The Hot One

A few weeks ago I couldn’t have conceived she’d be back in my life.

But the second I saw her in the park the other week, my future turned one, two, three clicks in a new direction. And she was that direction. The future I once wanted desperately to have then stupidly torpedoed has boomeranged back to me. I’ve been granted a chance to do everything right this time around.

As I kiss her while the elevator chugs upward in my building, I’m struck by the awareness of how absolutely fucking lucky I am.

I’m here because of random luck.

If I hadn’t gone to the park with my niece . . . if I hadn’t walked past that dude with the Rubik’s Cube . . . if I hadn’t opened my eyes at just that moment . . .

The elevator dings and the door opens on my floor.

A quick trip down the hall and I unlock my apartment. A strange flurry of tension settles over me. But as I watch Delaney’s eyes roam around my living room, taking in the crisp white walls, the blond hardwood floors, the light airy feel of my home, I realize I’m not tense at all.

I’m nervous.

I want her to like my home.

I want her to feel at home here.

I want her to be a part of my life.

She turns in a circle then meets my gaze. “I approve. Now show me the bedroom.”

I grin, my heart thumping happily. “As you wish,” I say, taking her hand, and walking down the short hallway to the bedroom. We stop just outside the door, and I adopt a serious expression as I set my hands on her shoulders. “I must warn you, though. I have something in here that’s quite rare in Manhattan homes.”

“A sex swing?”

“I hardly think that’s rare. I have”—I lower my voice to a stage whisper—“a king-size bed.”

Her brown eyes twinkle. “Don’t get me excited.”

I slide a hand under her dress, up her thigh. “I’m pretty sure you’re already excited.”

“I meant about the bed.”

I sweep out my arm toward the furniture in question. “Then, by all means, let’s get you in my bed.”

She swats my shoulder then steps through the doorway and looks around. The room is sparse by design. A bed with a white comforter, a bureau, and a lamp. Some books, some frames, a signed Los Angeles Dodgers baseball, and a few odds and ends.

She turns to me, her eyebrows arched in praise. “Let’s put that king-size bed to use.”

And those are the hottest words I’ve heard in a long time because it involves my favorite thing—making her come. That’s my first, second, and third priority as I yank off my wig and the bandana in one fast tug.

“No more Axl or Poison lookalike wig, but I’m still going to talk dirty to you,” I say and grasp her hips.

“You better.”

I strip her. Roping my arms around her, I slide the zipper down the back of her dress. She shivers as I let the material slip off her shoulders, over her arms, and the rest of the way down. I hold her hand as she steps out of the dress.

Before she can bend to pick it up—since I know she will—I grab the dress and fold it gently on top of the bureau.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“No. Thank you for wearing this lovely ensemble under the dress.”

That would be a white lace bra that lifts her breasts beautifully. My dick thumps hard against the zipper of my jeans as my eyes drink in her sheer white lace panties. I want them off so badly.

She lifts her hand to her hair, fingering the sapphire ends. “Wig on or off?”

“Don’t care,” I say, as I grab the tail of my T-shirt and yank it over my head. I’ve got a one-track mind. “All I need is for you to get those panties off and let me finally go down on you.”

“You say that like I’ve been depriving you for ages.”

I reach between her legs, dragging my fingers against the wet panel of her panties. She gasps, her gorgeous mouth falling open in an O.

“Considering I want little more than to bury my face between your legs, then yes, I’d say deprivation is what you’ve been cruelly practicing.”

“Then we should end your cruel punishment.”

I stroke her slippery wetness as I back her up to the bed. She loops her arms around my neck and tilts her chin up. She says my name like she’s going to tell me the secret to her world. “Tyler. I have a confession.”

I pull down her panties. “I’m all ears.”

“I’ve been getting off to you for the last few years,” she says as I help her step out of them.

A groan rumbles up my chest. “You have?”

She nods. “You’ve had some kind of voodoo hold on me. I tried to fight it, but I swear, every time, it was you. Your face, your voice, your hands.” Her tone goes gravelly, and I’ve never heard her more turned on. It makes me harder. Makes me hotter, until my skin burns with desire for her. “And your tongue. I’m obsessed with your tongue and your mouth and your lips.”

I groan, rough and husky, then seize her jaw and stare in her eyes. “I think you’re the one talking dirty to me.”

“It was always you. I always thought of you. You made me feel . . . so much.”

“Angel, you make me feel everything.” I dip my face to her neck, bring my teeth to her skin, and nip.

She yelps playfully. “That’s why I made you wait.”

I wrench back. “Because you thought of me?”

She nods then extracts herself from me, unhooking her bra and sinking down to the mattress. “Because I knew once you did that to me, there would be no going back. It was always my favorite thing. It always made me feel . . . vulnerable. More than sex. More than anything.”

“You’ve got to know it’s okay to be vulnerable with me. It’s okay to let yourself go.” I bend lower and park my palms on the edge of the mattress, pinning her with my eyes. “I love your abandon. I love it so much. Almost as much as I fucking love you. And I love how you respond to me.”

She falls back to her elbows. She’s naked save for her shoes. I run my hand along the leather of her boots. “I fucking love that you left these on.”

She scoots farther onto the bed, inching nearer the headboard. I climb up and prowl after her. She rests her head on some pillows. Then she parts her lovely legs and invites me to heaven.

And my dick sings hallelujah.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, marveling—just fucking marveling at this woman.

“Your pussy is so fucking pretty, Delaney,” I say, as I press my hands to her ankles.

She lets her knees fall open. I can’t do anything but stare helplessly. She’s so wet, so slick, so pink and perfect. I drag a finger over the strip of hair. “Love this little landing strip.”

She shivers, then shrugs playfully. “I can’t embrace the bare-as-a-bottom look.”

“No need to when this is hot as fuck.” I graze a finger through her wet folds, and her sexy smile disappears. It’s replaced by an exquisite cry.

Already.

Al-fucking-ready.

This woman.

She’s mine. She’s fucking mine.

I drop my face between her legs and flick my tongue across that slick heat.