Lady Be Good (7 page)

“Problem?”

“People must know that’s a—well, forgive me if I’m being too blunt, but a glorified term for a . . . well . . . a gigolo.”

“Gigolo!”

She hadn’t intended to be rude, and she began to frame an apology, only to have him grin. “Gigolo. I like that.”

“It’s a pejorative term,” she felt duty-bound to point out.

“Maybe in that socialist state you live in, but here in the land of the free, home of the brave, people have respect for a man who’s willing to make it his life’s work to service lonely ladies.”

“I am not lonely!”

“Or ones who are sexually frustrated.”

She opened her mouth to deny it, only to shut it again. Let him think what he wanted. Besides, she
was
sexually frustrated, even if that wasn’t her motivation for using his services. She fumbled for her wine glass.

He slipped his knife into a second piece of chicken, and she noticed he had excellent table manners. Regardless of the task, he performed it with a combination of lazy grace and minimal motion.

Too often in her life she’d set her own wishes aside out of deference to others, but tonight she wasn’t going to do that, and she steeled herself for what needed to be settled. “This evening . . . during our . . . our interaction . . . I want to make certain you understand that I can call a halt to the proceedings at any time.”

“Oh, that’s no problem at all.”

“Good.”

“Because I guarantee you’re not going to want to call a halt to a single proceeding. Unless, of course, you happen to be a lesbian. Although, even then—”

“I’m
not
a lesbian.”

He had the gall to look disappointed.

She plunged on. “I simply think it would be better if we established certain ground rules.”

He sighed.

“I am, after all, the customer, and as a customer—”

“You gonna eat that baked potato or just poke at it?”

She dug her fork into her potato. “I’m merely pointing out—”

“Upstairs.”

“What?”

“Go on upstairs.” He pushed back from the table and rose. “I can see I’m not going to be able to enjoy my meal until we get our business over with.”

She gazed at his empty plate.

He gestured toward her wine glass. “You can take that with you, if you want. Or—Here, let me carry it. I know how much you like having other people haul things around for you.”

“I can carry my own wine glass.” She snatched it away from him. “It’s my suitcase that—” Before she could finish her thought, she was somehow on her feet and being steered toward the stairs.

His hand settled warm against the curve of her back. “We’ll use my room. The bed’s bigger, and I like having lots of room to maneuver.” They reached the top of the stairs. “Dang, I forgot the tire chains.”

Her fingers nearly snapped the stem of the wineglass.
“What?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m just kidding. You’re taking this way too seriously.”

There was no response she could think of that wouldn’t make her look even more agitated, so she held her tongue.

He steered her through the door, flipped on a light switch, then dimmed it to a golden glow. Like everything else in the house, this room was furnished elegantly. Eggshell white set off shades of deep navy and forest green. All the furnishings seemed to be pieces of art—the sleekly designed bureau, a towering armoire finished in silverleaf, an art deco bed with a silverleaf headboard.

She gazed at the bed and thought,
That’s where it’s going to happen
. There, beneath a headboard designed for a museum, with a man she was paying to do the job, she would finally lose her virginity. It suddenly seemed like the saddest thing that had ever happened to her.

“I—I need to use the w.c.”

“You go right ahead.” He removed the wine glass from her hand. “There’s a black silk robe hanging on the back of the door. Why don’t you slip your clothes off and put that on before you come back out?”

Just like a doctor’s office, she thought.

“Or . . . I can undress you.” His hand reached toward the small pearl fastening at the neck of her sweater.

She fled into the bathroom.

As the door slammed shut, Kenny smiled to himself. Lady Emma might be all tied up in knots, but he was having one heck of a good time. “That robe feels real good against bare skin,” he called out.

Nothing but silence from the other side of the door.

He’d already noticed that Lady Emma liked his chest, so he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. After he’d rid himself of his shoes and socks—but not his pants, because he wanted to build the anticipation—he opened the armoire to get to his stereo system and pulled out a Michael Bolton CD. He didn’t care much for Michael Bolton himself, but it was good make-out music, and, despite what he’d said earlier, he could perform just fine with music playing. As a romantic ballad filled the room, he decided the best part of making out with her would be the fact that she couldn’t kiss and give orders at the same time.

Thinking about that mouth sent heat shooting right through him. It was funny that Lady Emma didn’t seem to have a clue what kind of ammunition the Good Lord had armed her with. Her lovers must have kept that secret to themselves.

He sank back into one of the room’s comfortable chairs to finish her wine. It was a real nice 1995 white burgundy. He sipped it leisurely as he stared at the door, willing it to open.

It didn’t, and he finally realized he was going to have to go in after her.

He also realized the waiting was having a dangerous effect on his libido. Instead of calming him down, he was hotter than his short game at last year’s Western Open. If he didn’t get himself under control, he wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel, let alone the thirty dollars she thought she was paying him. And it was all because of that mouth, not to mention the curvy little body that he hadn’t gotten to see nearly enough of.

He set her glass on the carpet and made his way to the bathroom door, which he rapped once with his knuckles, then eased open.

“Lady Emma?”

She stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom floor, dressed in his black silk robe with her clothes folded in a neat pile on the counter.

Oh, man
.

His robe clung like hot water to every one of her curves. As he watched, two luscious buds appeared, disturbing the smooth curl of silk over her breasts. Right there, he nearly lost it.

Then he noticed that her hands were clutching the robe at her side, and he saw how truly nervous she was. As he took in her tousled butterscotch curls and those fearful warm-brandy eyes, what was left of his honor reared its unwelcome head, and he was ashamed of himself. “You know, Lady Emma, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Her little chin shot up, her shoulders levered back, and those full lips set in a stubborn line. “Nonsense.”

She pushed past him into the bedroom, nearly knocking him over as she swept by, and his sympathy changed to irritation. She had a way about her that riled him right down to his toes.

He followed her into the bedroom.

Her fingers clutched the sash of her robe. “You may proceed.”

He’d proceed, all right. He’d proceed to drive her right out of her bossy little mind.

He unfastened his leather belt, and her eyes locked on the buckle as if she were watching a bomb getting ready to detonate. He let it hang open instead of pulling it from the loops. “Before we go any farther, I need to get the shape of you in my mind.” He tucked his thumb in the waistband, right above the zipper, and wandered over to her. Then he made a big show out of closing his eyes and setting his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped, but he was expecting that, and he didn’t let it stop him. Instead, he simply allowed his hands to stay there until he felt the barest easing in her muscles. Then he slid his palms along her arms.

After that, he began going where he wanted. Over the slope of her back. Along her ribs. Lingering on the outer curve of her hips.

She stood there as he stroked her through the silk. The brave little soldier. Until he got to her breasts. They slipped into his hands, warm and full and round. She caught her breath as he caressed them. Made a soft, breathy sigh. Her arms came up, and her palms settled on his bare chest in a way that rattled his senses.

He opened his eyes and gazed down to see that her lids had dropped. A faint pucker of concentration had formed at the bridge of her nose. He brushed his thumbs lightly across her nipples. They were hard as flower buds. She gasped, and her lips parted.

Those swollen, pouty lips.

They blurred before his eyes as he ducked his head and claimed them.

It was like kissing warm rose petals. She smelled like roses, too, and it passed through his mind that this balls-to-the-wall female had the softest, sweetest mouth he’d ever kissed.

She kept it primly shut, even as her body sagged against his. He slid the tip of his tongue over her bottom lip, then along the crease. She didn’t have an ounce of stubbornness left, and she opened to let him in.

He liked his French kisses slow, but thorough. Lots of women couldn’t get the hang of that, but Lady Emma was smart, and she didn’t have any trouble. She let him take all the time he wanted, while her tongue moved gently against his and the blood roared through his body.

Her breasts settled deeper into his hands, and he realized he’d been so involved with her mouth that he’d forgotten to attend to them. That was a first for him.

He gently squeezed. She twisted against him and her mouth opened wider. Once again, he rubbed her nipples. They grew even tighter, and he wanted so badly to slide his tongue over them, but he still hadn’t gotten enough of their kiss.

And maybe she hadn’t either because now he felt the tip of her tongue slip into his mouth, and despite all that bullcrap bragging he’d been doing about what a stud he was, he thought he was going to explode right there.

With a moan, he pulled her backward on the bed, but the change of venue didn’t provide nearly the distraction he needed to get himself back under control. He had to see more, and, as they sank into the mattress, he eased back a few inches.

She was breathing hard, and her breath stirred his hair like a warm spring breeze. “Would you—could you take your clothes off now?”

It was a whispered entreaty, not a command, and his hand moved to the fastener on his slacks. He opened it, but he was so hard that he ended up fumbling with the zipper like a teenager, and then he got distracted by the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He couldn’t hold back a moment longer.

Hooking one edge of the black silk robe with his finger, he pushed it away from her breast. The fabric caught on her nipple, then fell aside, leaving her breast exposed to him, a round of pale, blue-veined marble tipped with a puckered apricot bud, all of it framed in a V of black silk. He bent down to taste.

Emma felt his mouth touch her nipple, and the breath left her body. His lips closed warmly around her. The tip of his tongue brushed back and forth. She felt as if her body were going to fly away, and she curled her fingers into the bed’s silky comforter to keep herself anchored.

He began to suckle her.

Her body shivered with fire and ice. Tears clouded her eyes. She wanted him to do this forever. She would die if he stopped. He was no longer a beautiful wastrel who’d hired himself out for the night. Instead, he was her first lover. Slow and gentle. Infinitely precious.

Her limbs melted into the bed. She felt the lightest scrape of his thumbnail through the silk that covered her other nipple, and her body turned back into fire.

“I can’t . . . I can’t stand this.” She choked out the words.

In response, he suckled deeper. Took her other nipple between his fingers and squeezed. . . .

It was the sweetest pain she’d ever felt. Tears spilled over her lids and dripped onto the pillow. On the brink of orgasm, she opened her legs and willed his hand to go there. Just a brush. The merest touch. That’s all she needed.

He squeezed again, and she gave a small sob.

His head came up, and he frowned as he spotted her tears. “Am I hurting you?”

She was incapable of responding. Instead, she lay there like a wanton, her breast exposed, its nipple wet and puckered, her legs splayed under the rumpled silk.

She saw that his pants were unzipped, and he was fully erect, but a straining pair of silky black boxers kept her from seeing the imposing column beneath. She tried to gather enough air so she could ask him not to stop, beg him to touch her again, plead with him to strip off those slacks and burn his black briefs.

He moved to the edge of the bed and shoved his hand through his hair. “What do you say we slow things down here a little?” His voice sounded hoarse, as if he were pushing the words through the narrowest of openings.

“No!” She shot up into a sitting position.

He stared at her.

She licked her lips. Wiped her tears on the sleeve of the robe. Gulped in air. Left the robe open over her breast.

“No.” She tucked her legs beneath her. “It’s—it’s quite all right.”

“I got a little carried away there.”

“Actually, you didn’t. I mean, you did, but . . . I wasn’t . . . that is, I liked what you were . . .”

Good heavens, she was babbling. She looked away to collect her thoughts and realized music was playing. She drew a breath and took in the details of the room. A wallet sat on the dresser next to a pile of change. Socks lay on the floor. Behind them, the mirrored door of a walk-in closet was partially opened.

She pulled in another breath.

There were several books on the bedside table, including a volume of Texas history and a biography of Theodore Roosevelt. A few golf magazines. The one on top had a picture on the cover of someone familiar. Someone she recognized.

Odd. Who would she know—

She looked more closely and felt all the blood drain from her head.