Nerd In Shining Armor Part 16

Heat from the fire blasted the soles of Jack's feet, but he didn't care. Now he understood how a person could walk over hot coals. He could do it if he thought about Gen naked. He could do anything if he thought about Gen naked, even put up with a hard-on the size of a battles.h.i.+p while he concentrated on this follow-up business.

Follow-up should be slow and easy. She'd told him that without saying so, by the way she was kissing him, like she was savoring an expensive dessert. So he'd kiss her the same way, and it was working out great, because he could show her without words how lucky he felt to be here. He was most definitely savoring her.

Most of all, he felt incredibly happy to know that s.e.x with Gen, at least so far, was a big deal for him. There wasn't a single so-so thing about it, which meant that he had as much s.e.xual drive as the next guy, and that was a huge relief. He just needed the right motivation, and the right motivation was, at this very moment, sticking her tongue in his mouth.

And lacing her fingers through his. And guiding his hand down until something feathery tickled his knuckles. His heart boomed like cannonfire when he realized what that feathery stuff was.

Her kiss stopped for a millisecond. "More," she whispered against his mouth. Then her tongue went to work again.

He could do more. He so could do more. Jack the o.r.g.a.s.m Man, that was him.

She let go of his hand, probably to see if he could manage on his own. He was up to the challenge, but still, the concept of what he was being urged to do blew his circuits. She wanted his fingers in there. He still couldn't believe she was letting him do these things.

Somehow he got past the wonder of it all and s.h.i.+fted a little to the side so he had a better angle. That put his feet closer to the fire, but he didn't care a bit. Any guy whose hand hovered over paradise while his tongue was deep in bliss couldn't let a little thing like hot coals bother him.

He remembered how she'd liked the back-and-forth movement on her breast, so he started by brus.h.i.+ng his hand lightly over her springy curls. She started breathing faster, so he figured he was good to go. Resting the heel of his hand just above the border of those curls, he slid his middle finger slowly down until he reached . . . omiG.o.d. She was juicy, plump, and furnace hot. His p.e.n.i.s ached, his b.a.l.l.s ached.

But she hadn't invited him to play that game yet. She wanted follow-up.

So that's what she'd get. What sweet torture. He added a second finger, and the deeper inside he went, the harder his p.e.n.i.s became. She moaned. He moaned. And then he got to work, deciding that if this was the order of things for her, he'd follow it or die trying.

As it turned out, he didn't have to work very hard. A few strokes and she threw back her head, gasping and crying out as her spasms rippled past his fingers. As she quivered in the aftershock, he supported her with one hand around her shoulders and the other buried in her center of gravity. Maybe she wanted him to stay right there. Maybe she wanted him to do it again. And he would. Whatever she said, he'd do, even if his equipment ended up with permanent creases from being compacted so long.

"Take off. . . your pants," she said, gulping for air.

Music to his ears. Music to his p.e.n.i.s, too. Slowly he withdrew his fingers.

"Ahhh," she whispered, sounding regretful as she closed her eyes.

He didn't want her to be regretful. "I can do that again."

"I know. Maybe . . . later." She sank slowly back on her heels and looked at him with glazed eyes. "I want you to stand up now and take off your pants."

He wondered if he could stand. He was shaking pretty badly. Somehow he managed it, although the sand bit into the tender soles of his feet. He wondered if they were blistered, but he forgot all about that when she reached for his belt buckle. He wondered if she remembered what she'd said in the plane about b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs. He would never forget it.

She undid the buckle, worked the b.u.t.ton loose, and started unzipping his fly. "I'll bet you're ready to go off like a bottle rocket," she said.

He didn't say anything. He was too busy trying not to go off like a bottle rocket.

"Here's my idea." She shoved down his pants and his p.e.n.i.s cantilevered the soft cotton material of his Jockeys so his underwear resembled the prow of a schooner. She glanced at the display and smiled. "I need to relieve that pressure before we settle in on that towel, don't you think?"

His response was a very unsophisticated gurgle of excitement.

"I'll take that as a yes. Now step out of your pants."

He started to follow her instructions and nearly fell on top of her.

She grabbed his hand and placed it on her shoulder just in time to save the day. "Brace yourself on me. Use two hands."

Beneath his hands her shoulder bones seemed small and delicate. He hesitated to put any weight on them for fear she'd go down.

"Lean on me," she said. "I'm stronger than I look."

He wanted out of those pants, and his pa.s.sion-clouded brain couldn't think of alternatives, so he used her for support while he extracted his feet from the jeans. She held under his weight.

"Good." She gazed up at him, looking directly into his eyes. "You might want to keep hold of me, to steady yourself." Her cheeks grew pink. "It could get a mite intense."

He nodded. Nodding was the best he could do under the current circ.u.mstances. His blood hammered in his ears and he wondered if he might pa.s.s out from excitement. There was only so much a guy could stand. But pa.s.sing out would be such a lame thing to do when he was about to have the most excellent experience of his entire s.e.xual life.

Dropping her attention to those misshapen briefs, she tugged them down in one bold move. "Bless my ever-loving soul," she murmured. "Thumbs don't lie."

He didn't understand what thumbs had to do with anything, but who cared if she made sense? Who cared if she started speaking in pig Latin? But she didn't speak at all. Instead she wrapped both hands around his p.e.n.i.s. She looked like a rock star holding a mike, ready to belt out that first note.

If she didn't hurry up, it would be a very short song.

When she started playing around with quick swipes of her tongue, he gasped and clutched her shoulders, sure it was all over. But by gritting his. teeth he managed to stave off a climax that might have blinded her. Ah, this was incredible. He had to make it last somehow, so he closed his eyes and started reciting the square root table in his head.

That worked until she slipped her mouth down over the tip. He had only a nanosecond to warn her. "Gen-"

She tightened her grip on the base of his p.e.n.i.s, which staved off the inevitable a second longer. Slowly she slid her mouth free. "It's okay," she whispered, her breath cool on his wet skin. "Let go. I've got you." Then she was back, just in time, holding him firmly in one hand, stroking his b.a.l.l.s with her other hand.

He emptied his lungs in a roar as he emptied his come into her mouth. He saw stars, planets, the entire universe. If he hadn't been anch.o.r.ed so firmly to her wonderful mouth, he would have taken flight, rising into the sky like a helium balloon.

Gradually his head stopped buzzing, but his legs were like licorice whips and even her support soon wouldn't be enough to keep him upright. Fortunately she released him about that time, because he needed to get down on his knees before he fell.

Kneeling on the sand, he was still weaving a little as he held on to her shoulders and stared into her beautiful face, the face of a G.o.ddess. "Th-thankyou."

She smiled. "Kisses make a nice thank you, too."

What a terrific idea. He leaned forward and touched his lips to her mouth, the very mouth that had sent him to Pluto and back. Hot d.a.m.n, she tasted of s.e.x, and what started out as a thank-you kiss turned into a wet, sloppy tongue-fest that soon had him stroking her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and her fondling his p.e.n.i.s again.

In no time at all he was recharged and ready to take that South Park beach towel for a magic carpet ride. He'd never rebounded that fast, not even at seventeen. He was a stud. He was a manly man. He was Jack.

He lifted his mouth a millimeter away from hers. "Ready to unwrap one of those condoms?"

She laughed softly and squeezed his rigid p.e.n.i.s. "I guess you've been saving up."

For you, he wanted to say, but thought better of it. "You bet. Just hoping I'd be stranded on a desert island with a willing woman and a suitcase full of condoms."

She laughed again. "Next you'll be telling me Nick did you a favor."

"He did." He cupped her breast, memorizing the silken weight of it so he could have memories in his old age. "But the thing is, he meant to kill me, so I don't think I'll bother to thank him." There, that was a good comeback, the kind of comeback that a guy by the name of Jack would make. "And that's as much time as I want to waste talking about Brogan."

G.o.dd.a.m.n sonofab.i.t.c.hin' rain. Nick Brogan huddled inside a crevice that wasn't nearly adequate to s.h.i.+eld him from the storm. It wasn't bad enough that his pickup men hadn't shown up on schedule, or that he was f.u.c.king starving to death, or that he'd lost his Ziploc bag before he could get the gun inside.

No, he also had to put up with getting rained on. He used to be dying of thirst, too, but now that was solved. He could tilt his head and open his mouth and have all he wanted to drink. Too bad it wasn't raining Scotch.

Quenching his killer thirst was the only good thing about this d.a.m.ned rainstorm that had blown in without warning, totally not part of his brilliant plan. He should be well on his way to sipping Dom Perignon instead of sucking drops of rainwater out of the sky. G.o.d knew where the idiots were who were supposed to show up hours ago.

Probably lost, wandering around clueless, the jugheads. He'd known they weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer when he'd hired them. Initially that had worked to his advantage, because they'd been too stupid to ask a bunch of questions he didn't care to answer. They didn't even know his name and they had no idea what he was up to.

They'd seemed perfect, needing money to fix the broken radio in their boat and buy new fis.h.i.+ng gear so they could continue to take out charters. Even the busted radio had played right into his hands, because he hadn't wanted them to communicate with anybody during this exercise.

He hadn't expected a lot out of them, but he'd hoped that even their midget IQs would enable them to find this beach again once he'd pointed it out. Apparently not, and from the size of the waves. .h.i.tting the sh.o.r.e he'd bet the Coast Guard had issued a small craft warning by now. Besides being dumb as sand fleas, his pickup men were also cowards, so once they heard of a small craft warning, they'd scuttle all plans of looking for him until the weather cleared.

Whatever he'd agreed to pay them, it was too d.a.m.ned much. Not that he'd planned on actually giving them the money. Shooting them and dumping the bodies overboard was a h.e.l.l of a lot cheaper and less risky.

Before this caper began, he'd wondered if he'd have the nerve to kill anyone, after all. Now he knew the answer. n.o.body was getting between him and that three million. n.o.body.

So he'd be safer to eliminate the pickup guys from the equation. Even stupid men might end up saying the wrong thing to the right person, although that wouldn't have been a big worry if everything had happened the way he'd envisioned. He should have been gone by now, on his way to Tokyo via a rattletrap cargo plane whose pilot wouldn't ask bothersome questions.

Now he was late, and he wasn't sure how to fix that little glitch. He hadn't wanted to risk using a cell phone on this operation, for fear the signal would be picked up by somebody he didn't want listening in. So here he was, pinned down on this lousy sc.r.a.p of real estate, helpless until the brainless morons he'd hired managed to stumble upon him.

On top of all that, his gun had salt water in it now. Maybe he should use some of this blasted rain to wash out the gun. Yeah, he'd better do it, although that might screw up the chamber even more. He hadn't antic.i.p.ated this and didn't know for sure what to do about the wet gun. They hadn't covered that during his gun owner's course last month.

He hated it when things didn't go the way they were supposed to. At least the deal with the plane had come off like a dream. The only two people who knew that he wasn't at the bottom of the ocean were dead. From that standpoint, the plan had worked to perfection. Now he just needed to get the h.e.l.l out of here.

Matt made a pig of himself eating baked ham, turnip greens, and mashed sweet potatoes. He hadn't had a home-cooked meal in forever, and besides being s.e.xy and d.a.m.ned good to look at, Annabelle was a great cook. It was a bonus to the trip he hadn't counted on, and he was looking for all the pluses he could find.

On one hand he felt guilty chowing down on the food Annabelle fixed, because she wasn't eating much of it, but on the other hand he reasoned that it would be an insult not to enjoy her cooking. And he wasn't alone in the glutton department. Lincoln's appet.i.te had come back and he seemed determined to replace everything he'd upchucked a couple of hours ago.

Matt was reasonably sure Annabelle wasn't still seasick. No, she was simply heartsick. Lincoln might be worried, too, but he didn't have the burden of responsibility that his mother had, and besides, it took a h.e.l.l of a lot to cause a normal fourteen-year-old boy to go off his feed. Watching Lincoln eat made Matt feel better, so he could imagine how it cheered Annabelle. Some things, at least, were the same.

Lincoln reminded Matt of how he'd been at that age- a bottomless pit. Sitting next to Lincoln on the longer side of the L-shaped bench seat, Matt had a chance to observe the kid up close and personal. Under the constant scrutiny of his mother down at the end of the table, Lincoln made a real effort to mind his table manners, but he still ate like a teenage boy, wolfing his food and was.h.i.+ng it down with milk. Matt wondered if the food remained on his tongue long enough for all the wonderful flavors to register. Probably not. But then, he might not see this meal as anything special, considering that he ate his mother's cooking all the time.

Matt spent the meal asking the cliche'd questions most adults asked kids-about school and sports. Lincoln responded with good grace, although Matt wondered if he was mentally rolling his eyes. Annabelle added a few bits of information that Lincoln might rather have kept under wraps, like the poetry contest he'd won last year and the part he'd been asked to play in the school musical. Oh, and by the way, Annabelle had said casually, Lincoln was on the honor roll.

"It's no big whoop to be on the honor roll." Lincoln broke into her litany. "Everybody's on it."

"Everybody most certainly is not," Annabelle said. "You're the only one of your friends who made it."

Lincoln shrugged. "I got lucky."

Annabelle opened her mouth as if to contradict him. Then she closed it again, glanced at Matt, and smiled. "Then you must be a mighty lucky boy," she said.

Matt smiled back, enjoying the cozy moment in which he and Annabelle silently shared the knowledge that Lincoln was trying his hardest not to be labeled a nerd who cared about grades. Funny how this little meal in the cabin of a rented boat felt more homey and comfortable than any Matt had shared in that big old house with Theresa. Twenty years ago he'd thought it was reasonable to want a nice wife, maybe a couple of kids, and a job he could enjoy.

The job had turned out okay, but Theresa hadn't been a nice wife. Kids only would have mucked up the situation, so he was glad they hadn't had them. But that meant he didn't have a fourteen-year-old basketball player/poet around the house. Multicolored hair aside, Lincoln was the kind of boy any man would be proud to call his son. Matt was curious as to where the guy was who had that right.

Finally Matt had stuffed in as much as he could hold. Maybe the food comforted him, too. He wished he could figure out a way to comfort Annabelle short of holding her, which wouldn't be happening.

He placed his napkin beside his plate. "That was delicious, Annabelle. Thank you."

She gave him a brief smile. "I'm glad it set well with you."

"It did. Great meal."

"Uh, Mom?" Lincoln eyed the food still on her plate. "Are you going to eat that, or what?"

"You probably should try," Matt said. He wanted to say something about keeping her strength up, but that sounded too dire, so he didn't.

Annabelle shoved her plate toward Lincoln. "You go ahead and have it."

"You're sure? 'Cause if you're gonna eat it, then-"

"I'm not, so no sense in letting it go to waste." She gave the plate another little push in her son's direction. "Go on. Otherwise I'll sc.r.a.pe it in the garbage."

Full as he was, Matt would have finished her meal rather than see it go in the garbage. Once he was convinced she wouldn't eat it, he was relieved when Lincoln pulled the plate in front of him and dug in.

Lincoln was chewing away, his mouth full, when he glanced up and apparently realized that both his mother and Matt were sitting there watching him eat. "Hey, like talk among yourselves, okay?" he said.

"Lincoln, don't speak with your mouth full!" Annabelle recoiled in horror.

Lincoln swallowed loudly. "Somebody has to talk. You're freaking me out, like watching me eat is the entertainment.'' He glanced at his watch. "I know what! The TV works, right?"

"It should," Matt said.

"Then let's watch the Cubs and the D'Backs. I almost forgot the game was on."

Matt stood. "I'll see if we can bring it in." He flipped on the television mounted in a wall cabinet opposite the table. He even knew the right channel, because had the evening turned out differently, he would have watched the game himself. Considering he'd decided to take a break from Celeste, he couldn't very well go to the bar tonight, so that had left cozying up to the TV.

"Oh, wow, a triple!" Lincoln said. "Gonzo is so totally awesome."

"He's good." Matt watched Luis Gonzalez pull off his batting glove as he stood on third.

"Yeah. My friends are all Gonzo's the bomb."

"I'll start on the dishes." Annabelle slid from her seat and started collecting plates and silverware.

"No, you won't." Matt turned away from the television and walked back to the table. "I'm not much of a cook, but I'm a d.a.m.ned good dishwasher."

She met his gaze. "It'll give me something to do," she said quietly. "I'm not much of a baseball fan."

He understood her reasoning, but he didn't like the idea of turning her into some kind of galley slave, while the two guys bonded over baseball. Too bad he couldn't invite her for a little walk, but it was raining. Or was it? After crossing back to the television, he turned down the volume and listened. No rain.

Matt adjusted the volume again, then located the remote and handed it to Lincoln. "Tell you what. You keep tabs on the game, and your mother and I will take a walk on the dock. We won't go far, so if you need anything, just come out and get us."

"Sure." Lincoln nodded, his attention focused on the screen. "Oh, geez. They stranded him."

Matt didn't spare a glance at the TV. Instead he looked at Annabelle, who stood with the dishes still in her hands as she stared at him in obvious shock. "Wouldn't you like a little fresh air?" He tried to make the suggestion sound casual, although he didn't feel at all casual about it.

She hesitated, as if making a really tough decision. "I... I reckon I would," she said at last.

He could get used to that little hillbilly tw.a.n.g that crept into her voice now and then. "Gonna take the dishes with you?" he teased, to see if she'd lighten up any.