Rooted (Pagano Family #3)(27)
“It’s a lovely name. A sad thing to be named after, though, isn’t it? Carmen’s story is tragic.”
She turned back to the poster and shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always liked that she’s a gypsy. She dies, but she dies free, standing up for herself. I don’t mind being named for her. She’s a fierce broad.”
“Yeah, she is.” He wasn’t talking about a character in an opera. And Carmen knew it. She turned, sipping at her brandy. Only inches separated them, and he could catch the minutest whiff of perfume, now that he was primed for the scent. Seeking calm, he swallowed.
“Trouble, Theodore. That’s you.” She smiled. “Are you named for anyone?”
“My granddad. He was a cowboy, by the way. And he was named for Theodore Roosevelt, so I guess I was, too, in a meandering way.”
She lifted her eyebrow. “Are you a Rough Rider?”
Oh, hell. Okay. He tossed the rest of his bourbon back and set the glass on a nearby shelf. “Is that what you want?”
“I don’t want long-stemmed roses and ‘Bolero,’ that’s for sure.” She took a longer sip of the brandy. “I like this. It feels warm in interesting places.”
“Christ. You need to finish it or set it aside, I think. Wouldn’t want to spill on Hunter’s fancy rug.”
Another enigmatic smile, and she drank the rest of her brandy, setting her empty glass next to his. She turned to him and, as he was reaching for her, grabbed his tie and pulled him sharply forward, slamming her mouth over his. The cool-warm taste of the brandy was rich on her lips. He was stunned at first, and by the time he’d recovered enough to participate more than to wrestle with her tongue, she had his tie undone and was working on his shirt.
He grabbed her head in both hands, sliding his fingers into her hair and finding the pins that must have been holding her style in place. He wanted that heavy, dark mane loose. When he started to seek pins to pull them out, she broke the kiss with a cry and released him, stepping back against a bookcase, momentarily out of his reach.
Then, her eyes locked with his, she fished the pins out and released her hair, shaking her head to toss the locks sexily over her shoulders. He used the time to shed his jacket, shirt, tie, and t-shirt. She went for the zipper at the back of her dress, but he stepped up and hooked his hand around her arm, turning her sharply to face the bookcase.
She gasped a little with surprise at his force. He pushed her hair over her shoulder and leaned in. “I thought you wanted a Rough Rider.” He nipped at her earlobe. And then pulled the zipper down.
“I ride rough, too, you know.” She shrugged out of the dress. Black satin bra and panties. Have mercy.
“Looking forward to it.” He pushed her against the bookcase again, shoving his clad thigh between her legs. “But right now, find something to hold onto, beautiful.” His hands cupped her breasts, his fingers pinching her nipples through the satin until she was writhing in his arms, then he slid down, over her flat, firm belly, the pads of his palms virtually sighing at the feel of her soft skin. When he got to her panties, he slid his hands into them and pushed them down, down her legs, squatting as he went, until she stepped out of them, her high heels tapping the rim of parquet floor between the Oriental rug and the bookcase.
He kissed the backs of her knees on his way up, laving his tongue over the sensitive skin there.
When he was standing behind her again, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and retrieved the condom he’d placed in it earlier. He’d felt like an idiot child tucking a condom in his wallet, something he hadn’t done since college, but he was damn glad to have it now; the box from which it had come was all the way in his bedroom. He opened his pants, released his cock, and rolled it on. From behind, he pushed his hand between her legs and found her dripping wet, her clit swollen and hot. She moaned and pushed her ass toward him as he fingered her.
“Come on, come on,” she whispered. “Come on.”
“What do you want, beautiful girl?”
She looked over her shoulder. “Don’t be an *. You know what I want.”
“You want me to f*ck you until you scream your throat raw?” He had no idea where all this was coming from. His sexual history had not, to this point, included anything like this. It had been much more roses and Ravel. But the rough rawness was there now, in him, on his tongue, in her eyes, and he went with it.
“You think you can bring it?” Her tone was a dare.
With his knee, he knocked her legs wider. He pulled her hips back and shoved into her in a hard drive, going balls deep. He slid smoothly, like silk on silk, but she was tight and firm around him, almost resistant, once he’d hit home. And God, how she felt. God. He couldn’t even pause to consider that he was inside a woman for the first time in years. All he could do was feel. It took up his entire mind and body.
She cried out, her head rearing back. “Oh shit, oh shit. What the f*ck?”
Worry for her brought him back a little. “Too much?”
She gasped and closed her eyes. “No…I just wasn’t expecting…sweet Jesus.”
He wrapped her hair around one hand and pulled her back to his shoulder. “You figured a poet would have a little dick?” He flexed his hips, smiling when her short nails made a long scratching sound as her hands clenched on the shelf she was holding. He did it again, and she made a guttural, animal sound deep in her throat.