Goode To Be Bad Page 2

  “What?” he said, smirking.

  “Nothing.” I batted my eyelashes at him. “Just, you know…looking at the sexiest man I’ve ever seen.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Ever?”

  “Honestly, yeah.” I sidled closer to him, so only an inch separated us. “Ever. And I’ve seen a lot of sexy men.”

  “Just looking at me, huh?” He hooked a finger through the belt loop of my cutoff jean shorts.

  “Well, no.” I felt the flutter of unease settle as I entered more familiar and comfortable territory. “Just looking, and considering…other stuff.”

  “Such as?”

  I shrugged, demure and delicate and innocent. “Oh, just…things.” I reached down and peeled my shirt up, off—no bra, the tight T-shirt lifting my breasts and letting them fall with a heavy bounce as the tight white cotton let them go.

  His eyes widened, as if, despite us having sex at least once a day every day since we met, he still couldn’t get over my body. Which felt…really good. “I’m on board so far,” he muttered.

  I pushed his shirt up and off, because I liked looking at his ripped chest and abs. Now for the fun part: I sank to my knees and slowly unbuttoned his fly. Lowered the zipper. His bulge sprang out against the gray cotton of his boxer-briefs. Tugged his jeans down around his ankles—he lifted a bare foot and I slipped the leg off, then the other. His underwear next, and then he was gloriously naked for me. Tanned skin stretched tight around hard muscles, broad flat chest, an eight-pack razoring down to a sharp V-cut, which framed the most gorgeous male member I’ve ever had the privilege of laying eyes on. Long, but god, so thick. Thick enough to make me gasp every time he slid into me. Straight as an arrow, flat up against his belly.

  Well, right now, he was still only partially erect—thickening but still dangling forward and pointing at the floor. This was one of my favorite things, him floppy, just begging for me to get him hard. Didn’t take much—he was staring down at me and watching me, anticipating, soaking up the sway of my boobs, and he was slowly hardening.

  Not fast enough.

  I slid my hands up the backs of his thighs. Cupped his buttocks, held the taut hard globes in my hands and kissed his thigh, just above his left knee. An inch higher, then across to his right thigh. Higher. Back and forth, kissing my way up one thigh and the other, alternating. To his hipbones. Licking his salty firm flesh, over his abs, under his belly button. Ran my tongue down his V-cut. He twitched, cock jerking, the tip lifting. His hands dangled at his sides, fingers curling into fists as he anticipated what I was going to do next. Like he didn’t know. Silly man.

  I fitted the broad round head into my mouth. Slid him in, tongue fluttering.

  “Fuck, Lex,” he growled. “Love your mouth, babe.”

  I smiled at him—with my eyes, at least, my mouth being otherwise occupied. Let him fall out. He pointed straight forward, now, half erect. I licked him from root to tip along the underside, lifting him with my tongue and then rolling my mouth over the top to plunge him deep. Away. Flopping out again. Fingernails tracing designs on his buttocks, squeezing, palming. Nuzzling his cock with my nose, my lips, my chin. Toying with him.

  Now, finally, he was fully erect, eight inches of perfection nearly as thick as my wrist. I moved to take him in my mouth again, but he caught my chin with one hand. Applied gentle pressure to lift me to my feet.

  “No more of that.” He palmed my breast, flicking my nipple until I hissed in pleasure. “Got other plans.”

  I pulled away from his touch, back to the window. Unbuttoned my shorts and wiggled out of them. Naked, writhed up against him. “Oh yeah? What plans would that be, Myles?”

  He reached down between my thighs. Felt me, slid a fingertip along my seam. Found my clit, already engorged and sensitive. “Well, first, I think you need to come.”

  I swallowed hard as he feathered just a single fingertip over me, swirling in gentle circles. “Keep that up and I will, and soon.”

  He brought one of my hands to the apex of my thighs. “Got a better idea. You do it while I go get a condom.”

  I used two fingers with gentle pressure, going slow and light as he walked away, his hard ass moving in a delicious rhythm. I bit my lip as I tried to go slow, but my need was a pulsating wildfire within me, nearing crescendo already. I fought it off, and pushed down the need to come. It was futile—I was a hair trigger under the best of circumstances. He was in front of me, swaggering toward me, huge hard cock standing up on end, swaying with each step, waggling at me as he approached, as if that magnificent organ was waving at me, beckoning me. He had a condom in his hand, a gold square packet. I waited for him to approach, till he was inches from me, our skin nearly touching.

  I waited.

  Drew it out.

  Let him want me—let him watch me as my fingers moved in slow circles around my clit. I was buckling, my resistance crumbling under the tsunami of orgasmic pressure rolling within me. My movements deliberately slow, light soft delicate touches, I felt myself rising. Felt my core tightening. Bit my lower lip. Kept my eyes on his, reached one hand to his shoulder to brace myself as I curled forward, knees buckling, spine bowing forward as the climax began to sear and sizzle and bolt through me.

  “Myles,” I breathed. “I’m gonna come.”

  He snagged my wrist. “Not yet you’re not.”

  I growled at him. “Don’t you deny my orgasm, damn you.”

  He laughed. “I’m not—switch with me.” He gave me the condom and when I took it, he placed one big finger where mine had been, and he was not so light, not gentle. Not so slow. He pushed me over the edge with a single swipe through my wet center, and then his finger delved into me, gathering my essence and smearing it over me, curling inside me and finding something like a switch, like a button, taking my orgasm from a flicker of a candle to the scorching blaze of the sun. I screamed, knees giving out as the orgasm wrenched through me. Condom forgotten, I knew nothing but the overwhelming nova of climax, and he held me through it, one hand cradling my ass to hold me against him, his wrist pinned between our bodies as he flicked me to ever more spastic heights of delirium, not letting me fade from the orgasm but pushing me through it to something more, something hotter, something wilder.

  I came back to earth eventually, still coming, but able to comprehend my place in the universe. Knees shaking, trembling all over, I ripped the condom packet open with my teeth and rolled it onto him.

  Myles grabbed my hips and spun me in a circle. Pressed up against the window, I spread my legs apart for him, braced my hands on the glass. He fit two fingers to my opening and guided himself to me. Notched his cock at my entrance. Nuzzled in. Leaned against me, just the fat broad head inside my nether lips. His mouth tickled my ear.

  “Ready, Lexie?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Too bad.” He slammed into me, and I screamed.

  The glass was cold against my breasts and sex and cheek—I was hard up against it, breasts smashed flat, his hand around my hip, fingering my clit from the front as he slid into me from behind. Dallas was spread out beneath us, far below, and I wondered if anyone could see us—maybe in the building across the street. I liked the idea of an unknown person watching this—it made it thrilling without being an exhibitionist thing. Myles lifted up on his toes, driving into me, and I gasped at the fullness of him inside me, spreading me apart, splitting me until I ached, burned. I would never get used to his cock, how impossibly huge it was. I mean, could the man be any more of a rock star god? Messy hair, beautiful voice, skilled guitar player, and a cock like a horse. And I had every beautiful inch inside me as his hips clapped against my ass.

  “Lex, baby, now are you ready?”

  I nodded against the glass. “Yeah, Myles. Now I’m ready.”

  “Thank fuck.”

  Little secret about Myles: he liked to come fast and hard. He could hold out, of course. Had the kind of stamina you’d imagine a man like him would have—he could fuc
k me all night long and not come until he decided he was ready to. But if I’d already gotten an O or two in, he liked to just let go. He’d give me my orgasm, and then he’d just pound into me without anything like technique or rhythm, just drill and drive and pound until he came.

  It was glorious.

  This was what he wanted, right now—to know if I was ready for him to cut loose.

  I pawed the window, palms stuttering down the glass as Myles pulled back, fluttering a few light soft strokes, teasing me.

  And then he slammed into me. Again. Again.

  My whole body shook with the force of his thrusts, lifting me involuntarily up onto my toes. He clawed a hand over my breast, clutching one big globe, and the other hand he pressed over my sex, fingers sliding against my clit. Fucking me, kneading my breast, and fingering my clit all at once, in separate rhythms. I was such a lucky girl.

  I felt myself rising to the occasion yet again as Myles pounded into me, hard and fast, grunting in my ear.

  And then he started gasping, cursing, whispering my name—now he would come. My favorite part.

  “Ohhh fuck, Lex, Lex, baby, oh fuck, Lexie.”

  “Come for me, Myles. Give it to me hard.”

  He slammed into me. “Like this?”

  I pushed against him, pressing away so I could bend over, hands on the glass. “Harder.”

  He gave it to me harder, my ass cheeks shaking as he drove into me with renewed vigor, chasing his orgasm as if it was running away from him.

  And then, I knew it was time.

  Now.

  He lifted me upright, slammed me up against the window again, pressed his lips to my ear, hand barred across my tits and his other swiftly flicking my clit. Cock pounding into me, slapping and driving, his grunts wordless.

  “Lex,” he gasped. “Fuck, baby—take it, take it.”

  Don’t call me baby—I didn’t say it.

  He came with a roar, and I came with him. It hurt, I came so hard. I felt him throb inside me, even through the condom, and I buried the longing to feel him bare inside me. Savagely shoved that need way down deep. Denied it.

  He came, and I came, and together we shook, shivered, and he grunted and swore and prayed my name, over and over, whispering my name as he shuddered behind me.

  And then my knees gave out, and he caught me. Lifted me in his arms, carried me to the bed. Tossed me onto it—gasping, I watched him saunter into the bathroom, strip the condom off and wrap it in toilet paper, give himself a quick wipe, and then he launched himself onto the bed, bouncing next to me, sending me airborne—only to catch me in his arms.

  “How can sex get better every time?” he muttered. “Like, there has to be an upward limit to how good sex can get, right?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno.”

  “Is it, for you?”

  I nodded, following the direction of his question. “Better every time? Yes. Seems impossible, but there it is—every time we fuck, it’s more incredible than the last time.”

  And part of me hated that truth, because I already knew I was in deep shit with this man. I was addicted to him. To his laughter, his music. To his hands, his mouth. To his cock, like whoa. To sex with him—fuck…to the intimacy. It was not just fucking, with Myles. I knew that, and I was fighting it. I wouldn’t admit that out loud, much less to him. To anyone, much less myself. But it was true.

  I just didn’t want him to realize it.

  That was safer. Easier.

  As was this—basking in the afterglow of great sex, rather than still talking. Still sharing our feelings. Still putting our relationship such as it was into a box, inside neat little labels, with emotional attachments and expectations.

  Myles was content to snuggle up behind me, limp cock nestled in my butt cheeks, hand lazily, idly caressing my breasts. Not sleeping—he never fell asleep after sex—but just…this. Holding me.

  I fought impatience. Fought discomfort. I liked being here, in his arms. Being held. I did. I really, truly did. But I also felt a deep, driving discomfort, a fear of liking it too much.

  Myles’s phone rang in the other room, and he groaned. “That’s Tony’s ring. He probably has a plane for us.”

  “You should answer it,” I said.

  “Mmm. Like it better here.”

  “You like being able to hold on to my boobs,” I said, laughing.

  “Absolutely the truth.” He squeezed. “Every single time I get to see them naked or touch them, I feel as lucky and giddy as if I was a fourteen-year-old boy seeing your tits for the first time.”

  He wasn’t lying, either. He did look at me and touch me exactly like that.

  Another thing I was fucking addicted to, dammit.

  The phone silenced. Rang again immediately.

  I plucked his hand off my breast. “Go.”

  He groaned, but wrenched himself away and swaggered naked and perfect into the living room, answered the phone, standing nude in the middle of the room—I just stared at him, feeling just as fortunate and lucky and giddy to get him naked in my life. I mean, look at him. The muscles of his back rippled, his ass flexed into taut marble bubbles as he moved his weight from foot to foot, his bicep flexing as he lifted the phone to his ear. Legs like trees, a little hairy. Hair was a mess, but perfectly so.

  Damn, damn, damn. The man was incredible.

  And I, stupidly, impossibly, wanted him again. Right now. I could jump on that cock right now and come just as hard, enjoy him just as much. It was a problem, how insatiable he made me—I was already running a sex-drive of nearly nymphomaniacal levels, and Myles North put me into super-hyper-ultra turbo drive.

  All I wanted to do was fuck him, again and again.

  If only because as long as we were fucking, we weren’t getting anywhere near discussions of my past, my issues, or putting labels on what Myles and I were or were not.

  I wondered if he would ever catch on to that. I hoped not. But he wasn’t dumb—far from it. I had a feeling my days of sexuality as avoidance were numbered—I’d squeeze every last bit out of the time I had left, though. And then some.

  Because I was a seriously fucked-up woman. I wondered if Myles knew…and hoped like hell he didn’t.

  Myles

  Sprawled out on the couch, I signed the last of the documents—digitally, on my iPad. Sent them back. Within minutes, I had the paperwork signifying me as the owner of a ten-year-old Cessna ten-passenger jet. The next email from Tony contained his top four picks for pilot and copilot: each was every bit as certified as the last, most former airline pilots now flying private. One was ex-military, certified to fly everything from helicopters to fighter jets, with thousands of hours of flight time on nearly everything imaginable; he was my top pick, just based on his resumé. My other pick was similar—a former Navy pilot with several thousand hours on multi-engine aircraft, now flying as a private aviation pilot. If I was putting my life in their hands, they damn well better be the best.

  I sent Tony my choices, and he shot back a quick reply—I knew you’d pick them. I already asked them to be ready for interviews in the next ten minutes.

  I sent back a reply: I say we interview them together—see how they interact.

  Tony: Agreed. We’ll do an online video conference; you don’t have to say anything unless you want to. I’ll send you a link to the meeting.

  While I was busy with paperwork and emails, Lexie went out and came back with coffees and Danish from my favorite neighborhood place. How did she know I needed some caffeine right now? I gave her a quick kiss and then spent the next half an hour listening to Tony interview the pilots—Captain Alan Murphy and Captain Rebecca Callahan. Yeah, the Navy pilot was a woman. Part of why I wanted to be in for the interview, to see how Captain Murphy would treat a female, who would, depending on the flight, be either the lead or the copilot. To his credit, Murphy was respectful, polite, and seemed impressed by Callahan’s qualifications—they spent part of the interview essentially interviewing each other, and sharing
military pilot shoptalk.

  As the interview was wrapping up, I finally clicked my video on, so they knew who I was—keeping the view shoulders up, seeing as I was still buck naked. “Tony, Captain Murphy, Captain Callahan.” I gave them a moment to absorb who I was. “I’m on board with you both, but the reason I wanted to do this online with both of you was to see how you two get along. I’ll be flying a lot, and you guys need to get along like peanut butter and jelly.”

  Captain Murphy—salt and pepper hair in a high-and-tight, good-looking in a severe, hard-eyed way—was first to speak. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. North. I appreciate the opportunity, sir. I’m excited to begin.”

  Captain Callahan—younger by ten or fifteen years, in her mid-to-late thirties, pretty, with blond hair in a short, sleek cut—was next. “Let me just get this out of the way, and then I’ll be done—I’m a huge fan, Mr. North.” She grinned. “Okay, that’s it. I just had to get it out of my system. I’m ready to fly, sir. Anytime, anywhere.”

  I asked the question Tony had not: “Murphy, I just have one question.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “How do you feel about flying with Captain Callahan?”

  A pause. “Her qualifications are impeccable, as is her record. I’ll be honored to fly with her.”

  I leaned closer to the camera of my iPad. “Honest, now, Murphy. No issues that she’s a woman? I want zero bullshit. So don’t be nice, don’t be politically correct. Just be real.”

  He nodded, scratched his clean-shaven jaw. “My daughter is getting her pilot’s license soon. I’ve flown with her several times.” He lifted his hands. “I appreciate your bluntness, Mr. North, so I’ll give it back. I’ll fly with anyone who’s qualified. If she flies as well as her record indicates, we’ll have a happy cockpit. I don’t play favorites and I’m no sexist. My only concern is that we’re professionals.”

  “No personal drama, either, right?” I smirked, so they knew what I meant.