Flawless Danger (The Spencer & Sione #1) (33 page)

A next-door neighbor had heard the terrifying commotion and called the police, but by the time the authorities had shown up, her mother had disappeared. She didn’t return until five years later.

“I’m sorry,” John said.

Sniffing, she lifted her head to look at him, knowing why he was sorry. John regretted asking her, regretted having to deal with another chapter from the book of her abusive, neglected childhood. Spencer regretted telling him. What the hell had she been thinking? What the hell was her damn problem? She had no right to share emotionally, gut-wrenching memories from her past with him. She had no right to act as though they were in some sort of relationship where the point was to get to know more about each other.

John wasn’t some guy she was trying to build a life with. John was the man Ben had forced her to get close to, but not too close, so she could sneak around his casita looking for a damn envelope. She had to concentrate on getting the favor done. Then she could move on with her life.

It would be a life that didn’t include John; a life that couldn’t include him because they weren’t right for each other. Good guys and bad girls only hooked up in those romance novels her sister Shady was always reading, and her life was not some romance novel.

Spencer didn’t know what it was about the resort owner. Yes, he was handsome and sexy, very much so, but so were many guys. His muscles and good looks didn’t give her license to forget she could go to jail if she didn’t find the envelope.

Panicked by her wayward thoughts, Spencer put her arms around him. She would have to kiss him again, the way she had the last time they’d gotten too close to the topic of her mother. It was an incongruous act, considering the tension of her emotional turmoil, but kissing him was easier than struggling to think of some lie to steer him away from that painful subject.

She pressed her lips against his. He complied, but she sensed his reluctance and wasn’t surprised when he removed her arms and broke the kiss, giving her a look she couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry.” Embarrassed by her impulse, she slid off his lap and walked to the table, turning from his piercing gaze and trying to catch her breath. She’d only kissed him to distract him from the horrible story from her childhood, but kissing him was distracting in all the wrong ways. “Listen, I need to explain,” she began and turned.

In the intervening moments, John had moved closer to her, eliminating the space and the strange tension that separated them. Their bodies were inches apart, and when she glanced up, the look in his hazel eyes was an intoxicating brew of desire and indignation.

Spurred by his gaze, without preamble or permission, Spencer stood on her toes, and this time John didn’t hesitate to bend down so she could put her arms around him and press her mouth against his, letting her lips linger there, allowing the sensations to build and surge and float through her body. Feeling brazen, she parted his lips with her tongue, licking his bottom lip, pinching it softly between her teeth, giving it a few quick nibbles and gentle pecks before sliding her tongue deep into his mouth, circling her tongue around his. The kiss continued, unbroken, her hands moving over his muscles, along his pecs, and down his abs while their tongues swirl slowly.

Spencer felt John’s fingers against her neck, moving over her collarbone. He touched her left breast, his index finger circling the swollen nipple, and then he broke the kiss, bending his head toward her neck, his mouth following the trail his fingers made.

Still in brazen mode, Spencer grabbed his other hand and led it beneath the hem of her flowing, gauzy miniskirt, pressing his hand against her leg. Taking her lead, John moved his hand along the inside of her thigh. His other hand was busy pulling the thin strap of her tank top off her shoulder, exposing her breast. Dipping his head lower, his mouth hovered over her nipple, his breath warm.

Spencer’s heart slammed, and she bit her lip, the anticipation building between her legs, and when he pulled the crotch of her panties to the side and slid his finger near the opening of her vagina, she moaned, marveling at the pleasure of such a hesitant touch, so concentrated and searing.

Abruptly, John removed his fingers to untie his sarong, letting it fall to the floor. Spencer looked down at him, and her gasp was so loud, it was almost a scream. Was that a penis or a damn python? She half-expected a forked tongue to slither out of the head, and she imagined that when he put it in her, she’d feel it licking the inside of her walls as its huge thickness moved within her. Probably, as soon as he put it in, she’d feel the head teasing her cervix.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, and Spencer found herself thinking of practical matters. How did he walk with that damn elephant trunk? How did he sit? Go about his day? She was being facetious, ridiculous. It wasn’t an elephant trunk or a python, but it was big. Huge. Long and thick. Her cousin Rusty would say a two by four. As pathetic and helpless and weak as it made her feel, she wanted it in her.

Eyes dark with lust, John grabbed her around the waist and lifted her from the ground. She wrapped her arms around his shoulder and her legs around his waist, shivering in anticipation. Moments later, he lowered her, and she felt him sliding inside her, huge, thick, swollen, and throbbing, taking her breath away. Holding on to her waist, his legs hip width apart and his feet planted firmly on the ceramic tile floor, he lifted her up and down his long, thick shaft. He stretched her, filling her so completely, she was practically screaming with the pleasure of it, grinding her hips with each powerful, vertical thrust.

Clutching her ass, he lifted her up and then moved her down on his penis, again and again, fast, then slow, then excruciatingly slow, and then fast again. She struggled to hold on as he moved her faster. She locked her legs around his waist, digging her heels into his lower back, groaning as she felt the pleasure building, and then exploding, and she cried out, shuddering.

Clasping her hands behind his neck, Spencer arched her back, tilting her head, and stared at the ceiling, panting and moaning. She felt his mouth on her left breast, his tongue flicking the nipple as he continued moving her up and down. Each time he was inside her, she squeezed her muscles around him, holding him prisoner, loath to release him, desperate to keep him deep inside her forever, straining to luxuriate in the pleasure she could only get from him.

Lifting her up, he turned her body so she was facing away from him toward the table. Seconds later, she was on the table on her hands and knees, trying to brace herself as he entered her from behind, filling her to capacity, and then he pulled out and slid in again.

He thrust into her again, and the table legs scraped against the tile floor. He withdrew and entered, and soon he found a pace that had the sturdy mahogany table groaning, but not as loud as she was, especially when he found a way to slip a hand between her legs to circle a finger around her clit.

And for a moment, it was almost too many sensations at one time, and she didn’t know if she wanted to prolong the feelings so she could savor them or if she wanted them to come quickly, so she could explode again and again. She heard a sharp clap and simultaneously felt a warm sting on her left butt cheek.

Startled, she looked over her shoulder at him. “Did you just?”

He gave her an adorable, sheepish smile, but then he withdrew, slapped her ass, and thrust deep again. Spencer cried out in shock and wanted to protest, but the thrust-slap combination was like a jolt of supercharged electric pleasure, right through her walls, and it wasn’t long before she went over the edge again and went limp.

Gasping and shaking, she was aware of him pulling out of her, and then she felt an arm beneath her legs and realized he was carrying her.

In the bedroom, he headed for the California king, and seconds later, she was airborne for a moment. Bouncing down on the mattress, she rolled over onto her back. John was on his knees in the bed, advancing toward her, still breathtakingly huge and hard.

Exhausted, she was a bit nervous, unsure if she could take much more of him and that python between his legs, but he didn’t come at her like Ben would, demanding that she stay wet and tight for him. John kissed her for a long time, as if he’d been waiting all his life to do it.

Finally, he dragged his mouth from hers to her neck, and his tongue trailed along her throat. She felt his teeth grazing her skin and then came a series of gentle bites along her neck. She grabbed him and started to guide him, but he grabbed her hand and pinned it over her head against the pillow.

He slid inside her, and the first thrusts were slow and shallow. He gazed at her, but soon, his eyes darkened and his rhythm increased. He put one of her legs around his waist and the other over his shoulder, and then he got down to business, thrusting hard and deep—he wasn’t playing around. Spencer dug her nails into the small of his back, struggling to keep up, trying to match his pace, but he was too big, too overpowering.

Spencer gave up, letting him have his way with her as strange thoughts filtered through her mind, crazy thoughts inspired by his long, deep strokes. What if she was falling in love with John? What if she was already in love with him?

John changed his pace to slow and shallow, and she clutched him, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts as she slipped her tongue into his mouth.

The thought of being in love with John—the idea and the consequences—seemed almost heretical, blasphemous. As he went deeper into her, slow … and then slow again … and then quick, quick, she thought of some ballroom dance … what was it called?

Falling in love was against each and every one of her core beliefs. But what if she was in love with John? How would she know for sure? How could she possibly know? What were the signs? The symptoms? Spencer had never been in love and had never even entertained the thought. The thought of giving her heart away was always too daunting, too melodramatic, and too tedious.

Finally, he thrust deep one last time. Spencer felt herself being lifted up off the bed as John rose to his knees, bringing her with him as he shuddered, whispering her name, causing another orgasm to erupt within her. The spasm shook her until she went limp again, half-conscious and unaware of her surroundings.

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort – Owner’s Casita

“Good morning.” Huge, thick, and magnificent, wearing the sarong and nothing else, John smiled at her as he stood at the stove making pancakes.

There seemed to be so much of him. Spencer couldn’t stop staring and couldn’t help but admire his broad shoulders and the muscles in his back and triceps. He inspired all sorts of wild fantasies, making her wish ridiculous things like they were together because they loved each other and they would be together forever.

She couldn’t stop thinking about their lovemaking last night and how he’d touched her and kissed her, as if it was the only thing in the world he wanted to do.

Spencer hadn’t meant to make love with John. The feelings had taken control of her before she realized it, and then it had been too late to turn back. A desperate, uncontrollable lust had taken hold of her, had claimed her, and she’d given herself over to lasciviousness.

Feeling blindsided, Spencer wobbled into the kitchen, groggy, thunderstruck, and wearing the old, faded T-shirt John had given her to wear with her hair pulled back into a careless bun.

“How are you?” John asked, flipping the pancakes over in the skillet.

“Good morning,” Spencer said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “I’m okay, but I kept dreaming about thunder.”

“Probably because there was a storm last night,” John said.

“A storm?” Spencer laid her head on the table.

“It was pretty bad,” John said, walking to the table and placing a plate in front of her piled with pancakes, eggs, bacon, French toast with whipped cream, and hash browns.

Spencer sat up. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast.” John sat next to her.

“There is no way I can eat all of this,” Spencer said, her mouth watering as she polished off two pieces of bacon while she grabbed a fork and dug into the hash browns.

“Of course not,” John said, watching her, his smile sly.

Spencer cut a triangular wedge from the stack of pancakes and shoved it into her mouth.

“This is sooo good,” Spencer said, taking a mouthful of eggs, a strange idea slipping into her mind, although it was less of an idea and more like a fantasy.

Spencer imagined herself making breakfast for John. Bacon and eggs. And then she would pour coffee into his mug. Like a wife would do. And if she were “that wife,” she would serve the coffee in skimpy lingerie. She’d seen her mother do that, but her stepfather hadn’t always appreciated her mother’s efforts; once, he’d thrown the coffee at her mother, screaming that it had been too hot, and—

Her heart thudding, she shook her head, wondering how the memory had managed to slip into her head. She hadn’t thought about her mother’s disastrous third marriage in years. Why the hell was she thinking about it now?

“Glad you approve of the eggs,” John said and joined her at the table. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something.”

“What?” Her appetite diminishing, she grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth, convinced he was about to tell her last night had been a horrible mistake and they never should have made love.

“Well, I wanted to ask you about—”
 

A shrill ring cut through the air. Spencer glanced toward the sound, realizing it was the phone mounted on the wall near the refrigerator.

“I’ll get it.” John got up from the table and walked to the phone.

Her heart pounding, Spencer reached for her glass of water, wondering what John wanted to ask her.

“Hey, what’s going on?” John asked the caller.

Spencer stared out of the kitchen window, her back to John, thinking about the blue folder with the photos of her Mayan ruin excursion. She hoped John wasn’t going to interrogate her about the contents of that banker’s box. She should probably get a story together, though, just in case.