Ask Me Nicely Page 2

  “You have a great body,” she finally said as her gaze returned to his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”

  Doyle blinked at both the directness of her statement and the sudden hot jolt that streaked through his loins. What the hell did she expect him to say to that? He took a deliberately measured swallow of cold, bitter beer. “Considering you barely tell me hello most days, I’m not surprised.”

  She feigned a hurt expression as she toyed with the beer she’d nestled at the juncture of her thighs, picking at the label. Doyle did not want to think about the latent phallic signals. Not when he was fairly certain she’d done it deliberately.

  Desire coiled tight in his belly as his smoldering loins inched closer to combustion.

  “I say hello.”

  Doyle quirked an eyebrow at her. They both knew her hellos were perfunctory at best. “Plus officially you’re my boss and that could be classed as sexual harassment.”

  She smiled at him then, those blue eyes of hers dancing a flirty little dance with his. Bewitching. Beguiling. Breathtaking.

  Gypsy eyes.

  No wonder men flocked to her. When Sally Kennedy wanted to, she could really turn it on.

  “That’s not sexual harassment,” she said, putting her beer down. “This is sexual harassment.”

  And, as Chris Isaak started to sing baby did a bad, bad thing, she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his.

  Doyle groaned as the kiss hit him at full speed, her mouth opening, her tongue gliding over his lips and pushing into his mouth. His hand slid into her hair, cupping the back of her head as she melted against him, his beer bottle clinking against hers as he shoved it on the bench. His thumb angled her jaw as every trace of common sense fled. Heat and blind lust boiled and seethed through every cell of his body, propelled by the deep, rapid thud of his heart.

  He’d been fantasizing about this moment from the second she’d scowled at him and told him she didn’t screw the crew, and it was better than he’d imagined. She tasted like Cuervo and beer and smelled like cookie dough, and he wanted to lick every inch of her.

  He wanted to lay her out on the counter beside him, where they ate a near-silent breakfast every morning, and feast.

  She grabbed the front of his T-shirt as if trying to get nearer, and he slid his hands onto her butt, obliging her, tugging her, dragging her closer to the rampant heat and hardness between his legs as the kiss grew hotter.

  His dick throbbed, and he wanted to feel her on him, around him, so fucking bad.

  Her hands pushed under his shirt, molding his belly and his pecs, her fingernails dragging across his nipples as he thrust his tongue in and out of her mouth in time to the grind of her hips.

  His head spun as his senses filled with the smell of her. Chocolate chips and aroused woman. Beer and tequila. Fuck. He’d wanted to taste her from that first day, and he was starving. He wanted to tip the rest of the Cuervo over her and lap it from her skin, finding all the places it ran.

  Her hand landed on his rock-hard cock, squeezing it before dipping inside his shorts and grabbing hold. The bold move dragged him under and pushed him out all at the same time.

  Jee-zus. So freaking good. But…

  Fuck. What was going on here? What was he doing?

  He couldn’t bite back the groan that escaped his throat even as his hand landed on her wrist and he tore his mouth from hers.

  “Okay…whoa,” he said, holding her tight and reaching for a slither of sanity inside a head completely addled by lust. “Stop.” Fuck. How did they get here so quickly?

  “D…Doyle?”

  She was breathing hard as she looked at him, her blue eyes turbulent with confusion. Or maybe that was just the remnants of lust. She moved her hand again, reaching for him, but he clamped her wrist harder, dragging it out of his shorts.

  She frowned. “What…I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry,” Doyle muttered. More sorry than she could ever know. His body was screaming at him, blood pounding through his chest and ears, drumming an urgent, insistent beat.

  Kiss her. Touch her. Fuck her.

  But his honor demanded that he not take advantage of a woman who’d been shooting tequila and was clearly in some kind of turmoil.

  Which didn’t stop his libido from being thoroughly pissed.

  The two had never really gotten on.

  “Look,” he said, staring at her wet, ravaged mouth for way longer than was good for his sanity. “Something’s obviously…going on with you tonight and you’re…a little drunk. So I think we need to stop this now before you do something you might regret in the morning.”

  He’d spent the last four months in her bad books and he hadn’t done a damn thing other than his job and keep out of her way as much as possible. He could only begin to imagine the crap she could dish out if he’d slighted her.

  No matter how damn much she begged for it.

  And if she thought he was one of her yes-men, someone she could crook her finger at and have him drop to his knees at her feet, then she didn’t know him at all.

  Chapter Two

  No?

  Sal dragged in heavy air, almost mewing her disappointment out loud.

  No, no, no.

  Every nerve ending in her body was alive with potential. Doyle Jackson could kiss like he was born to do it. She’d almost come just from his tongue in her mouth.

  And it had all been ripped away.

  Of course, she was about as primed for an orgasm as it was possible to be—but then she’d been like that for months with no joy. But maybe big bad Doyle Jackson with his huge shoulders and his dark, brooding sexuality was the answer her libido had been seeking.

  Hot stuff. That’s what Gemma, one of the practice nurses, called him. And now she knew it for a fact. He was tall and broad and dark. Charcoal buzz cut, midnight stubble at his jaw, deep brown tan that seemed to go everywhere.

  Plus the flat abs. And a butt she’d been secretly drooling over for far too long.

  They were still close, their bodies separate, his hands keeping their hips apart but only just. He hadn’t pushed her away. She could feel the inside of his knee, caressing the outside of her thigh.

  Maybe there was still hope. And she just needed a few moments. Just a little stimulation in the right place.

  “I’m not that drunk,” she said, the tequila talking as she forced lightness into her voice, her fingers feathering the prominence of his collarbone, tracing it all the way up to a huge shoulder, her splayed hand barely encompassing the roundness of the joint.

  She wanted to sink her teeth into it. Preferably as she climaxed.

  If she didn’t get some release soon, she was going to implode. And Doyle looked like he was up to the challenge.

  He reached for the fingers stroking him and captured her hand against his chest, looking at her through shuttered eyes. “What happened to you?” he asked.

  His black eyes were full of compassion and Sal hated that. She hated that he looked at her like she was broken.

  Yeah, she was broken. But that was her cross to bear. Nobody else’s. Not her brother’s. Not Josie’s.

  Not his.

  Hers.

  She hated feeling exposed like this. She hated his looking at her like he could help her in some way. Like she was some project to be fixed.

  She didn’t want to be fixed. Nobody could fix the shit in her head. She ought to know—she’d lived with it for the last five years. Almost six.

  She just wanted to be fucked; she wanted to come her brains out. She wanted to sleep without the dreams sucking her back to that day six years ago. She felt its relentless tug even now, and she’d do anything to escape from its cruel embrace.

  Even, apparently, offer herself up to hot stuff.

  Doyle freaking Jackson.

  She knew he was going to be trouble from the day she’d clapped eyes on him. But right now she was desperate, and he could be just the kind of trouble she needed.

&n
bsp; “Nothing,” she murmured. “I just…I just need…”

  “What?” he whispered, looking at her with such intensity Sal almost came from that alone. “What do you need? Tell me.”

  Tell him? It was on the tip of her tongue to say, you can’t handle the truth. He’d stopped in the middle of kissing her, for fuck’s sake. She’d had her hand on his dick.

  His very big dick.

  I think we need to stop this now before you do something you might regret in the morning.

  Did he honestly think she could tell him what she needed when he had the whole honorable thing going on? It’d probably only make it worse. It wasn’t like what she needed was of some altruistic bent.

  I just need to come screaming my tits off wasn’t something she felt comfortable saying to the guy who had just removed her hand from his dick and with whom she’d previously only had discussions around passing the sugar and whether he could cover her three o’clock.

  Men who were grateful she took the time to put her hand on their dicks—she knew what to do with. Men who passed on that…

  There were no words.

  Nobody had ever passed on that.

  And Sal had always been a believer in actions being stronger than words. It had certainly served her well the past five—six—years. But clearly that wasn’t going to work on Mr. Tall Dark and Asexual.

  Just her luck to not only have developed a resistance to pleasure, but to have chosen the one man in the universe who also appeared to be resistant to it.

  Even if his dick was telling her different.

  “Sal?”

  His deep voice rumbled around her as he looked at her with eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. She lowered her gaze. She didn’t let anyone in there.

  “I just need…”

  His cock, still hard, perfectly outlined in his flesh-hugging shorts, filled her vision. Clearly he wanted her. Wanted this. But he was determined not to go there.

  A first for her.

  And, strangely, she didn’t know how to ask him for it. She never had to ask for it. Men usually got the message when she unzipped their fly.

  But here she was, standing in front of an obviously aroused man, who didn’t seem to give a damn about the state of his dick and had already knocked back a sexual advance most other men would sit up and beg for. An advance his body obviously craved.

  That was a new one.

  Normally it would challenge the heck out of her, but tonight it just frustrated her.

  “What?” he asked again, his voice all silky, slipping under her skin like smooth velvet, prickling at it like sharp nails, his fingers firm against her hips.

  Sal almost sobbed in frustration. “I just need…”

  She didn’t know how to say it, not to Doyle, but she did know how to get it. Shifting back slightly, she eased her right leg over the top of his thigh until it was between her legs and she was straddling his bulky quad. The soft, pliant heat of her center aligned perfectly with the hard, firm heat of his quadriceps, and it felt so damn good that for one crazy moment she thought she might actually burst into tears. She rubbed against it slightly, shutting her eyes and grabbing hold of his shirt. A whimper erupted from her throat.

  “Oh,” he said, his voice falling around her like confetti carved from gravel. “You need some of this?” He bent his knee, contracting the thigh muscle, hardening it, hitching her up a little higher, pushing into her a little firmer. “You wanna get off?”

  “Oh God,” Sal gasped, opening her eyes as she ground into him, grabbing for his shoulder and clamping down on it. “Yes, God yes.”

  She could feel herself all slick and needy as he mashed his thigh into her hard. And it felt good, so good. Far, far better than anything she’d had these past months.

  She dropped her head back, her eyes shut, letting the build wash over her. Rocking her pelvis, her breathing ragged as she worked herself on him, his hands holding her hips steady, his leg firm and hard.

  “What else do you need?”

  She blindly reached for his face, pressing her index finger to his mouth. “Shh,” she said as she rocked faster, her head still thrown back. “Just…don’t move…don’t speak…” She panted. “Just…a little longer…”

  It was there, she could feel the edges starting to lift a little, giving her a glimpse at the nirvana beneath. This was where she could get to herself.

  Lifting, lifting, lifting.

  So close and yet so far.

  She ground harder, growling in frustration as the need unspooling inside her seemed to plateau suddenly and just spin on its axis, going nowhere.

  “Damn it,” she half hissed, half sobbed, pounding a fist at his big round shoulder as pleasure slipped from her grasp.

  Not again.

  Doyle winced a little at the blow. The petite blonde going all wild thing on his leg could sure pack a punch. He frowned as she writhed against him, getting more and more worked up, getting nowhere.

  He didn’t know what was eating Sal, but he knew he could fix it.

  At least for tonight. For right now.

  Taking advantage of a woman in some kind of emotional turmoil for his own pleasure wasn’t his thing, but he wasn’t against letting her use his body, use him, to get off. It was clearly what she needed, what her body was seeking to cure whatever the hell was ailing her.

  What it craved.

  Maybe that was all kinds of fucked-up wrong, but with her melting down in front of him, it seemed all kinds of right.

  “Let me help you with that,” he said and slid his hand up the leg of her tartan pajamas shorts and into her underwear, finding her hot and slick. So wet. He bit down on a groan as his cock bucked hard in response.

  She gasped, her head snapping up, her grip on his shoulder viselike. “Yes,” she muttered, her pale blue eyes locking on his, her hips rotating hard against his hand, working in tandem with his fingers.

  “Like this?” Doyle asked, finding her engorged clitoris and rubbing hard.

  Her eyes widened. “God…yes…”

  “And this?” He slid his index finger up into her tight, wet heat.

  She gasped, then bit her lip, her hips rocking, and it took all Doyle’s willpower to ignore the thrum in his blood that demanded he rip down his shorts and pull her onto him, replace his finger with what they both really wanted.

  “More,” she panted, looking right at him, riding him.

  “Another?” he asked, conscious that the music had changed again and some guy was singing I want to do bad things with you.

  He wanted to do bad things with her so fucking much.

  “Like this?” His middle finger joined the party, his thumb taking over the relentless pressure on her clit.

  She moaned. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…yes…” She shut her eyes, tilting her pelvis as her head flopped back, exposing the long, slender arch of her throat to his gaze.

  “You wanna come, Sal?”

  “Yes,” she whimpered. “God…yes.”

  “Then come,” he muttered, crooking his fingers inside her as his thumb flicked at her clit over and over. He yanked her shirt down, exposing a breast, then leaned forward, ducking his head to suck hard on one perfectly ruched nipple.

  She gasped, bucking against him once, twice, three times. Her lungs sounded like a squeeze-box, grabbing air in and pushing it out as her internal muscles clamped around him, squeezing his fingers tight. Doyle sucked harder, flicked faster, and she came—loud—riding him and riding him and riding him.

  Doyle laved the hard nub of her nipple and worked the hard nub of her clitoris until she’d stopped crying out and grinding against him and she’d clamped her hand around his wrist and wrenched it out of her pants.

  “Stop,” she panted. “Stop.”

  Doyle released her nipple and slid his hand onto her hip as he pulled away, conscious of her wetness on his finger and the scent of aroused woman. He regarded her through half-closed lids, not sure how she was going to react to what had just ha
ppened.

  Would she be grateful? Would the scowl be back? Or, now that her itch had been scratched, would she just climb off him and pretend it never happened? That she’d never ridden him like the mechanical bull down at the local pub?

  She looked damned sexy. Her breath husky, her eyes hazy and unsure as if she was having trouble focusing, her bottom lip all swollen and red from torturing it with her teeth, her breast exposed, the nipple still hard and wet from his mouth.

  She looked wrecked. So unlike the cool, calm, unflappable Sal he’d come to know.

  She looked damned satisfied.

  And he was responsible.

  His dick surged at the thought. Still wanting to be where his fingers had just been, to be buried inside her.

  But hell, at least it was still thick and hard and primed to go. At twenty-eight, he was well past those hair-trigger teenage years, but having a sexy, needy woman getting off on you was the kind of erotic experience that wet dreams were made of, and his dick throbbed with it. He doubted anyone would blame him if he’d well and truly disgraced himself.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, breaking into the growing silence between them.

  His voice seemed to bring her out of her daze and she focused on him properly, those laser-like baby blues slaying him with the pain he saw there. She didn’t say anything for long moments, then a lone tear spilled from her eye and trekked down her face.

  “Sal?” Doyle raised his hand, cupping the side of her face as he swiped at the tear with the pad of his thumb.

  She didn’t answer. “What happened to you?” he murmured again, his voice gentle as he let his thumb caress her cheekbone. She let her head flop forward but not before he saw her face crumple and heard the loud sob wrenched from her as her forehead met his collarbone.

  Doyle blinked as more sobs followed, her shoulders heaving with the emotion. His hand automatically found her back, gliding up to the center and rubbing, sitting there with her, his thigh still jammed between hers, as she cried.