Читать книгу Real Men: Rugged Rebels: Watch and Learn / Under His Skin / Her Perfect Hero - Jeanie London, Jeanie London - Страница 14

CHEV PAUSED in the sweltering midday sun to shout instructions to one of the many tile workers who was replacing the hundreds of broken squares in the driveway. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped his brow before tying it around his head. For the hundredth time that day, he glanced toward Gemma’s house, wondering if he’d scared her off completely with his advances two days ago. He half hoped he had.

Then he lifted his gaze to his bedroom window that he’d unshuttered to let her know that he was interested in seeing her, even if it was only, as she’d put it, “at a distance.” He scoffed at his hypocrisy—he missed seeing her to the point of distraction. Yet he didn’t have time for a fling, and she didn’t seem to have the heart for it.

Obviously she was still hung up on her ex-husband.

He grimaced, realizing he’d worked up yet another erection that would go wasted unless he went back to the bar tonight and looked for the conjoined brunettes. Gemma Jacobs had made it clear that she had no intention of getting involved with him … so why couldn’t he get her and her performances off his mind?

“Chev!”

He turned his head to see a frustrated foreman trying to get his attention. Back to work.

Whatever Gemma was doing, he decided, she certainly wasn’t thinking about him.

“ONE OF THE FIRST historically documented instances of a dildo,” Gemma told her rapt audience, “is in Ancient Greece. The earliest dildos were made out of natural materials, such as wood or stone, and sold in public marketplaces. This particular example,” she said, pointing to a crude yellowed phallus mounted on a pedestal under glass, “is made from human bone.”

“Guess that’s where the term ‘boner’ came from,” a guy in the back cracked, eliciting laughs from the large group.

Gemma smiled obligingly and moved on to the next item on the tour. The museum’s concerns about how the X-rated exhibit would be received had been laid to rest. Jean from the employment agency had informed her that the adult-only tours were booked solid for the next month.

Gemma had worked eight hours for the past two days and had the blisters on her feet to prove it. But she’d been glad for the work that pushed her body to exhaustion and her mind to distraction. It kept her from dwelling on the fact that Chev’s bedroom window had been unshuttered since their encounter … an obvious invitation to resume her watch-me games.

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly to calm her racing pulse. It was the charged air in the museum, she told herself, that had her thinking of Chev and his big, strong hand jammed between her thighs. Behind the mask that shielded her identity from the tour group, perspiration moistened her hairline. Today’s crowd was more bawdy than most, tossing around jokes and innuendos that fueled the atmosphere to an almost palpable level. She’d lost a few couples already, slinking away to alcoves in the museum, she supposed, to indulge in a quickie before rejoining the tour.

Gemma used her tongue to whisk away a sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. She was beginning to feel like a fluffer on the set of a porn movie—the person who keeps everyone aroused between takes, but who never gets in on the action. The black corset she wore under a cropped jacket was chafing her nipples, and she ached to free them. But the costume of short shorts and jacket with stilettos was one of the most popular with the attendees—men and women alike were devouring her. Her sex and her breasts were heavy with awareness.

“This apparatus,” she said, pointing to a metal device that resembled a bulky thong on a nude female mannequin, “is a chastity belt, which was padlocked to prevent access for sexual intercourse. They were common in the Middle Ages when crusading and wars were widespread. Some women wore them voluntarily to ward off rape, and some wore them to pledge fidelity to their husbands who might be away at war for years at a time. And some were installed by jealous husbands who wanted to ensure their wives would remain faithful during their long absences.”

“Looks painful,” a woman remarked.

“Which can be its own turn-on,” another woman offered slyly.

A chorus of concurring murmurs met uncomfortable laughter as members of the crowd reacted. Gemma waited until the din had died before moving on to the room that housed furniture manufactured for the purpose of aiding sex—swings, contoured chairs, adjustable beds and benches.Everywhere she looked, she saw Chev, making good use of the devices, his long, brown body poised for a session of Tantric sex. Although she had the feeling that a man like Chev didn’t need props to shake a woman to her core. The sheer intensity of his kiss still plucked at her nerve endings.

She moved through the rest of the tour with the scent of his skin in her nostrils, the pressure of his mouth on her lips. By the time she bade the group farewell, she was ready to combust. She slipped into the employee ladies’room, lifted the mask to her forehead, and wet a paper towel to hold against her warm neck. The mirror reflected flushed cheeks, dilated eyes and swollen lips. Gemma felt ripe and moist.

“You’d think they could turn up the air,” came a woman’s voice from behind her.

Gemma looked up to see a woman with short jet-black hair with a pink streak wearing an outfit similar to her own. “Yes, it’s … warm,” Gemma murmured.

The woman lifted her mask, revealing sharp cheekbones and violet-colored eyes. “I’m Lillian,” she said with a friendly smile.

“Gemma.”

“Nice to know you, Gemma.” Lillian adjusted the collar of her low-cut blouse. She was a fortyish petite woman with lush curves and trim, shapely legs. “How do you like working here?”

“It’s interesting,” Gemma said cautiously. It would be unseemly to say that she actually enjoyed the job, enjoyed injecting herself into the naughty museum exhibit.

“Are you married?” Lillian asked, fluffing her hair with well-manicured hands.

Gemma averted her glance. Eventually she would get used to saying the word “divorced,” but for now, it stuck in her throat.

“I just wondered what your husband thought of you taking this job,” Lillian said into the pause.

“I’m not married.”

“Oh, well, your boyfriend, then.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend … at the moment.”

The woman looked dubious. “Really? Well, if you want one, this is the right job to find one.”

Gemma shook her head. “I’d never date someone I met here.”

“Smart girl.” Lillian checked her lipstick. “It’s probably just as well you don’t have a boyfriend. My Joey is furious that I’m doing this—he doesn’t like other men looking at me. And,” she added lightly, “he doesn’t understand why I’d want them to look.”

Gemma met the woman’s knowing gaze in the mirror and swallowed hard. Was her fixation so obvious that the woman could pick up on a kindred spirit? But then again, anyone guiding this particular tour had to enjoy being in the spotlight to some degree. Lillian blinked and whatever Gemma had sensed was gone.

“So, can you believe how popular this exhibit is?”

“It seems to have caught on in a big way.”

Lillian laughed. “Guess someone underestimated just how starved people are for a little excitement in their lives.”

Gemma tried to laugh in agreement, but she felt exposed, as if the woman was talking about her, and her life. Telling her that she was starved for something too, else why would she have taken this job? And why was she consumed, even now, with the thought of undressing for Chev Martinez? It was simple—she was a tease. She found more satisfaction in performing than in making love. Self-condemnation rolled through her chest. What would everyone think of her if they really knew what dark impulses drove her?

From the outside, she looked so normal, but on the inside, she was burning with her sordid secret.

“By the way,” Lillian offered, “I heard that, since the museum denied the requests of local TV networks to tape the tour, it’s possible a reporter might infiltrate one of the groups.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. What are we supposed to do if we suspect someone is a reporter?”

“Watch for cameras and let the director know afterward.” Lillian glanced at her watch, then lowered her mask into place. “We’re up in two minutes. Ready?”

Nodding, Gemma settled her own mask in place and exited the bathroom, thinking she should have taken the time to adjust her underwear before the next group arrived, yet knowing why she hadn’t—the chafing garment rubbing all the right places was keeping her in a heightened sense of arousal. It promised to be a long, stimulating day.

And—if Chev’s window was still unshuttered when she arrived home—a long, stimulating night.

Her face burned with shame. What was wrong with her?

WHEN GEMMA PULLED onto her street, she steeled herself, ready to face either the cocky peacock or her hunky neighbor—or both. But all was quiet when she arrived home with dusk already setting on a blistering day. A few lights blazed in the Spanish house next door, so she assumed Chev would be once again burning the midnight oil. The fact that his bedroom window remained unshuttered sent a tremor through her womb. He still wanted to see her. Had he heard her arrive home? Was he waiting for her even now to appear at her window?

She sat in her car in the garage for a few minutes to postpone her decision, loath to go into the stifling house. When she cashed her first paycheck, she’d get the air conditioner repaired. But meanwhile, what was she going to do about the internal heat raging through her body?

Gemma dragged herself inside the house and listened to three messages—one from her mother to call her back, please, one from her credit card company to call them back, please, and one from the newspaper reporter, Lewis Wilcox, to call him back, please. Ignoring them all, she prepared a quick salad from bagged lettuce. All the while, she felt the pull to go upstairs and undress … and be seen. She fought the impulse, and when her attention landed upon the letter that she’d written of her sexual fantasies, she picked up the sheath of folded sheets. What better reminder of how her carnal compulsions had nearly led her to ruin before?

Her heartbeat picked up even as she skimmed the pages to find where she’d left off reading. Performing for the man on the bus in her schoolgirl costume … and loving it.

I was hooked. I learned from Dr. Alexander’s lecture this week that I have a fetish called exhibitionism—I enjoy putting my body on exhibit. Which is very strange considering my personality. Most people would say that I’m a good girl, someone happy to remain anonymous and on the fringes of a group. My mother has pounded the idea of what a girl should be into my head: polite, quiet and accommodating. I was always taught that drawing attention to oneself was vulgar and conceited—better to blend in rather than risk ridicule.

But during twenty-two years of being good, nothing has felt as good as my one day of putting myself on display. I already wanted to do it again, couldn’t sleep for thinking about it—what I’d wear, where I’d go, who I would entertain.

I kept my roommate’s brown wig, and lied when she asked me if I’d seen it. An exhibitionist and a liar—I was getting good at being bad. I dressed in tight, sexy workout clothes underneath my regular clothes, then packed the wig in a gym bag. I took the train across town to a gym that I’d seen advertise free workouts, then pulled on the wig. I filled out the paperwork using a fake name and address, then went into the locker room and removed my street clothes. After adjusting my black short shorts (with no underwear, they felt very naughty) and white jogging bra, I grabbed a towel and walked out into the exercise area. I scanned the men working out for a potential target, and immediately found one in a twenty-something dark-haired guy in a gray sweat-stained T-shirt and blue running shorts.

The way he looked at me made me warm and moist. I walked past him close enough to smell the male scent of him, then got on the treadmill to run and work up a sweat of my own. The wig was hot, but its heaviness made me feel safe. In the mirror I could see the guy watching me while he made his way around the free weight circuit, adding iron plates to the barbells, then pushing his muscles to the limit. We made frequent eye contact in the mirror—his eyes were so sexy it was like he was devouring me. My shorts rode up from the friction, cutting into my privates and rubbing me in the most wonderful way. He couldn’t take his eyes off me.

An older woman in sweats walked up to him and I realized that he was a trainer, and that she was his client. He pretended to be all business with the woman, but as soon as he got her situated on the stair climber, his eyes found me again. The tip of his tongue came out and curled upward. I knew exactly where he wanted to put that tongue. Tingling all over, I reached for my towel draped over the front of the treadmill, then purposely dropped it on the floor. He said something to the woman, then casually walked over to my treadmill. My heart raced even faster as he approached, his eyes smoldering.

When he crouched to pick up my towel, he lingered, at eye level with my crotch. My running shorts were more like a thong by this time, and my thighs were slick from sweat and my own personal lubrication. At his angle, I was sure he could see the lips of my sex squeezed out of my disappearing shorts. With every step I tightened my core muscles, and with the constant massage of chafing and his full attention on me, I could feel an orgasm rushing to the surface.

When I climaxed, the strain of not breaking stride only made it more powerful. My hip muscles contracted, and my breath gushed out in heaving pants. Only he and I knew what was happening. A shudder went through my body, but I managed to stay upright and moving. As I recovered, I slowed the treadmill to catch my breath. He straightened and slowly extended my towel. When I took it from him, I noticed the erection straining against his shorts. I used the towel to wipe my neck and chest. My white jogging bra had grown nearly transparent from my sweat, and my nipples were outlined clearly for him to see. His mouth opened slightly, but before he could initiate a conversation, I stopped the treadmill and stepped off.

“Thanks,” I said, then turned and walked as quickly as I could toward the locker room. He started to follow me, but his client waved to get his attention. He hesitated, then went to her. I dressed hurriedly without showering and left without seeing him again. For days I fantasized about his reaction to me, wondering if he’d tried to find me and was disappointed or intrigued that the personal information I’d listed had led to a dead end. The thought that he might still be thinking about me, the mystery woman, made me feel so sexy and so powerful.

Gemma squeezed her eyes closed against the deluge of memories pouring over her. She had been young and flush with the excitement and newness of her own sex appeal. The world itself had seemed so … alive. And accessible. Even now, her heart beat faster at the memory of her thrilling adventure of experiencing a public orgasm with a private audience.

Her breath quickened and she felt the pull of the upstairs window like a magnet drawing her, a frame for her performance. And Chev wanted to watch … what better situation could she ask for? After all, the man would be there only temporarily. They could … play … and then he’d be gone. No harm done. She pushed to her feet and slowly walked upstairs, her muscles growing more languid with every step.

The upper floor was suffocating. She shed the cropped jacket and tossed it on the bed, then flipped on a ceiling fan to get some air moving. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she walked over to slide open the picture window, allowing it to bang against the casing. The light was on in the opposite window, and a few seconds later, Chev appeared in jeans, shirtless.

His hair looked damp, as if he’d just emerged from the shower. His powerful shoulders and arms were outlined perfectly in the round window. She recalled how they had felt around her—dominant and insistent. A shudder went through her and she was glad for the distance. He leaned forward on the sill using both hands, as if to say that he wasn’t going anywhere, that he wanted her to know he was watching this time.

A sweet haze of raw desire descended over Gemma. She acknowledged that she was sliding into a trancelike state. She wet her lips, then lifted her fingers to the front hooks of her black corset, and slowly began undoing them.

CHEV GRIPPED the windowsill harder as Gemma removed the corset, exposing inch after inch of luminous skin. Frustration and fascination warred within him as lust surged through his body. The little tease. She’d made it clear that she didn’t want any hands-on interaction with him, but watching her through her window wasn’t going to satisfy him.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to look away—he’d been wound tight ever since the heated kiss they’d shared. He hadn’t imagined her reaction … she’d enjoyed it as much as he had. But something was holding her back. Was she afraid of him? Considering his bulk and that she knew next to nothing about him, he wouldn’t blame her if she was. But somehow, he didn’t think that was the case. If she was afraid of him, she wouldn’t tantalize him like this. Because if he wanted to be in her house, in her bed, he wouldn’t let a few locked doors get in the way.

Chev gave himself a mental shake—he wasn’t an animal, or a criminal. But this woman unleashed something primal in him. When the corset fell open to reveal the heavy globes of her breasts and budded pink nipples, he could actually feel his blood warming as it pumped through his body, thickening his cock.

Still wearing the gaping corset, she unzipped the black short shorts and shimmied them down her hips. At the sight of a tiny triangle of red panties, he groaned and leaned into the windowsill harder. The woman was killing him. His cock surged, the head pushing above the low waistline of his briefs. He could feel the sticky pre-cum oozing out, his balls tingling with the itch to relieve the tension that had been building for days. Damn, this little game of hers—look but don’t touch—made him feel young again, back to the days when sex had been new and fun and taboo.

The best thing about maturing had been mastering control of his body, to make sure that his partner was as satisfied as he was. But growing up had also dimmed the sheer thrill of sex. For men and women alike, the erotic recklessness of youth seemed to give way to using sex to emotionally manipulate others. So while Gemma’s actions were confounding, he had to admit that the woman had put a zing into his already healthy libido that had him distracted every waking hour and most sleeping hours, too.

He found himself smiling during the day for no good reason. Something akin to giddiness arose in him when he heard her car, signaling her arrival home. As Gemma’s hand slid beneath the scrap of shiny red fabric, Chev studied her face as that strange sensation once again curled through his chest. The beautiful lines of her features softened as she began to sink into the rhythm of her fingers strumming her soft center. Her mouth opened slightly, her shoulders rolled languidly; her eyes fluttered and closed. Her cheeks were flushed with pure abandon, and a smile played on her lips. She was happy putting on this private show, and he felt flattered that she had singled him out.

Frustrated, he conceded as he smoothed a hand over his rigid erection—a tiny scratch applied to a raging itch—but flattered. And intrigued.

As Gemma’s body convulsed in orgasm, Chev hardened his jaw against the urge to stroke himself to climax. Not yet. There was something going on with this woman, something that compelled her to experience such intimacy with such detachment. He was determined to find out what made her tick.

Face-to-face … hand-to-hand … and sex-to-sex.