Baddest Bad Boys(25)

And lust, at least, was an emotion he knew how to deal with.

He stood up, letting her slip off his lap, and sent plates, glasses, cups sliding back across the battered table with a rattling shove. He scooped her up and perched her on the edge of the table, and scooted his own chair closer between those perfect thighs.

She squeaked, realizing his intentions, but he clamped her knees wide and kissed her belly, flicking his tongue over her navel.

“I’m still hungry,” he said. “And you took the last piece of bacon.”

“But I haven’t—I need to take a shower—”

“And wash away all that yummy lube? What a waste.” He pressed his face against her muff, kissing the ringlets clustered over the hood of her clit until the giggles faded into the trembling silence of anticipation.

Only then did he venture to tease his tongue inside. She tasted of latex, but a couple minutes of ravenous licking and her own sweet sea flavor welled up and shone through. He wallowed in the tender pink and crimson folds of her succulent cunt, lavishing her with tenderness. Her nails dug into his shoulders, trying to hold herself steady, and her shivering sharpened, tightening.

Her climax throbbed against his mouth as he sucked and tongued her clit. She clutched his shoulders. The sting of her nails felt so good.

He groped for the condom he’d left on the table. He rolled it on and pressed himself against her, forcing himself inside.

Robin leaned back on her elbows, an arch in her back worthy of a classical dancer. She opened her legs wider, offering herself. Every detail of her, from her gleaming hair, her shining eyes on down to the gleaming pink folds of her *, stretched taut around the shaft of his cock, moved him. He rocked, sinking deeper with each thrust, until his cock shaft gleamed like it was oiled. Hugged by the quivering muscles inside her.

They hit their stride, a deep, pumping thrust-and-glide. He lost all sense of time. Every licking shove into her juicy * was a question, every clutching, sighing response she gave was an utterly satisfying answer.

Their eyes locked, a raw, electric contact so intimate it scared him. No jokes, no smiles, just panting breath, soft moans. And a sense that something huge was waking up inside of him, displacing his old, familiar self. Shuffling it off like a scaly husk. Leaving him with a new self that he did not know, and could not predict or control.

Or protect. He was totally exposed. Naked under the floodlights.

You are so in for it. Fear pierced him, like a needle of ice.

She transformed him. Every time he touched her, kissed her, put his cock into her. Even the way he came was different. Usually he let loose at the starting gate and pounded madly to the finish like a racing stallion, but he was melting into a shimmering blur of total oneness with her, riding long, cresting waves with her, one after the other. A piece of him stood aside and watched, stupefied. Multiple goddamn orgasms, for Christ’s sake. Like a woman. This shit was not normal.

But God, it was nice. He followed her slavishly to the end, let her sobbing, clutching orgasm finally milk the come out of him, in violent spurts, like a geyser, and then sagged against her, hiding his wet eyes.

He pulled out, turned away. Covered his face with his hands until it felt more like his own mug, and less like a neon signboard.

The silence scared him. She was waiting for him to make a move, break the spell. Wasn’t happening. He was too naked. He couldn’t deal.

“Why don’t you go take the first shower?” he suggested, gruffly.

She slipped off the table and marched into the bathroom. Back very straight. Pissed at him, for chickening out on her. Fuck.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to it. He’d seen that anger radiating off a naked woman’s back before. But still. He hated it. He couldn’t steel himself against it, like he usually did. His steel was melted down.

The shower started to hiss. He had just that much time to pull himself together. He gathered jumbled plates from the table, dumped them into the sink. His phone lay on the table, still off. He thumbed it on, to see if anything was happening out there.

Six calls. All from Jo Hirsch, his buddy from Social Services whom he’d asked to check on Molly. His chest seized up at the thought of something happening to sweet, dotty old Molly, his honorary grandma. He was pulling up Jo’s number when the phone buzzed in his hand. He hit Talk. “Yeah? Jo? What’s up with Molly?”

“Thank God you finally turned your phone on,” Joanna fussed.

“I know.” Impatience roughened his voice. “What’s up with Molly? Is she sick? Did she fall? Did something happen?”

“Molly’s OK. But something weird happened. I saw this woman come out of your duplex. Young, pretty, blond hair, well dressed. Turns out she was in there with Molly for the last half hour, eating lemon cookies and sorting her meds! She told Molly she was me!”

“No shit,” he said slowly. “That is really weird.”

“It sure was,” Joanna said forcefully. “Particularly since it took me twenty minutes of talking through her door, plus a call to my boss, to persuade Molly that I was not the impostor. And now Molly’s all wound up. I stayed with her as long as I could, but I have lots of calls to make.”

“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.” His mind buzzed, wondering who he knew who would pull a stunt like that. He came up blank.

“Have you disappointed any of your lady friends recently, Jon?”