Who Wants to Be a Sex Goddess? (19 page)

“She is. Mac is one of the best in the business. She's survived a lot worse things than a fall from a balcony. But she didn't come home.”

Dillon closed his eyes and wondered if this was a test to see if he still had his wits left. “Let me guess. Your aunt is also a stuntwoman.”

“Of course. We're all stunt people. Have been for three generations.” She turned beseeching eyes on him. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“No.”

Her shoulders sagged. “But you're here because you think someone murdered Ms. Southwaite.”

“Possibly.”

“Someone who works for Goddess International—and that maybe they killed Aunt Mac, too?”

She looked so stricken, he longed to put his arms around her and assure her that her aunt Mac was safe. Of course, the whole thing could be an act. A moving one, but still an act. “As far as I've been able to discover, she left by her own choice.”

“I think she did.” She told him about the supplies Mac took from the cabin and the road she found near the lake. “But why hasn't she called home? That's what I don't get. Where is she?”

“I don't know.”

“Will you help me find her?”

“We'll investigate all avenues.”

“Straight from a script. Will you help me?”

He hesitated. “I'll try.”

She heaved a huge sigh. “Thank you. So what do we do first?”

Dillon glanced at his watch. They'd only been here for half an hour. “We can't drop everything and start looking. We're supposed to be discovering your inner whatever. If we left now, it would look suspicious.”

She nodded. “They'll expect us to stay here at least most of the night.”

He nodded.

“And you disabled the panic button, so it would be useless to pretend things got out of hand.”

“True.”

“So we should probably go along with the scheme to jump-start my goddess-ness—so as not to arouse suspicion.”

“Probably.”

She smiled. “Should we start on the pillows or in the tub?”

“T
he pillows are closer.” Dillon took her wineglass, put both glasses on the table, then buried his hands in the folds of silk that draped over her butt. He hardened at the first touch. And though he knew he shouldn't be indulging in her sweet heat, that he should be keeping his mind on his job, he gave in to the desire that coursed through him. Desire set off by relief. She wasn't an agent or a spy. She was a stuntwoman.

He cupped her butt with both hands, played his fingers along the soft silk of her gown, reveling in the hard muscle beneath it. A stuntwoman. The possibilities were mind-boggling. Then she shivered and he tightened his arms around her. She was also a young woman with a missing aunt; afraid, brave, strong. And doing amazing things to his chest with her teeth.

They had the time, the need. Why not indulge in a little mutual pleasure. It would be over soon enough. He drew his hands away from her butt, captured her face with them. Tilted her head so that she was ready for his kiss. Her eyes were open, her expression giving and trusting.

And he got a wrenching twist in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with hormones or arousal, but with the need to protect, to trust her in return. It was a new feeling. One that frightened him.

He'd experienced passion plenty of times. Mind-blowing passion with several women. But he'd never, never felt this sudden rush of tenderness, and toward this woman of all people. She could probably wrestle him under the table, could definitely outrun him, and didn't need him to take care of her. And it made him want to do just that.

He lowered his head. Brushed his lips lightly across hers, came back for a gentle kiss. Licked her upper lip, the corners of her mouth. She sighed and parted her lips. Desire pushed tenderness aside and his tongue plunged into her. Tongue flicked tongue. Lips molded to lips.

Her hands ran up and down his spine as her breasts flattened against his chest, sending waves of heat down to his groin. He was pulsing hard against her, heating the fabric that lay between them.

Still kissing her, he walked her backward until she fell into the plush mountain of pillows, pulling him down with her. They landed on a cloud of foam. Giant pillows closed around them in a nest of vibrant color.

They began to explore each other as if they'd never touched before. The rest of the world went away, and they raced to a place where there was no murdered heiress, no missing aunt, no killer at large. Only the two of them.

He unclasped the shoulder strap of her gown. It fell away, baring a smooth, firm breast. He cupped it in his palm. Took the nipple in his mouth. Ariadne sighed and he left her breast to quickly kiss the sigh away.

“Ariadne,” he murmured.

“Andy. My friends call me Andy.”

He smiled into her mouth. She was so an Andy, and yet an Ariadne, too. She was everything he wanted. He deepened the kiss as his heart creaked back to life. “Andy,” he said.

He pulled the elastic from her hair, loosened the braid until her hair came free. She lay back with her hair fanned across the pillow, one bare breast rising from the silk, and she looked like an impressionist painting.

Exotic, but earthy; a siren, but also a beautiful, competent woman that he could see spending his future with. He reared back.

“What?” she asked, looking worried.

“I—”
Just had an out-of-body experience about you.
He lowered himself back onto her. That had been a first. Never, even in the throes of drug-induced captivity by Isabelle, had he felt anything but lust. Never considered a future with one of his lovers. Never. And he'd known Ariadne, Andy, less than a week.

They must have crossed some wires when they sutured his skull back together.

But she was warm, vibrant, full of life. Everything he craved. And he believed her story. Which was a big plus.

He ran his hand up her side, touched the bare skin where he'd pulled the robe away. Tantalized himself by being so close to her tempting warmth. She shifted her body, arched up to reach his hand. He brushed his fingers lightly over the tip of her nipple. Trailed his fingers down to the gold cord that wrapped around her waist.

It was tied in a knot, and he began to work it loose, his eyes never leaving her face. When it came free, he flicked the ends away. Pressed his palm to her stomach. Spread his fingers and pushed his hand slowly down her front. Slid between her thighs, released her, and moved back up to undo the other shoulder strap.

She raised up so that he could pull the gauzy fabric down to her waist, then lay back, watching him. The slope of her shoulders, the curves of her breast, the tight stomach, all tempted him like he'd never been tempted before.

He ran his tongue over dry lips.

“Do that to me,” she said, her voice hoarse.

He leaned over her, ran his tongue over her lips, and an expulsion of breath told him she was laughing.

“Keep going,” she said.

His tongue moved to her ear, outlined the shape of it, delved into the opening. Andy sighed. Her hands were everywhere, his back, his chest, his shoulders, his ass. They left heat wherever they touched.

He licked down her neck, across her collarbone, and down the center between her breasts. Only then did he take them in his hands, let the fullness of them settle into his palm. Rubbed his thumb across the peaks and felt the tips grow tighter. Then took one, then the other in his mouth.

He shoved more fabric away, sank his tongue into her navel. Her fingers speared his hair, cradled his head, until he couldn't think. He rose up to his knees, pulled the robe down her hips, her legs, her feet, until it fell in a pool on the carpet.

“Wait,” she said, her breathing heavy, titillating, so seductive. “What do you have on under that kilt?”

“My gym shorts.” He shrugged. “I thought I might have to make a quick getaway and didn't want to have to do it wearing a skirt.”

“Take them off.”

He started to unbutton the kilt.

“No. Just the shorts.” She smiled.

He lifted one eyebrow, but stood up to push the shorts down his legs. He stepped out of them and stood over her. She was lying completely naked, her arms and legs where he'd left them. He didn't know what to touch first.

She pushed up to her elbows, the light caught her face for an instant, and he broke apart inside. She was so beautiful, more beautiful than he realized.

“Anything else?”

He felt his cheeks heat, and his cock swell. “Just me.”

“Good.” She stretched her legs and hooked her feet behind his knees. Pulled him forward as she sat up to meet him.

“I always wondered what it would be like to make love to a man in a kilt.” She shivered and changed position until she was kneeling between his legs. Her hands roved up his thighs, beneath the hem of the kilt.

His erection tented the front of the pleated fabric, and she watched it move as she played. Her hands slipped around to his inner thigh.

“I like this,” she said. “This combination of silk and sex.”

His knees began to feel weak. It took a monumental effort to stay on his feet. Her hands bypassed his cock and came to rest on each hip bone. He twisted just enough so that her thumbs brushed the heated skin of his cock. She laughed and moved her hands away.

At last, when he was vibrating with frustration and self-control, her hands found him. He sucked in air, tried to breathe. He felt light-headed as all the blood in his body rushed to be near her fingertips.

She stroked him, not hard enough to drive him toward oblivion, but lightly, keeping him thrumming within her closed grasp. He wanted to touch her, wanted to get closer, to lie back where he'd been and feel the warmth of her body stretched along his, but he didn't. He couldn't.

Then her hand left him. Her fingers tickled down his thighs and withdrew from the kilt. He felt suddenly cold, until she found the hook at the waistband and snapped it open. One side of the kilt fell away, leaving it attached by only one small hook.

She brushed his erection with the back of her fingers as she reached for the last hook. The anticipation was going to drive him mad.

He wanted to be inside her. To forget everything else, let her take him in, warm and tight and safe. The kilt fell away, slithered to the floor. She took his hands and pulled him down to the pillows.

He lay beside her, half-covering her, his leg hooked over her thigh. He felt boneless except for the hard pulsing part of him pressed against her hip. They nestled cocoonlike among the giant pillows. His foot rubbed along her calf, down to her ankle, back up to her knee. Then pressed on her knee until she opened her legs.

His tongue found hers at the same moment his fingers entered her. Thrust together as she rose to meet him. He pulled out. His tongue moved to her ear as his finger moved up her moistened folds. She shivered when his finger passed over the hard button of her sex.

She squirmed, murmured his name, and the sound shot fire to his belly and then to his cock. He shifted until he was above her, braced on his elbows, peering down at her face. She looked rosy, dazed, drunk with desire.

She ran her hands over his chest, pressing into the nipples, grasped his shoulders. Her legs wrapped around his ass and she pulled him down to her.

One lift of his hips and he was inside her. They both moaned. Her legs released his ass only to wrap around his waist, changing the angle of their bodies so that she took him deeper inside. He plunged into her. She locked her ankles behind his back and pushed against his thrusts. He could feel her very depths with the tip of his cock. A double sensation, the grasp of her muscles against his shaft as he pushed forward, the touch on the tip, like a kiss.

“Oh, God, Andy.”

She wrenched to the side, yanked a pillow from under her back, and they fell forward, her ass higher now than her head. And he sank farther into her. And that was the last thing he remembered as they raced toward annihilation.

She came so hard that she nearly bucked him off. It was like riding a wild animal as her body arched and twisted. Dillon held on, thrusting as deep as she could take him, until he went over the top. Emptying himself again and again, until he had nothing left.

They lay together, stunned, gasping for breath. Clinging to each other, waiting for the world to upright itself again.

“Wow,” she said.

“Mmmm,” answered Dillon, when he could talk again. They were buried under pillows. He began pushing them aside, then slid out of her and lay on his side, looking down at her. She was so lovely that he could stay just like this forever.

Ariadne. Beautiful and strong. Named after the goddess that showed Theseus the way out of the maze. Could she do the same for Dillon? He squeezed his eyes shut. Not a possibility.

“What?”

Dillon shook his head. “Tell me about your aunt.”

“Oh.” She looked mussed and dazed and completely lovable. He set his features in agent mode and listened.

 

Andy felt more than a little disoriented. Everything seemed to be happening at warp speed. First he's questioning her as if she were a common criminal, and next making incredible love to her. And no sooner than that's done, he's back to questioning.
A perfect male specimen,
she thought, resigned. Able to compartmentalize to the max.

She rolled to her elbow and propped her head on her hand. And was gratified to see his eyes flicker from her face to her breast. Then he was back, all business. She told him everything she'd learned from Galena, Liz, and Lucian.

“Does she do that ever? Go away and not contact you?”

“Sure, but we usually get a postcard. When they read the article about Imogene Southwaite, they called here and were told she'd left. But she didn't go home.”

“Does your aunt have money?”

“Some. But nothing like Ms. Southwaite. She's a stuntwoman for heaven's sake. She could take care of herself.”

“Hmmm.”

“What does ‘hmmm' mean?”

“Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Do they know you're her niece?”

“No. Why should they?”

“I wonder.”

A cold chill spread through Andy.

“Did you know that the security team patrols the perimeter of the compound?”

Compound? An interesting term for the goddess retreat.
“No,” she began, getting a scary idea of where he was going.

“They do, and they've been watching your morning treks over the wall.”

“How do you know?” But she thought she already knew the answer.

He sighed. “Because I've been watching you, too.”

“You never believed my reporter story, did you?”

“Before that.”

“You've been spying on me all along? Why?”

“Because I knew you weren't who you said you were.”