Wild (25 page)

She tried not to cry, but it was too much. He’d done everything in his power to help her and Emma. Chloe owed him their lives. Tears spilled down her cheeks and splashed on the surface of the table. He handed her a tissue.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t give his usual response. His gaze moved to the dark cityscape, which glowed orange in several places, like hot embers. Chloe looked with him, her chest aching. It was as if they were watching the world die.

A song came on the radio that he seemed to recognize. Another ballad, beautifully sad. He glanced at the face of the alarm clock, which blinked 12:00. They hadn’t set the time, having only a vague idea of what it was. After a moment of contemplation, he rose to his feet and held out his hand to her, palm up.
“Bailamos?”

She inferred by his body language that he was asking her to dance. He said something else, gesturing to her injured leg. It was a great excuse for her to decline, but she didn’t want to. She hadn’t slow-danced with a man…ever. Pulse racing, she eased her foot off the chair, grasped his strong hand and stood.

It was awkward, at first. He held her waist with a light touch, keeping distance between them like a boy in junior high school. She stiffly rested her hands on his shoulders. They shuffled back and forth on the carpet without rhythm. When she stepped on his foot, it was warm and alive, jarring her senses. He smiled at her blunder, which broke the tension. She settled into the music and the sway of his body.

The song changed but they stayed together. Twining her arms around his neck eased some of the pressure on her sore leg. At least, that was her initial justification. Then it just felt too good to stop.

She was aware of the low neckline of her dress, and how her raised arms lifted her breasts higher. The slippery satin draped over the legs of his suit pants. Her belly rubbed against his in a delicious slide. His hands felt hot at her waist, searing through the fabric.

She lost track of how many songs they danced to. They melded together, clinging to each other for comfort and support. Everything else drifted away. The devastation outside. Her sleeping child on the bed. The barriers between them.

Dancing so close had a predictable physical effect: they both got aroused. Her breasts plumped against the constrictive tie, her nipples tingling. The flesh between her legs felt swollen and sensitive. His erection was unmistakable. He could pretend he didn’t notice her reaction. She couldn’t do the same.

He stopped dancing, his fingers flexing at her hips. He wanted to let his hands roam all over her body. She saw it in his eyes. But what he said was something polite and quiet, like “maybe we shouldn’t….”

She placed her fingertips on his jaw, feeling the slight scrape of stubble there. Then she kissed his tense mouth in demurral. Yes, they should.

He didn’t have to be talked in to it. Thank God. He kissed her back with only the slightest hesitation, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. She squirmed against him, lips parted in invitation. He slanted his mouth over hers and plunged his tongue inside. Stroking her, tasting her, filling her sweetly.

She curled her tongue around his, trembling with excitement. He smelled faintly of smoke and chlorine, which was a strange aphrodisiac. It drove her crazy, nevertheless. She moaned into his mouth, wanting to lick his hot skin.

His hands shifted to her bottom, cupping her through the silky fabric. He groaned, lifting her against his erection and letting her slide down. That was incredibly good. She gripped his neck and held on as he repeated the action. After three times, it was too much to bear. He turned her toward the bed, but he didn’t push her down. He broke the kiss, panting.

Asking.

She felt the edge of the mattress at the backs of her knees. His heart pounded against her chest and his erection throbbed against her lower abdomen. She didn’t want to let go of his neck, so she tugged him forward. He reclaimed her mouth as they fell across the bed together. The bounce reverberated through her injured thigh, but the discomfort was fleeting. He kissed it away, squeezing her satin-covered hip.

They kissed for as long as they danced, or longer. He didn’t press for more. In fact, he stretched out on his back and brought her on top of him. This action took the weight off her leg and let her set the pace. Her dress inched up her thighs. His hands followed, exploring her bottom through the fabric of her panties. She was frustrated by the layers of clothing. She wanted nothing between them.

His fingertips slid under her panties. The feel of his hand on her bare skin was electric. Escalating. He paused, as if gauging her response. She made it easy for him to interpret. Kissing him harder, she fumbled to release the buttons on his shirt. Posh as he looked, she was ready to rip the garment off of him.

He chuckled at her eagerness. Removing his hand from her panties, he helped her with the buttons. When she pushed it off his arms and splayed her hands over his chest, he drew in a sharp breath. She grasped his shoulders and lay back against the pillows, urging him to get on top of her. He made a growling sound, deep in his throat, and covered her mouth with his. She parted her lips and spread her thighs for him.

This position was a game-changer. The time for languid kissing had passed. He buried his tongue in her mouth and thrust against her. His erection nudged her swollen sex, sending sparks of pleasure through her body. She moaned and wrapped her legs around his waist, gripping his shoulders, begging for more. His hand traveled up her thigh, perhaps to divulge her of her panties. Instead, he encountered her bandage. And hesitated.

He lifted his head to study her. His lips were wet from her mouth, his eyes black. She glanced at Emma, who was still sleeping. Then she returned her attention to Mateo. He was staring at the bodice of her dress, which had slipped down. She fumbled with the tie and tugged the dress over her head.

He groaned at the sight of her in nothing but a bra and panties. The lace cups of her bra didn’t cover much, but she didn’t have much to cover. Their mouths met again, hot and eager. He shifted to his side and put his hands all over her, palming her hip and her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple. She shuddered with arousal.

He kissed her neck, pushing the bra strap off her shoulder. When she didn’t protest, he tugged the fabric down completely, baring her breasts. He didn’t appear disappointed by her size. He moistened his lips in anticipation, as if her nipples were some rare exotic fruit. She tensed as he put his mouth on her, sucking gently.

It felt odd. Especially the suction. She worried that her milk might let down. Which was ridiculous, as she hadn’t breast-fed for months.

“No,” she said, uncomfortable. “Don’t.”

He stopped at once, stricken.

She didn’t know how to explain. In her experience, men had fragile egos about sex. Constant erections and fragile egos. Maybe that combination balanced out with age. Lyle had gotten defensive over the gentlest of corrections. Once he’d told her to shut up until he was finished, as if she was interfering with the porno playing in his mind. She’d felt more like a masturbatory aid than a partner.

Mateo was clearly right here with her, not imagining someone else. But when he grabbed her discarded dress and gave it to her, she realized he’d misinterpreted her wishes. He thought she was calling a halt.

She tossed the dress aside, hoping she hadn’t blown it. “I just meant…no mouth. Here.” She touched her nipples. “It feels like…” She glanced at Emma.

Understanding dawned. “No mouth.”

“Hands are okay.” She lifted his to her breast. “See?”

“Sí.”

“Mouth here,” he said, brushing his lips over hers.

She melted against him. “Yes.”

Oh, yes.

They resumed kissing and touching, learning each other. She found that he had boundaries, too. He didn’t let her hands slip below his waist, and he kept his pants on. He seemed to want to focus on her pleasure.

No one had ever done that for her.

They didn’t have any condoms, so intercourse was out. She suspected that he was worried about her injured leg, because he was careful not to jostle her. His touch danced across her skin like magic. His mouth was bold and delicious. She clung to him, panting and aching and wanting more.

It had been almost three years since she’d had sex. She hadn’t been comfortable with her body during the second half of her pregnancy, and neither had Lyle. Their encounters hadn’t been very satisfying before, either. The only way she’d reached climax with him was by her own hand. Did that count?

Mateo murmured something to her and tugged at the waistband of her panties. She assisted him by taking them off. He slid one fingertip inside her, testing her heat. She gasped and spread her thighs wider.

Please.

He gave her what she wanted, at his own pace. His fingers caressed and penetrated, taking her to the brink. She trembled with anticipation as he circled her clitoris in slow motions. She gripped his wrist, almost there. As if sensing her capitulation, he covered her mouth with his. She came with a muffled cry, her eyes squeezed shut and her stomach quivering. Although she didn’t see stars, it was a near thing.

Wow.

When she opened her eyes, Mateo was watching her with a satisfied smile.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” she said.

“Claro.”

She had her legs akimbo and her bra tangled around her waist, like a shameless hussy. It felt pretty great.

“Otra vez?”
he offered.

She giggled, knowing what that meant. After checking on Emma, she reached for his belt. “What about you?”

He didn’t stop her, but he seemed conflicted.

“Just my hand,” she whispered.

Easily convinced, he helped her with the fly of his pants. She decided that basic briefs were sexy. Especially when he was in them. He lowered the waistband for her.

She curled her fingers around his shaft, thrilled. It had been a long time since she’d fondled a penis. He was bigger than Lyle, and he felt different in her hand. His erection didn’t slide through her closed fist the same way.

Mateo covered her hand with his, demonstrating what he liked. She made a firmer grip. He worked her fist up and down.

Oooh.

He was hard and smooth and hot. Stroking him was easier than stroking Lyle, for whatever reason. She pumped faster, enjoying it. His eyes moved from her hand to her breasts, which jiggled as she pleasured him. That was hot, too. She liked watching him watch her. He seemed captivated by what she was doing. Mesmerized. She had this strong man in the palm of her hand, literally. Sweat broke out on his forehead and a crease formed between his brows. His abdomen clenched.

He grabbed her discarded panties and spilled into them with a strangled groan. She kept her grip on his pulsing flesh. He didn’t soften much.

When it was over, he tossed her panties aside and collapsed against the pillows, his fly still open. She snuggled up next to him. After a short rest, he went to the bathroom. Then he brought her the yoga pants and T-shirt, along with a bottle of water. He was very considerate, even after he came. She donned the clothes and sipped the water, smiling. He blew out the candles and joined her in bed, kissing her temple.

She drifted off in his arms a few moments later, warm and content.

CHAPTER TWENTY

H
ELENA WATCHED
J
OSH
tear off the label and unscrew the cap.

He took a measured sip, grimacing as he swallowed. Although he didn’t cough or sputter, his reaction wasn’t that of an accomplished drinker. Maybe he wasn’t used to straight alcohol without ice or soda.

“Too strong?” she asked.

“It’ll put hair on your chest,” he rasped, passing her the bottle.

“Just what I need.” She studied the liquid inside the rim, wrinkling her nose when the fumes assailed her nostrils.

“What are you doing, smelling it?”

“Is that not recommended?”

He shrugged.

She tipped the bottle to her mouth, holding her elbow high and craning her neck forward. The whiskey tasted awful and burned her throat. She choked it down with a shudder and wiped her lips with the sleeve of her jacket.

He laughed, taking the bottle back. “You drink like a girl.”

“I am a girl.”

“I know,” he said, smiling to himself.

She didn’t think he meant to be flirtatious. It just came naturally to him. She wasn’t offended by his enjoyment of her “girlish” inexperience, or by his veiled reference to seeing her naked. His attention warmed her as much as the shot of whiskey. She liked his cocky sense of humor, his charming smile, the uneven stubble on his jaw. His honey-brown eyes. She studied the bandages on his arms, hoping the pain relievers had kicked in.

“I forgot the antibiotic injection,” she said, straightening.

He screwed the cap back on the bottle. “Fuck it.”

“No, you’ll get an infection.”

“Where does it go?”

“Exactly where you think.”

Swearing under his breath, he stood with her. She grabbed the lantern before they returned to the treatment area, aka “torture chamber,” where she found a new syringe and a vial of amoxicillin. “How much do you weigh?”

“One-eighty.”

More than she’d figured. After drawing up the proper amount, she turned to him. “Lower your pants a little.”

He didn’t protest or make any sexual innuendoes. Sighing, he tugged down the waistband of his pants and boxer shorts, revealing most of his right buttock. He had a tan line across his lower back. Below, he was pale and firm.

His muscle twitched as she stuck him, clenching the same way it would when he thrust inside a woman. The sight was enough to induce hot flashes. She removed the needle and pressed a cotton ball against the spot. “Hold this here for a minute.”

His fingertips replaced hers. “Was it good for you?”

She put the needle in the sharps container. “It wasn’t bad.”

“I can’t say I enjoyed it.”

“You tensed up, so that didn’t help.”

“Rookie mistake.”