Out of Control Read online

  “Do you want to lie down?” he asked.

  She slanted him an eloquent glance. “Yeah, right, and take off my shirt, too? Get real.” She fished in her pocket for a hair tie, and wound her hair into a lopsided ponytail. “There. Go for it. Dig deep. I’m tough.”

  He was fabulous. Neither a timid, irritating massage that just tickled the surface of knotted muscles nor yet a macho, insensitive attack upon them. His touch was slow, sure, sensual. His hands commanded her muscles to release tension, and they obeyed him, in level after level of helpless yielding and softening. Melting.

  She wished that she’d lain down after all. Sure, it would have been stupid, but letting him into her house had been stupid, eating his food had been stupid. Letting him touch her body was downright idiotic. What was one more level of stupidity in the grand scheme of things?

  Time slowed, stretched, and collapsed slowly back in on itself in great, pulsing waves. She forced her eyes open when she realized that his hands were cupping the curve of her waist. “You’re south of my thoracic vertebrae, buddy, and heading straight into no-man’s-land.”

  His hands lifted away from her body. “Sorry.”

  She missed the warm contact instantly. “Don’t sweat it. I know how it is,” she mumbled. “One vertebrae just leads to another, and hey presto, before you know it you’re giving me a foot rub.”

  He started in on her shoulders again, with a muffled crack of laughter. “I think I’d get distracted along the way,” he said.

  She had to struggle not to moan. It had been so long since she’d been touched at all, let alone with any real tenderness or skill.

  Maybe she never had been. She’d never melted like this for anybody. Dangerous thought. Delete, delete. “My head’s going to float right up off my neck,” she said. “I didn’t know my neck was that tense.”

  “After teaching five classes, it would be strange if it weren’t.” His fingers caressed her neck. Lovely heat lanced down into her chest, her belly, her thighs. “I see now why you’re in such great shape.”

  “Look who’s talking,” she murmured. “If you’re ever short on cash, you could set up a booth and charge the ladies to massage your bod.”

  “Oh yeah?” His voice was wary.

  “Sure. Say, fifteen bucks for a two minute fondle. Strictly PG-13, above the waist, of course. I’ll sell the tickets, if you give me a cut.”

  His hands stopped moving. She babbled on, dazed and thoughtless. “The gay guys would go for it, too. We’d rake in the dough.”

  “I’d let you do it for free,” he said.

  His voice was devoid of irony. Her eyes popped open in alarm.

  She looked back over her shoulder. The hot glow in his eyes brought her feminine instincts to high alert. She pulled away.

  She and her big dumb mouth. Sexy banter with a guy she barely knew, but no nerve to back it up. Bad girl. Very immature.

  “Um, sorry,” she said warily. “That was hot peppers and beer talking. I actually didn’t mean to flirt.”

  He gripped the edge of his sweatshirt and peeled it over his head.

  “Holy cow.” Margot’s voice shook. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He let the sweatshirt drop to the floor. “How can you set a price for a two minute fondle if you don’t do any product testing?”

  She was at a loss for a snappy comeback. “I was joking! Are you familiar with that concept? Do you take everything dead seriously?”

  “I take things however I feel like taking them.”

  She examined each and every possible interpretation of his words as she stared at his body. Usually blond guys were white and pasty, with bluish undertones like skim milk. McCloud’s body was gold-tinted.

  It glowed with power, wildly out of place in her dingy kitchen. His physique had the nervy, sculpted look of an Olympic gymnast. Every muscle knew its job, and did it superbly. Nothing missing. Nothing superfluous. Total freaking perfection.

  The intensity of his eyes held her motionless. He put his arms behind his back. “I won’t touch you. No groping. Word of honor.”

  His words made her abruptly conscious of her female body. How naked and soft and vulnerable she was under her scruffy loungewear.

  She stared down at what the damp chill in her apartment did to his dark nipples. He had goose bumps. That was a good sign. It proved he was human, at least. He looked so warm and supple and strong.

  Oh, Lord. She could just eat him up with a spoon.

  She took a step back, and wobbled as her hip bumped the table.

  “OK,” she said. “Enough funny stuff. Showing off will get you nowhere. Put your damn shirt back on before I hyperventilate.”

  A ghost of a smile touched his stern mouth. “Touch me.”

  The command in his deep voice resonated through her body. Her hand lifted, drifting in the air between them. He moved closer without seeming to move at all, and her hand was splayed against his hot chest.

  Her hand moved of its own accord, fingertips brushing over lean contours, ridges of bone, soft skin, the vibrant power of the muscle beneath it. His tight nipple tickled her palm. Her hand pressed against his solar plexus, felt his heart throb. She glanced at his crotch. His hard-on pressed against his jeans. His face was flushed and taut, eyes hazy. The thick muscles of his shoulders were rigid with strain.

  “No hands, huh?” Her voice was wondering. “You meant that?”

  “Anytime you want that to change, you let me know.”

  His breath was quick and heavy. His heart thudded against her hand. He was more power than she knew how to handle, like being perched on a racehorse spoiling for a run. Behind the wheel of a Ferrari, charged up and ready to let ’er rip. Vibrating with raw energy.

  Her hand shook where it touched his hot skin. He was as exotic and alien as an undiscovered country. She was dazed. Paralyzed with shyness. Something cynical snickered way in the back of her mind. Poor Margot, forced to pet a hunk’s gorgeous pecs, yeah, break out the violins.

  Her mouth was inches from that alluring hollow in his neck. She could just lean forward and…taste him. And for as long as it lasted, she could forget the whole scary, sordid mess of her life. She would think of nothing but him. Lose herself in him. God. She ached for it.

  “I don’t know you,” she whispered. “Not the first thing about you.”

  “No,” he replied. “You don’t.”

  And he left it at that. No attempt to wheedle or cajole. No bullshit.

  His blunt honesty was seductive. She wanted to grab him, twine herself around him and just soak him up. All that heat, all that power.

  And that would be it. She would get nailed tonight, by a great big gorgeous guy about whom she knew absolutely nothing except that he rarely smiled. Which wasn’t much of a recommendation.

  Mikey liked him, her inner devil slut whispered.

  Yeah, like that counted worth beans. Mikey would fawn over any clown who fed him barbecued pork, excluding her own wretched self. McCloud would think she was a tramp for putting out so fast, and then she would hate herself for being used, blah blah blah. She couldn’t do this to herself. No way. She was hanging on by a thread as it was.

  She lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed her forefinger against his soft, warm lips. “We’ve got to stop.”

  He rubbed his cheek against her hand. His glinting blond beard stubble rasped her skin. The sensual, animal gesture made her heart turn over with hungry longing. “How come?” he asked.

  She forced herself to pull her hand away. “Because I say so.”

  She nudged the sleeping Mikey off his sweatshirt with her toe, plucked it off the floor and held it out to him, dog hairs and all. “Put this back on. Right now. No back talk.”

  He sighed, and pulled it over his head. She manufactured a glare and had it fixed in place by the time his head emerged. “I appreciate the striptease, and it’s sweet of you to entertain me, but it’s time for me and Mikey to start winding down. How much do I owe you for
dinner?”

  His face tightened. “Get real.”

  Margot yanked open the freezer and pulled out her dwindling stash of grocery money out from under the ice cube tray. “I figured you’d give me a hard time about that.” She rummaged through her stash of takeout menus until she found Luisa’s. “Let’s see…tacos, enchiladas, rellenos, tamales, mole and shrimp…that’s about fifty bucks, plus eight or so for the beer, so let’s call it twenty-nine a head—”

  “I’m not taking your money.”

  “I don’t like guys to pay for my stuff.” She threw the words at him.

  “Too fucking bad.”

  She flinched. “Hey. Watch it. No nasty potty mouth in my space.”

  His eyebrow quirked. “I’ve heard you swear.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but you haven’t heard me use the f-word. I never do that. Do I, Mikey? You ever hear me say the f-word?” Mikey wagged in cheerful corroboration as Margot discreetly counted her stash. Twenty-three bucks. Yikes. She held it out to him with stoic calm. “I prefer not to be obligated to a strange man,” she said.

  “Put it away,” he warned. “Before you piss me off.”

  She hid her relief as she stuck the money back under the ice cube tray. She turned back to him, twisting her hands together. “Um, well…thanks very much for dinner, then. It was scrumptious.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She waited for something like well, it’s late, so I guess I’ll be hitting the road, but he just stood there until she started to wonder what was so damned interesting about her face. It had looked normal enough the last time she’d checked. “Good night,” she hinted.

  “Why are you freezing me out?” He sounded genuinely curious.

  She plastered the baleful glare back on. It took more effort this time. “You know, there was a reason why I said no when you invited me to dinner back at your gym,” she said. “It’s the same reason I don’t let guys pay for anything, not my meals, not my drinks. Because they start to act like you’re acting right now, see? Like I owe them something.”

  He shook his head. “I never meant to—”

  “So get a clue. Good night. Thanks for dinner.”

  “But I know you’re attracted to me,” he said stubbornly.

  “So? What if I am?” she yelled. “I’m swamped! I’ve got money problems, I’ve got pet problems, I’ve got Snakey the Sicko Maniac sending me presents from the Crypt. I don’t need man trouble, too!”

  “I’m not—”

  “I don’t have the time or energy for a boyfriend! I can’t even handle my relationship with my dog right now!”

  He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not suggesting—”

  “I don’t do one night stands, either. I can’t deal with no strings sex. So where does that leave us?” She answered her own question just as his lips moved to respond to it. “Nowhere! Nothing more to discuss! So? Buh-bye, OK?”

  He pulled out his wallet, took out a card and laid it on the counter. “Call me if you get any more presents from the Crypt.”

  He headed for the door. Not hurrying, not embarrassed, not pissed. She almost wished he would slam it. It would make her feel like she’d gotten past his guard, scored some sort of a point against him.

  He didn’t. She hadn’t. The door clicked softly shut behind him.

  The dark pressed hard against her windows now that she had only the gently snoring Mikey for company.

  She felt so flat as she brushed her teeth and set the alarm clock. Let down, after all that fizzy tension. Nothing to do but try to get some rest, but she tossed and twisted on her thin pallet.

  She felt hot, restless. Tormented by an ache of sensual yearning.

  All she needed to make her misery complete.

  God, how she wanted her life back. To be Mag Callahan again, with her nice little house on the lake, her web design business that had finally been humming along after years of patient struggling. Her sharp wardrobe, her wine rack, her stained glass lamp, her orthopedic mattress, her Social Security number, her credit cards. Her future.

  She wanted her girlfriends. To watch chick flick DVD’s on her big squishy couch while pigging out on chips and margaritas with Jenny and Chris and Pia. She was even nostalgic about the problems she used to stress about. Dates, or lack thereof. Panty lines. Calories. PMS. Tax write-offs. Ants in the kitchen. Mold on the bathroom grout. Hah.

  She wanted to cancel out the ugly memories in her head.

  She felt so small and powerless. Sex was unthinkable under those conditions, but that didn’t stop her longing to be touched.

  Wrecked as she was, she couldn’t even remember how it felt to be confident enough to take on a guy like McCloud. Maybe she never had been. He was so damn big, after all. Ultra-macho. She’d always made a point of staying away from those types. They were way too problematic.

  She had to let her sexual imagination run hog wild to encompass the idea of sex with Davy McCloud. The farther from reality, the better. Along the lines of…a barbarian queen and her captured enemy warrior. Yeah. That was just silly and improbable enough to work. Him wearing nothing but a sword belt and a raggedy loincloth over his manly parts. Chained hand and foot, eyes hot with helpless fury. Fresh out of battle, all jacked up and desperate. Yummy. This could be really good.

  And herself, sporting lots of cleavage in a teeny weeny chain mail bikini top. A filmy skirt slit up to both thighs dangling from her jewel-studded belt. She dreamed her hair back to its original coppery red, grew it out to instant hip length, slathered on makeup; shadowy bronze tints that made her look feverish and slutty. Like the covers of those fantasy novels she used to devour, except that she was the one brandishing the sword looking tough, and he was the one on his knees, clutching her thigh. The image was so silly, it made her giggle.

  Big mistake. The laughter shoved her almost over the edge into tears. She rolled over, pressing her hot face into the pillow, and slid her hand into her panties. She was wet already, squirming around a damp glow of arousal. She didn’t even need the vibrator. She was teetering on the brink of a screaming orgasm just thinking about his eyes.

  She shut her eyes tightly, caught her clit between two fingers, and clenched her trembling thighs together. She had to get some relief from this ache. It scared her. Her whole damned life scared her.

  The barbarian queen wasn’t scared. She had the power to enforce her slightest whim. Armies at her beck and call. Lucky her.

  Exotic images formed, broke, and reformed in her head. McCloud on his knees, his eyes furious. Unable to hide his excitement under that skimpy loincloth. She imagined touching him as she caressed herself, her hands sliding over his tense, straining muscles, his hot face.

  He was slick with sweat, trembling. She slid her hand beneath the loincloth, grasped his hard penis and stroked it boldly. He jerked, gasped, arched back in a helpless spasm of pleasure.

  Images blurred and shifted in her mind, the myriad possibilities pulling her in every direction. The fantasy refocused. She stood over him naked, legs wide, his face cupped in her hands. Telling him with her eyes, get to work, soldier, and make it good for me if you know what’s good for you.

  And it was. Oh, it was. She’d never had a fantasy so clear, every nerve alive and thrumming like it was actually happening. His strong tongue thrust and lapped, sliding up and down her slit and suckling her ravenously, and the glorious feeling was building, higher and hotter, almost there, almost…there…

  The tension dropped a notch, and left her dangling. Unfulfilled.

  She was furious. This was bizarre. She’d never been so turned on in her life. It made no sense at all that she couldn’t make herself come.

  Onward, take two. Segue to the lavish, curtained bed, the light of a flickering fire. He was stark naked now, tied with silken cords to the carved posts. First she went the kinky route and had a bunch of her sexy barbarian ladies-in-waiting teasing and tormenting him to prepare him for the main event. That lasted about a nanosecond.
She sent the silly bitches packing. Poof, they disappeared.

  This one was for her alone. Every last drop of him.

  The silent room was charged with desperate tension. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the low, strangled moans of the man beneath her. He writhed, cords standing out on his neck, muscles hard and flexing with desperate tension against his bonds, but she was merciless. She gripped his penis in her oiled hands, sliding her hands up and down his shaft, swirling and squeezing her fist around the swollen head. Hypnotizing even herself with the rhythmic caress.

  It was time. She straddled him, guided his penis to the soft, swollen opening of her sex, and flung her head back with a moan of delight as she forced herself over the thick, throbbing club. Taking him, claiming him. She stared down into his eyes, silently demanding that he acknowledge her supremacy.

  He would not. He bucked and writhed, pounding up into her body, but his eyes stared back up, glittering bright and wild and absolutely unconquered.

  And the orgasm kept eluding her. She would get so close, heart pounding, ready to fling herself into that well of dark oblivion, and suddenly, whoosh, gone. It evaporated, and he gazed up at her, eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. He was doing this on purpose.

  Damn him. This was insane. This was her own fantasy, in the privacy of her own mind, and he had no right to mess with it.

  But it was more than a fantasy now. It was more like a trance, or a waking dream with its own crazy momentum. She was helpless to guide or command it. She reached for the knife hidden in the sumptuous bed hangings. Held it in her hand just long enough to make that sly gleam in his eyes fade, to be replaced by wary uncertainty.

  She reached back and cut the silken cords that bound his ankles…one, two. She leaned over him, dangling her breasts in his face, and sliced through the cords that bound his wrists. She rocked back, letting his penis slide inside her, as deeply as it could lodge. She laid the knife in the pillows at the head of the bed, well within his reach.

  It was all up to him. She stared down at his astonished face.

  The paralyzed part of her mind locked behind the swirling dream images was aghast. Was she out of her skull? Did she not deserve even the artificial luxury of running the show in a silly sexual fantasy?