Cold Case, Hot Bodies(10)

By: Jule McBride


“We can get rid of them.”

“That’s why I came over.”

Cold insteps with high arches were molding his calves, warming themselves. Threading fingers into her hair, he explored the wig and chuckled. Sheila really was great. She’d do anything to please a guy. What an imagination. “Are you ready to make up for lost time?”

“If you can forgive me for being late.”

“Kiss me and I’ll think about it.” Splaying his fingers, he dragged them through her hair, using the strands to pull her face down to his. Her mouth was open, and it melted against his as their tongues meshed, sparking electricity that began dancing wildly down his nerves, making them sizzle at the ends. Rushing between his fingers, tendrils of hair felt like palm fronds under water, softer than anything he’d ever felt, even softer than her mouth. His hands found her waist again, guiding the movements of her lower body, urging her closer, as he brushed his kiss-dampened mouth across hers.

When the friction turned maddening, he feathered, then nibbled. Judging by her soft whimper, it was working, really turning her on. She whispered, “What do I have to do to make absolutely sure you forgive me?”

“This.” He arched his hips, his body surging.

She pushed back, her thighs quivering, the inner flesh shaking deliciously as she scooted into the cradle of his legs and settled on the hard ridge of his sex. He gasped, a shiver ripping through him. Something in the back of his throat caught, and he said, “I’m glad you made it.”

She was panting softly, rolling her hips with the dexterity of a belly dancer and grinding herself against his groin. “I can tell.”

As she undulated, waves of need lapped through him. Pliable, ready lips fit to his again. Wet and promising, they clung as if she didn’t want to let go. His sentiments, exactly. Tonight, she didn’t even taste like Sheila. Her usual mint flavor had been replaced by chocolate and coffee, and the lipstick he’d eaten off was raspberry. Not a hint of alcohol, which was what he’d expected, given how tipsy she’d sounded on the phone.

“I tried to hurry,” she murmured.

“You’re here now,” he whispered back.

Against his, her cheek still felt cool from the night air, making the spear of her tongue seem even hotter. It was warm and runny—like hot honey or butter or molasses. It was like lazy sunshine on a Sunday morning, streaming through a window. And it was climbing, too, just like the sun, its radiance gaining intensity and heat.

Every time she licked the inner recesses of his mouth, renewed fire ignited in his abdomen. Warmth was pouring through her leggings, like jets of liquid joy, and when she started nuzzling the stubble of his beard, roughening her relatively tender skin, Dario tilted back his head, simply reveling in the feel of her—her long legs bracketing his, her ample breasts cushioning his chest.

“Don’t stop.”

“Does it seem like I’m stopping?”

“No,” he murmured. “But you could.”

“I could do a lot of things.”

“Then do them.”

As she swirled hot saliva down his neck, in sloppy, looping kisses, the scratchy fabric of her jacket further aroused his nipples, chaffing until they were raw and painfully aroused. Merciless, she languidly licked his skin as if they had eternity, not just a night, then she dipped until a taut nipple was firmly in her mouth. Quick suckles made his mind fog….

He was sure he’d drifted again. He didn’t know for how long. He was floating in bliss. Sheila felt so good…impossibly good. Every time they got together, sex just got better. Tonight it was excellent. Better than ever before. Right now, the touch of her mouth was torture. Every fiber of his being was starting to sing for release. Slowly, he caressed her bottom, thrilled when she kept playing with his nipples…

Then, from somewhere far off, he heard another song start, and strained his ears. He heard piano music and stomping feet. Clapping hands. A hoot of merriment.

“Give me another pint of ale,” someone yelled.

“A pint for the whole house,” another hollered.

He must be dreaming. Or else someone was playing an old dance hall recording. He felt unbelievably hot. Sweat prickled his nape as he shook off sleep once more, and opened his eyes. Still, only darkness. What was happening? He felt almost as if he’d been drugged. “You feel so good,” he whispered.

“You’re not bad, yourself.”

As he inhaled sharply, Sheila’s scent settled in his lungs. It wasn’t the musky perfume she usually wore, but something lighter that evoked coy flirtation. As the music climbed toward crescendo, she continued nibbling that one nipple, making the other yearn for the ministrations of her mouth. She was raking teeth against the sides until fever took him, and the fire raging beneath his naval turned more fluid. A coiled spring of swirling lava became more diffuse, prickling through his veins, lazily roping into all his extremities.