He was so caught off guard by the phenomenon of someone visiting that he briefly reverted to his old self—his civilized self—hastening to answer the door.
He was a big man, so when he tripped on the useless little rug in the entryway, he crashed to the wood floor with the impact of an ax-felled oak.
He rolled over and sat up, curses blistering his tongue, the savage Rill Pierce once again fully in evidence.
“My, my. How the mighty have fallen,” she said from above him.
He glanced up in midprocess of ripping the frilly rug in half, his blurry-eyed gaze encountering long legs and curving hips. Nope, this was definitely not Sherona Legion. His eyes lingered in a lap he’d like to spend the next twenty-four hours in without pause.
He grinned.
There was good reason he’d warned away Sherona Legion. In his drunken state, his usual tight controls on his baser nature had evaporated. It was precisely why he’d made a vow long ago not to drink to excess around women.
No real woman existed like the one in front of him in Vulture’s Canyon, Illinois. Rill was left with the intoxicated conclusion that a sex angel had been dropped on his doorstep, and God had packaged her in a tight tank top and even tighter jeans. If there was a deity looking out for him—something Rill seriously doubted, considering he was sin personified—then said omniscient being would know how he loved nothing more than a woman in jeans that hugged every tight curve.
He unglued his eyes from the tempting juncture of shapely thighs and looked up. He grinned like the town idiot when he saw a glorious spill of brown and gold-streaked hair and thrusting breasts pressed snugly against white cotton.
“Well, well, well . . . what have we here,” he mumbled thickly. He reached and ran his hands over the back of the woman’s thighs. His cock lurched when he encountered her tightly encased buttocks.
He’d finally gotten drunk enough to hallucinate. He was getting good at this wastrel business.
“Rill, what are you—”
She abruptly stopped talking when he kneaded her two round ass cheeks in his palms. His face hovered next to paradise. It was amazing what a guy who had no future and who daily tried to forget his past might consider heaven, but there you had it. He closed his eyes and inhaled, catching the scent of cotton mixing with the subtle spice of woman.
No, it wasn’t just his whiskey-soaked brain. It wasn’t just the fact that he hadn’t inhaled the scent of pussy in his nose in a god-awful long time. Drunken hallucination or not, his angel was sweet.
He kissed her with an open mouth at the bottom of her zipper.
She gasped.
“And here that doctor was preaching to me about rehab,” he mumbled. “You’re just what the doctor ordered—least you would be if I didn’t have a wanker with a rod up his ass takin’ care of me. Come ’ere.”
He spread his hands on her hips, liking the way he encompassed all those tight curves in his grip. He pulled. She fell onto his lap and thighs with a cock-tugging thud. He buried his face in fragrant hair and soft, firm breasts and nuzzled. Inhaling her scent was like breathing in a potent opiate. He could get lost in this unexplored territory—
Lost . . .
“Rill . . . what the hell are you doing?”
Did angels stun, because that was exactly how his sounded. He turned his head, drowning in the arousing sensation of wedging his face in the valley of delicious breasts.
“I’m enjoying my hallucination to its fullest,” he mumbled as his hands came up to cradle those firm breasts. He held her against his face and twisted his nose in a fleshy nirvana.
His angel snorted.
“You’re not hallucinating. You’re hammered. There’s a difference.”
She’d sounded derisive, but he’d heard the telling tremble in her voice when he pressed his lips against a distended nipple.
“One and the same, if you can get drunk enough,” he muttered.
He cupped one ass cheek and rode her jeans-covered pussy against the ridge of his cock. She inhaled sharply and froze. He knew why. A powerful jolt of lust had torn through him as well. He’d thought his cock had been tamed with a combination of whiskey and his own hand for the past eighteen months, but he’d thought wrong.
It had just awakened, and not with a whimper but with a bang. In a matter of seconds he’d been transformed by the power of volatile need.
His thumb stroked the peak of a breast. He grunted appreciatively when he felt the button tighten. He wasn’t surprised she wore such a flimsy bra. She was supposed to be his fantasy, after all, and Lord knew he preferred women wearing very little, if anything, over their breasts. At least in the privacy of his mind that was his preference. In real life, he’d prefer they covered up and kept the beast in him from rearing its head.
Drunken delirium or not, he was going to love ev