Manhandling Read online

  Quickly regaining his balance, his face throbbing from the blow, Mac hauled off and let one solid left hook fly, knocking the guy into a table of patrons.

  The guy came up off the floor and lunged at Mac, but this time Mac was ready. His fist connected squarely with the guy’s jaw and he slumped forward.

  Mac shoved him off and two bouncers dragged the man away. “You wanna-be bikers make me sick,” he shouted at Mac.

  People hooted and hollered. Though Mac was only interested in Laurel, as he gathered her into his arms.

  4

  You have a hot date tonight. What would you choose for underwear?

  a. that little black thong

  b. plain Jane white

  c. bikini sexy

  d. wow ’em boy briefs

  —Excerpt from Who’s Your Hottie? quiz,

  SPICE magazine

  THE BRACING CHILL of the wind made her press her face tightly to his back as they rode through the night. The scary incident at the Wolf Pack Road House was behind them, but the adrenaline still buzzed through her system. He’d been magnificent in his protection of her. She’d never had a man fight for her in her life and there was something primal and savage about it that hit her at her core.

  It excited her beyond everything.

  She’d lived such a sheltered life and for the first time she’d gotten a little taste of what it really offered. Her whole body tingled; her senses heightened, her nerve endings sizzling with energy.

  She pushed her pelvis against his backside because she needed the relief the touch brought. She felt his body jerk slightly and willed them to get to her brownstone faster.

  When he pulled up outside, she grabbed his arm and dragged him toward her house. He pulled against her hold and she turned to him.

  “What?”

  “Are you sure you’re up for me to come in? I don’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

  She looked at him as if he’d grown horns. She didn’t want this polite man asking her if she was all right. “It’s not tenderness, nor privacy that I want right now, Mac.”

  “What is it you do want?”

  “You.”

  He swallowed, another weird thing that didn’t seem to mesh with the man, the leather and the bike, but she was beyond deciphering him, beyond waiting.

  “Come on.”

  He followed her up the stairs, waited while she opened the door.

  He tried to stop her again. “Are you sure about this Laurel? Really sure?”

  She leaned forward and grabbed ahold of the belt of his leathers and jerked him inside. She slammed the door and without preamble pushed him against it. Her mouth found his. She was hungry for his strength, his heat. Breathless with anticipation. Maddened.

  This was what she had been missing, passion for life. Heat, sweat, energy. She felt it all pulsating through her. That little voice tried to talk her out of taking this man right in the hallway of her conservative brownstone, but she pushed that voice aside and silenced it.

  The sense of power sped through her, beating in time to her racing heart. She wrestled with his jacket as her mouth devoured his. Something heavy hit the floor just before the leather, but she paid it no heed, more interested in getting his T-shirt off. When he protested, she pushed him harder against the door, holding his wrists tight in her grasp.

  He whispered softly when she removed her mouth, “You want to be a bad girl, Laurel?”

  Vibrating with lust and need, she slid her hands over his glorious chest, the muscles hard and thick beneath her hands.

  “Slow down, babe. Slow down.”

  “I don’t want to slow down. I want you, Mac, now.” Now that the time had come to take that first step into unfamiliar territory, she wanted to know if he would be game for anything uninhibited and unadulterated. She wanted to be assured that he was what she was looking for.

  She wanted a man dominant enough to take her beyond and be open enough to let her do the same with him. She wanted aggressive sex, not gentle, polite or altogether civilized. She was sick to death of civilized.

  His brows raised in surprise and a primal light flamed in his deep blue eyes.

  “Surprised?” she asked.

  “Yes. I thought you’d be the missionary type. Not so it seems.”

  “No.”

  “You want to show me how bad you can be?”

  She shivered with a blend of panic and excitement.

  “I don’t want to show. I want to take.”

  He was so close to her she could feel the heat of his body through his clothes, could inhale how deliciously male he smelled—a heady combination of heat and forbidden passion. His warm breath ruffled the wisps of hair along the side of her face, and pure, undisguised sexual energy crackled between them. It was a rare and irresistible chemistry that intensified with each moment that passed.

  Her body softened, melted, undeniably readying for his possession. No words were spoken as she lifted a hand and curled her fingers around the nape of his neck. She pulled his lips to hers and kissed him deeply, ardently. His mouth was just as hot and willing, his tongue daring and ravenous, consuming her with rich, pure pleasure.

  They pulled back, just long enough for him to quickly strip off his T-shirt and yank off her jacket and shirt. Their mouths met again, lips open, teeth nipping and nibbling, tongues touching, tangling. Her hands swept over the broad expanse of his chest, and she plied his nipples with her thumbs, then brushed her fingers down to his taut belly. With a groan, he smoothed his palms along her shoulders and pushed her bra straps down and her bra off, so that it dropped to her waist. He didn’t waste any time in cupping her breasts in his hot hands, rolling her nipples back and forth between his fingertips.

  She felt out of control. Yet she luxuriated in the untamed sensation, along with the freedom to do things with and to this man that she’d never explored with another lover before. Like indulging in mindless, uninhibited sex for the pure, captivating desire of it.

  But ultimately, Mac was a man she instinctually trusted with her body and more. A man who made her feel amazingly feminine and lavishly seductive—as if she were made specifically for him, in every way. And for as long as their affair lasted, she was his, in every way.

  Breathing hard and aching for that fast, frenzied joining, she blindly reached for his belt buckle and released him of the leathers. As they fell away, she unfastened the top button and pulled the zipper of his jeans down over his hard, erection. Grabbing the waistband of his jeans and briefs, she shoved both down to his thighs. His iron-hard shaft sprang free, and she encircled him with her fingers and stroked his length, using her thumb to smear the bead of pre-come that had gathered on the head of his penis.

  His entire body jerked in response. He slanted his mouth across hers again with a tough growl, his tongue thrusting deep as he reached down to get her out of her leather pants and underwear. When the fabric dropped to her ankles, she kicked it out of the way.

  Hot, callused hands skimmed up her thighs, and long, seeking fingers delved into the crease between her legs. She was already wet, already unbearably aroused, drunk on passion and the excitement of the forbidden. He found her clit with his thumb and stroked across that knot of nerves in a sleek caress. All it took was that one electrifying touch, and she came in a fast, powerful climax that left her panting and gasping for breath.

  She wrenched her mouth from his and pushed him back onto the bench in her hallway. She bent down and grabbed her purse, pulling out a condom no single girl was without. He sat down and she sheathed him. She moved toward him, spreading her legs wide open on either side of his thighs. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she sat astride his lap, and his cock slid along her slick flesh and unerringly found the entrance to her body.

  She pushed her hips down at the same time he bucked upward, sinking onto his hard heat, closing around him to the hilt. She inhaled sharply at the exquisite sensation of being wholly filled by him, and he groaned, long and low. She rocked her pe
lvis against his, his body tense and quivering. She grabbed onto his shoulders again, easily picking up the rhythm he set, and rode him with utter abandon.

  His hand roamed up her spine, and his fingers fluttered along the nape of her neck, then wrapped the strands of her hair in his fist. He tugged her head back with that one hand and used the other to splay against the middle of her back, forcing her body to arch into him and her breasts to rub against his chest.

  Their bodies were locked tight, and she continued to ride him as he scattered soft, damp, biting kisses along her throat and over the upper slopes of her straining breasts. He circled his tongue around one rigid nipple, blew a hot stream of breath across the peak, then did the same to the other. He lapped at her slowly, licked the taut tips teasingly, and nibbled until the madness was too much to bear. Grabbing a handful of hair from the back of his head, she pressed his parted lips to one aching, tingling crest in silent demand, and he obeyed, taking as much of her breast as he could inside the wet, velvety warmth of his mouth.

  He sucked and she felt that pulling sensation all the way down to her sex. She couldn’t stop the whimper of need that slipped from her lips, couldn’t hold back the convulsions that started deep inside where Mac filled her, full and throbbing. She moved harder, faster, and came undone as a torrent of sensation gripped her limbs and sent her careening into an intense and fiery orgasm.

  He released a harsh groan of surrender then and rocked her in time to each frantic upward surge of his thick shaft within her. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close as his own body shuddered in and around hers in long, deep, powerful spasms.

  When it was over, they clung to each other, their arms and legs entwined, both of them too wiped out to move. Chest to chest, the wild beating of their hearts was all Laurel could feel, and in that seemingly endless stretch of time, the profound connection between them was all that mattered to her.

  MAC RUMMAGED through Laurel’s refrigerator for a late-night snack. They’d been too busy getting out of the Wolf Pack Road House to worry about eating. Laurel had gone upstairs to take a quick shower and change into something more comfortable. He’d promised he’d stick around until she returned, and the truth of the matter was that he didn’t want to leave, even though his bad-boy persona was expected to do exactly that.

  Oh damn, he was in trouble here.

  In fact, Mac was drowning. He knew this was a bad idea. Sleeping with Laurel tonight wasn’t what he’d planned to do. Changing from mild-mannered Theodore to wild thing Mac gave Mac much more than he bargained for. The female attention, the instant respect, and the exhilarating fight all cumulated into a heady buzz. Why fight what he wanted? He’d donned this whole persona to give her something that she wanted, and to his surprise, found a resonating chord inside him.

  He grabbed up a bowl of pasta and put it in the microwave, zapping it for two minutes. Searching through her drawers, he found a fork. As soon as the beeper went off, he dug in.

  It didn’t surprise him that he liked being with Laurel and that it was no hardship at all. She was intelligent, brave, and a lover he was sure he wouldn’t be able to get enough of. The three facets were intrinsically joined in a way that fulfilled an emptiness within him he hadn’t even known existed until she’d come along and filled that solitude with her exuberant presence, her fortitude, and even her moments of vulnerability.

  He leaned against the counter and looked down while he ate. Strewn across the counter were clippings and photographs of a woman. One particular clipping caught his attention. The caption read: Anne Wilkes Malone hands Melanie Graham, Curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art twenty million dollars to create a wing for the preservation of art deco artists.

  Another clipping caught his eye. “Anne Wilkes Malone, a native New Yorker, was born May 22, 1954, and passed away on June 17. Mrs. Malone is survived by her husband, William Tarlton Malone, her daughter Laurel Anne Malone and her son Dylan William Malone. Mrs. Malone graduated from Nightengale-Bamford and attended Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, New York.

  Mrs. Malone assembled the world-renowned Anne Malone Collection of Art Deco art, which became a permanent part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, punctuated by the large compilation of Jacques-Emile Ruhlmann….

  “I see you helped yourself to my Alfredo.”

  Laurel’s husky voice drew him from the article, and he turned his head as she walked barefoot into the kitchen, a soft smile on her lips. She was dressed in a pink muscle T-shirt with Debutante scrolled across the front and a pair of gray silk drawstring pants. Her hair was damp and in one long ponytail down her back. Her face was washed clean, and her skin pink from her shower. He caught the scent of freshly washed hair, and his stomach clenched. He ached to bury his face in her neck, to lose himself in the softness of her fragrant skin. He wanted to take her upstairs and pull her down with him and drift off to sleep wrapped in her arms.

  Oh, yeah, he was definitely in trouble here.

  “Guilty. It’s damn good.”

  “I also see you’re rummaging through my personal stuff.”

  “I couldn’t help it. You’re mother was Anne Malone?”

  “You knew my mother?”

  “No.” It seemed every time he turned around he was putting his foot in his mouth. He couldn’t tell her that his mother was on the Met’s board and he’d met Laurel’s mother once at a big social function. “I know of her.”

  “Oh, you follow women philanthropists?”

  How was he going to extricate himself his this? She looked so skeptical and it was warranted. Why would a bad-boy mechanic have any knowledge of Laurel’s mother? Pressing his hip against the counter, he crossed his arms over his chest and opted for the truth. “I remember reading about her when she donated her considerable collection of art deco paintings and furniture to the Met. That’s all. Why do you have all these clippings out?”

  The suspicion in Laurel’s eyes dissipated. “My brother, his wife, and I are putting together a celebration of my mother’s life. We have decided to have an auction for up-and-coming artists to honor her. We’re trying to figure out where to host it. Those clippings are going to be arranged in a scrapbook and set in the wing for people to look through.”

  “You’re father isn’t involved?” The words escaped his lips before he thought about what he was saying.

  She turned away without replying, bracing her hands on the counter, she looked down at the photos and clippings, and blew out a long stream of breath. She lifted her gaze to his, the depths of her eyes brimming with a wealth of emotion. “He’s been very busy and doesn’t really have the time to plan. He’s leaving it up to us.”

  There was so much more she wasn’t saying.

  Walking over to her gleaming cappuccino machine, she prepared to use it. Her back was to him, her stance tense, making him think that she deliberately hid her expression from him, so that he wouldn’t be able to scrutinize it. What she didn’t realize, however, was that her tone, rough with strain, gave her away.

  “Sounds to me like it’s a sensitive subject,” he said casually.

  “It is.” She pressed down on the handle to sieve the coffee from the grounds, and turned to face him again. “My dad is very particular about his work. He’s increased the time he’s spent in the office over the year since my mother’s death. It’s become his focus.”

  She spun back around and reached for two cups. “Do you want one? It’s decaf.”

  “Yes, thanks.” His gaze snagged on the bare skin of her waist, tantalizing him with the smoothness that he ached to caress with his fingers, taste with his tongue.

  He refocused on the discussion, pushing those sensual thoughts from his mind. “Why do you think that is?”

  She glanced at him, her expression closed and shuttered. He barely knew her and it didn’t surprise him that she was reluctant to talk about something so personal, but he wondered if she had an outlet at all. She bit her lip, and lifted her chin, giving him a direct look. But benea
th the shell of bravado was a hint of shyness that drew him like a magnet. Looking deeper into her eyes, he could also see a desperation that made his gut tighten.

  A long sigh escaped her soft mouth. “I don’t know. We don’t communicate as well as we did when my mother was alive. Do you think we could talk about something else?”

  She effectively ended the conversation with those words and Mac nodded.

  Did she intend to keep him at arm’s length because he was just her temporary bad-boy lover? “Sure,” he said shrugging as if he the frustration in him wasn’t tangible. The more he was around this woman, the more he wanted to know about her.

  She finished making their drinks, the steamer making a racket as she heated the milk. She leaned forward and handed him the hot cup of cappuccino.

  “So now that we have had sex and you know intimate details about my life, it’s my turn to ask some questions.”

  This could be good or bad depending on what she would ask him. He liked the idea that she wanted to get to know him—it showed that she was interested in him. He wanted time to breach her barriers, and divulging intimate details was a good place to start.

  “Shoot.”

  “You have a brother who owns a motorcycle dealership and one who’s a stockbroker. Why a mechanic?”

  “It’s fun and the hours are flexible. I like to come and go as I please.”

  “A loner, huh?” she asked, moving past him. She headed into the living room, sat on the couch, curled her feet underneath her, sipping her coffee gingerly.

  He followed her into the room and sat down next to her on the sofa. “Nah, not really. I like people, especially you,” he said leaning close with a mock leer.

  She laughed and pushed at his shoulder. “I didn’t thank you for the leather pants. That was really thoughtful of you to buy them for me. Do you usually do that on first dates?”

  “Not usually, but you seemed so caught up with the motorcycle thing, I wanted to give you a small part of that fantasy.”