The Personal Touch. Lori Borrill
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.
“Yes,” his mother said. “I am leaving. I just—Pom Pom, no!” She rushed to the side of the hill but it was too late. Pom Pom, his mother’s precious Pomeranian and Clint’s royal pain in the ass, had darted down the hill. And being that the dog had a mind of its own, Clint knew it wasn’t coming back any time soon.
Tying his towel tightly around his waist, he stepped toward the edge of the hill, hoping the dog might be within reach, but the puffed-up furball had crept under a bush. “Great.” He turned back to his mother. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I am leaving,” his mother tried, but Rachelle had already pulled out her phone and was calling a cab.
He stepped back to his date. “What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t going to work at all.”
His mother attempted to call her dog.
“What isn’t going to work?” he asked, becoming slightly annoyed by the impatient look on her face. “I told you, my mother is leaving.”
Rachelle snorted, snapped her phone closed and tucked it in her purse. “I thought you were a little more…independent?” Then she began walking toward the house, holding her clothes in her hand and the towel around her chest. “Really, Clint. If I’d known you were still tied to the apron strings, I wouldn’t have wasted my time.”
Okay, now he was pissed.
“Apron strings?”
His