10 Rules to Sex Up a Blind Date Page 5

  The muscle around his heart clutched and released, but he forced himself to ignore that too. ‘Sounds like a plan.’ He stepped under the spray with her in his arms—resolving to strangle any more dumb thoughts at birth.

  She shrieked and swore like a marine in a combat zone.

  He gave her gorgeous ass another swat. ‘Hey, watch that potty mouth.’ Then laughed when she swore some more.

  Water sluiced down the valley between her breasts, and she shoved the wet hair out of her eyes. The bubble of amusement swelled in his chest right alongside the pounding ache in his crotch. And the tidal wave of relief. Tally Gladstone was the best thing to happen to him in far too long, too. But like she’d said, it was strictly sex-wise.

  Chapter Six

  #NewRule: Mornings after suck... Avoid at all costs. Believe me, bed hair is the least of the disasters that await you in the cold light of day.

  The scent of female flesh invaded Brent’s consciousness as he drifted out of the erotic dream and into the watery morning light. He absorbed the feel and scent of soft fragrant skin before a hard nipple poked into his roving palm. Realisation hit his groin as his eyelid cracked open to register the cloud of golden hair tickling his nostrils. The press of a round butt in his crotch had blood surging to his already aching cock.

  Tally.

  Hot flesh, slick and tight as it milked him; rosy lips sucking on his iron-hard erection; violet eyes peering at him through long lashes; broken sobs in that crisp tony accent that before last night had meant tea-cakes and drawing rooms, but would forever now mean down and dirty sex.

  The urge to locate the plump, wet nub of her clitoris and wake her up as he eased his length into her from behind was overwhelming. But that freaky heart bump he’d noticed a couple of times during the night quickly followed.

  The thought sobered him up enough to have him releasing Tally’s lush breast. He took a careful breath of her summery scent, not quite able to let her go completely.

  He listened to the murmur of her breathing. Deep and even. She had to be exhausted. He’d kept her up most of the night. Just like she’d kept him up. He needed to hit the road before she woke up. It had been one hell of a night, but he needed to start thinking with his brain now instead of his dick.

  But still he lay there.

  He glanced down at the tent in the sheet. It would be a damn shame to waste a perfectly good morning boner.

  Forget it, buddy.

  Apart from those cautionary heart bumps, she’d be sore as hell, he thought, remembering how she’d flinched the last time he’d eased inside her. They’d both been too spent to do more than just lie there, his cock inside her, before they’d dropped into sleep.

  His heartbeat stumbled.

  Why had he done that? Why had he felt the need to maintain the physical connection before he drifted into unconsciousness?

  He rolled onto his back. The weak autumn sunlight illuminated the intricate moulding on the ceiling as he contemplated dragging himself out of the warm bed and away from Tally’s lush, willing body. She snuffled and gave a muffled snort beside him before her breathing settled back into its regular rhythm—but now with a gruff murmur. He smiled.

  Tally snored. Who knew?

  The discovery seemed cute and endearing until it reminded him how little else he knew about her. They’d made a point of not asking and not telling last night. So why did it feel so good to finally discover something about her that didn’t involve taking her against a couch, or a wall, or in the shower? Probably just the luxury of waking up beside another human being.

  But as he enjoyed the unfamiliar indulgence, it occurred to him this was the first time since his divorce he hadn’t wanted to bolt as soon as the afterglow faded.

  The freaky heart bumps began to gallop under his breastbone. But he refused to overreact.

  This didn’t have to be bad. Maybe it was a sign that after three years he was finally through sulking about the failure of his marriage? It didn’t have to have anything to do with Tally—as long as he got these freaky heart bumps under control.

  He rolled out of bed, his boner having got the message that there wasn’t going to be a repeat performance. Rather than risk taking a shower—because no way in hell would he be able to resist inviting Tally to share it with him if he woke her up—he hunted up his clothes in the suite’s living room and dressed. He’d catch a cab and grab a shower at home before heading into work. But as he dug his feet into his shoes, he spotted the stuff he’d dumped out of Tally’s purse the night before scattered across the couch.

  The urge to shovel her stuff up wasn’t entirely innocent, especially when he spotted the slim pink case he guessed had to hold her business cards. He could hit Sam for her contact details if he wanted to see her again—which was doubtful, given the heart bumps. But the guy was already going to crow like a rooster when he heard what had happened. So why give him more ammunition?

  All thoughts of Sam fled, though, as he frowned at the two lines printed on the white card in a fancy blood-red serif font.

  Looking for the Perfect Hot Date?

  Check out @BlindDateBitch

  He flicked it over—no info on the back. No telephone, no email, nothing. Not even her name. Just a quote: “She Won’t Stop Till She Gets Her Rocks Off!”

  His smile flatlined as the events of the night rushed back and all the things Tally had said blasted back into his frontal lobe. And the creeping tide of humiliation that had consumed him while his marriage was disintegrating swept through him like a tsunami.

  ‘Just think of me as your willing and able sex toy.’

  ‘Whatever your pleasure, I’m happy to supply it.’

  Blood fired up his neck to scald his cheeks. He collapsed onto the couch, her purse dropping from his numbed fingers, his breathing laboured as the truth of what last night had really been about struck like a sucker punch.

  Tally hadn’t been a bold, sexy bad girl who loved it as rough and ready as he did. She’d come on to him so strongly and turned out to be the perfect wild ride for one simple reason: she was a goddamn professional. Sam had set him up with a fucking call-girl.

  The sickening roll of shame made him feel like gagging.

  You schmuck. How could you have been dumb enough to think that was all for real?

  Tugging his phone out of his pants, he stabbed in Sam’s number, his palms sweating. Why hadn’t he listened to his instincts when he’d first met Tally and figured this was another of Sam’s dumb jokes?

  Of course Sam wouldn’t have expected him to take her straight back to a hotel suite and spend the whole night boning her senseless. Sam would have expected him to figure out he was being punked—’cause they’d been doing this shit to each other since college. Ever since he’d borrowed a tow-truck to haul Sam’s treasured Mustang round the corner so he’d think it had been stolen. After that they’d played some pretty neat tricks on each other, like when he’d hired a handful of semipro basketball players so Sam couldn’t make a single slamdunk during their team’s preseason try-outs. Or when Sam had gotten his friend Marilyn to try picking him up at their college reunion last year.

  So why hadn’t he figured out Sam’s latest joke? Before things had gone too far?

  The humiliation crawled across his scalp at the thought of how easily he’d fallen for Tally’s act.

  I was slumming with you, Brent. And everyone knows it.

  Della’s parting shot echoed in his head. And the humiliation turned to paranoia, scorching through the last of his self-esteem like napalm.

  He’d been dumb enough to think Della loved him, that the sizzle and spark between them hadn’t been just sexual chemistry. And while it had been a kick in the nuts to discover he’d never really touched Della’s heart, worse had been the knowledge that she’d never touched his either. He’d u
sed Della to shore up his ego. And now, just when he’d got to thinking he was finally through with beating himself up about it, he’d sunk a whole lot lower. And unwittingly slept with a call-girl. Because he’d been flattered and grateful for her attention.

  That didn’t just make him a schmuck, it made him a schmuck whose dick couldn’t be relied upon to make good decisions.

  Sam’s number rang twice then went straight to voicemail. ‘This is Sam Grady. Don’t tease—leave a message.’

  ‘Sam, you son of a bitch,’ he whispered furiously into the phone. ‘How could you set me up like that? Next time I see you you’re a dead man.’

  He shoved the phone back in his pants, paced to the door. He had to get out of here. But as his hand closed over the knob, it struck him exactly how big the shitstorm he had happily jumped into could potentially be.

  Had Sam paid for Tally’s services? Sure, he might have given her some money for the set-up. But would he have paid for the whole night? What if he hadn’t?

  It was bad enough that he’d crossed a line he had never intended to. But not paying what he owed would only make him more of a slimeball.

  For Chrissake, what the hell was the going rate for a hooker these days? Especially a class act like Tally? As he’d never paid for sex before, he had no freaking idea.

  He pulled out his cellphone and opened the internet, but his fingers stopped dead on the keypad.

  No way. No way was he going to search for that online. This cell was on his company account. If his sixty-year-old PA, Jenna, found out he’d been researching the going rate for call-girls, she’d freak out—and then scalp him. He raked his fingers through his hair, glad he’d had it cut last week or he’d be tempted to rip it out at the roots.

  He scribbled a note down on the hotel stationery, shoved it in an envelope with all the bills in his wallet.

  Walking back into the bedroom, he spied Tally, flopped face-down on the bed. The sheet rode low on the slope of her arse, teasing him with the reminder of how perfectly her lush butt had fitted into his palms. The sick shame rolled up towards his throat. But right alongside it was the shaft of heat.

  Crossing over to the bedside table, he propped the envelope with her name scrawled across it under the lamp. And took a moment to stare down at her face in profile one last time.

  Damn, but she was beautiful and witty and smart. No woman should ever have to sleep with guys for a living. Whatever had driven her to this way of life, he hoped to hell it had been her choice. And that she got out before it screwed her up.

  As he made his way out of the suite, he decided that he wasn’t going to kill Sam next time he saw him. Or at least not quickly. The guy deserved to suffer something slow and excruciatingly painful. Because this joke wasn’t the least bit funny.

  As he left the suite, he occupied his thoughts by envisioning the best way to make Sam suffer, in an attempt to cover the freaky heart bumps now punching his ribs with the speed and accuracy of a heavyweight champ.

  * * *

  ‘Mmm.’ Tally drifted awake with a sigh of pleasure on her lips, her muscles so loose and languid it felt as if she were floating on a cloud of bliss. The recollection of all the times she’d orgasmed the night before remained a visceral memory imprinted on her body as her nipples peaked and the flesh between her thighs melted in instinctive response to the earthy man scent that still lingered on her skin.

  Her eyelids fluttered open; a shaft of sunshine illuminated the empty pillow next to her. She stretched and winced as the soreness in several key parts of her anatomy kicked in.

  ‘Hmm.’ Maybe breaking a two-year dry spell with someone of Brent’s size and stamina for eight solid hours of earthy, elemental, nonstop sex had been a tad foolhardy.

  But even as the desire to jump him again faded, she couldn’t help reliving all the high points of the previous night. Good grief, the man had more than just phenomenal skills in bed.

  They’d done rough and raw, slow and seductive, flirty and fun, and then hard and fast, and that had all been in the first couple of hours. But that magnificent cock and his clever tongue had really come into their own in the hours that followed.

  How the hell had he managed to get hard so often?

  Sitting up, she stifled a wince as she drew her legs up and hugged her knees with her arms. A little saddle soreness now felt like a small price to pay for every hot, mad minute of their night-long sex fest.

  ‘Brent? Are you still here?’ she called out.

  Silence answered, followed by the sharp pang of regret.

  Don’t be daft.

  It was only supposed to be one night. She hadn’t been in the market for anything more. And neither had he. That had been the unstated deal between them. The deal that had made last night so hot and fabulous. She’d broken her man drought in spectacular fashion precisely because she had nothing riding on this date except, well, riding her date.

  She shook her head, the smile hovering on her lips a trifle bittersweet.

  She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t stop her mind from drifting dreamily to that final time before dawn. When all the energy had been spent and they’d lain together spooning, his arm roped around her midriff, her buttocks nestled in his lap, his breathing gentle against her neck as they lay in silence, neither of them sleeping. In truth, she’d been sort of shell-shocked at how often and with how much enthusiasm they’d ridden each other into exhaustion.

  His large hand had settled on her belly, his thumb tracing the rim of her belly button, stroking her absently, and she’d had to force herself not to give in to the sudden and ridiculous urge to talk to him. To delve into all those taboo subjects, those secret areas of his life that were none of her business and had no place in a one-night liaison like theirs. Stupidly and inexplicably, she’d suddenly been consumed with a burning curiosity to know about his hopes, his dreams, his childhood—maybe even his failed marriage. Was that the reason he had seemed so detached, so distant at first?

  She’d squirmed and tried to pull out of his embrace, determined not to give in to the moment of wistfulness and sentimentality. She didn’t have feelings for him. Didn’t want to have feelings for him. Certainly not past the physical. And he didn’t have any feelings for her. She was totally exhausted, that was all.

  But as if he’d sensed her mood, his fingers had spread out against her belly and held her in place. ‘What’s the problem? You okay?’

  He’d asked her that several times, somehow always aware of whenever he was going too fast, demanding too much. The gentle question had seemed to be about more than her sexual enjoyment though, and struck a hidden chord of vulnerability. She’d swallowed, blinking rapidly, panicked by the sting of tears—grateful that he couldn’t see her face. ‘Of course, it’s just I haven’t ...’ She’d cut off the confession, shocked at what she’d been about to reveal.

  She didn’t want him to know exactly how long she’d been waiting and how desperate she’d been to find him. Or about the moment of melancholy at the thought that the night was nearly over.

  He wasn’t special, or different, he was just...available and great in the sack. ‘It’s been quite a night,’ she’d finished, trying for flippant but not quite managing it when his hand rose up to cup her breast, that leisurely thumb brushing back and forth over her areola.

  ‘That’s for sure.’ The gentle tone had had the stupid vulnerability flooding back, his thumb still stroking—rousing her, but disturbing her more.

  She’d jolted as his hardness nudged the crease of her arse. Her sex grew warm and slick, instinctively preparing to receive him—even though she knew she couldn’t have another orgasm now even if her life depended on it.

  ‘Bloody hell, O’Neill,’ she’d whispered, her voice croaky with incredulity. ‘Are you on Viagra? How can you possibly be capable of doing it again?’

 
; He chuckled. ‘I’m not,’ he’d mumbled against her hair, his hand cupping her breast as the traitorous nipple swelled into his palm. ‘Problem is my cock doesn’t seem to know when it’s beat.’

  She’d tried to laugh, but it came out on a dry husk of breath, the thickness in her throat back with a vengeance. Why on earth had the crude admission sounded like an endearment? It had to be the darkness, their exhaustion, the physical closeness. Nothing more. She wasn’t any more special to him than he was to her.

  But then his hand had slid down to cup her mound. Delving fingers touched her wet folds, stopping shy of her oversensitive clitoris. ‘Seems like my cock’s not the only thing here with delusions of invincibility.’

  She’d stretched into his caress. ‘I know, but it would kill me if I had another orgasm. I’m not joking.’

  He’d laughed against her nape. ‘But you’re too wired to sleep? Right?’

  ‘Um-hum,’ she’d confirmed, trying not to feel more unsettled by how perceptive he was. Did she have no physical secrets from this man at all?

  ‘How about we try this?’ He’d drawn back a fraction, holding her hip, but then his cock nudged at her sex from behind.

  She’d flinched as the wide head entered her. Her channel was tender, but too slick to deny him entry as he slid the tip into her.

  ‘How’s that feel?’ he’d asked, his voice rough.

  She’d nodded. ‘Good, it feels good.’

  Placing his hand over her belly, he’d held her against him, not moving, not thrusting the rest of the way into her, just holding them together, physically joined. Even though her sex felt stretched, distended around the thick girth, the connection felt right somehow.

  His palm had swept down her hair, the gesture both casual and possessive. ‘Go to sleep,’ he’d murmured.