Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,38

me—slowly, softly, even in the heat of passion remembering to be careful of my dislocated shoulder—and I’m not just wrecked. I’m fucking shattered.

I’ve been with women who were more—how do I put this?—sexually resourceful. Women who could bend and twist themselves into myriad positions. Even one woman who’d been on the United States Olympic gymnastics team. But none of their fancy moves or complicated contortions can compare to this. This small, simple, softhearted gesture that’s struck me like a lightning bolt to the soul.

I seat myself deeper inside her, and she rocks back against me with sexy, breathy little gasps. Christ, she’s so wet and hot and tight, her juices soaking my bare cock...

I freeze midthrust.

Shit. No condom.

The fact that I’m so far gone I neglected to wrap my willy speaks volumes. I’ve never not worn a condom before without first making sure my lady’s protected and we’re both clean. And when I say never, I’m not exaggerating. I mean never. As in not ever.

I feel like a total heel. Here Ainsley’s doing her best to look out for me, and I can’t even remember to suit up.

“We have to stop.” My one-armed grip on her loosens, but I don’t release her completely. If I do, she might wind up on the floor. “We—I mean, I forgot protection.”

“I’m on the pill,” she assures me. “And I’m clean.”

“Same here. That is, I’m clean, too,” I clarify.

“Then there’s no reason for us to stop, is there?” Her hands explore my back and move down to my ass, pulling me tight to her.

I still feel like a heel for forgetting the condom, but she has a point. No harm, no foul, right? Besides, there’s no way I can resist when she’s touching me like that.

So I don’t bother trying.

I start to move inside her again, hard and fast. The time for sweet and slow is long, long gone. She moans my name into the crook of my neck as her nails dig into my ass. When I snake my hand between us to thumb her clit, she goes off like a Fourth of July firecracker, bucking and writhing against me, her soft sex sounds building to a kind of high-pitched wailing that shouldn’t torque me up even more but somehow does.

Her release signals my cock that it’s okay to let go, and it does, in spades. I flood her until I’m empty, and we cling to each other sweaty, sated and spent.

We stay that way for I don’t know how long until I’m semirecovered and able to stand, easily managing to take her with me despite the fact that I’ve got one arm strapped to my chest.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her legs coming up to wrap around my waist.

“Taking you to bed. I’m not through with you yet.” Not by a long shot.

I head for her room, remembering there’s an overgrown, overly affectionate canine in mine. Not because I have an aversion to women invading my inner sanctum. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

“I thought kitchen stools and 1960s-inspired armchairs were where we did our best work,” Ainsley jokes.

“Nightingale,” I say, shouldering my way into the room and depositing her on the bed. “You haven’t even begun to see my best work.”

* * *

Consciousness comes slowly the next morning, courtesy of what sounds like an army of orcs banging on my front door. It takes me a few seconds to get my bearings. This isn’t the master suite. I’m in one of the spare bedrooms, Ainsley’s soft, warm, fabulously naked body draped deliciously across mine.

Memories of last night come flooding back—the strip Scrabble, the down-and-dirty cowgirl chair sex, the slower, sweeter, more traditional but no less intense missionary bed sex, not once, not twice, but three times—and my dick stirs to life, ready for round five. Maybe a little soapy shower action.

Then the banging starts up again, joined by an unfortunately familiar howl from my bedroom, and I have no choice but to extricate myself from Ainsley’s embrace. She stretches, moans and rolls over, burying her beautiful face in one of my luxury goose down pillows.

Damn. Looks like I wore her out. A kernel of pride plants itself in my sternum and swells to the size of a soccer ball, puffing out my chest.

I drop a kiss in the sex-mussed hair at the top of her head and make my way toward the living room to find my long-ago discarded sweats. On the way, I spot my sling, tossed aside