Dirty Scoundrel

“Mmm.” His hands slide down my back in the most delicious way. “You never did make it to Stanford, did you.”

“Never even left town,” I admit. “Dad was one medical emergency after another, and by the time he stabilized, the money was gone and so was everyone else. We went from constantly having maids, assistants, and valets to having no one. I was all Dad had. So . . . I stayed and tried to make things work.”

“You’re the most loyal person I’ve ever met, Nat.” His voice is husky.

For some reason, hearing that from him makes me feel like crying. “Loyal to everyone but the one person that mattered the most, it seems.”

“We were both stupid kids,” he says, and his hands slide down to my ass and begin to knead it. It’s not exactly sunburned, but I can’t find it in me to protest. It feels too good. “Maybe we needed a few years apart to smarten up. Let the world deal us a few licks before we could get back together.”

“Maybe.”

“Still doesn’t mean I don’t want to punch your dad in the face.”

“I doubt he’d remember who you are,” I say with a little sigh. “And I don’t even know that he realizes what he did. Dad’s always been . . .”

“Selfish?” Clay volunteers.

It seems like the wrong word for it. “It’s hard to explain. People in Hollywood are different than you and me. He had people surrounding him for sixty years telling him how amazing he was. I think stuff like that eventually goes to your head. Plus, he was paid to pretend to be other people on screen. Off screen, I don’t think he knew how to turn it off. My dad just puts on a show, no matter who he’s around. I think that’s why he’s been divorced so many times. You peel back all the acting layers, and there’s not much left underneath.”

“Kinda sad if you ask me.”

And that’s the right word for it. Sad. Sad that my dad’s ailing and he’s got no one left but a too-young daughter. Sad that he’s had such heights of fame and he’s going to spend his last days forgotten and alone. Sad that he’s never really built real bonds with anyone . . . even me. Sad that I care and still wish he was the dad I always wanted as a little girl. “Yeah. Sad.”

Clay’s hands stroke my butt again, and then his fingers slide down the insides of my thighs. It sends hot little prickles through my body. “Um . . .”

“You ain’t sunburned here, but I can’t resist,” he murmurs. “Wanna put my mouth all over this skin of yours so badly but you’re sunburned. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“And you probably don’t want a mouthful of aloe,” I tease, though I’m getting all breathless and turned on. “Let’s not talk about my dad anymore, okay? It ruins the mood.”

“I completely agree. Why don’t you turn over and I can rub your front for you?”

I roll onto my back and put my hands over my breasts, feeling shy. My burned skin feels as if it scrapes against the sheets and I wince. “Maybe I should stay on my stomach. I think my back’s twice as bad as the front.”

“Yeah, but the view is amazing like this,” Clay tells me, grinning wickedly down at me. For a moment, he looks so much like the boy I fell in love with seven years ago that I lose my breath. With his beard gone, he does look a little younger—but he’s still Clay. Still ruggedly handsome, still chiseled and tanned and delicious. His smile fades and he groans. “The way you look at me, Nat—”

“Sorry,” I say meekly.

“Don’t you fuckin’ apologize. Love the way you devour me with your eyes.” His gaze is heated, and he grabs one of my hands, prying it off my breast. “Don’t want you hidin’ these from me, either. They’re mine. All of you belongs to me.”

“Because you bought me?” I tease.

The look in his eyes is serious. Hungry. Possessive. “No. Because you’ve always been mine and always will be.”

I shiver at those words. God, I feel so needy around him. So hungry for more. “I’m sorry I had to go and get sunburned,” I say softly. “I guess I ruined any hopes for sex tonight. And here I keep hearing how amazing reunion sex is.”

“Mmm. Way I look at it, nothin’s been ruined if you ask me.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my gently rounded stomach and then licks at my skin. I’m pale there, and un-burnt. And then he kisses lower. And lower, making a beeline for my mound.

“Clay,” I protest softly. It doesn’t seem right that he’s paying me to be his toy and he’s the one giving all the pleasure tonight. Because it’s clear what he wants to do, and I don’t know that I want to stop him. Lord have mercy, the last thing I want is to stop him.

“You shush. This is for me as much as it is for you,” he murmurs, and then pushes my thighs apart.

Somehow I doubt that. But if he wants to believe it, I’ll let him.

He makes a sound of pure pleasure as his mouth descends on my pussy. “Been thinkin’ about this for days.” His hand grips my thigh and he gives me a long, loving taste, then swirls his tongue around my clit. I cry out at the sensation, my body jerking in response. “Thought I was kidding myself with how good this pussy tastes,” Clay tells me. “Thought my imagination was goin’ wild and I was makin’ it out to be better than it was. But now that I can lick you again? I wasn’t wrong. You’re my new favorite flavor, baby.”

I moan, shivering. I don’t know what’s better—his filthy words or his mouth as he kisses me in my most secretive of places. All I know is that I don’t want him to stop. Ever.

Clay licks me with long, slow strokes of his tongue, dragging back and forth over my clit in a way that feels a bit like torture and a bit like bliss. It makes me squirm with need, and the more I wriggle on the bed, the tighter he grips my hips so I can’t get away.

“Clay,” I pant. “Oh god, please stop. You’re killing me.”

“You really want me to stop?” he asks, and then slides his tongue along the hood of my clit. “Or you want me to give you a little more?” One finger plays at the entrance to my core, circling my sensitive flesh there.

Damn it. “More,” I grit out. God, I want so much more. I want to come. I want him to fuck me with his fingers. I want everything. “If you stop right now, I think I might scream.”

“Well, now, I like the thought of you screamin’,” he drawls, and presses another light kiss to my folds. His finger dips inside of me, and then he begins to stroke it gently, in and out. “I like it when you lose control, Natalie. You’re always so proper and reserved. Makes me want to turn you into a wildcat.” He adds a second finger, and I feel full and yet still so hollow inside. I want more. Now that I’ve had him inside me, I know what I’m missing.

A low moan rises in my throat at the delicious torture.

“That’s better,” Clay whispers, then flicks his tongue against my clit. “Tell me how much you like my mouth on you, Nat.”

I’m beyond coherent thought at this point. All I know is that every time I cry out his name, his tongue moves. Every time I moan, his fingers pump into me. I know he’s silently encouraging me to be noisy, but I don’t even care. I’m a begging mess as he ruthlessly tongues me, thrusting with his hand. The pleasure escalates, and so does my volume. By the time my orgasm hits, I’m pretty sure people from three counties around have heard me screaming Clay’s name.

But man, it was worth it. As I fall back on the blankets, panting, I stare up at the ceiling, dazed as the pleasure washes over me. Just when I thought it couldn’t get better than last time, Clay proves me wrong.

He presses a kiss to my thigh and then moves onto the bed next to me. With his head propped up by one hand, he gazes down at me as I pant and try to catch my breath. I feel boneless and weak with relief, but I also feel so, so sexy right now. When he reaches out and brushes a sweaty lock of hair off my forehead, the feel of his cool hand against my skin reminds me that parts of me are bright red. “This is probably not my most seductive moment,” I tell him, smiling.

“You’d be wrong,” he tells me, and leans down to give me a light kiss on the mouth. I notice that there’s a slight musky taste to his mouth, and blush to realize that it’s me that I’m tasting. As his body presses against mine, I can feel his cock against my hip. He’s still hard, the tip of his cock wet with pre-cum.

Of course he’s hard. He hasn’t come. It was just me that got pleasured.

That seems somehow wrong. I lean into the kiss when he lowers his mouth again, and slide my hand to his cock, curling my fingers around his length.

His mouth breaks from mine in a gasp. His eyes close and he presses his forehead to mine. I don’t even mind the twinge it sends through my sunburn—I’m just fascinated by his response. “Nat,” he breathes. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” I whisper. “I know I don’t have to.” Like this big idiot thinks I could possibly not want to touch him? He’s gorgeous. And ever since I saw him naked, I’ve wanted to touch him. I want to give him pleasure like he gives me pleasure.

I want him to need me as much as I need him.

I let my fingers play up and down his length, exploring him. I trace my fingers over every vein, every crease, fascinated by how very soft and warm his skin is here, and how hard he is underneath it. The soft hairs surrounding his cock are springy and dark, and I brush over them before cupping his sac. “What feels best?” I ask, curious.

“All of it,” he tells me. “All of it feels good. Don’t care what you do as long as you put your hand on me.”

Well, that I can definitely do. I stroke my fingertips over the head of his cock, playing with the fluid beaded there and slicking it over his skin. I want to give him a hand job, I think, but I’m not sure how to grip him properly. I lean in, pressing my mouth toward his, and when he kisses me, it’s with all the intense urgency I’ve come to think of as Clay, and it makes me feel all stirred up all over again. My grip on his cock tightens, and I give him an experimental little pump of my hand. When he says nothing, I do it again.