Dirty Scoundrel(31)

"Enthusiasm's good." I close my eyes and rest my head on my folded  hands, relaxing as he rubs the aloe onto my burn. "I really appreciate  this."

"I don't mind in the slightest. Lets me touch you for a bit longer, and I'm greedy that way."

I smile to myself. "You touched me all day long."

"Doesn't mean I'm tired of it." He puts another dollop of aloe on my  back and begins to rub it in as well. "Your dad . . . you said he's  really sick, huh? You take care of him?"

"I do," I say softly. It feels strange to be talking about my dad to  Clay, especially after the realization that Dad did so much to keep us  apart from each other. "It's hard to be angry with him, because I know  what's happened to him. After his stroke, he hasn't been the same. It  took him months and months to recover, and by the time he could get  around again, Johanna had filed for divorce and his accountants had let  me know that he didn't have any money left. I thought it couldn't get  any worse . . . and then he started mistaking me for my mother, who died  when I was five."

His hands gently caress my shoulders. "Ouch. That had to have been painful."

I nod. "At first I thought it was just a spell. That maybe he was  struggling a little after the stroke. But then it kept happening more  and more. He'd wake up and think he was late for a movie. Or he'd  sometimes have no idea where he was at all, and just scream and scream  at me like I was torturing him. And sometimes when he's having a bad  spell, he remembers Mom's death and he just cries and cries. Those are  the worst days." I swallow hard. "He should probably be in a home, but I  can't afford any but the barest-bones ones, and I don't want the world  knowing that Chap Weston is being tossed into a cheap home by his mean  daughter."         

     



 

"So you started runnin' a museum for him instead?"

"It seemed like the only thing to do. When he was still coherent, I  suggested selling some of his memorabilia from the movies. He's got tons  of it, you know. Says he used to hit up all the studio lot auctions  with Debbie Reynolds. Didn't want to sell any of it, either. He refused,  and it's his stuff so I can't go around him. And doing that would be  cruel, anyhow. So I tried for a while to sell autographs and signed  pictures on eBay and things. It didn't make much money, but then we had a  fan show up out of the blue one day and she wanted pictures of Dad, and  he was just so delighted to show her around and give a tour of his  collection. And that's kind of how the museum started."

"Mmm." His hands slide down my back in the most delicious way. "You never did make it to Stanford, did you."

"Never even left town," I admit. "Dad was one medical emergency after  another, and by the time he stabilized, the money was gone and so was  everyone else. We went from constantly having maids, assistants, and  valets to having no one. I was all Dad had. So . . . I stayed and tried  to make things work."

"You're the most loyal person I've ever met, Nat." His voice is husky.

For some reason, hearing that from him makes me feel like crying. "Loyal  to everyone but the one person that mattered the most, it seems."

"We were both stupid kids," he says, and his hands slide down to my ass  and begin to knead it. It's not exactly sunburned, but I can't find it  in me to protest. It feels too good. "Maybe we needed a few years apart  to smarten up. Let the world deal us a few licks before we could get  back together."

"Maybe."

"Still doesn't mean I don't want to punch your dad in the face."

"I doubt he'd remember who you are," I say with a little sigh. "And I  don't even know that he realizes what he did. Dad's always been . . ."

"Selfish?" Clay volunteers.

It seems like the wrong word for it. "It's hard to explain. People in  Hollywood are different than you and me. He had people surrounding him  for sixty years telling him how amazing he was. I think stuff like that  eventually goes to your head. Plus, he was paid to pretend to be other  people on screen. Off screen, I don't think he knew how to turn it off.  My dad just puts on a show, no matter who he's around. I think that's  why he's been divorced so many times. You peel back all the acting  layers, and there's not much left underneath."

"Kinda sad if you ask me."

And that's the right word for it. Sad. Sad that my dad's ailing and he's  got no one left but a too-young daughter. Sad that he's had such  heights of fame and he's going to spend his last days forgotten and  alone. Sad that he's never really built real bonds with anyone . . .  even me. Sad that I care and still wish he was the dad I always wanted  as a little girl. "Yeah. Sad."

Clay's hands stroke my butt again, and then his fingers slide down the  insides of my thighs. It sends hot little prickles through my body. "Um .  . ."

"You ain't sunburned here, but I can't resist," he murmurs. "Wanna put  my mouth all over this skin of yours so badly but you're sunburned.  Don't wanna hurt you."

"And you probably don't want a mouthful of aloe," I tease, though I'm  getting all breathless and turned on. "Let's not talk about my dad  anymore, okay? It ruins the mood."

"I completely agree. Why don't you turn over and I can rub your front for you?"

I roll onto my back and put my hands over my breasts, feeling shy. My  burned skin feels as if it scrapes against the sheets and I wince.  "Maybe I should stay on my stomach. I think my back's twice as bad as  the front."

"Yeah, but the view is amazing like this," Clay tells me, grinning  wickedly down at me. For a moment, he looks so much like the boy I fell  in love with seven years ago that I lose my breath. With his beard gone,  he does look a little younger-but he's still Clay. Still ruggedly  handsome, still chiseled and tanned and delicious. His smile fades and  he groans. "The way you look at me, Nat-"

"Sorry," I say meekly.

"Don't you fuckin' apologize. Love the way you devour me with your  eyes." His gaze is heated, and he grabs one of my hands, prying it off  my breast. "Don't want you hidin' these from me, either. They're mine.  All of you belongs to me."         

     



 

"Because you bought me?" I tease.

The look in his eyes is serious. Hungry. Possessive. "No. Because you've always been mine and always will be."

I shiver at those words. God, I feel so needy around him. So hungry for  more. "I'm sorry I had to go and get sunburned," I say softly. "I guess I  ruined any hopes for sex tonight. And here I keep hearing how amazing  reunion  sex is."

"Mmm. Way I look at it, nothin's been ruined if you ask me." He leans in  and presses a kiss to my gently rounded stomach and then licks at my  skin. I'm pale there, and un-burnt. And then he kisses lower. And lower,  making a beeline for my mound.

"Clay," I protest softly. It doesn't seem right that he's paying me to  be his toy and he's the one giving all the pleasure tonight. Because  it's clear what he wants to do, and I don't know that I want to stop  him. Lord have mercy, the last thing I want is to stop him.

"You shush. This is for me as much as it is for you," he murmurs, and then pushes my thighs apart.

Somehow I doubt that. But if he wants to believe it, I'll let him.

He makes a sound of pure pleasure as his mouth descends on my pussy.  "Been thinkin' about this for days." His hand grips my thigh and he  gives me a long, loving taste, then swirls his tongue around my clit. I  cry out at the sensation, my body jerking in response. "Thought I was  kidding myself with how good this pussy tastes," Clay tells me. "Thought  my imagination was goin' wild and I was makin' it out to be better than  it was. But now that I can lick you again? I wasn't wrong. You're my  new favorite flavor, baby."

I moan, shivering. I don't know what's better-his filthy words or his  mouth as he kisses me in my most secretive of places. All I know is that  I don't want him to stop. Ever.

Clay licks me with long, slow strokes of his tongue, dragging back and  forth over my clit in a way that feels a bit like torture and a bit like  bliss. It makes me squirm with need, and the more I wriggle on the bed,  the tighter he grips my hips so I can't get away.

"Clay," I pant. "Oh god, please stop. You're killing me."

"You really want me to stop?" he asks, and then slides his tongue along  the hood of my clit. "Or you want me to give you a little more?" One  finger plays at the entrance to my core, circling my sensitive flesh  there.

Damn it. "More," I grit out. God, I want so much more. I want to come. I  want him to fuck me with his fingers. I want everything. "If you stop  right now, I think I might scream."

"Well, now, I like the thought of you screamin'," he drawls, and presses  another light kiss to my folds. His finger dips inside of me, and then  he begins to stroke it gently, in and out. "I like it when you lose  control, Natalie. You're always so proper and reserved. Makes me want to  turn you into a wildcat." He adds a second finger, and I feel full and  yet still so hollow inside. I want more. Now that I've had him inside  me, I know what I'm missing.