Just Let Go… (13 page)

Well, this was no good.

She lifted her hips, and climbed off of him, taking a moment to savor the sight of a naked, sweating Austen Hart lying at her mercy, and then she sat lower on the bed, just within torturing distance of the rippling abs.

“Don’t,” he repeated, but Gillian wanted him, she wanted to touch him, she wanted to taste him.

“Yes,” she promised, and then she leaned over, pushing her hair out of the way, and slid her mouth over his sex. He was still, so eerily still, and so she took him farther, her tongue licking the long shaft once and then twice. Austen shuddered.

Gillian smiled. This time, she licked the head, tasting the salt, tasting her sex, tasting the thrill of passion and lust. He was locked and loaded, she could feel the shudders passing through him, but it still wasn’t enough.

This time she settled between the powerful thighs, her mouth closing over him, and Gillian Wanamaker began to suck.

A
USTEN WAS DEAD
.
He had to be. This was better than a fantasy.

It had to be a fantasy because only in a fantasy would Gillian have a mouth that could suck paint off steel, and oh-yes-hell’s-holy-bells, the woman knew how to use it.

The belly-tightening pulls were like a heartfelt offering for a man who didn’t deserve it. Not from her.

He kept telling himself that this wasn’t real, but his cock didn’t give a damn.

No, he wouldn’t come in her mouth. It seemed disrespectful. His hands wanted to lock on to her, pull her off him, pull her tighter, but he grabbed the headboard of the bed, telling himself to enjoy the ride.

Then she lifted her mouth, stared at him, and he couldn’t do this any longer. Austen pulled her off him, jerked her under him, slid his cock into her, and then sighed with blessed relief.

Gillian was watching him with those trusting blue eyes, and he kissed her mouth, not bothering with gentle. She didn’t seem to mind, her tongue sliding with his, and then slowly he began to thrust inside her. A tribute, a soft-hearted offering for a woman who deserved it all.

Her thighs wrapped around his waist, her hips matching his, and she was egging him on, playing with fire. Resolutely, he told himself no. For once, Austen Hart would be strong. Nope, no desperation here. After having walked through cocksucking hell and surviving, he felt like a mere hearts and flowers screwing would be a walk in the park.

Her hands locked on to his ass, fingers pressing hard, spurring him further from his tender intentions. Hearts and flowers. Ribbons and lace, and still, he kept himself calm. Like a total gentleman, he pressed tiny kisses on the fullness of her mouth, delicate things, more of a whisper than anything else. Simple, he thought, like tuning the engine of a Jag. No heavy-handed jerks, a loving touch, a slight twist to the left, a counter-twist to the right. Timing and torque was everything with a delicate machine.

Not realizing she was a delicate machine, Gillian flaunted her nipples at him, thinking it would break him. She was wrong. Next she flicked a wicked tongue into his ear, swirling there, thinking that he would succumb. Wrong again.

The sun began to set, and Austen continued to fill her. His cock eased in and out, and yes, he was aching to drive into her, ratchet up the volume, and make her scream from the savagery of it, but—no.

Steadily he moved inside her, proud of his efforts. Soft orchestra music was playing in his head. She was a Jag. He was a new man. A respectable man. Hell, Austen could have sex with her like this all day.

In the meantime, Gillian’s movements relaxed. She let him ride her easy. The sun glimmered, golden and warm, as if the very heavens were smiling down on him, and Austen’s mouth curved upward.

There were violins in the air. Bluebirds singing. It was a god-damned allergy medicine commercial.

This felt good. It felt right. His heart wasn’t going to explode. His cock wasn’t going to explode. It would be a slow, comfortable ride to touch the edge of paradise. That was all.

Until Gillian tangled her fingers into his hair, causing him a bit of pain, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He leaned lower to ease the searing pressure, and she put her mouth to his ear. This time, he was ready for the tongue trick. He was waiting for it. He was a man who could do no wrong. Not today. Not here. Not with her.

But there was no tongue, only the husky sound of her voice, only the tortuous sound of Gillian whispering in his ear. Lewd things. Suggestions that she shouldn’t know. With each mortifying syllable, Austen began to sweat even more. It was like every fantasy he’d ever known, but more wicked. More dirty. Every muscle in his body started to tense because this was no walk in the park. Those pliant, delicate globes that were pressing into his chest were great bountiful mounds of temptation, begging him to…

No. No. No.

Strong. Respectable. Violins.

Still her indelicate words continued. Now she was whispering about his cock. Austen frowned because he didn’t want her talking about his cock, not while he was lodged between her thighs while violins and straight-six engines floated in his head. Not while she was so eager, so enchantingly wet…

Sweat dripped off him, but steadily he carried on, nice, gentle.

Glass, he reminded himself. She was glass.

She was talking about his ass. Her fingers were skimming down his ass, she wanted to lick his balls like a lollipop.

Glass.
He could hear his cock sliding in and out of her, but he wasn’t falling for this. Austen was going to be strong, he was going to… His mouth found the rise of her creamy breast, found her nipple and then he began to suck. Her satanic voice whispered in his ear, telling him how much she liked it, telling him how she was dripping for him….

He would be strong.

Her evil tongue found his ear, and then she began to tell him how he tasted when he was in her mouth.

He bit down on her breast.

Gillian giggled.

Giggles were
not
part of his fantasy. He knew that, and it helped. Kept him centered, kept him focused. But then she whispered more.

Now there were whips and chains, whipped cream and vibrators, and other devices that frankly he wasn’t even sure of—and Austen had been around the block a time or two. The outlandish things helped because he had never visualized Gillian Wanamaker in leather.

Ever.

With a strong heart and a clear conscience, he continued the well-disciplined thrusting. It was like dancing.
Really, really
fun dancing.

He was invincible, untouchable, unshakable.

But then she began to talk about one white piece of lingerie. A cloud of white lace that floated around her, and how sheer it was, how sexy she felt, how she wanted him there, how she wanted him to rip it off her with his teeth. She told him exactly how she wanted him fast and hard between her legs, and…

—oh—

He couldn’t help himself. Austen Hart was going to hell, he deserved to go to hell, but he needed her, he needed this.

Now.

His cock, always ready to rip, drilled inside her, their bodies slapping.

In. Out. In. Out.

Faster, deeper, as if his life depended on it. Her mouth was at his ear, nonsensical words and frantic gasps. Austen knew she was in pain, he knew she was dying, her body was writhing beneath him, bucking like mad, but he couldn’t stop. She felt so good, so wet, so welcoming, and he knew he was kidding himself, but he couldn’t stop.

He took her mouth, part apology, part desperation, and her breath was staggered, her entire body shuddering. She was whimpering now, but he kept on, riding her, driving her. He was like a hammer, the bed shaking, walls pounding, and he didn’t care. The world could explode and he didn’t care.

This was Austen Hart. This was Gillian Wanamaker.

Not a dream.

He was going to kill her. She was going to die, but he couldn’t stop, his cock kicked up to sixth gear. Touch her, fill her. Driving beyond the womb, driving for her heart, higher and higher until she screamed.

At the hell-bound sound, he pressed her back against the pillows, saw the well-used shock in her eyes. His body stilled, his cock exploded, the orgasm blasting through him over and over until he could do no more damage.

At last, Austen Hart collapsed.

He’d never felt lower in his life.

A
USTEN DIDN’T SPEAK
. He couldn’t. He knew she was breathing because he could hear it, but he couldn’t look, didn’t want to see her face, especially her tears. Didn’t want to see hurt. At one time, it was all he could do, but now he couldn’t bear it.

Her hand rose in the air like a flag of surrender, waving weakly, before it fell back to her side.

Help. She was asking for help. If he truly were a respectable man, he would call 911, or ask if she was all right. Jeffrey wouldn’t need to call 911, he could attend to her himself.

Austen stopped and corrected himself. No, Jeffrey Tightass Campbell—patron saint of all God’s creatures everywhere—wouldn’t have gotten himself into this mess.

From his side, he could hear her helpless sigh, a long exhalation of breath, and finally he dared to look at his handiwork. Gillian was flat on her stomach, face buried in the pillow. Her hair was tangled, mostly under her face, which he knew meant something was wrong. Her hair was never messed up. She didn’t allow it.

Once again, she lifted a hand, before letting it fall.

Help.

Finally Austen knew he had to act. “Can you breathe?”

She twisted her head, stared at him with unseeing eyes. “No.”

He frowned at that answer because she was breathing. He could see the rise and fall of her back. “Should I call for an ambulance?” he asked, not knowing what else to say.

She opened her mouth, then closed her mouth.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, reaching for the phone.

Before he could punch any buttons, she opened her eyes and stared at him, and he thought she still wasn’t exactly seeing him, but then it didn’t matter because she smiled. It was slow, it was weak.

It was happy?

Happy.

Austen fell back against the pillows and pondered this new development. None of the Gillian Wanamakers in his head had ever looked like this, not even the porn-star version of Gillian Wanamaker with the oiled breasts, size 36D. In his fantasies, her hair had always been perfect, long and silky blond, still untouchable, but never messed.

No, she looked all wrong. She didn’t sweat, her panting was never more than little kitten gasps.

He frowned at the disconnect, and wondered who was the woman that he’d just pounded to hell and back. Maybe it was time he found out.

F
ROM THE SILENCE
, Gillian knew that Austen was thinking. Of what she wasn’t sure, but she could hear the wheels turning. On his face, he still wore the slightly bemused smile of a man at ease with the world. However, Gillian had seen that smile before and she knew it never boded well. The air conditioner kicked on and off. Somewhere out in the hallway, room service was being delivered, as if everything was still the same, except in here. Except in this room. Except in her head.

He should be shocked, he should be plastered to the bed, clinging to the ceiling, because she had poured her entire being into seducing Austen Hart, and this time she had been world-class.

Unless all his other women were like that?

Nah, she thought to herself. When Gillian put her shoulder into something, Gillian was the best. Eventually she decided to grab the bull by the horns and toss the big ugly beast onto the stadium floor.

“I was expecting more of an awestruck look,” she stated immodestly.

His eyes widened, dark brows aloft, terror oozing from every pore. “Like this?”

She smiled, feeling not nearly as confident. “That’s very good.”

The panic disappeared, and the dark eyes studied her, not so desperate, but still befuddled. That was good. “Who are you?”

She heard the surprise and was careful not to smile. “Gillian Wanamaker.”

Austen shook his head. “No, you’re not. Gillian Wanamaker does not
know
these things.”

Realizing that he was finally coming around to the awesomeness of her powers, Gillian stretched, languid and shameless. Every muscle in her body was killing her, but she’d be damned if she let him see. “Sugar, you just never knew the real me.”

Austen rubbed a hand over his face. “I thought I killed you.”

He nearly did, but not like what he was thinking. Gillian tsk-tsked. “Why do you men always underestimate us? This is Texas. A woman never died from sex in Texas. Probably never died from sex, ever.”

It was the best tone, assuring him that no man would ever pull her down.

“Was it good?” he asked, and she realized she might have overdone the worldly femme fatale bit.

“That’s very cute,” she told him, not completely abandoning the femme fatale bit because maybe that had been a test.

“What?”

“Performance anxiety. I bet you never asked a woman that in your entire life.”

He paused, still not giving anything away. “Nope.”

He sounded truthful, serious, and her heart skipped a beat. “I’m the first?” she asked, rolling on her stomach next to him, feet dangling in the air, chin balanced on her fists.

He met her eyes. “You were always the first.”

Gillian listened carefully for a flirty tone, looked carefully for a free-wheeling expression, but there was absolutely nothing there at all.

Then she dimmed her cheerleader smile, began looking for real, and Austen Hart looked away. “We meet J.C. in an hour. I need to get cleaned up,” he announced. She watched him pick up his clothes and admired his naked walk into the bathroom. He was marvelously built—broad shoulders, tight ass, long legs. Normally he walked limber and loose, but not now.

His walk was quick and wary, a knot of tension visible behind his neck. It was an alert walk, a guarded walk, the same way he’d moved in the past. Ready to run, ready to hide.

The bathroom door closed with a click and a lock, and Gillian flipped onto her back and wondered.

You were always the first.

It could still be a trick. Using quiet sincerity only to knock her on her ass once again. But she didn’t think so.

Slowly she climbed out of bed, wincing with every movement, but oh, mercy, it had been worth the pain. A man who’d lived the life of Austen Hart would know exactly how to hurt and that particular talent would never go away.

A girl would be foolhardy to lose her heart to a man like that.

She’d been a simpleton, an idiot.

From the nightstand, his cell phone began to vibrate. She didn’t want to look, she didn’t want to check the caller ID, but no, she had to check.

CAROLYN CARVER.

She shouldn’t have checked. Slowly Gillian collapsed on the bed. What the heck was she thinking? What was she doing? Worse, why did she care, because oh, yes, she cared. Austen Hart had tied her into knots. Every moment they were together, the strings were pulled that much tighter.