The Personal Touch

If you could call three weeks a wait.

In Clint’s book of sexual conquests, it was a millennium. A week more than he’d waited for any other woman and as long as he’d gone without sex in recent memory. But ever since the two had met in Vegas last month, he’d wanted a taste of this dish. And when she’d said she was leaving for Milan that night, she’d asked him for the one thing that trumped his need for fast and frequent flings.

She’d asked him to make a promise. Wait for her to get back from her trip.

Only three tiny little weeks. Her in Italy shooting perfume ads and him in Los Angeles, cooling his cock in the Pacific Ocean while he tried to remember how he let a woman put his sex life on hold.

He couldn’t recall what had made him agree. Maybe it was the barely-there dress she’d worn that night. More likely the look in her eye that said she was worth it. But nonetheless, he’d honored his word. He had to. It was one of the few things he cherished more than having a good time.

She stepped to the edge of the pool, nothing covering that caramel skin except for the lacy red thong that topped her long, slender legs. Behind her, the view over West Hollywood nearly stretched to the ocean on this exceptionally clear night. But though he loved to relax on his terrace, tonight wouldn’t be spent gazing at the city below. Tonight was payback time. Three long weeks of celibacy ending by the graces of one tall, stunning cover model named Rachelle.

No last name. “Just Rachelle,” she’d said.

Damn, if that wasn’t sexy.

With that smoky look holding promise in her eyes, she tossed the last of her clothes, flung her hands over her head and dove into the pool. Her slender form moved fluidly through the water, inching toward him like a shark coming in for the kill. And as she neared, she stroked her hands up his legs and trailed her tongue along his shaft, breaking through the surface in a series of slippery kisses that hardened his cock and weakened his knees.

Their mouths met hot and deep, like they had back in Vegas, and he sucked in the scent of chlorine and expensive perfume. Her lips still held the essence of the Cosmopolitan she’d left on the terrace, and while her tongue did a number on his senses, she coiled her legs around his thighs and began to grind against his erection. It nearly broke him in half. He was too ready for this night. And as if to torture him more, she broke the kiss to whisper all the things she planned to do with him.

Sexy things. Naughty things. Things most women didn’t care for and a gentleman never requested. But Rachelle wasn’t looking for a gentleman tonight. She was here to prove that when it came to judging people, Clint Hilton was head of the class.

It was one of the skills he’d inherited from his father, what put him on top in his game and what had him darting through a casino full of beautiful women to that one special blonde by the bar. The one with the eyes of steam.

Clint could always spot the difference between real bedroom eyes and ones only learned for the camera. And Rachelle was the genuine article. She was the stuff wet dreams were made of, the kind of sex kitten that made suave men babble and bungling boys faint.

And tonight she was all his.

She glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “I see you’ve lit the fireplace in your bedroom. It looks cozy.”

He had. Not that April in Los Angeles was especially chilly. He’d simply gone to painstaking efforts to make sure everything was perfect tonight, starting with dinner on the beach and ending with cocktails by the pool. The lighting was timed to take over when the sun finally set. Low jazz hummed throughout the house. The tables were set with flowers and fresh citrus and the bars had been fully restocked.

And, of course, he had condoms tucked around every corner, in arm’s reach of any room, bed and surface that might spark Rachelle’s fancy. Given some of the plans she just shared, Clint suspected that endeavor hadn’t been in vain.

He lifted her high around his waist and began suckling her breast. “Would you like to move inside?”

Her quiet laugh held pure sin. “It might be safer. I’d hate to see you drown before I get my fill.”

He moved his lips to the other breast. “I’m a very good swimmer.”

Droplets of water slid from her hair and trickled down her chest, and he started a game of catching them with his tongue before they hit the water’s edge.

“You know,” she said, her breath getting heavy as he lifted her higher and moved his mouth down her waist, “you could probably get me started right here.” Then with the swiftness of a cat, she pushed from his arms, lifted herself to the side of the pool and spread her thighs wide with invitation.

His heart thumped and his erection hardened. He cupped his hands around the pool’s edge and moved between her legs. Through the chlorine and the sweet scent of star jasmine, the smell of sex filled his nostrils, putting an ache in his crotch as he began kissing her tender folds. She inched closer and spread wider, tossing her wet blond hair over her shoulder to stop the pat-pat-pat of droplets on her thighs. Then as he slowly circled her clit, she threw her head back and moaned.

“That’s it, stud. Show me what you’ve got.”

He blew hot breath on her nub and began the feast, licking her sensitive spots and then slipping his tongue into her core. Her muscles clenched and his cock twitched, the idea of getting inside that tight space nearly taking him to the edge. But it was far from time. She had too many plans—plans he really, really liked. So he worked hard to focus on her pleasure and keep his own in check.

Faster, he stroked. Her toes tapped against the water as her sex slickened and swelled. And with a low cry that started deep in her chest and echoed down the canyon, she came apart.

Her climax pushed his need to the point of pain. Even the cool water of the pool did nothing to temper the throb. And when she rose to her feet and told him to come inside, he nearly stumbled over himself as he pushed out of the pool and followed.

“I need your cock now,” she casually remarked.

“At your service.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a long, greedy kiss, forcing himself to take his time and savor every moment. But just as he was about to break the kiss and lead her to his bedroom, the click of the gate and a sharp yelp from the side of the house startled them both to attention.

“Oh! I…”

Clint looked up. “Mom!”

Rachelle darted for a towel.

At the gate to the side yard, his mother stood agape dressed in tidy khaki chinos, a pale blue cardigan and pearl stud earrings. Brown leather sandals matched her purse, and she stood on the grass, her mouth silently bobbing, pointing a finger toward a hydrangea bush.

“Pom Pom,” she finally uttered, referring to the dog he’d given her for Christmas.

Clint grabbed a towel of his own and stood next to Rachelle, whose flushed cheeks had morphed from arousal to embarrassment.

“What the hell are you doing home?” he asked. “You’re supposed to be in Palm Springs.”

“I—” his mother started, but before she could finish, he heard the flattened tone of his date.

“You live with your mother?”

“Huh?” He turned and looked at Rachelle. Her embarrassment was gone. So was that smoky bedroom look in her eyes, replaced by the bland and somewhat disbelieving look of a woman unimpressed.

“No, my mother lives with me.”

She responded with an expression he didn’t like.

“It’s entirely different,” he affirmed.

“If you say so.” She headed toward her clothes.

“I’m serious. This is my house.”

“And you share it with your mother.”

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked. But he already knew what was wrong with that. He’d been trying to get Jillian Hilton to move out pretty much ever since he’d offered to let her stay with him after his father died. The situation was supposed to be temporary, a month or two while she got over her grief and learned to live on her own. And yes, more than a year later she was still here. And yes, she was driving him nuts. But she was his mother. With his only brother being a news correspondent traveling through the Middle East, what was he supposed to do?

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Rachelle said in a tone that said otherwise.

“Now, wait a minute. My mother’s leaving.” He turned a stern eye to Jillian to express that was an order, not a suggestion. She’d had plans. They’d arranged this. She was off for the weekend with her best friend, Marge, leaving him here—alone—for a night filled with lots of overdue sex.

But Rachelle simply kept walking, shaking her head as she gathered her purse and clothes.