressing but not entering.

“Please,” she strangled out, wrapping her legs around his hips with all her strength.

Mouthing a curse, he drove into her—a long, blinding glide that made her eyes roll back in her head. “Jesus.” When she could focus again, she saw Rafe staring down at her, jaw clenched as he held himself motionless, giving her a chance to adjust.

“Okay?” His voice was like gravel.

“God, yes.” She tightened her legs around his hips. “More.”

She almost heard his control snap, a sail flapping in the wind. His hips rolled, surging into hers, over and over again, for long, timeless minutes. She could do nothing but skip over the waves with him, racing the wind, over the crests and through the troughs. She could do nothing but ride out the storm, lashed to the mast, until they were tossed onto shore with a final, furious heave.

––––––––

“T
his isn't a fish house, it's a fish mansion,” Bailey muttered to Jack the following Saturday as they watched Sasha trot out to meet the guy who'd driven onto frozen White Bear Lake to deliver their pizzas. The weather was sunny and cold, the sky a painful, cloudless blue, and they'd both been invited to join the Sebastiani family in what was apparently a long-standing family tradition—entering the St. Paul Winter Carnival ice fishing contest. Not that anyone seemed to be fishing except Lukas.

All had been quiet on the Wyatt front for a couple of days, so she hadn’t felt like she could turn down Lukas’s invitation to join them—not without incurring Wyland’s wrath, at any rate. He’d overheard Lukas issue the invitation, his supercilious eyebrow raised as she'd mentally cast about for a good reason to refuse.

Because Rafe would be there, and she needed time to think.

The pills didn't seem to be working very well anymore.

Ever since she and Rafe had made love—had sex, she ruthlessly corrected herself—in his studio, she’d found her thoughts drifting far too frequently to how crushed velvet felt against her breasts as Rafe rocked into her from behind. How his cock dragged so exquisitely in and out of her violently-aroused flesh, filling her to bursting. How his long fingers had bit into her hips, holding her in place to receive his thrusts.

She shivered at the memory.

“Cold?” Jack asked.

She made a vague humming noise, which she hoped sufficed. She was dressed for the weather, and had stayed active enough in the vaguely rectangular area the Sebastiani family had staked out on the busy lake with their parked cars, trucks, and SUVs. Over by the fish house, Elliott and Claudette tended a charcoal grill. The scent of sizzling hamburgers made her stomach rumble—whether in hunger or protest, she didn’t know. Scarlett sat in a sling chair next to Lukas while he fished, drinking hot chocolate and paging through the latest issue of
Rolling Stone.
Rafe and Antonia played catch, flinging a rock-hard football over Lukas's head a good distance away from where she and Jack stood.

Pheromones shouldn't be a problem, but...they were. It didn't matter what Rafe wore; she mentally stripped it from him, exposing the frame and flesh beneath. Even today, wearing a pair of black ski bibs and a fleece jacket, she wanted to tackle him to the ground and take him.

She couldn’t seem to get enough of him, and it wasn’t like she was sex-deprived. Without her quite realizing how it happened, she'd gotten into the habit of driving to Rafe's place after she was finished with work for the day rather than go to Sasha's and Antonia’s. They’d prepare and share a simple meal, and then go down to the studio, where she’d strip to her skin and pose on that red velvet couch. Rafe would work for a couple of hours, then wash the clay from his hands and join her, teaching her what her body wanted, what it craved, encouraging her to explore her sexual boundaries. To ask for anything, without shame.

The man could make a mint as a sex therapist. Or a gigolo.

A wave of heat washed over her.

Across the clearing, Rafe looked at her, fumbling the perfect spiral Antonia had just thrown.

“Rafe?” Antonia snapped her fingers to get his attention.

Every head swung to Rafe, then to her, back and forth, like they were watching a match at Wimbledon. It had been like that all afternoon.

“This thing is as hard as a brick,” Rafe grumbled.

Antonia grinned. “That's what she said.”

“Smart ass.” Rafe tackled Antonia into a nearby snow bank.

Face flaming, Bailey turned away from Antonia’s shrieks of laughter and went into the custom-built fish house Lukas had borrowed from a friend. It was an odd mix of rough and luxe, with heat, seating, a kitchen with table, and satellite TV. It had not one, but two skylights, and a drop-down bed that was stored in its upright position, hooked to the wall. There was even an indoor bathroom of sorts—a five gallon pail with a snap-on toilet seat, placed in a curtained-off alcove—with biodegradable toilet paper and hand sanitizer sitting on a nearby ledge. The urn of coffee perking on the table had kept her using the facilities far too frequently.

Retrieving her purse from the pile of belongings in the corner, she quickly found her pillbox, took a full tablet instead of a half, and popped it under her tongue. She was going through the pills at an addict's pace, but she had to do
something
to combat the way Rafe distracted her.

There was a knock on the door. “Yes?”

“Can I come in?” Sasha called.

Swirling her tongue, she willed the horrible-tasting pill to dissolve more quickly. “Sure.”

Sasha pushed the door open with her shoulder, carrying five pizza boxes, letting in a wedge of bright sunlight before closing the door again. Setting the boxes on the table, she unzipped her fuchsia snowmobile suit to its belted waist and shrugged out of the arms, letting them hang. “I need coffee. Want some?”