Daring the Bad Boy Page 6

  Yes, please.

  “But what if someone sees us?” she said, her breathy voice barely audible above the rush of adrenaline making coherent thought all but impossible.

  It was broad daylight, in her office. What if one of the students popped back to get something? What if the caretaker came to lock up? What if…?

  “Tough shit,” he said, cutting through her frantic thoughts. “I’m not waiting any longer to have you.”

  He scooped her heavy breast out of the lace demi-cup and bent to lick the tip. She bucked against him, aware of the thick flesh pressing into her belly through the robe, as he blew on the wet flesh. The whisper of sensation felt like a firebrand. And the last tenuous hold she had on coherent thought, on sensible and responsible and rational thought, snapped like a high tension cable, zapping electric sparks through her body and lighting up every one of her erogenous zones.

  She threaded her fingers through his hair, dragged his mouth down to hers. He deepened the kiss, and her back hit the wall with a soft thud.

  Pulling back, his hair disheveled from her mauling, he let out a low chuckle.

  “You’ve got way too many clothes on.” He pushed her blouse off her shoulders, unclipped the front hook of the bra. Her breasts spilled out.

  She heard the groan as he bent to suckle her, the strong tugs firm and forceful. She grappled with the fly on her jeans.

  He stepped back to let her wiggle out of them. And suddenly she was standing as good as naked in front of him. In her office.

  Oh, God, this was real. She folded her arms across her breasts, suddenly shy and unsure.

  “Don’t.” He lifted her arms. “You’re beautiful.”

  “I’m stark naked in my office,” she said, shuddering with reaction, exposed and yet still desperately horny.

  “Tell me about it.” His conspiratorial grin had a laugh popping out of her mouth. Until he untied his robe and let it fall open. Her gaze rushed down, taking in the ridged eight-pack, the tantalizing ropes of muscles that defined his hip, the thicket of hair at his groin, that she was now intimately familiar with. Then zeroed in on the massive erection – in all its glory.

  Thick and hard and even longer than she had anticipated. And she’d been anticipating quite a lot since yesterday evening. The column of flesh bowed up towards his belly button, the broad head shiny with pre-cum, his testicles swaying heavily beneath.

  The smile died, her mouth dry as a bone.

  She reached out, to touch the slit and the erection leapt, his soft curse bringing her eyes back to his. He grasped her wrist to pull her hand away.

  “That’ll have to wait till later,” he said. And she felt a startled beat under her breastbone.

  There’s going to be a later?

  Raising her hand to his mouth, he bit softly into the flesh under her thumb. The affectionate nip had the odd beat going nuts.

  “The last twelve hours have been torture and I’m not superman.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said.

  He shook his head, the sensual smile going a little feral as he pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand. “Don’t be, because we’re about to make up for it.”

  He reached for the jeans he’d slung over the desk chair, and produced a condom. Ripping the packet open with his teeth, he rolled it onto the bobbing erection – totally at ease with his nakedness and hers. Was there anything more erotic than a guy who handled protection with such easy efficiency in the middle of a cramped supply teacher’s office on a Saturday afternoon?

  She blew out a breath, her own apprehension obliterated by the surge of something hot and fluid and reckless.

  Apparently not.

  If Mr. Abernathy himself walked in on them right now, she really couldn’t give a shit. All she wanted was to feel that epic penis taking her somewhere she was fairly sure she’d never been before.

  He slid his hands over her naked hips, lifted her up, until the blunt head of his penis was notched against her slit. But he didn’t enter her, the shocking contact making her gasp.

  “Easy.” He grinned. So sure, so confident. So abso-fricking-hot.

  She gripped his face, kissed those sensual lips. All the reserve, the last of her inhibitions burnt to a crisp in the firestorm of her lust. She widened her legs, gripped his shoulders, dropping her head back to knock against the wall as he found her clitoris with that clever thumb. And bent to capture a nipple. He suckled hard, trapping the peak against the roof of his mouth, drawing soft moans out of her, while his latex-clad penis rubbed against the full lips of her sex.

  She panted her need against his neck. “Please just …”

  “Not yet, Rosie. You’re being punished,” he said, but the words were harsh, tense, suggesting it was a punishment for him too.

  A part of her rejoiced as she adjusted her hips, dragged him closer, her fingers threading into the short curls at his nape.

  At last the huge head notched at her entrance. His fingers dug into her thighs to lift her higher. She sank down, taking every inch in one long, slow glide that had her breath backing up in her lungs.

  His chest flattened her breasts, his ragged breathing feathering her hair, the fullness in her sex immense.

  He shuddered, the groan wrenched from him. “Jesus, that feels so good.”

  “Tell me about it,” she moaned, rewarded by his strained chuckle.

  He raised his head, those chocolate eyes hot on her face. Holding her up with one arm banded under her butt, he found her clitoris with his thumb. Her body clenched around the thick intrusion, the touch, right at the heart of her, electrifying. She felt impaled, too full as he toyed with the hard nub. The coil of pleasure twisted tighter and tighter.

  She sobbed, panted, watching him as he watched her. Nearly there, nearly there.

  As she clung to that high ledge, the sublime pleasure barreled towards her with each sure, expert caress.

  “Come for me, Rosie,” he coaxed. “Come on my cock.”

  The urgent demand had the pleasure crashing through, and flinging her over at last. Her mind and body shattered into a million glittering sensations.

  She sank against his neck, tasting the salt of his sweat as emotion shimmered just out of reach. He gripped her hips, and thrust hard. Once, twice, pulsing as he found his own release.

  He held her, his penis still thick and firm inside her, as she tried to gather her senses. Put up the trusty shield that had slipped and lay broken on the industrial flooring somewhere around his bare feet. And stop all the questions she shouldn’t want to ask from bursting out of her mouth.

  But then he lifted his head, the deep sigh making her realize how intimately linked they still were, and how stark bollock naked.

  “Sorry, I didn’t last long,” he said, but he didn’t look sorry. Probably well aware he had nothing to be sorry for. “Next time, we do it in a bed. And you get to do the naked modeling.”

  Her heart did another uncomfortable flip flop in her chest. Next time? “Sounds like a plan,” she said, attempting to match his light tone.

  Taking a deep breath, he lifted her off him, held her for a moment round the waist as her shaky legs struggled to adjust to keeping her upright after the earth-shattering orgasm.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes, but I think we should probably get dressed now. Before someone really does catch us.”

  He nodded, although he didn’t seem concerned as he strolled over to his pile of clothing. As he shrugged off the robe, she got a tantalizing eyeful of taught male buttocks, the orbs of muscle flexing as he disposed of the condom, then slipped on his boxers and jeans.

  She got a little giddy. She rushed to pull on her own clothing, but the pulse of awareness refused to subside.

  Apparently one booty call was not going to be enough. But she couldn’t risk another. Given her bad habits… And all the questions she now wanted to ask even more.

  He handed her back the robe once they’d finished dressing. And the awkwardness returned. She’d expected him to tease her, flirt with her, maybe even kiss her again. To reassure her this was still casual. But their hook-up didn’t feel entirely casual anymore. The stupid bubble of hope was not welcome. Not welcome at all.

  “Thanks.” She held the robe against her chest.

  “I’ve got to scram,” he said, and the bubble of hope burst.

  She shook off her disappointment. This was a good thing. She did not want to get invested. And neither did he. All good. The plan had been to use him, then lose him. Not use him then become infatuated with him.

  Been there, done that.

  Although even thinking about Vince in comparison with Cal seemed somehow ridiculous. Vince had certainly never made her see stars. Not even close. And she’d just been flown through the cosmos.

  One thing was for sure, being in her tiny office organizing her schedule, creating her lesson plans and marking sketch books was never going to be the same again.

  “Me too,” she lied. She had nothing much to do today now, except catch up on her sleep. Although somehow she didn’t think she’d be doing a lot of sleeping, given all the emotions careering through her at the moment. Shock, excitement, awe and the definite tug of regret.

  Her sex clenched, remembering the feel of him buried to the hilt inside her.

  Okay, maybe more than a tug of regret.

  “We should get out of here before the caretaker locks us in for the weekend,” she said.

  Which would be the absolute worse. Obviously.

  “Sure.” He tugged on his jacket. But then he cupped her face, his callused palm rough against her jaw. “You want to come over to mine tonight, around eight? You know the address. We could have supper, then jump each other again? Get to a bed this time?”

  The impossible bubble of hope pumped up again. Their booty call wasn’t quite over. Not yet.

  “I’d love to,” she said, knowing the off-hand invitation shouldn’t mean this much to her.

  He nodded. “Later.” Then planted a kiss on her lips and strolled towards the door.

  But as the studio door swung shut behind him, she dug out her mobile and sent a text to Imo and Tash – her heartbeat doing double time.

  Meet me at the Costa in St P’s in an hour. I think I’m in trouble, of the abso-fricking-luscious variety.

  Chapter Eight

  ‡

  Eight o’clock on the dot.

  Rosie checked her phone for the twentieth time in the last hour and stared at the buzzers of the apartment building in Clerkenwell she’d run out of that morning.

  Had it only been nine hours ago? Because she felt as if she’d sweated off about ten pounds since then.

  She’d left Tash and Imo at Costa’s in St. Pancras what felt like a lifetime ago.

  After Tash had assured her there was no rule which said casual hook-ups had to be only the once. And that surely she owed a repeat performance to her lady bits considering how long they’d been in hibernation. While Imo had ruminated at length on what Mr. Abso-Fricking-Luscious might be able to achieve in a bed.

  In short, their pep talk had consisted of one main message. “Stop overthinking and JUMP HIM.”

  So she’d spent the three hours since preparing herself. A long hot bath, a pomegranate facemask, a home waxing kit, perfume liberally applied to all her pulse-points, a dash of lipgloss and the smudge of eyeliner, her favorite killer red dress, and four-inch ice pick heels – picked out after she’d tried on six different pairs until she got just the right strut effect – ought to cover just about all the bases.

  There was only one slight problem she hadn’t factored into her date night.

  She still didn’t know Cal’s surname. So she had no clue which one of the buzzers to press.

  Strutting back a step on her too-high heels, she glanced up at the windows on the second floor, and began chewing off the lipstick she’d spent ten minutes re-applying in the cab.

  Was his space flat one, two, three or four?

  She squinted again at the buzzers.

  The options were: Flat 4: Khan. Flat 3: Peroni. Flat 2: Jackson and Flat 1: a blank space where the name was supposed to be.

  She thought of the cardboard boxes stacked against the walls of his bedroom and living area. And stabbed her finger into the buzzer with no name. Her heartbeat kicked up a notch when the crackle of the intercom was followed by a gruff voice she recognized.

  “Hey, Rosie, come on up.”

  She shoved the door at the buzz that followed. Her heels clicked on the bare concrete flooring and a light appeared in the hallway above the metal stairs she remembered hightailing it down that morning.

  “You made it,” he called down.

  Had he expected her not to? Her stomach did a backflip. Of course not, it was just a turn of phrase. Surely no woman ever said no to him?

  Of which there were no doubt legions. No man who looked like he did, and had such impressive clit skills wouldn’t be alone for long.

  Stop thinking about other women. You’re the only woman with him tonight.

  “Um, yes.” She climbed the stairs, her gaze fixed on his silhouette in the doorway. The worn jeans and cotton T he’d been wearing earlier accentuated the muscular build and she noticed that homemade tat on his wrist again as she approached, his forearm stretching to hold the heavy metal door open for her.

  She brushed past him, getting a lungful of clean male scent spiced with cedarwood cologne.

  The aroma of something delicious filled the apartment as she stepped into the clean, minimalist space. She noticed the table set for two by the window, a bottle of wine open on the countertop and something cooking in a big blue Le Creuset casserole pot on the gleaming stainless steel stove.

  He couldn’t have set the scene for seduction more perfectly. Her stomach did a full somersault this time. The slow roll peaking when his hands covered her shoulders to take off her coat. The heavy wool slid off, arousal sizzling across her collarbone as cool fingertips skimmed over her nape. The sizzles settled in her abdomen at the low appreciative wolf whistle.

  “Damn, is that a dress or a placemat?”

  She coughed out a laugh. “A bit of both.” She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, suddenly feeling over-dressed – and under-dressed at the same time. Why had she assumed they’d just jump each other? And why did that thought feel less intimate than sharing a meal together?

  “Either way, it works,” he said, folding her coat and dumping it on the couch that faced the plasma TV.

  “You cooked?” she said, trying not to be touched. When was the last time a guy had cooked for her? Any guy?

  “Have you eaten already?”

  “No, it’s not that, it’s…” What could she say without sounding like a romantic airhead? “I suppose I had you figured as more of a take-away pizza kind of guy.”

  She turned towards him, the sight of him head on and properly lit – the staggering face, the ruffled hair, the hot appreciative gaze – made her lungs squeeze tight. Goodness, he was as breathtaking as she remembered. But even more so.

  This already felt like too much and they weren’t even naked yet.

  “You’re not wrong. Like most red-blooded American men I consider take-out pizza one of your five-a-day.”

  She filed the morsel of information away under the heading ‘questions you shouldn’t want to know the answer to’.

  “But I also like to cook,” he continued. “And this is nothing fancy, just a recipe for chicken cacciatore I picked up a couple of years back in Florence.” The easy grin only made him more irresistible. “As long as you like to eat, and you eat meat, we’re good.”

  “I love to eat,” she said, remembering how often Vince had told her she liked to eat too much. She lifted her arms to give him a better view of her curves, impossibly pleased when his eyes flared with approval. “Can’t you tell?”

  The grin hitched up. “Every mouthful looks great on you.”

  “And I am also an enthusiastic meat eater.”

  His grin widened at the deliberate double meaning and the sizzles settled lower in her abdomen while her somersaulting stomach careered into her heart.

  Don’t read too much into that grin. This is flirtation 101. No more, no less. It’s all good. And a meal will give you sustenance for later, when you get to the wall-banging-sex part of the evening.

  But as he dished out the aromatic stew and poured them both a glass of red wine—she wondered how much she was going to be able to swallow round the huge lump in her throat. And the blips of panic kicking under her breastbone. Then she took a bite of the succulent chicken dish spiced with herbs and tomatoes, and her taste buds exploded with the rich mix of flavors. She swallowed and sighed. Fine, the lump of anticipation wasn’t going to be a problem. “It’s delicious.”

  “Good. Then dig in.” He picked up his own bowl to shovel in a mouthful.

  She ate in earnest, savoring each bite, and the way his gaze strayed to her mouth. A drop of sauce escaped and she flicked her tongue out to capture it, delighted by his husky groan. The lump of anticipation grew to the size of a boulder, a hot molten boulder of magma which sank lower as the meal continued, and she began to revel in her new found power.

  Who knew eating could be so sexy? Best foreplay ever.

  Once she’d mopped up the last of the meal with some crusty French bread, he picked up the bowls and set them in the sink. He poured her another glass of wine.

  “That was fabulous,” she said.

  “Thanks.” He watched her over the rim of his glass. Was he waiting for her to make the next move?

  She held the bowl of her wine glass in her palms, and took a long sip, suddenly feeling unaccountably nervous. Hell, she’d come here with the specific intention of jumping him, so what was she waiting for? Every part of her was primed and ready to explode.

  But instead of saying what she wanted to say, she took another quick sip of the fruity wine, and something entirely different came out of her mouth. “Yesterday night, in the bar, why did you look so sad, Cal?”

  His eyebrows rose a fraction, the question obviously surprising him, but he hid it quickly. His expression became remote for a moment, before he placed his glass on the table and stood up. Taking her glass, he placed it on the table beside his.