“I better get this.” He turned away and touched the screen to answer.
“Since when do you miss waterpolo?” Rocco demanded.
Typical emotional Italian, even though Rocco actually had more Irish in him than he did Italian.
“You’re back in town right?” he questioned.
Xander thought about lying but his friend would call him on it. “Yeah I’m here, but I had other things to attend to.”
“What kind of things?” Suspicious all the way.
Xander glanced at Chelsea. “Nothing much.”
“If it was nothing much, why’d you miss the game?”
“I won’t again.” Xander laughed. “You running tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. You know we got to sort Logan out.”
“Yeah. See you then.” He shut off the call and looked at Chelsea—knew damn well she’d heard the entire conversation. “You bothered that I said ‘nothing’?”
She shook her head, a smile curving her lips.
He still didn’t feel comfortable. “I said it to protect you. And me.”
“From?”
“Merciless ribbing from my so-called friends.”
“I’m not ever going to meet them,” She shrugged and walked out to her lounge. “I don’t care what they think.” She sat down on her sofa and smiled up at him as he followed her. “I’m in this for only one thing, remember?”
Xander took one look at that smile and dropped to his knees. “Then you’d better spread your legs wider.”
Chapter Eleven
He’d meant it to be only a couple more times. A few sessions in that week to fulfil the fantasies and leave them free to move on. But every night he knocked on her door, thinking up some lame persona to call out as he did.
“Law enforcement. Open up.” Cheesy, but it worked.
“Pizza delivery.” Even cheesier and a total step back into teen territory.
“Courier.” He winced as he said it. Good thing he never took sex too seriously.
“It’s your boss. You’re in major trouble.” That one he liked more than the others, he had a great desk fantasy growing.
And she opened up. Every time. Her eyes lit with laughter—and lust. He was right inside within minutes. A rampant, raw, sex-fest as they indulged in hot, reckless, sometimes ridiculous fantasies. No matter the scenario he invented, the upshot was the same—blistering, brilliant sex. She let him call every shot—bend her, take her where, when, how he wanted. It was like all his Christmases had come at once—his every wish granted by this gorgeous, willing woman.
As a student he’d been a lifeguard in summer break and ski patrol in winter and he’d never been short of female attention. He and the guys had had their pick. But back then, as now, he’d been focused. He’d only played short-term. Some of the girls had really been after the Hughes fortune and mistakenly thought he was a way to access that. Now he had his own fortune. But Miss butter-wouldn’t-melt Blue-eyes wasn’t interested in any of his past—or seemed to want to know anything more about him. She never questioned him. Never tried to pry.
She really did only want the one thing.
But surely seven nights of screwing them both senseless should have done it?
It hadn’t. She was hungry as ever. But she was also as silent as ever in terms of offering up some other scenario for them to fool around with. In terms of telling him what she wanted him to do. Increasingly that bothered him. Because she was a generous lover with a huge need within her.
And his attempt to keep this just physical was already precarious. He wanted more, needed to know more. Curiosity gnawed. Would she ever open up to him—ever tell him about her accident? Or her family?
He found he was leaving work sooner to get to her. Found he was thinking of her even when he was hanging with the guys. And he sure wasn’t telling them about her—not while Logan was going through his Internet notoriety nightmare. No, this was just his little secret. But hell, he was so lame-ass he found her on Twitter and followed her with a dummy account. At random, too frequent, moments of the day he pulled out his phone to see if and what she’d posted. Facebook too. Her temporary pop-ups page was open to anyone so she didn’t know he was reading like some love-sick pup—or sick stalker dude.
But her posts made him smile.
It was like having a secret life. She’d discovered her hidden nympho identity and, most awesomely, had her own sex genie who took her on magical ride after magical ride. She managed to walk past Brad without blushing, told none of her buddies at work and certainly didn’t tell any friends back home. She definitely didn’t mention having met a guy when she spoke to her mom. Her people at home would get the wrong idea. This wasn’t the ‘new relationship’ they’d been suggesting she be open to finding. This was her own way of ‘moving on’. And after all, it was only fantasy.
But it was Luisa, at the coffee cart who gave her a wink one morning. “Looking like you’ve got the cream there Chelsea,” she teased.
Yeah. The cream. “And you’re looking like you got in trouble.” Concerned, Chelsea brushed beneath her eye, mirroring the place of the bruise Luisa was sporting.
“That’s roller derby for you.” Luisa shrugged. “But we won, so that’s okay.”
“You’re pretty tough.”
“Strikes me you might be a bit of a battler yourself.”
It was the first time anyone here had openly referred to her limp, apart from Xander. But Chelsea didn’t freeze, instead she smiled. “I guess we just have to get on with it, right?”
“Reckon.” Luisa nodded and passed her a marshmallow. “Keep on trying.”
Chelsea grinned and went into the office. Not even her mother’s too-early anxious morning call partly deflated her buoyancy. In fact she’d found she was able to reassure her mom more easily. Because she was doing it—pushing forward with her life. Succeeding at work, at living alone. And finding physical satisfaction. This was absolutely the way of the future. She’d found a way to make it work. Safely. No more hurt.
No matter that Xander’s instructions became a little wilder, pushing her boundaries. She did things with him that she’d never done with anyone—playful, erotic things that weren’t all that kinky, but out there enough for her. Having him have complete control in bed was out there.
But she trusted him. She knew he’d never harm her, not physically. And she wouldn’t let him near her heart—they weren’t sharing that kind of intimacy.
She hurried home from work. Couldn’t wait to see him, touch him, feel him, please him. But he didn’t show at the usual time. Waiting at her window, she refused to feel anxious. But as the seconds dragged, the knot in her stomach tightened.
Then her phone pinged.
Unlock your door. Wear a skirt, no panties. Be standing at your desk, bending over it to read a book. Don’t turn around. I’ll be there in three.
She was wet by the time she’d read the message. She moved quickly, stepping out of her undies and tossing them into her laundry hamper. But her flattish sandals weren’t going to cut it. She walked quick as she could into her bedroom and scuffed them off, slid her feet into the pair of black stilettos at the back of her shoe collection. She hadn’t worn high heels since before the accident. So she walked slowly. The angle of the shoes altered her posture, pushing her pelvis forward, tilting her hips as she took each step. It felt sexy. Before Xander it had been so long since she’d felt remotely sexy.
Facing the desk she put her palms flat on it to stop her hands from shaking. Not nerves, but exhilaration. The book was upside down, but who gave a damn. She rolled her hips, imagination working overtime. It was crazy, but she couldn’t wait. She was addicted to the physical pleasure she got from him. But he got the same from her. The moments when he took pleasure in her thrilled her beyond words.
Purely physical. It’s just lust.
She heard the door open and close behind her.
“Don’t turn around,” he spoke firmly when he saw her twitch to sneak
a peek over her shoulder. “Don’t move. Don’t say anything.”
She heard him lock the door. Her heart thudded, partly in relief because it was indeed him, mostly in anticipation of what he was going to do. It was going to be demanding, the hard edge of want in his tone told her that. Instinctively she slid her feet a little further apart. Her hands were on the table, ready to brace. She was already breathless. In the silence she heard the pull of his zipper, the tear of foil as he walked across the floor.
His fingers tickled up the back of her legs, the barest wisp of a touch, then he flipped up her skirt. She licked her lips and tried to draw in a deep breath. He put his hands on her hips, firmly tilting them, pushing down on her spine with a heavy hand so she was stretched over her desk. She placed her hands wider, further forward, stretching her fingers out wide. He grasped her butt, squeezing her cheeks in his broad palms, then stretching them apart a fraction. She closed her eyes, bending her head as she waited, her body wet and contracting in anticipation.
The quickest stroke of a finger down her cleft. Immediately followed by one fierce thrust of his cock, filling her, pushing her forward despite the way she’d braced on the desk.
There were none of the usual preliminaries, and never had she orgasmed from nothing but being entered. Pleasure jolted through her on sharp contractions.
“Did I say you could come so quick?” he asked roughly.
His fingers slipped round her hip. He took her clit between his thumb and forefinger in a hard pinch. Another sharp jolt of pleasure shook her. She gasped, tense again, tantalized. Tormented already by the slow withdrawal and then slam of his cock.
“Slower this time, please.” He rotated his hips in lazy circles, still pinching her clit almost unbearably.
Slower? She’d laugh if she could. What woman got told to slow down on the orgasm front—wasn’t it usually the guy who was growled at for coming too quickly?