...Bent on evil, Annie raked fingers through the hair on his chest, then let her hand drift down over washboard abs to explore the nest of curls at the juncture of his thighs. Talk about hidden jewels. Even soft he was a handful. Rico’s breath hitched as she teased him erect with feathery strokes that promised much—then retreated without delivering. He moaned in frustration. Music to Annie’s ears.
“You’re being punished for mocking me,” she purred. “Never taunt a tavern wench. We’re way wicked.”
“Like pirates aren’t?”
An arm whipped around Annie’s waist, and Rico rolled, trapping her between the mattress and hard, heavy man. A hungry mouth landed on hers. A silky, wet tongue probed deep. The kiss sucked the air out of her lungs, turned her mind to mush and her insides to a quivering mass of hot, gooey need.
While she lay limp and gasping, Rico dug his knees between hers, shoved apart her thighs, and rammed his cock up to her tonsils, then started pounding her into a breathless pulp. The bedsprings creaked and squeaked in raucous rhythm to his thrusts—motion that mimicked a rolling deck, the rise and fall of waves hitting a hull, a storm at sea. A storm in Annie as well. She had no choice but to wrap legs around his middle, clutch his shoulders, and hang on for the ride.
Okay, he’d proved his point. Nobody did bad like Rico.
Except, maybe, Nate Hawkins.
A guilty thought. But titillating. In reality, Annie knew she’d never fucked Nate in any incarnation. Dreams, however, were another matter, and last night’s dream was a lulu. It had triggered her past-life memories, yet been separate from them.
Where the memories told her what actually happened, the dream showed her what might have. In it, Amalie, Richard and Nate had finally enjoyed the ménage they’d never experienced in life. Why, Annie wasn’t sure, unless it was something her subconscious cooked up to give her closure, to lay the past to rest and let her move on, emotionally unencumbered, into the future.
If so, it hadn’t worked. There was nothing restful in her current predicament, making torrid bump-and-grind love with one man while envisioning two. She wondered if Rico might be suffering the same confusion. Annie loved her husband, no doubt about it, but they both harbored dirty little secrets—inherited from Richard and Amalie, perhaps. People died, but not their desires, it seemed. When souls entered new bodies, old longings went with them.
Rico was as bisexual as Richard had been, and even less comfortable with it. Unfortunately for Annie, she was. Her darling had never indulged his gay side and swore he never would. If that ever changed, though—like when hell froze over—would she be willing to share him with another man?
But only if she could join in. Frankly, the idea of three-way sex turned her on big time. Especially now. Blame Nate Hawkins and her dream. That fantasy taste of forbidden fruit had whetted her appetite for the real thing. Too bad she wasn’t going to get it. On the other hand, Rico gave her plenty all by himself. Annie knew she had no reason to want more.
So why did she?
A groan escaped her. “I’m a wicked, wicked woman.” Even for a tavern wench. “I oughta be horsewhipped.”
Rico paused on an inward thrust and pushed up on his forearms to shoot her an evil grin. “Is that a request?”
Without waiting for an answer, he climbed off her, out of bed, and padded across the floor toward their suitcase. Seconds later he returned with a leather belt draped over one shoulder and dark determination in his eyes. His right hand held a ball-gag and black scarf, while from his left dangled a pair of fur-lined handcuffs. They’d packed well for this weekend...