Key Of Valor - Key Trilogy 3 Part 34

"I wondered if you always wear it."

She kept her expression very sober, very serious. "Sometimes I wear this little silver hoop instead."

"Uh-huh." Unable to help it, he glanced at her belly, imagined. "Interesting."

"Before I came to the Valley, I worked a second job at a body-piercing and tattoo parlor. I was putting away all I could for a down payment on a house. As an employee, it was free, plus it helped in dealing with customers if you'd gone through it yourself. And no," she added, reading his thoughts, "the only body parts I was willing to have pierced were my belly b.u.t.ton and my earlobes. Do you want something to drink? A snack?"

"No, I'm fine." Unless he counted the saliva that wanted to pool in the back of his mouth. "Tattoos? Did you get one?"

She smiled now, friendly as a Sunday school teacher. "I did. Just a little one."

She knew he was wondering what, and more, where. She would just let him wonder for now. "You don't have to sleep on the couch, Bradley." She watched his eyes narrow and focus on her face, and even from three feet away, felt his body tense. "There's no need for that when there's just the two of us here." She waited one long beat. "You can use Simon's bed."

"Simon's bed." He repeated it, as if speaking a foreign language. "Yeah. Right. Good."

"Why don't you come on upstairs, and I'll show you where everything is?"

"Sure." He set the magazine aside, gave Moe a nudge to roll him over and off his feet.

"There are plenty of clean towels in the bathroom closet," she began, enjoying herself as she started upstairs. "And I've got an extra toothbrush in there that you can use."

He kept his hands at his sides as he walked up behind her, and tried not to torture himself with images of tattoos and belly rings. He failed miserably. "I've got a staff meeting at eight-thirty in the morning, so I'll be out of your way early."

"I'm an early riser, so you won't bother me."

She nudged open the door of Simon's room. There were bunk beds with navy-blue spreads, and bright red curtains at the window. Shelves painted to match the spreads were full of the things boys collected. The action figures, the books, the rocks and model cars. A red desk, Simon-sized, was under the window and held a Superman lamp, school-books, and more of the flotsam and jetsam of a young boy.

It was neat but far from regimented, with a corkboard loaded with drawings and photographs and pictures cut out of magazines. There were shoes that had been kicked off, ball caps hooked on the posts of the top bunk, a book bag on the floor with some of its contents spilling out. And a scent, faint, of wildness that was all boy.

"It's a great room."

"We have a go-round periodically on cleaning it. I won the last one, so it's still in pretty good shape."

She leaned back against the doorjamb. "No problem sleeping in here?"

"No, this is fine."

"I appreciate you being a gentleman, not trying to take advantage of the situation and putting any moves on me."

"I'm staying because you shouldn't be alone, not to take advantage of anything."

"Mmm-hmm. I just wanted to be sure of that, and since I am, I'm going to tell you something. I'm not a gentleman." She stepped forward and pressed her body hard against his. "I'm going to take advantage of the situation." She clamped her hands on his b.u.t.t, squeezed. "And I'm putting the moves on you. What're you going to do about it?"

His system spiked; his pulse scrambled. "Weep with grat.i.tude?"

Laughing, she bit down on his bottom lip. "Cry later. Get your hands on me," she demanded and ravished his mouth. "All over me."

He fisted his hand in the back of her sweater, anchoring himself before he jumped out of his own skin. The taste of her, hot, ripe, flooded him, even as that tight, s.e.xy body pressed and pumped against him.

Then his hands rushed under the sweater to take the long, smooth back, the dip of waist, the subtle flare of hip. More, his frantic brain could only think. More.

She arched and purred as his hungry lips fed off her throat.

His belly jumped when she dragged at the buckle of his belt.

"It's been a while for me." Her voice was thick, her fingers busy. "You'll have to excuse me for being in a hurry."

"No problem." In one fast move, he swung her around until her back was against the wall. "That's really no problem."

He yanked the sweater over her head, and tossed it aside. His hands were on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s before it hit the floor.

Gasping, she worked her hands between them, fighting to keep her mouth on his as she hurried to unb.u.t.ton his shirt. G.o.d, she wanted the feel of him against her. The feel of him inside her. Her skin was alive again, the blood running hot under it, her heart pounding in a rhythm she'd forgotten could be so fast, so hard, so thrilling.

Desperate, she pushed his hand down, held it firmly between her legs. Her head fell back, exposing the line of her throat to his lips, his teeth, her hips moving as she pressed his hand to denim, and the heat under it.

It was like holding raw nerves. Nerves with edges of jagged gla.s.s. They sc.r.a.ped at his own, all but tore him open. And the scent of her, something exotic that whispered of midnights, shadows, secrets, slithered through his system like a drug. Until everything he touched, tasted, everything he knew was Zoe.

The need for her was like a lightning strike to the heart.

He yanked at the b.u.t.ton on her jeans, dragged the denim down. Even as she struggled to step clear he was plunging his fingers into the heat. He watched the shocked pleasure rush over her face as she poured into his hand.

"Don't stop." Her mouth was frantic and fevered under his, and her nails sc.r.a.ped wickedly down his back before digging into his hips.

She rode it, that wild whip of sensation that snapped through mind and body, rode it shuddering and craved more. It burned through her, fueled her until she thought she would go mad from the sheer force of her own greed.

She ground herself against him in urgent demand, and cried out when he drove, hard and deep, inside her. And still it wasn't enough. Her hips pistoned in a brutal bid for speed, she groaned her desire for it over the sharp sound of flesh striking flesh, striking the wall, striking flesh.

He rode with her, in that fast, sweaty race toward release until his vision blurred and his blood screamed. Then drove them both, quivering, to the finish.

Her heart was still thundering when she dropped her head to his shoulder. She gulped air, felt it catch, then tear its way into her lungs and out again.

She was, she realized dimly, naked, sweaty, and pinned to the wall outside her son's room. She should be horrified. She wasn't, she thought. In fact, she was delighted.

"You okay?" His voice was m.u.f.fled, and she felt his lips move against her hair.

"I think I was a lot better than okay. I think I was fantastic."

"You were. You are." He'd just taken her against the wall. Or she'd taken him. "Can't think yet," he admitted, and braced a hand against the wall so he could remain upright. "You went for the hoop today." He ran his other hand down her body until he could skim a finger over the ring in her belly b.u.t.ton. "It's so f.u.c.king s.e.xy. I had no idea."

He eased back just enough to watch her laugh. "We moved pretty quick. I seem to have missed your tattoo."

Dazzled, delighted, she touched his hair. "You're a funny guy, Bradley Charles Vane IV. All worked up over belly rings and tattoos."

"I never had this reaction to them on anyone else. Where is it?"

"I'll show you. First, I ought to tell you I'm not finished using you tonight." She leaned in, ran her tongue in a slow, wet line along the side of his throat. "But you may want to lie down for the next round."

"Am I still standing?"