Uncommon Passion (13 page)

to make him use a condom. In some fucked-up way that passed for a plan. “Put that on me.”

She slid him a look under her lashes, but settled on her knees in front of him, then rested the rolled-up

condom on top of his shaft.

“Like this,” he said, turning it over to show her how it unrolled.

His hand guided hers as she sheathed him all the way to the base, then turned her wrist so her hand

cupped his testicles, gently squeezing until he showed her exactly how much pressure they could take, and

the sensitive patch behind them. His breathing stuttered, then he wrapped his arm around her hips and bore

her back onto the bed. Braced on his elbows he aligned their bodies from hips to chest, lowered himself

between her thighs, and nudged into place.

He was looking in her eyes as, slow and steady, he pushed in until his hips were seated against hers,

taking care not to abrade her overstimulated clit. Her inner walls adjusted in increments, muscles tightening,

then softening to cling to his length. She adjusted under him and he lifted enough to let her move, but

remained firmly embedded inside her.

“You okay?”

“Of course,” she said. “It’s not like this is my first time.”

The unexpected flash of humor made him smile. She blinked, then smiled back. His heart gave an odd

thump. In that moment he wanted to kiss her curved lips, so he did; slow, hot, sliding kiss after kiss, all the

while buried deep inside her, unmoving. She lifted her hips, but he just kept kissing her until she writhed

under him.

“Ben,” she whispered when his mouth slid along her jaw to her ear.

“What?” he murmured. “Tell me what you want.”

“It’s a little ridiculous, if you think about it,” she said distractedly.

He had to agree. Thanks to the job, he’d seen more than his share of porn. He’d had more than his share

of sex, multiple partners, in front of every reflective surface you could imagine. Yes, it looked ridiculous,

spread legs, hunched bodies, breasts bouncing, hips thrusting. The noises. It was ridiculous, until it

transformed into something else. Something intimate. Hot.

“What is?” he asked, playing along as he pulled out, then slid back in. Keep it slow, but inexorable.

Pitch his hips forward and glide into soft, clinging, slick flesh. He’d never thought about it before, but there

was something hot and dark in that possession. Something as erotic as the taste of her juices on his tongue.

“You,” she blurted.

This time his smile was slow and knowing, mirroring the withdrawal and thrust. “You mean my cock.”

Heat rushed up her neck, into her face. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

The command held a compelling undertone but her upbringing held firm. “You want me to say your . . .

your . . . is ridiculous?”

He withdrew again, then slid back inside, studying her face as he did. “No,” he said easily. “Just say

cock
.”

“I don’t use language like that.”

He paused as if he were going to pull out, but then didn’t. Ensnared in need, she moaned and squirmed

again. “Try
ride me. Pound into me. Make me scream.
Or go for the one that means all three. Try
fuck me
.”

“No,” she said. “Why are we having a conversation while we’re doing this, anyway?”

As he withdrew he bent his head to her ear and murmured, “Come on, Rachel. You know it turns me

on.”

To tempt her he stroked in again, then paused. Her toes curled, her pussy clenched around him. The

scent of steamy, electric risk filled the air, and he could almost see her glowing, like he was standing

outside during an electrical storm, and her response—
I want to but
—died in her throat as it closed.

“Oh,” she said faintly. “Oh.”

“We’re having the conversation . . . look at me, Rachel.” Her eyes opened partway, the lids dragged

down by the undertow now swirling in her body. “We’re having this conversation because if you can talk

this much, I’m not doing it right.”

The rhythm was the same, slow and steady, making her feel every inch of his shaft sliding back and

forth, but now he’d found the right angle so each stroke slid over sensitive nerves inside and out. Her eyes

lapsed into soft focus, then closed. He could do it, make her say the words, but for now it was enough to

teach her how desire grew, transformed into need. He noted the way her fingers tightened around his biceps

and her toes curled, how her legs drew up and her heels dug into the backs of his thighs, opening her even

more.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yes.” The word came out as a whimper, though, high-pitched and breathy.

Each stroke of his shaft into her body heightened the contrasts, how soft and slick and swollen she was

around his hard length, the way each thrust both drew his orgasm up his shaft and sent pleasure coursing

back into his body when he bottomed out inside her. He bent his head so his morning scruff rasped over

her heated cheek, and his mouth found hers, lips barely brushing hers, soft gusts of air marking his

breathing before his tongue touched hers.

Her eyes opened. The look in the languid, pale brown irises sent heat and light into spaces left too long

in cold and dark.

Ben stopped abruptly.

“Don’t . . .
Why did you stop?
”

No light, no heat, no tenderness. If she wasn’t going to play along, make it sexy and hot and dirty, then

he’d do it. He sat back on his heels and tugged on her hand to help her into a sitting position. “Because

we’ve done that before, and there are a dozen different ways to do this. Turn around.”

She went to her knees and gave him her back. He snugged up close behind her, his erection sliding

against her bottom until he smoothed his palms up her inner thighs to open her, then urged her up, guided

her back, and slid back inside her.

“Oh,” she said again. “Oh my.”

The benefits to this position were many. He lifted both hands to her face, sliding rough palms along her

cheekbones to gather her hair, sending it streaming over one shoulder. Then he smoothed his hands up her

throat, under her jaw, tipping her head back to his shoulder before he cupped her breasts and gently

pinched her nipples. She tightened around him and swiveled her hips on his erection.

“That’s right,” he said, as if she’d spoken. In a way, she had. One hand stayed at her breast while the

other lifted to her mouth. The tip of his middle finger slipped between her lips and she licked it. Then that

hand skimmed over her soft belly, between her legs, to circle her clit.

“You do it,” he murmured in her ear.

She began to tip her hips back and forth, using the powerful feedback loop to refine her movements

until she found exactly the right angle to rub the hot spot inside her against his shaft. He grunted and

wrapped his free arm around her ribs, holding her hard against him because the way she writhed dropped

him straight back to reptile brain.

The heat was building again, flaring hotter and higher than before. Apparently she didn’t know what to

do with her hands. They lifted, searching for something to cling to before one settled on his nape and the

other on the forearm flexed like a steel band against her ribs. As the pleasure built she spread her knees,

opening to him, and he shifted as well, slid a little deeper.

It was surrender and possession all at once. She couldn’t break his grip but she also held him deep

inside her, and he didn’t want to think about that.

“Work for it, Rachel,” he said, and matched his circling fingertip to the swiveling motion of her hips.

She glowed, gasping, striving for something that seemed as impossible to attain as it was to do without.

And then it broke over her. Her body arched in his arms, breathy, astonished cries escaping her lips as

the tight convulsions rhythmically gripped his shaft. He pulled out and thrust back in, the motions subtle

and shallow, intended to keep him on the edge while drawing out her orgasm.

She was gripping his arm and neck so hard she’d dug her blunt nails into the skin. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“So am I,” he said.

Before she could ask him what he meant, he tightened his grip at her waist to hold her close, then

braced his other hand on the bed and tipped her face-first into the sheets. Her hair tumbled over her face,

buried in her forearms. He hunched over her and powered in, hips slapping against her ass. He’d done this

the porn star way before, one hand on her tailbone as he watched his cock disappear into his partner’s soft

female flesh. But this time wasn’t about
yeah baby you like that?
This was about the sheer, deep need to

bury himself in Rachel Hill.

He was out of his mind. That was his last thought before orgasm blasted through him like a freight train,

obliterating his mind. He shoved deep inside her, grinding against her hips, shaft throbbing as he jetted into

her.

A soft little sigh eddied into the bed. The muscles in his arms and hands trembled as they relaxed, and

his legs weren’t exactly steady as he withdrew from her body and went into the bathroom. Out of the corner

of his eye he saw her ease down on her side and close her eyes.

This should have been simple. Teach a virgin what she needed to know about sex so she seemed

experienced. He splashed water on his face, then looked in the mirror as he dried off. If you knew what to

look for, he looked as shell-shocked as Rachel. If you didn’t know—and Rachel didn’t—he looked like he

always did. Square jaw, blue eyes, blank face. Some guys learned that look on the streets. He’d learned it

long before he applied to the Academy. Just like Sam did, in fact.

Eventually, Rachel would look like this, too, like Juliette and Steve and everyone else he knew. If she

were a good student. She’d learn to say and move and do what men expected, to make sure she knew what

she liked and knew how to get it.

Back in the bedroom she still lay in a ball on the bed. He bent down and started separating clothes into

two piles. Her white cotton panties. His black shorts. Her skirt. She pushed herself into a sitting position and

followed his lead, tugging on panties, then skirt before claiming her bra and her blouse from the floor on

the other side of the bed.

“What do I say afterward?” she asked as she buttoned her blouse. “Thanks?”

The offhand remark startled a laugh from him. “Depends on how good the service was,” he returned.

Another silence. He never minded girls spending the night, having no desire to send a woman back onto

the streets at three in the morning, too sleepy to drive defensively against the drunks and the teens. Telling a

woman she could stay when he was awake was a completely different story.

“I should go,” she said.

Yes, she should. No, she shouldn’t.

He didn’t move, his elbows and body blocking most of the door. The scent of sex and sweat rose from

her skin, heightening that uniquely Rachel scent. “Want to do this again next Sunday?”

Her hair slid over her shoulder when she looked up at him, so she reached back and coiled the heavy

mass, then twisted the coil into a knot at the nape of her neck. She slipped her feet into her flats and

stepped toward the doorway only to come up short when he stayed where he was.

“Only if you answer my question,” she said.

He frowned. “What question?”

“Why did you text me?”

He really didn’t like
why.
“Because someone’s got to teach you what you need to know.” And there

wasn’t much that made him hot anymore.

“And it might as well be you?” she said.

He gave her a short nod that wasn’t an answer.

“What would this involve?”

How did you explain water when you were a fish? He settled on, “What to do. What to expect. How to

act. How to protect yourself.”

A moment’s silence passed, then she said, quite gently, “Excuse me, please.”

He stepped to the side, allowing her to walk through the door without sidling past him. She picked up

her purse from the dinette table. “See you next week,” she said, opening the door.

In the silence that followed, still ringing with Rachel’s helpless cries, he wondered what would happen

when she’d learned everything he had to teach.

Chapter Nine

Nearing midnight on Saturday Ben stood outside No Limits, watching the scene. He’d spent enough

time at a place where sex was all but for sale, and he’d learned to read the clothes, the bodies, the messages.

Intention. Except for a few oddballs, everyone who came to No Limits had the same reason for making the

drive. Party. Get drunk, get laid. Have a good time. He knew there were people who stayed home, cooked

gourmet meals, and played Scrabble on a Saturday night, his passionately monogamous brother and Chris

among them, but in Ben’s world,
this
was the norm.

Tonight he watched it through new eyes, picking up tips to offer Rachel. Wear a short skirt or a halter

top that exposed the soft bumps of her spine, or better yet, the black leather corset and skin-tight pants one

of the women waiting in line wore. Her pink hair was cropped, spiky around ears and nape, giving her the