Controlled Response
Page 2

Apparently, some perverse nature god had answered her silent plea.
He was outlined by the midafternoon sun, but the shadowing only enhanced everything she wanted to see. Tall, which she liked, because she was five-eight. Golden blond hair pushed back, highlighted with darkened streaks from sweat. He was shirtless, the muscles glistening as if oiled. She'd seen bodies with swollen and bunched muscle, but he was as compact as a spring. Flat pectorals, one or two faint veins following the curves of his biceps. The small silver medallion he wore, perhaps a religious symbol, fell in the ridged vee that divided the pecs and coaxed the press of her thumbs. There was nothing wasted on him. While the arms were muscular, she could see the architecture of his collarbone and rib cage, the frame it provided for the tight stomach that wasn't a six-pack, just a slab of smooth muscle, with an indentation of navel that looked as firm. Tanned, he wore nothing but a pair of tight bike shorts and biking cleats, showing off a pair of calves and thighs also roped with taut muscle.
He was a young god by anyone's standards, but the shorts and shoes said he was definitely of her species. A man who'd interrupted something embarrassingly personal.
She wasn't the type to jump up shrieking over it. Kind of beside the point now, anyway.
She was the type to tell someone to fuck off and let her get on with it, and watch him run in terror. But unlike some of the infantile examples of manhood she'd been dealing with the past couple days, he didn't strike her as the bolting kind. It interested her, made her blood ratchet up a few degrees, her body obviously enjoying the view as she weighed what to do next. Or maybe she'd just see what he did next.
While she waited, her gaze lifted to his mouth. The lean, athletic face which matched the body confirmed he didn't play—he competed. He had the long, sloping jawline she imagined an Egyptian prince might have. Lips with a touch of sensual fullness to them, and a short hairstyle, just the points of the strands scattered over his high forehead. A tapering to short sideburns. He had a hairstylist who knew his or her business, which said money, but the body was a hundred percent from the sweat of his brow. She liked the way the silver medallion lay on his bare skin. She wanted to taste the metal chain and the sweat of it beneath, the salt of him.
As he noted her regard, he casually dropped to a squat, his forearms propped on his spread thighs, fingers grazing the earth. Maybe because he could see her earplugs, he didn't speak, but it intensified the moment, encouraging her to continue.
She had a Beretta in the backpack and knew how to use it. She'd also had self-defense courses, enough to know isolating herself was stupid, since the first line of self-defense for a smart woman was not to put herself in dangerous situations. But she doubted many psycho serial rapists went out on their bicycles in the rural Berkshires, seeking chance encounters with lone women.
His attention was on her lips now, her throat, sweeping down over the corset, a question in his eyes, for of course it wasn't most women's choice of practical underwear. But then he moved his gaze back to her hand. Though she'd frozen at his appearance, she still held two fingers inside the panties, lying on her quivering clit, the other two fingers on the outside, her thumb in the crease of her thigh.
Keep going. He mouthed it, she was sure. From the look in his steady gray eyes, it wasn't a request.
She stared at him. Breathe slow. Even. Hold it steady. The corset required that. Even an orgasm could get too out of hand, and she had a feeling it was about to, for as his lips formed the words, her clit shuddered under the bare friction of her still fingers.
He was waiting to see if she was the type of person who would continue. She had no idea what that would make her in his eyes, but why should she care? He wanted her to continue, and hell yes, she wanted to continue. She was far from home here.
When she began to move her fingers, his gaze immediately returned there. Holy God, who knew that actually being watched was ten times more stimulating than fantasizing about it? And it had been a pretty good fantasy at that. Still, she closed her eyes.
Reaching over her head, she found the crisscross of black bungee cords holding her pack.
When she slid her free hand under them, the cords cut against her skin, goading her imaginings about her god binding her as he spread her this way, while his mouth . . .
She sought restraint for her pleasure. That alone spiked Lucas's response. With his casual bed partners being primarily businesswomen who felt they had to hold the upper hand, it wasn't easy to. find one who naturally desired the more dominant forms of sex he preferred. He wondered if that was the reason she wore a corset under her clothes.
God in Heaven, what was a woman like this doing in a secluded glade, having to pleasure herself? The way she'd looked at him, that half challenge, daring him to run or stay, laced with a sensual desperation that said Don't ruin this, had added to the intrigue.
Now he rose, moved to her. As he laid a hand on her raised calf, her gaze sprang open.
He stayed that way, not retreating, giving her time. As he smelled her arousal, his nostrils flared, for her gaze registered it, her breath quickening. When she made a visible effort to modulate it, he noted she seemed to be using the corset to control the level of her own arousal. Interesting.
He leaned forward, just enough to have her blue eyes widen a fraction. Pausing, he listened to the faint sound of what was coming through her player. "Hot Blooded," by Foreigner. It told him what pace she'd been setting for herself. But if he was the stimulus, rather than Foreigner's bass line, he thought something else might work better.
Since the player was tucked into the open flap of a saddlebag, he drew it out by the cord so she wouldn't think he was rummaging through her things, then scrolled through the menu.
She had eclectic music taste. Ballads, rock, jazz of the smooth variety. But she also had some things that were off the beaten path. Edgy music that could take the mind to a new place, where the unimaginable might become acceptable. He hit the song he wanted.
"Destiny," by Zero 7. Had he played the song because of the title? No, this guy wasn't that cheesy. He'd known the song, knew it had a dark urgency to it. The haunting opening strains talked about a woman alone in her hotel room, watching pay channel porn and dreaming of her lover. There was a loneliness to it. It was about desire, not thought. The need for someone to understand her, down to the dark, below-the-soul levels.
So he knew the song. But how did he know it would be the right song for this moment, for her?
He was still leaning over her, his gray eyes studying her with an intensity that suggested .
. . not invasion, but as if he was figuring her out. When his gaze finally dropped to her mouth, she had to swallow. As his attention continued to descend, he might as well have put his hands on her, because she felt the weight of his touch in his gaze. He smelled of sweat. Basic earth, male strength.
Men fell short in many ways, but they could sometimes be relied upon for this. He'd just happened on the rare moment when his abilities and her needs were in perfect accord.
Lucky him. Lucky her. In this clearing, where he didn't know her name, she'd take it, because he'd done all the right things, made all the right moves, the stages of the dance all male animals had to know to win the willingness of a female. Circling, nonthreatening approach, respectful, but knowing when to switch gears and make the request a demand, bring the force of passion to the mix. It was amazing that humans, supposedly the most intelligent of all species, often fumbled the steps even a field mouse could handle.
As his gaze rose, pinned her again, she gave a bare movement of her head. A nod. Yes.
God, yes. But she wouldn't help him. She was tired of orchestrating the whole damn world so it would work the way it should. She wanted to see if someone else could do it.
Usually, she felt compelled to direct. Touch me here, squeeze that. Kiss me more. But when sex was like choreographing a major Broadway production, it was too exhausting to be worth the bother, really.
Putting his hands on her waist, he spanned it, his hands over the tight lacing. Then he moved upward, slow, not as if he was doing it to please her, but as if he was learning her for himself, which pleased her more.
Slow, slow, he held her firmly as his strong fingers moved up over her rib cage. This was a man who not only knew how to touch women, but that each one needed to be handled uniquely, an important component of the foreplay.
As he reached her breasts, he stopped, his forefinger and thumb fitting beneath each.
She wanted to draw a deeper breath, but couldn't. She had to keep herself calm. Even.
She could do that. If she could do it right now, she could do it anytime. She wouldn't touch him. That would help. But Jesus, the body this man had. She wanted to trail her fingers down his sides, feel the prominent ribs that racked into the muscular abdomen, play at the snug band of the cycling shorts which showed the sleek curve of a sizable erection. Hadn't she heard somewhere they didn't wear any underwear under those? When she made herself look up, she couldn't prevent a groan as he cupped her breasts, squeezing just enough so they swelled farther out the top of the corset. Not gentle. He didn't hurt her, but he conveyed his desire. The dangerous spark in his gaze at her groan told her he could get a lot rougher, if that was the direction the tone went. He didn't mind getting down and dirty as needed to make it blow-your-mind sex.
If she could get all that from one look, she was still fantasizing. But that was okay. For once, she wasn't going to scale back her expectations just because they appeared unrealistic. If he did everything perfectly, she'd know she was dreaming, no harm done.
Even if he did a couple things wrong, she still wouldn't be tossing him out anytime soon.
Then his hand went to the first hook of the corset.
Freeze fantasy.
Automatically, Cass caught his wrist with her free hand, an unspoken direction. That needs to stay on.
The god toyed with it, his fingers shifting beneath her grip. She suspected he could make short, deft work of the undergarment. It was an effort to hold on to her resolve, because she wanted those long fingers, wanted to explore the shape of his knuckles, the lines between them, the broad shape of the palm. One more moment, and she knew she'd give in.