Uncommon Passion (24 page)

slowly. So slowly. She took her time, lifted her mouth when he could no longer help himself and thrust up

into her mouth. The third time he did that she teasingly licked the head with each grinding thrust while the

pleasure ebbed in his shaft. The screws holding the chair together squeaked in protest.

“Cocktease,” he said.

She looked up at him, no longer shocked by what came out of his mouth during sex, but rather like

she’d learned something about herself, and she liked it. A lot. Then, just to prove she had all the power and

he didn’t, she held his gaze while she sucked him. He did his best to hold out against her, but when the

pressure built in the tip again
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she backed off and blew on the tip.

He could fight brutality, but she was gentle. So gentle. He was drowning in hot honey. It saturated the

air around him, was inhaled into his lungs, seeped into his mouth, down his throat and into his chest, where

it glowed around his heart. He felt like all his nerves were coated in the golden, sweet substance. Amber

sweetness everywhere, especially in Rachel’s eyes.

She let go of his cock and tugged his jeans down and off. He was so turned on he writhed in the chair,

then went still when her hands lifted to the buttons fastening her sleeveless top. Her gaze held his as the

placket opened and the shirt dropped to the floor. Her skirt landed on top of it, then her bra, then panties.

Her hair streamed over her shoulders as she straddled his thighs again, this time removing a condom from

her purse. Breathing hard, he watched as she opened the packet, smoothed it down his shaft. Then she

braced herself on his shoulder and straightened his straining cock with the other hand, centered herself, and

took him inside her.

Inch by excruciating inch.

After the tip disappeared, he couldn’t watch. His eyes closed with the onslaught of heat and pressure,

the shimmying adjustments she made when he was buried inside, getting him that little bit deeper, until he

couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

After a long, vibrating moment when nothing happened except the edges of his body continuing to blur,

he opened his eyes to watch her trail the backs of her fingers along his jaw, picking up sweat that trickled

through his stubble. With her thumb she caressed the skin under his lower lip, then sucked the melting

honey into her own mouth. He shuddered hard, on the edge, but she stopped, breathing with him, impaled

on him and yet somehow in total control, until against his will he eased into her unique torture. At any

number of points in this exercise he would have taken her over the edge, maybe even followed himself, but

as Rachel waited they sank yet deeper into the energy pulsing in the room.

When she’d cleaned the honey from her thumb, she licked the pad of her middle finger and flattened

her palm against her abdomen, her finger gently circling at the top of her sex.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped. Her hand obscured much of his view, giving him only teasing glimpses of

dark pink folds, gleaming with juices, the hard nub of her clit swelling under the same slow movements

she’d tortured him with. She wasn’t going to tease him and then get herself off. She burned in the same fire

licking at the soles of his feet, his balls, his mouth.

With a helpless little whimper she lifted herself up, riding him, slowly at first, in time to her finger, then

one hand settled on his throat, index finger and thumb on his jaw, pinkie by his collarbone while the other

slid down his sweat-slick forearm to link with his fingers again. Then she kissed him. No teasing, no

hesitation, just her mouth and his, honey on her tongue and his, sweet and sticky and hot and slippery all at

once, and each tight, hard impact of her hips against his forced sound from his throat. Not words or groans,

but stuttering little grunts he heard in the back of his mind, sounds he’d never made before.

He’d never felt like this before. He was going to come so hard and deep. When she let him; she showed

no signs of rushing for a big finish. Hard and sweet and deep . . . and slow. Tension seethed in his cock,

each stroke coaxing it higher, higher. Every cell in his body vibrated as he lifted into her next downstroke.

“No,” she whispered. The word was sticky-sweet against his mouth, and her pace slowed.

He fought to keep his hips still, but couldn’t resist the need to slide down in the chair, spreading his

legs, flattening out so she could get him that little bit deeper inside. Her head dropped back, her hair

brushing his thighs as she arched her back and ground against him. The scarf tightened around his wrists,

rubbing tendons and ligaments against bone, but he didn’t care because she made a little whimpering sound

he recognized, the one that meant she neared desperation’s edge.

Again she slowed, her head dropping forward, her mouth brushing his, hair sweeping over his bared

abdomen. Blood pounded in his ears as he gripped the chair legs, something inside trying to claw its way

free of his chest. His head dropped back as air huffed from his lungs.

What the fuck did she want from him? What did she fucking want?

He was past the point of thinking, because she owned him, slamming her hips against his until a hot,

helpless cry broke against his ear. Reflexively he tightened up, held back until the shudders wracking his

body and the chair frame subsided, then surrendered to the demanding grip of her pussy. Fireworks

exploded in his brain and he strained against the scarf holding him to the chair, because all he wanted to do

was grip her hips and hold her so tight, so tight, never let her go.

When he came back to himself, Rachel was disengaging their bodies. She lifted herself off him, then

went to her knees on the floor at his side. “Oops,” she said in that totally Rachel, totally matter-of-fact tone.

This girl didn’t giggle. “My legs aren’t working quite right.”

Neither were his. Nothing seemed to be functioning according to tolerances. His heart raced when it

wasn’t jittering in his chest, and his muscles gave odd little twitches. He focused on taking deep, calming

breaths as awareness flashed bright in his mind. He’d expected to be ravished, girl style. Instead she took

him apart with her lips and fingertips, left him shaking, utterly exposed to her.

Thunder boomed again, off in the distance. Rain still swept his sliding glass doors, but more gently.

Had he taught her that? No. What they’d just done was unique to Rachel, what happened when hot

experience met gentle, implacable curiosity.

Rachel wasn’t one to debrief a situation immediately afterward. The enameled dragonfly holding her

hair back tilted drunkenly but maintained its hold. Without turning his head he looked at her, kneeling

naked on the carpet next to his chair as she fumbled a little with the knots. They’d tightened during their

escapade, but in a few seconds she freed one wrist. He yanked loose the knot holding his other wrist to the

chair, tossed the scarf to the floor, and snagged his pants from the floor on his way to the bathroom to deal

with the condom. He wanted to slip down the wall, sit with his head bent and catch his breath, find his

armor and put it back on, but everything he was told him the only way to minimize the risk of Rachel Hill

was to act like nothing had happened. So he got up and walked back into the living room.

Rachel remained on her knees. “How did I do?”

This was no badge bunny playing power games. Rachel genuinely wanted to know, and he had no idea

how to answer her.

She’d reached into his chest and gripped his heart, but left it there, shattering Ben’s sense of who he

was. When it came to sex, he would have sworn he was past innocent, past even being shocked. Turns out

he wasn’t as jaded as he thought. Turns out . . . he could still be vulnerable.

Now dressed, hands on his hips, he looked down at her. “Fine. You did fine.”

Still on the floor, she reached over and gathered her clothes, then stood up. “Fine?” she asked as she

pulled on her panties and bra.

That was all she was getting. He turned for the kitchen, covered his shaking hands by opening the fridge

and snagging two bottles of water. “That’s not what women usually want a cop to do,” he said as he twisted

the cap off one.

Now wearing her skirt and carrying her blouse, she joined him in the kitchen. “I gathered as much.”

It dawned on him, weeks too late, of course, that Rachel had no expectations of him because of the

badge and uniform. The identity he wore like other men wore suits or hardhats or hipster clothes meant

nothing to her. She saw right through it because she didn’t even know it was there. She was aware and

awake, two things he tried very hard not to be.

When he didn’t speak, she did. “Thanks for letting me do that.”

He shrugged. Refusing would show weakness, something he gave up a long time ago.

When he didn’t reply, she turned for the living room. “I should go,” she said.

He followed her, stopped her at the door with a hand on her arm. Without looking at her face he swiftly

undid her buttons, aligned the placket properly, and buttoned up her blouse again. When he did look up,

Rachel was both blushing and smiling.

“I’m a little blissed out,” she said. “See you next week.”

The casual way she said it sliced through him, so he didn’t answer. But when she left he did sink to the

floor, strings cut.

Chapter Sixteen

Promptly at eleven o’clock the fol owing Sunday, Rachel knocked on Ben’s apartment door.

He didn’t answer. The kind of silence that signaled an empty space vibrated behind the door. She

knocked again, leaning in to listen for movement. No signs of life, no television or running water. After a

moment she walked down the open stairwell far enough to scan the parking lot. No big black truck hulking

in Ben’s assigned spot.

She looked at her phone. No texts, no missed calls, no messages.

He’d stood her up.

Her heart shrank a little in her chest, and an odd hot/cold sensation slid down her spine. After what

happened last Sunday, he’d stood her up this Sunday.

Maybe he’d been called into work. Even if he had, that didn’t explain the lack of a phone call or even a

text.

She knocked one last time with no response, then slowly descended the stairs to her car and headed

back to the farm. He’d been called into work. It was the only reasonable possibility, far more likely than

him avoiding her because she’d done something terribly wrong last week. But the whole way home, she ran

through her memories of last Sunday morning. The look in his eyes, desire warring with nerves, the way he

trembled, then went rigid as he came.

Had she done something wrong?

Rob was working in the barn when she parked in front of the apprentices’ bunkhouse, George sitting in

the open barn door with his ears cocked in the direction of the goat yard. She swapped her skirt for jeans

and boots, then followed the path through the wildflowers, past the fields, and up the hill to the barn, where

the radio was tuned to the local NPR station. For a moment she listened to the local news for anything out

of the ordinary, a hostage situation, a violent offender holed up in a house, then felt guilty for hoping for

something terrible to explain why Ben wasn’t home.

The radio wouldn’t explain why there was no text or call.

The truck and trailer was parked in front of the barn. Rob hooked hundred-pound bales, transferring

them from the trailer to the barn’s interior where they’d be spread for bedding and used as feed. His hair

and T-shirt were soaked with sweat, his bare forearms reddened and scratched by the sharp hay stems.

“You’re back early,” he said as he slapped the hooks into another bale, lifted it with a grunt and carried it

into the barn.

She had nothing to say to that. “I can give you a hand.”

He shook his head. “These bales weigh what you do, and I’m almost done. I was going to pack a lunch

and walk down the river a ways. You’re welcome to join me.”

“I’d like that,” she said. “I can pack the lunch if you want to clean up.”

He gave her a slow, sweet smile. “Meet you by the goat yard in half an hour?”

She nodded and hurried back down the path to the bunkhouse. In the kitchen she found a backpack

and stuffed leftover fruit salad, a tub of the farm’s yogurt, cheese, crackers, a jar of honey and some bread,

and some of the cookies she’d made last week.

Rob and George were waiting in the goat pen, George sitting testily by the gate, no doubt in a sit-stay to

avoid harassing the hot, pregnant goats while Rob checked each expectant mama. He wore clean jeans and a

lightweight shirt like hers, with boots on his feet. His shaggy blond hair was still damp from the shower and

curled against his tanned neck and cheekbones.

“No one’s ready to deliver,” he offered.