Getting Played (Getting Some, #2)(77)

“Mr. Sullivan? You’re awake.”

She has the face of an angel—high cheekbones, luminous skin, and wide, round, dark green eyes. But her mouth is full and lush, and her hair shines like a golden fire, a mass of deep red, honey and chestnut hues.

There’s just something about a redhead. A passion, a spirit, a strength, that sets them apart. That makes them unforgettable. Irresistible.

She’s too tempting to be angelic.

But still I ask, “Is this heaven?”

If it is, my littlest sister Fiona, who’s been contemplating becoming a nun, would be thrilled to know it smells like apples.

“No, you’re not in heaven.”

I shrug. “I always figured the other spot would be more my scene anyway.”

Her rosy lips curve into a smile, and that’s blinding too.

“You’re not there either.”

I shake my head to clear the fog and hoist myself up, coming fully awake. And I look around. It’s a hospital room—white walls, sterile chairs, wires connected to a bleeping machine behind me. I touch my chest, my arms to make sure they’re still there. I wiggle my toes beneath the sheet because while my cock is definitely at the top of the list, it’s good to know the rest of me still works too.

“I’m alive?”

She’s still close, still smiling.

“Very much so.”

Relief floods through me, making my chest feel near to bursting. And without another thought or a second’s hesitation, I lean forward and crush my lips against this sinfully stunning girl’s mouth.

It’s an impulse—a reflex—like that photograph of the American sailor and nurse at the end of WWII. Because when you almost died but didn’t, all you want to do is feel alive. And I’ve never felt more alive than I do in this moment, kissing this lovely lass.

I sweep my mouth across hers, sucking gently, luring her to follow. She’s stiff at first, surprised, but she doesn’t struggle or pull away. And then after a moment, something glorious happens—her muscles yield and her lips go soft and pliant beneath my own. She melts against me, molds our upper bodies together with a breathy, needy moan. My hands delve into the satin of her hair, holding on, tugging her closer, feeling the swell of her breasts tight against my chest. Her hands grasp for my shoulders, digging in, as our heads move and angle together. And our kiss turns hotter. Wetter.

I stroke the tip of my tongue across the seam of her lips, teasing them apart. When they do, I sink right inside the tight, warm cavern. And the taste of her, Christ, she tastes like fruit in the Garden of Eden, succulent and forbidden. The desire to suck and lick at more of her, all of her, pumps through me—to see if the rest is every bit as sweet as her mouth.

I lean back, dragging her with me, over me—fucking those pretty, delicate lips roughly with my tongue—and I groan deep and long when her tongue brushes against mine, mouth-fucking me right back.

It’s good—so bloody good—I may not have been dead before, but this kiss just might kill me. My pulse pounds in my ears and the machine is fairly screeching behind me with my wild, racing heart.

I think it’s the machine that does it, that breaks the spell. Because as soon as the sound penetrates my own awareness, the woman in my arms tears her mouth away and freezes above me, a look akin to horror sweeping across her face.

Breathing harshly, she scrambles away, off the bed, like it’s swarming with red ants and I’m their king.

“That . . . you . . . that . . .” her tits rise and fall beneath the buttons of her dark blue blouse with each quick, panting breath. It’s lovely. “That was completely inappropriate!”

“It really was,” I nod, pushing a hand through my dark hair. “Want to do it again?”

Her eyes flair, gaping.

“Absolutely not. Never again.”

I click my tongue. “Careful. Never’s a very long time, pet.”

A dainty line appears between her auburn brows as she frowns, lifting her perky nose, crossing her lithe arms—the very picture of prim and proper and posh. My cock twitches at the sight and something else awakens inside me. The primal part of a man that craves the challenge, the chase, and even more—the conquering.

“Come on now,” I coax her, “it was a kiss. There’s no reason to get all flustered just because you enjoyed it.”

“I am not your pet, Mr. Sullivan. And I don’t get flustered. And I certainly did not enjoy . . .” she wags her hand in my general direction—in a flustered sort of way, “that.”

A grin tugs my lips. “I beg to differ. And your tongue’s been in my mouth—I think it’s all right to call me Tommy now.”

Her eyes darken to a shade near to black with passion or fury—with feeling. And I know that Henrietta was wrong. Apple blossom isn’t stuffy—she just hasn’t met a man who knows how to bring out her reckless side.

Not until now—not until me.

She tugs on the lapel of her white coat, straightening her spine.

“I’m leaving.”

“Funny. Typically the girls I kiss like to tell me when they’re coming.” I wink.

Her cheeks flush a deep, dusky pink, and I just bet those pretty petals between her legs flush the same shade when she’s really hot for it.

Saying that out loud isn’t one of my better choices.