Hell on Heels (Hotel Rodeo #1)(32)

“I never said old, but yeah. A teacher, librarian, or maybe a secretary—”

“The correct title is administrative assistant.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “It ain’t the title. The fantasy is all wrapped up in the tight skirt, the untouchable air, and the f*ck-me shoes. What man can resist that combination? And I have to say those shoes of yours would look real sweet on you right now.” He squeezed the luscious curves of her pert ass.

“You are kidding, right? I’m not about to role-play in your twisted little sex fantasy, Ty.”

“Why not? I’d be more than happy to feature in any of yours,” he shot back, stifling the smirk that threatened to burst out of him. It was as if they’d silently acknowledged their sparring as another form of foreplay. Every taunt kept the sexual tension smoldering. “And that prissy, pissed-off look on your face is exactly what I’m talking about. It always gets me hard.”

“The tub!” she suddenly cried. “It’s flooding.”

Sure enough. Water was trickling out of the bathroom and forming a puddle under his boots. Without releasing her, he backed into the bathroom and cut off the tap.

“You know, I think that tub’s big enough for some hydrotherapy, but I reckon we can save that part for later.”

“Later?” she parroted blankly.

“Oh yeah, darlin’. Sometimes therapy needs to be repeated several times to be effective.”

Her eyes widened as he pinned her to the door and then locked on his, her breaths coming in shallow fits and starts. Grabbing his shirt front, her mouth found his. Lips and teeth collided. She opened to him eagerly, greedily demanding more. Nipping, licking, sucking his tongue, she pulled him in deeper. His lust spiked higher the second their tongues tangled. He should have known better than to think she’d ever be a passive participant in his pseudo seduction, but her passionate response nearly knocked him on his ass.

He grasped her hips, grinding into her with a muffled moan, as she ripped frantically at his shirt buttons. She was a lit match to his gasoline, and his reaction was just as explosive. Ty knew he didn’t always exercise the best judgment, especially regarding women. He frequently—in truth, all too often—let brash impulses lead him into trouble. But the most fatal error he ever made was kissing Monica Brandt.





Chapter Eleven


Monica’s mind blurred to all but physical want and blind sensation—his hands and mouth, his earthy male scent, and the lingering taste of Calvados on his tongue. His lips were firm and possessive, his tongue alternately seeking and demanding. His warm, confident hands mapped over her ass and back, his breath warm and humid as he nuzzled her throat and licked her ear. He moved down her neck again, sucking, nibbling, his teeth lightly scoring over her skin, driving her crazy. It felt so damned good to be touched like this.

She cupped her breasts in invitation. He buried his face between them with a groan, hungrily rooting from one to the other. He sucked in a nipple, then softly bit down, shocking her with an erotic mix of pleasure and pain. He hadn’t exaggerated his skill. He seemed to intuit all her hot spots as he kissed, licked, and suckled, making her more mindless by the minute.

The emptiness was excruciating. Only one thing would end the ache. As if reading her mind, he ground into her. She sucked in a gasp at the jolt of feeling him so big and hard, even through the thick denim. Now. She needed him moving inside her. She yanked at his belt and frantically fumbled with his zipper, growling in frustration. “Please, Ty,” she panted. “I want you inside me.”

His hand came over hers. “It’s all right, Sugar. I promise I’ll take care of you.”

But instead of freeing himself as she expected, he dropped to his knees.

She shut her eyes on a moan as he nuzzled down her belly, his bristled face deliciously abrasive on her skin. She clamped her thighs on a squirm as he deliberately and tauntingly made his way southward, working his magic mouth toward the damp patch between her thighs. Her legs quivered with nervous anticipation as he anchored her hands on his shoulders and parted her thighs.



Her skin was silky smooth against his lips. And her scent. Sweet Jesus! As he drew nearer and spread her apart, her arousal perfumed the air, teasing his nostrils. Tugging her panties with his teeth, he exposed her nest of short curls. She sucked in a gasp at the first swipe of his tongue.

Holy hell! One taste made him want to bury his face and drown himself in her. If he lived as long as Methuselah, he’d never lose his fascination with the scent and taste of an aroused woman. But this one? He couldn’t begin to comprehend what she did to him.

Her eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Her hands left his shoulders to clutch his hair as he probed her with long, lingering licks. His fingers joined his mouth, circling and stroking, teasing and denying, until her hips bucked desperately. He delved deeper still, licking, kissing, tonguing, and tasting. He applied himself to her pleasure with a single-minded purpose, bent on tormenting her to a frenzy. Her undulations and needy whimpers grew in rhythm and pitch to an unmistakable urgency. She was close. So damned close, but he had something to prove.

“Please,” she panted, “take me to the bed.”

“All in good time,” he murmured, backing off just enough to keep her on the edge of insanity.

He’d sworn not to rush it—until her fingers coiled in his hair, giving it a solid yank that made his head snap back. “Now, Ty!”