Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (35 page)

“You’re gloating.”

She wriggled her hips. “A little.”

He got harder. “Now that’s just mean.”

“Relax and enjoy the journey.” She tossed his words back at him.

“You can be a smartass. Anyone ever tell you that?”

No. Because this sassy side had cropped up since she’d met him. She ground her hips against his.

He groaned.

“Is this what they call a lap dance?” she asked, keeping up the bump and grind.

“If you play with fire, sweetheart, you’re gonna get burned,” he warned.

“Promises, pro—” She didn’t get the rest of the word out of her mouth.

He grabbed the bottom of her blouse with both hands. Whipped it, along with her camisole, over her head as slick as if he were an accomplished magician performing the classic yank-the-tablecloth-out-from-under-a-perfectly-set-table-without-ruining-the-meal parlor trick.

She supposed he
was
a magician of sorts. Making women’s clothes disappear like that.

“God,” he said. “I love when you wear camisoles instead of a bra.”

“It’s about the only benefit of being the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. I can go braless.”

He snorted. “Stop selling yourself short. These beauties might not be huge, but they are perfect. And those delicious pink nipples are just begging me to come play with them.”

His hands spanned her waist, and he pushed her down against his crotch, holding her firmly in place. Her breath shot out in hot little pants. She could not take her eyes off him. What was he going to do next?

Rowdy leaned forward.

Breeanne tensed.

Still keeping his hands around her waist, he lowered his head and took one of her pert nipples, which sat up hard and high, into his mouth.

A strangled cry escaped her lips.

She plunged her fingers into his hair, held on to him as securely as he was holding on to her. Drawing her knees up, she rocked forward into him. He opened his mouth wide around her breast, sucked her inside him.

Her body was doing strange things, growing moist and hot, writhing and squirming as if it belonged to someone else. A heavy pressure weighed her pelvis, aching and urgent. The throbbing between her legs was almost unbearable.

He left one achy breast and went for the other, the cool air touching where his hot mouth had been.

She shivered, violently sweet.

His left hand trailed from her waist, and slipped between her legs. His knuckles raked along the tender skin of her inner thigh. He drew his knees up on the edge of the love seat, creating a place for her to rest her back as he repositioned her for easier access. She took off her shorts and settled back into place.

The wandering hand traveled from her inner thigh to her outer leg, sliding up into the leg of her panties, his thumb expertly snagging the waistband from the inside, and as he turned his hand, the panties rolled down as far as they could while she was still straddling him. The waistband stretched across her butt.

She drew her knees up, making sure her feet were firmly planted into the cushion on either side of him. She rested her arms on his shoulder and stood up, balancing there while he slid her panties to her knees.

She raised her left leg and he stretched the panties to capacity. They would never fit the same again, and she smiled at that. He managed to slide the panties over her heel, and they dropped to her right ankle. But she didn’t bother kicking them off.

Whimpering, she sank back down as fast as she could.
Game on.
She wanted more.
Now.

Breeanne attacked his jeans with unbridled glee, fumbling for the button closure, finally getting it undone. Ah. She struck gold. A patch of masculine skin dusted with dark brown hair.

“You’re not wearing any underwear!” she exclaimed, delighted.

“Commando all the way, sweetheart. Don’t you remember from the day at the pond?”

“I was trying not to look.” She covered her face with her hands. Giggled. She felt as if she’d chugged ten glasses of Prosecco in a row—fizzy, effervescent, love drunk.

“Feast your eyes now. I’m all yours.”

She clapped her hands, and beamed so bright she could pass for a lantern. “Goody.”

Her bare crotch rubbed against the denim, sent hot electrical pulses throbbing through her groin. They were both breathing so hard they sounded like phone sex workers. She’d gotten the button undone, but there was still the matter of the zipper strained so tight by his erection that her fingers kept slipping on the tongue of the metal.

She wrestled with it. “I can’t get it down, dammit.”

“I got it, I got it,” he said, brushing her hands away so he could attack the uncooperative zipper.

“Hurry, hurry.” She pounded her fists against her knees.

“Dammit, I can’t get it open either.”

“Scissors. Where do you keep the scissors? I’ll cut those jeans off you.”

“I got it.” He jerked the zipper down.

She leaned over and pressed her lips to his exposed flesh, felt his erection grow harder still. How was that possible?

Soon, very soon, that thing was going to be inside her. Whoa!

She felt as if she’d unwittingly been standing on a trapdoor and someone had just pulled a secret lever that sent her tumbling down a dark unknowable rabbit hole.

Well, you got yourself into this fix. Hang on for the ride. You’re about to enter a whole new world.

Thrill mixed with terror shot through her. Rowdy Blanton was going to be inside
her.
He’d been with scores of beautiful women. How on earth had she ever believed she could satisfy a man like him?

She gulped, a guppy sucking air. Her legs turned to rubber. A wave of heat rushed over her, followed by an equally strong rush of cold. Her ears rang. Her vision tunneled, and she saw Rowdy disappear into dark stone catacombs. Her brain looped back on itself.

You’re not prepared. You can’t handle this. You’re in over your head.

“Want to back out?” he asked, brushing her hair from her forehead. “There’s still time.”

“No!”

“Good,” he said vehemently, and kissed her hard. Pulled back, assessing to see if she meant it.

Their eyes met.

He smiled that Rowdy smile she’d come to cherish, and her fears blended into the masculine wallpaper, leaving her with nothing but love for him. She loved him. It was going to be okay. He didn’t have to love her back. That was okay too. She loved him, and he couldn’t stop her. She would love him every day of her life.

“We’re going to hit this out of the ballpark.” His eyes made promises. Big promises.

“Yes.” She bobbed her head, agreement filling every corner of her heart, mind, and body. “We are.”

He framed her face in his hands, and kissed her more sweetly, more gently than he’d ever kissed her before.

She melted into a gooey chocolate puddle.

His fingers curled around her arm, solid and encouraging. He waltzed her to the bed and stretched her out on the mattress. He stepped back and looked down at her as if she was the Mona Lisa and he, Leonardo da Vinci.

Special.

She felt special in a good way, a great way, the best way of all—cherished, treasured, cared for. It might not be love on his part, but he sure knew how to make her feel it. The man had a gift. No denying.

He kissed her forehead.

She kissed his neck.

He gave her another smile, this one less cocky, more endearing. “How have you imagined this moment unfolding?”

She ducked her head, peeked at him from underneath her lashes. She’d spent all summer dreaming of this moment. “I’m a writer. I have a creative imagination. I’ve pictured this hundreds of different ways.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“We’re going to reenact my fantasy?”

“You’ve waited this long, sweetheart, you should have it exactly the way you want it.”

“My fantasy involves the cheetah scarf.”

“Ah,” he said. “No wonder you wore it tonight. Where did it get off to?”

“It’s in the foyer.”

He set her in the middle of the bed, kissed her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

She watched him move, his supreme buttocks flexing, and her heart went with him. What a sight. What a view. What a man.

The moment was so aching sweet. This was her first sexual experience, and she was miserably, gloriously in love.

Melancholy pierced her heart, but she shook it off. No. She wasn’t going to let herself get sentimental. Nor was she going to back out. If he never loved her the way she loved him, it was going to be okay. It was truly better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Her heart would survive this, and would be richer for having known him.

She went up on her knees in the middle of the bed, angling her head to quickly check herself out in the mirror. Her hair lay every which way, and her lips were slightly swollen from the kissing.

And there was no missing those scars, slicing right down the middle of her chest, visceral evidence of her pain. Okay, so she wasn’t a beauty queen, but Rowdy didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to think she was gorgeous.

She shifted her weight from knee to knee, wondering if she should go brush her hair or her teeth or both. Should she get under the covers? It felt weird being naked in full view.

Before she could decide, he came back into the room, completely naked too, carrying the cheetah scarf and a box of Magnum condoms.

For the first time, she got a good look at him. She’d known he was big. But an erection safely tucked away inside his pants was a whole other story when it was right out there in the open, on proud display. Omigod, he was beyond magnificent.

No wonder the women were gaga for him.

Her mouth went dry and her pulse revved like a sports car engine. She pulled her bottom lip up between her teeth, shook out her hands.

His gaze hooked on her neck where her pulse fluttered at the hollow of her throat. “Are you certain your heart is healthy enough for sexual activity? Did you check with your cardiologist to be on the safe side?”

She laughed at his earnestness. “My doctor has given me a clean bill of health. I’m good to go.”

“But if you’ve never had sex, how can you be sure?”

“Look at it this way, think of all the fuel it would add to the flame of your ladies’ man reputation if you killed me with your . . .” She trailed off, dropped her gaze to his erection.

“You can say the word, Breeanne. Go ahead. Give it a try. I know how much you like words,” he teased.

“What did other women call it?”

“Everyone finds their own way.” He chuckled, and the sound was music. “You could be straightforward and say penis. But it lacks flair, and you go in for gentler words. You could say cock, but it’s a bold choice. You need more sheet miles for that.”

“Sheet miles.” She giggled.

A sheepish shrug humped his shoulders. “There’s always dick. Which falls somewhere between penis and cock. Those are the three biggies. There’s dong, but that’s got a sixth grade ring to it. Or you could go redneck and call it a pecker.”

“Now you’re just poking fun at me.”

“Never,” he said. “But poker
is
an option.”

“Oh, the possibilities.”

“There’s prick, but that tends to be more of an insult. A woman might use that if she was dissatisfied.” He wrinkled his nose, shook his head. “Let’s toss that one. You’re going to be satisfied. One-hundred-percent guaranteed.”

“Big boast,” she teased.

“Nope. Honest truth, not ego. I won’t stop till you get what
you
need. So what’s it gonna be?”

She mentally thumbed through her own vocabulary, searching for a word that wouldn’t make her blush. “Hmm. How about Johnson? It’s a name. Sounds substantial, and upstanding.”

“Johnson?” Amusement yanked up the corners of his eyes like invisible strings. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“For the time being, yes. What do you call Mr. Johnson?”

“How do you know I call him anything?” His eyes twinkled, full of mischief.

How she loved this side of him. “Don’t all men nickname their . . . um . . . you know?”

“Not all men do anything.”

“You’re right. Hyperbole. So you don’t have a name for it . . . him?”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “But the closest thing I’ve come to naming my”—his devilish eyes met hers—“Johnson . . . is Little Rowdy, but feel free to try names at random, and we’ll see what sticks.”

“Little?” She put a palm to her mouth. “Now that’s a misnomer.”

“Sweetheart, you are priceless. One in a million.” He leaned over to kiss the corner of her mouth, a sideways kiss that was as unique as he was. He crawled up onto the mattress with her.

They were face-to-face, both of them on their knees in the middle of the bed. He had the cheetah scarf wrapped around one hand, a condom clutched in the other. None of her fantasy scenarios went quite like this. It felt a little confrontational, sort of gunfight at the OK Corral–ish, except that he was the only one with a gun in the fight.

“Gun?” She said what popped into her head.

“Huh?”

“Another name for Mr. Johnson. Pistol’s good. What do think of pistol?”

“Naw, he’s a lover not a fighter.” His eyes held hers and she forgot to breathe again. She did that a lot when she was around him. Should she have talked to her cardiologist before embarking on this adventure?

He dropped the scarf onto his erection, flexed his muscle so that the scarf bobbed and fluttered.

Laughing, she reached for the scarf, but he snatched it away from her, wrapped it around his hand.

What was he intending on doing with it?

He scooted closer. She sat back on her heels, looked up at him.

His left hand, the one with the cheetah scarf wrapped around it, traveled up the nape of her neck, his fingers spread, sliding through her hair. He pulled her nearer and they kissed deeply, quickly finding the rhythm they’d lost in conversation.

Finally, he pulled away. “Let’s take our time. We have the whole rest of the weekend. Let’s make it last.”

“Yes.” She nodded eagerly. “Could we make love until the sun comes up?”