0758215630 (R) (15 page)

They sat across from each other at the table the room service staff had set for them by the window. Outside, the lights of Las Vegas danced, rolled, flickered, and burst like eternal fireworks. Not content to rival the stars, they obliterated them. The night was glass clear, the sky a blue-black curtain, nothing more than an inky backdrop for the heat and bold radiance below it.

Like this dinner was a backdrop, a setting for seduction; normal on the surface, all shimmer and fire underneath.

April knew her town, her world within a world. She knew that outside this room there were thousands of milling people, winning and losing, laughing and loving; while inside was only a man and a woman, both edgy, expectant, and . . . hopeful.

Sex was in the air—the thrall, the flesh and heart need for that crazed physical union that could mean so much—or so little.

Joe Worth’s intentions had been plain since he’d kissed her palm and looked into her eyes—and April sensed those intentions had magnified a hundredfold over dinner.

Earlier, when she’d left the table briefly to call the hospital—happily to discover Rusty’s condition had improved— his eyes had never left her.

Sex was in his eyes, in his unwavering gaze, the ease of his waiting, while it sat in April’s mind like a mauled daisy, should I, shouldn’t I, should I, shouldn’t. ..

Inside, April felt as flashing and glittery as the Sandstone’s bulb-studded canopy a few floors below where they sat.
A woman thing,
she thought,
this dithery bit,
although new to her. As though what was stirring between her and Joe was . . . new. Different. And that made it the tiniest bit scary.

Joe showed no inclination to dither. Earlier, when she’d asked him if he wanted dessert, he’d met her eyes and answered for them both. “We won’t need it.”

She’d looked away from him and smiled at that. The man was sure of himself.

She liked that about him, but then she liked most things about him—including his spectacular body. She’d heard somewhere that women weren’t turned on visually as quickly as men, that their lust was born in their minds and vivid imaginations and that it took time. Whoever said that, obviously had never seen Joe. Tall, lean, and powerfully muscled, he was prime cover material for
Men’s Health
magazine—or
Playgirl.
Among other things.

And there was his smile, at once seductive and teasing.

The way he kept things light. His quick mind, and even quicker tongue. The way he listened, tilting his head, seeming to draw the spoken words deep, consider each of them pure gold.

The way he was starting to like Cornie . . .

What troubled her were his feelings toward Phylly. Thinking his animosity toward her might be too deeply ingrained in him for a reconciliation made her uneasy; it would be awkward at best—painful at its worst. She didn’t want her loyalties tested, by her loving Phylly, owing her everything, and Joe not caring at all—or worse holding fast to his anger and resentment. A hard body was one thing; a hard mind and heart were something else entirely.

She gave herself a mental shake.
He’ll come around.
She was sure of it. Once he met Phylly and settled a few things, he’d feel the same way about her as April did. It was the natural thing, for sons to love their mothers. Yes, everything would be fine.

And she
was
going to bed with him.

All they had to do was keep it simple. She wondered if simple sex was an oxymoron, while her tummy, full of thrashing butterfly wings, told her what was between her and this man passed the simple mark at hello.

Maybe she should stop thinking and start acting.

“You want a penny for what’s behind that smile?” He leaned back in his chair and picked up his wine.

“A penny doesn’t get you much in this town.” She met his gaze. “I’m not sure I want to make you that happy . . . yet.”

His lips turned up. “You think you know what will make me happy?”

“I like the odds that I do.” She leaned forward and put herself in the game. To April, sex was a team sport. Besides, she hadn’t put on this black dress for nothing. “Want to bet?”

He studied her a moment, his eyes full of humor and seduction. “No . . . I think the fix is in.” He looked where she wanted him to look, the low neckline of her dress then back up to meet her gaze. He gave his wineglass a couple of turns. “And I’m okay with that.”

“Just okay.” She picked up her glass, sipped. Her mouth was as dry as the desert surrounding Vegas. “Does that mean you’d rather have a nice long talk—like you promised?”

“Oh, yeah,” he drawled. “I’d much rather have a long, meaningful conversation about now than hot sex with a beautiful woman.”

She kept her face straight, barely.

He went on. “Just so we understand one another. That
Okay
means I’ve been hard since you walked back into this room in a dress not meant to be worn around any living man for more than ten minutes—and me only five.”

She put down her wineglass. “You know you’ve been staring, don’t you?” She noticed Joe hadn’t done any better putting a dent in his dinner than she had. “All through dinner.”

“You wanted me to stare,” he said.

She laughed. “Got me there.”

“Besides, I wasn’t just staring, I was calculating.”

She arched a brow.

“Estimating my best time to get you out of the damn dress, into that bedroom”—he jerked his head to indicate his room of choice—“and begging me for more of what I can’t wait to give you.” He leaned forward.

“Begging, huh?”

“Isn’t that what you want, April?” His voice was low, his eyes glittering. “Sex so good, you can’t get enough of it?” His whispered question touched her like an early flame, licked at her waning reserve of cool.

Begging for more from Joe Worth? Oh, yes, she liked the idea of that. Sinking into sexual hunger; bone and muscle softening, turning to liquid . . . releasing, letting go—so wild with need she hurt from it. “Begging for it would be a new experience for me,” she managed to say, “and a challenge for you.” One she had every confidence he was up to.

He smiled. “You want to know what I
want
?”

“I’m not sure. Is it legal? Does it require ropes and chains? Duct tape . . . rubber duckies?”

He shook a slow negative. “None of the above. I’m a basic kind of guy. All I want is you. Naked. Then I want to make you wet—all slick and juiced. I want you moaning, and moaning and—”

“I get that.” And if he didn’t stop talking, she’d be panting like a puppy in the Sahara.

He didn’t stop. “And I want you to come when I’m so deep inside you, I’ll feel every quiver and spasm. Then I want to start all over again. Taste you. Tongue you. That’s when the begging starts.” His eyes shifted from silver to a dark moody gray. “Are you
okay
with that?”

April swallowed, shifted in her chair, and pressed her thighs tight against the pulse and moisture between them. She swallowed again before she spoke. “You’re good, Joe Worth. You’re very good. Ever consider phone sex as a second career?”

“I’m good when I want to be.” He stood, offered her his hand, his eyes again glinting with humor. “But as someone somewhere once said, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

When she took his hand, started to stand, he jerked her hard to his body, slid his hands to her buttocks and pulled her flush to the cradle of his hips—the steeled thickness behind his zipper. He kissed her hard, deep, and possessively. “Christ, I’ve been wanting you since the day you set foot in my office.” He took a male-sized get-a-grip breath. “Couldn’t stop looking at you then, can’t stop now.” He held her face between his hands. “But before we take this to the next level, do I need condoms?”

Through her own already labored breathing, she managed to say, “That depends on you. I’m on the pill, so I’m okay, if you’re okay.” She looked at him, waited. “You are okay, aren’t you?”

“Clean, cautious, and healthy.” He lifted her chin. “Good to go?”

She nodded, brushed her mouth over his, and whispered against his lips, “Good to go,” she repeated, adding, “I want you to make love to me, Joe.” She kissed him lightly again, smiled against his lips, and started unbuttoning his shirt. “And I think I’ll start the begging early, if that’s okay?” She ground herself against his erection.

He swallowed hard, and she saw the tendons in his throat go taut. He gripped her by the upper arms, held her a few inches away from him. “Not going to make me work for that? The begging thing?”

She undid the last button, shoved his shirt aside, and flattened her hands against his broad smooth chest, licked each of his nipples. Her reward was his sharp intake of breath. “You have your agenda and I have mine,” she murmured.

“Which is?” he pulled her close.

“Make you hot and make sure you never forget me.”

His eyes turned serious. “Then your work is done.” He took both her hands in his and tugged her toward the bedroom.

Once there, the only light was from the street below, a blending of night sky and neon that left the room a low-fire red with flashes of gold from the sign on the casino across the street.

Joe stripped off his undone shirt . . .

Looking at him, she damn near salivated. He tossed the shirt and gripped her shoulders. “No zipper in that thing, right?” He nodded at her black dress.

When she shook her head, he started peeling it from her shoulders. In seconds it joined his white shirt on the floor.

He unhooked her bra, ran his hands up her back, caught her bra straps with his thumbs and let it drop. When his hands came back up he filled them with her breasts. “You’re perfect.” He bent his head kissed each breast in turn, his breath searing against her over sensitized skin. When he squeezed her breasts gently, the last iota of her cool evaporated. Already breathing hard, she feared she’d embarrass herself and climax before they even got to the good stuff.

Pulling back, she traced his one tattoo. Starting above his elbow a multicolored serpent, perfectly rendered, curled around his bicep and ended at his shoulder. In its smiling mouth, a single red rose. “This?” She tapped the rose.

“Army,” he said.

“And this?” She ran the palm of her hand over his erection.

His sharp intake of breath was all the answer she got. He stepped back from her and stripped off the rest of his clothes; shoes, socks, slacks, and briefs were a heap on the floor in record time. Obviously Joe’s neat tendencies didn’t extend to stripping for sex. His frank nakedness left her, wearing nothing but her black lace hip thong, the most overdressed one in the room.

She dropped her gaze to what stood tall between his muscular thighs, and tried to slow down her breathing.

He was . . . fabulous. Male beautiful. She moistened her lips and continued to stare, her slow breathing exercise abandoned, giving way to a soft panting.

The length and breadth of him, fully erect, was the tiniest bit daunting—for about a half second.

He didn’t—couldn’t—miss where her attention was focused.

“Okay?” he said, arching a brow, and looking as though he knew damn well everything about him was okay. A word he had a definite fondness for.

She reached out, caressed him from stem to tip with one lazy finger, savored another quiver of growth. “Grade A.”

She started to peel off her thong—he stopped her. “Not yet. I like it on you. I like imagining you.” He smiled. “For about the next two minutes.” He backed her to the bed, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. With one hand flat against his heart, she closed her eyes, let his tongue have her, and savored the wild pounding rising from deep in his chest. The second after that she was on her back—flat to the bed with Joe’s . . . fabulousness pressed hard against her pubis, his eyes, now a deep sex-drenched blue, boring into hers. “No more talk.”

He took her mouth with his, shifted his weight, and ran his hand down and over her belly. Slipping it between her thighs, he pressed them open and stroked her over the silk of her panties. When he discovered she was wet, he groaned, and slid his hand under the silk to where she pulsed and lifted. Parting her crease, he played with her, using a slow back and forth motion that had her twisting, reaching for more in a physical demand he find her center, touch her there.

He didn’t. He penetrated her with a finger, then two . . . teased her to a slick frenzy and held her down while he did it.

Sliding down her body, he kissed his way to where her body screamed for him to be, took off her panties, and raised her to his mouth. He took her burning, pulsing nub silkily, voraciously, unrelentingly.

Her body bucked, roared its need, and she pushed herself shamelessly against his marauding mouth and tongue. She couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe. She dug her heels into the bed, gave herself over to him.

Changing his pace, he tongued her once, long, slow, and luxuriously then sucked her deep . . .

She clamped her hands over her mouth, screamed into her damp palms, and came in a blinding searing rush, her body imploding, pulling into itself as though to hold and extend the riotous pulsing . . . make it not stop . . . ever. She tried to close her legs, contain the after-tremors.

For a moment Joe let her, watching her face, with an intensity, a singular interest that made her close her eyes against the burn of it. His voice was husky when he said, “Open your legs, April. Open wide for me.”

Oh, yes . . .

Joe entered her in a smooth easy plunge, held himself still and in deep. Then in three powerful thrusts, he came inside her with a rasping, uneven groan. His head buried in her shoulder, he cursed softly. “Jesus,” he said, finally. “That was . . .”

The space between them filled with the sound of ragged breath, his and hers.

“Okay,” she finished for him, running her fingers through his thick hair and managing a smile with what little strength she had left.

Her own heart and brain were numbed. She could hear; she could think; she could feel; what she couldn’t do was make sense of what was going on inside her. The tumult of it. She closed her eyes against the awe and alien dreamlike wonder that pulled at her, and forced herself into the now. Good sex was good sex, she reminded herself—but it did blister the brain. And the condition was always temporary.