Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

Nothing in the world quite compared to the sight of her in the throes of an intense climax. The memory of the last time had plagued him for years, crept into his dreams, and overrode his fantasies until they starred only Leslie.

It was time to get her out of his head.

And it was definitely time to get her back into his bed. He needed to have her, to purge himself of her. Then he wouldn’t be in danger of her taking over his heart anymore. Because she already had a toehold, damn her.

Shoving the chair back on its spring as far is it would go, Peter kissed her passionately. The heel of his palm continued its gentle assault, not letting up even when she drew her legs up until only her toes were on the desk and her knees were bent.

“Tell me how much you want this,” he panted after he broke the kiss.

“I want this,” she whispered, her head back and eyes closed.

Not good enough. After all the trouble she’d caused him, he wanted her begging for it. “How bad do you want it?” He nipped her bottom lip hard enough to sting and she cried out softly. “How bad do you want to come for me, Leslie?” he demanded, blood pounding in his ears and his cock hard as granite. If it was anywhere close to how badly he wanted to make her come then it was going to be one intense orgasm.

Dropping his head further, he saw her nipples puckered beneath her black top and covered one with a mouth. He wasn’t gentle. And she liked it.

Nails dug hard into his shoulders and she bucked against him, crying out, “So bad! Now, Peter. Make me come, now.” She ended her demand with a moan and a “please.” Then she dropped her hands until they covered his, urging him on.

Feeling the urgency in her, he sucked a nipple through the thin black fabric of her shirt and grinned when her legs began to quiver. Knowing she was on the brink of going over, Peter flicked his tongue over her hard little peak and bit it between his teeth.

She broke.

Her orgasm tore through her and she cried out, “Oh God!”

It was the sexiest fucking sound in the entire world.

Releasing her nipple, Peter drew back until he could see her clearly. Her eyes were still closed and her cheeks were flushed. She was panting and boneless and sated and it made him feel like a goddamn superhero.

And there wasn’t a tear in sight.

Not this time.

Peter released the chair and let it drop back down, the abrupt movement jarring her eyes open. When he saw them his stomach tightened. They had gone dark as a pine forest and were completely dazed and unfocused. Damn, but it did his ego good to see her like that. All soft and satisfied and floaty.

Turning his back on her, Peter strode to his jacket on the couch and picked it up, put it on. Then, staring at her slick, kiss-swollen lips, he asked, “How many times did you come that night, Leslie?”

She stared back at him, her eyes a little glassy. “Three or four, I think. Why?”

Because he was keeping count.

Moving to the door, he pulled it open and glanced back over his shoulder at his fantasy woman with the pinup curves and smart mouth, who looked decidedly sex-rumpled and replete.

Damn right.

He had a score to settle. “That’s number one.”

A FEW DAYS later Leslie was in her car and on her way to Pole Fitness for her strip dancing class. Outside, the October air was fresh, the sky was blue, and the leaves were parading about in their autumn glory.

Inside, the radio was cranked and The Dirty Heads were in her CD player, making her body sway with their song “Lay Me Down.” Her left hand kept time to the beat as she tapped her thumb on the steering wheel and downshifted when the light up ahead turned red.

Reggae music was her weakness.

It made her soul light up. Considering how many things there were in life that could get a person down, she considered island music a godsend. Losing herself in the rhythms of the Caribbean had gotten her through some pretty tough times when all she’d wanted to do was cry.

Pulling to a stop as The Dirty Heads told her to wipe the dirt off or take her shirt off, she put the Mini in first gear just as a text came through on her cell phone. Knowing she shouldn’t because texting while driving was illegal in Colorado, Leslie quickly pulled down her Ray-Bans and scanned the message anyway.

It was from Peter, and it was the first she’d heard from him since he’d left for St. Louis.

Home. Had grass, want beer, need ass. Where you at?

Laughter bubbled in her chest and she let it loose. God, that man was funny when he wanted to be, referencing their bet like that. Sorry pal, she thought. Myass is winning this thing. Hotbox was hers.

After their rendezvous in her office he’d headed out of town, providing them both with an opportunity to assess the current situation and decide how to move forward. Not that she really had anything to think about. There was simply no way she was going to have sex with Kowalskin and lose this bet.

That didn’t mean that she wasn’t going to drive him bat-shit crazy at every opportunity though.

And have a little fun herself. Besides it being just so much fun to torment Peter all on its own, there was the added benefit of the man’s oral abilities and incredibly nimble fingers. It was the rest that had left her unsatisfied, since the night had been cut short. But for now she didn’t have any qualms about putting the former to use for her enjoyment.

Leslie knew he didn’t mind either.

If ever there was a guy who could corner the market on commitment-phobia it was him. Not in all the years she’d known him had he ever had a girlfriend. Or at least not a steady one.

Certainly there were women. There had to be. It was Peter Kowalskin, for goodness’ sake. He didn’t just sit around all night playing canasta. Maybe he simply got laid on the road.

The light turned green and Leslie let out the clutch and cruised through the intersection. She was heading west and could see the Rockies in the distance already snowcapped and looking beautiful. It looked like they were going to be in for a brutal winter, if the early snows were any indication. Then again, the high country always got pummeled way more than the Front Range—at least that’s what Lorelei told her.

She was deep in thought about which ski pass to buy this winter when her phone went off. She grabbed it out of the front pocket of her purse and answered without checking the caller ID.

“Leslie Cutter.”

“You didn’t answer my text.”

She rolled her eyes. Men. “I’m driving, Kowalskin. You wouldn’t want me to wreck my pretty little car by texting and driving now would you?”

“Fine, you’re off the hook this time. Where are you going?”

“Somewhere you’re not. What’s it to you?” Listening to him on the phone started her blood humming in her veins. Aside from the accent that he played up sometimes only to annoy her, he had a sexy voice. It was a little youthful and a lot rough-and-tumble with a hard edge. Just like the rest of him.

“I’ve got plans for us, princess, and I don’t have much time. So you need to get your butt back here. I have a surprise.”

She didn’t trust his surprises. Not as far as she could throw them. “I’m not missing my pole class.”

“C’mon, Leslie. If you don’t come here then I’ll come to you.” He made it sound like a threat.

The studio came into view and she whipped into the parking lot. “You can try, but there are a lot of pole fitness studios in this city. Good luck trying to find mine.”

He snorted. “Girl, please. Do you honestly believe that I couldn’t just make a few calls and find out where you shake your ass?”

Since he put it like that . . . “Whatever. Hey, I have to go.” She was about to disconnect and then remembered. “Wait! Have you heard anything about my apartment? Has Jerry called you with an update? I was hoping to move back in this weekend.”

There was a shuffling and what sounded like a garage door opening. “Not that I know of. I’ll double-check my phone when I get a chance, but don’t hold your breath. I’ve been preoccupied.”

Leslie did have to give him that. Playing ball for a living kept the guy busy, especially in the postseason. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” She reached for her gym bag and retrieved it from the back seat. “I don’t want to impose for longer than absolutely necessary.” The line went quiet. “Are you still there?” she asked as she climbed out of her car.

Peter sighed softly and finally relented, saying quietly, “You’re not an imposition, Leslie.”

The breath froze in her chest. How was she supposed to respond to that? Wiping a hand on her cropped black yoga pants, Leslie chose to ignore his comment. “Um, okay, well I’m going now. I’ll talk to you later.”

Hanging up, Leslie shoved the phone back in her purse and opened the studio door. Once inside she glanced around and noted that she was just in time. About a dozen women milled about in various workout getups, and she particularly liked the mini-shorts and legwarmers look. How very Footloose. Somebody remind her again why the eighties were making a comeback?

The music changed and went lusty. Her class was about to start.

Slipping into the room and dropping her stuff, she waved to some of the other regular girls and kicked off her shoes. “Hey, y’all.” Unlike most of the other women in her class she wore neither mini-shorts nor stripper heels. She needed the cushion from the fabric on the back of her knees for pole work and the heels, well, just no way. She wanted to keep her ankles unbroken and in good health, thank you very much. It was hard enough just walking in them some nights.

Quickly grabbing an open pole, Leslie caught a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirrors on the front wall. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun to keep the strands out of her face when she twirled and she had on a dark pink workout tank top along with her yoga crops. Giving a little shimmy to loosen up, she studied herself and approved.

She looked good. All these pole dancing classes had paid off and her body was nice and firm. Curvy as a Roman statue, but toned and healthy and strong. Leslie knew she packed a punch and liked it that way.

Skinny was so overrated.

With a slight smile she gave a little booty shake. Some junk in the trunk was where all the fun was at. More cushion for the pushin’.

The Pussycat Dolls began to play on the radio, being uber-sexy and singing about loosening buttons with Snoop Dogg. Following the lead instructor, Leslie went through the warm-up routine and then settled into the fun and vigorous workout. Enjoying herself, she swung her legs up and spun on the pole, lowering backward with every whirl until she was upside-down. She was breathing heavy when her spin and the song came to an end, but she had a huge grin on her face. Leslie Cutter, stripper at large. Watch your men, ladies.

Totally amused with herself, she was giggling a little when she came to a complete stop, her upside-down head facing the door. Her eyes focused and the giggle lodged in her chest. A pair of scuffed up black skater shoes and frayed jeans blocked her vision. Shit. She knew those Vans.

Kowalskin.

Annoyance welled up inside her along with a healthy dose of the butterflies. He’d found her. She couldn’t believe he’d actually been serious about that.

Still panting, Leslie flipped upright and dislodged from the pole. Her heart was pounding and her blood was racing, but that was from the striptease routine, not the hard-bodied man standing by the door currently staring her down with ice-blue eyes full of bad intentions. The half smirk and cocked hip sent alarm bells ringing in her head.

The man was up to no good.

Suddenly on alert, like a predator had just walked into the room and she was its main course, Leslie crossed her arms over her chest and waited until the furious whispering in the room had dropped to a low enough level to allow her to speak. The whole class had stopped the minute he’d entered. He had that effect. And his face was so recognizable.

Yes, ladies. It’s him. And yes, he’s every bit as wild as he looks. “What do you want, Kowalskin?” She let him hear the irritation in her voice.

It occurred to her that she wasn’t entirely sure if it was him or her thoughts that she was annoyed with, but she shoved the idea aside fast. Of course it was him. It was always him.