She's Got the Look (22 page)

As she did so, she almost held her breath, a wealth of questions scurrying through her mind, the way they did the first time she did anything.

Did he wear boxers or briefs?

Boxer briefs. Black ones. Tight ones.
Lovely.

Did he like the way she let the backs of her fingers slide oh so lightly against his erection as she continued to lower the zipper?

“You're killing me here,” he muttered hoarsely.

Oh, yeah. He liked it. She'd venture to say he loved it.

Would he try to take over, try to push his clothes out of the way from pure impatience?

Uh-uh. He remained still, letting her set the pace. His driving need was evidenced only by the flexing muscles rippling through his body as he clenched in preparation for the expected pleasure of her next touch.

A patient man. A controlled man. A big man, judging by the tightness of his zipper against his erection.

Her blood pounded, even as every bit of spare moisture in her body descended right between her legs. She shifted a little on the couch, incredibly swollen, sensitive and ready.

“This is killing me, too, but it feels so good,” she whispered. The slow buildup…she'd always loved it. “Did you know I did a ketchup commercial on anticipation?”

He groaned. “Do
you
know I'm going to die if you don't hurry up?” His eyes remained closed, his head back as he muttered, “I could have unzipped every prom dress at my high school in less time than this.”

Grumpy, grouchy. Adorable. Sexy. She giggled, loving the way he let her tease and torment them both, before finally lowering the zipper as far as it would go.

“Thank you God,” he muttered, his voice half laughing, half choking.

Putting her palms on his sides, she savored the quiver of his hard muscles beneath her touch. In one easy stroke, she lowered her hands, pushing his jeans down over his lean hips and his hard legs. Finally they hit the floor.

She could have let him step out of them, take off his shoes and kick the jeans away. But she liked having him trapped here. Between her legs. At her mercy. So she wouldn't allow him to move an inch.

“Mel…”

“Almost,” she whispered, still delicately licking the skin low on his belly, below his tan line. Now her cheek was brushing against that thick ridge of rock-hard heat, which strained against the black cotton, as her fingers had before. The man was nearly incoherent, muttering under his breath.

Anticipation. Build it. Ache for it.

Breathing against the fabric of his shorts, she ran the tips of her fingers over his flat stomach, brushing against a few scars. They made her wonder—but she'd ask later. Much later. When her body wasn't so hungry and her mind wasn't filled with pure sexual desire.

She couldn't wait any longer. Hooking her fingers in the elastic waistband, she tugged the briefs away and pushed them down as one last, fleeting question shot through her mind.

Big or small?

The briefs fell. And she couldn't prevent a moan from escaping her lips. Oh, gracious,
big.

She didn't think she could get any wetter, or any more excited. But the sight of him ratcheted everything up until she was almost unable to remain upright.

Nick looked ready to explode, to dive into her, but Melody found one last measure of strength…enough to do something she'd long fantasized about doing.

Her breasts were
so
sensitive. And he was
so
close to them.

Giving him no warning, she looked up to meet his eyes, then shifted closer, until his throbbing hard-on was brushing across one of her tight nipples. A few inches more and he was nestled between her soft curves. Hard. Hot. Heavy.

She moaned with pleasure, loving the sensation of skin on skin.
That
skin on
this
skin.

Leaning closer and squeezing her breasts together to make a tighter channel, she heard his groan of pleasure as she slowly slid up and down. That helpless sound gave her the confidence she needed to take things just a bit further. Hungry to taste him, she lowered her head, brushing her lips and the tip of her tongue against that smooth, warm male skin, licking off a drop of moisture there.

His groan turned guttural and his control seemed to snap. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her back until she reclined beneath him. His shoes and clothes were off within two seconds, and one more past that, he was yanking a condom over himself and following her down onto the couch.

“You ask me
where
and I won't be responsible for my actions,” she managed to whisper between chopping breaths.

“I know exactly where I'm going.”

And he did. Oh, he most definitely did. With one strong, powerful thrust he went right where she wanted him to. Deep inside her, stretching her, filling her, bursting into her, exactly as an explosion of delight burst throughout the rest of her body.

Crying out, she threw her head back, jerking a little as the sensations rocked her for several long, delicious seconds.

Nick remained completely still, buried within her but not moving. When she could think again, she found him watching her, a look of pure satisfaction—and hunger—on his face. His dark brown eyes glittered and a half smile lingered on that incredible mouth of his.

“Okay?”

“Oh, very okay,” she whispered hoarsely. Then, to make sure he knew she was in for the long haul, she added, “By the way, I am
definitely
not done for the night.”

His smile broadening, he began to move, drawing out, then driving deep, each thrust feeling better than the last. “Good thing, honey, because I do believe you're two up on me.”

Pressing against him, she realized what he meant. He had brought her to a shattering climax in Rosemary's office, and again just now.

She groaned, loving the way he touched her, inside
and
out. His kisses on her neck, the brush of his fingers on her breast and his stubbled cheek against her jaw had her nearly going out of her mind with pleasure. As did those delicious strokes deep within her. He rocked and she rolled and time stood still.

“Well,” she finally whispered, while she was still capable of thought, “I'm a fair-minded person. I am definitely willing to let you catch up.” The tension was already building again, the sensations rolling through her, her body signaling her as she went higher and higher toward another climax. “But I have to warn you…I'm…I'm getting one heck of a head start.”

Then she was over the peak. Shaking, shattering, sighing as Nick drove into her with a few rapid, mind-blowing thrusts.

The last thing she heard was his deep groan of pleasure and a few whispered words as he let the pleasure wash over him, too.

“Okay. That's three to one.”

 

I
F
J
ONATHAN
R
HODES WEREN'T
already dead, Drake Manning would have killed him. Gladly.

It was one thing to keep a slightly open secret about your proclivities among your closest friends. It was another entirely to get caught not with your pants
down,
but with your panties
up.
And dead, to boot.

Few people knew of their close friendship, which was the way they'd both preferred it. Rhodes had given Drake some free legal advice on occasion, particularly during his divorce last year. In exchange, Drake had used his standing at the TV station to ensure stories about some of Jonathan's clients received a slightly better-than-fair treatment.

It had been a good arrangement. And since the two of them shared a delight in poker, in boating and in women, their friendship had grown rapidly. They'd even found common financial interests. Including, recently, a mutual desire to aid a riverboat-gambling proposal being lobbied for by a few local, er…businessmen. Some of Jonathan's shady clients had liked having an in with the local media…a chance to get less-than-flattering stories removed from the inspection of the press and to get some good PR whenever possible.

Drake had liked the money. Some might call it accepting bribes at the expense of his journalistic integrity. He preferred to think of it as his future alimony fund.

Jonathan's thing for ladies' panties had been a surprise, but Drake had laughed it off as drunken rambling when his friend had first mentioned it a year ago. Later, when Jonathan had said the same thing while sober…well, Drake had quickly gotten over it. He was no saint in his bedroom. If he enjoyed leather and handcuffs, why couldn't his friend get the same satisfaction from silk and lace?

But what was fine in private was far from fine when it was in the public eye, particularly for people like Drake who were already so very
much
in the public eye. Guilty by association, that's how most viewers—and TV execs—would look at it. That was why he'd had to back off and play down his friendship with the murdered attorney soon after his death. He'd done so the minute more risqué details had leaked out about the murder—like the fact that Rhodes had been shot while wearing ladies' underwear, in a closet full of lingerie. Hopefully, Drake had disassociated himself soon enough.

“You still seething over Jonathan? There's no way you could have known how he'd be found. God, it makes me sick to even think about it.”

Drake didn't so much as glance over at Angie Jacobs, who reclined on some pillows on the other side of his bed, smoking a cigarette. He hated her smoking in his apartment, especially since smoking was one of the first things he'd had to give up last year after his heart attack. But considering she'd just blown him with more skill than any professional, he didn't think he ought to complain.

“I should have known about that damned closet,” he said instead. “Or you should have. I mean, you slept with him the weekend before he died, didn't you?”

“Jealous?” she asked, sounding amused and pleased at the thought.

“Hardly.”

Frankly, beyond giving an admittedly superior blow job and having a finely tuned nose for any scandalous story in Savannah, Angie meant nothing to him. Which was exactly what he'd told her the night of Rosemary Chilton's party when she'd tried to make him jealous by flirting with Jonathan Rhodes. She'd been furious—typical Angie—and had gone home with the other man.

Drake hadn't cared. He hadn't wanted to hang around, anyway, since Angie wasn't the only one of his exes present at Rosemary's party. For a decent-size city, Savannah could still be so small-town. Things had gotten a bit uncomfortable when he'd looked across the crowd and spied a familiar pair of dark, angry eyes.

Besides, Angie turning to Jonathan had provided an easy out from what was already becoming a stale relationship. Drake would have left it at that since he was pretty tired of Angie anyway, but somehow the two of them had found their way back together after Rhodes's murder. Frankly, it was good to have an ally in a storm of controversy and they were
both
in the eye of the station executives. Besides, in a weird way, he kind of got off on doing a woman who'd been fucked by a murder victim less than a week before his demise.

“Believe me, if you were a bit jealous, you'd have no reason to be.”

He wasn't.

“Because when Jonathan asked me if he could try on my panties before I left his place last Saturday night, I thought I was going to throw up. The sick bastard.” Her voice shook with anger.

Drake didn't want to imagine how she'd responded, but he'd bet it wasn't pretty. If Rhodes had bought it the weekend of Rosemary's party, he'd have suspected Angie of the crime. God knows, considering how rough she occasionally liked to get in bed, she didn't have any problem with violence.

Sometimes he wondered if his heart was up to the kind of sex he had with Angie. But, frankly, his dick had always called the shots over his heart…which hadn't boded well for his marriage.

Angie stirred, rolling to the side of the bed to get up. She never stayed long, having learned in the two months of their sexual relationship that he didn't like clinginess. So she was obviously playing this cool, not pushing things, treating their surprising reunion carefully.

Good. Because the
last
thing he wanted was for her to think tonight meant anything. He'd already been down the married path, and the long-term-mistress one. He had no interest in doing either one again. The marriage had cost him a heart valve, a ton of money and months' worth of embarrassment. Not to mention the college yacht race trophy he'd been so proud of.

The mistress, who'd expected to become the next wife, had been even more vengeful.

So short-term flings with women who weren't in the position to make demands were just the ticket. From the flight attendant he'd been banging in June, to Angie here, he much preferred meaningless sex to commitment.

“Do you think it's true that the underwear he was wearing when he died belonged to that woman we were talking to at the party?” Angie asked as she pulled her clothes on. “That photographer friend of Rosemary's?”

“You mean the one that dark-haired cop couldn't take his eyes off of?” he asked, amused. “The cop you, if I recall correctly, looked ready to leap on?”

“Shut up,” she snapped. “He's a low-class nobody.”

She couldn't fool him. Angie had worn her lust for the man the way some women wore cheap perfume—until it practically oozed from every pore of her body.

“Jonathan did seem rather taken with her, didn't he?” Drake said, remembering her original question. “My source on the PD confirms she was one of the last people to see him alive Friday, and the police have questioned her.”

“I know.” Angie dragged deeply on her cigarette, then flicked it into a nearly empty glass of water on the table by the bed.