She flicked her tongue out and skimmed a glob of cream from the top of her drink, closing her eyes in satisfaction for a second. If he’d been sixteen, the gesture alone would have been enough to send him up to his room for a change of underwear. But he wasn’t sixteen, so he got a grip. “And you,” he probed. “Are you flexible?”
She opened her eyes, and fixed them on him. “I’ve been known to do a little yoga,” she responded smartly.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
She sipped her drink to buy herself some time. He let her have a few moments to ponder on that, but he wasn’t a patient man.
He put his drink down and half turned toward her, one arm draped over the back of the couch. His stare was penetrating, searching, the kind that didn’t give up. He was more serious than he’d been all evening. “You don’t have to march to the beat of anyone else’s drum but your own, you know.”
She stiffened. “I do not—”
“You act the way they expect you to, you socialize with who they expect you to, dress the way they—”
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” she asked hotly.
Okay, maybe it shouldn’t have, but the question alone sent his thoughts racing down roads they didn’t belong on—not right now. The softness of her blouse, and the small mounds of her breasts underneath. The way the classically cut skirt snuggled against her gym-toned belly. Underneath, her hips bloomed outward from the narrowness of her waist, like petals on a tulip. “Absolutely nothing,” he said. His voice was thick. “I was just saying . . .”
She popped up off the couch. “And who’s this ‘they’ you keep talking about?”
He stood easily, not at all put off by her reaction. “Just what I was thinking. Who’s this ‘they’ you think is watching you all the time? Who do you think would be offended if you went out a couple of times with the guy who fixes your air-conditioning?”
“I don’t think anybody—”
“Yes, Jenessa, you do.”
“I don’t,” she insisted, though they both knew that wasn’t entirely true. “What you do has absolutely nothing to do with—”
“Then let me take you out. Not here, where the curtains are drawn and the front door’s locked. In public, somewhere nice. . . . ” His lips curved slightly as he threw out his challenge. “Where your friends might see you. Where someone from Bianchi’s might come across to our table and say hello.”
She licked her lips again, a habit so artless and compelling it was damn near driving him insane. It was a while before he could drag his eyes from her mouth. She swallowed hard. “You think I’m a snob.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“It’s awful hard to look snobbish with cream on the tip of your nose.” Before her hand could fly to her face he reached up and gently brushed away the fleck with his thumb. As he did so, his hand entangled in a long strand of her honeyed hair. He let his fingers glide along its length, and then lifted it up and over, so it fell the way it should. She squirmed.
He tried to focus on what he was saying. It was important that he tell her. “I think you need to expand your horizons.”
“That a challenge?”
“You look like a woman who enjoys one.”
A distrustful wrinkle formed between her brows. “You’re playing with me—”
“I’m asking you out.”
“In that case, I’d be delighted.” Take that, her expression said.
It took a lot of effort not to look triumphant. He gave her a cool smile and asked, “What do you like to eat?”
“I’m partial to Asian.” She couldn’t resist smiling back.
“Care to be more specific? Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Mongolian?”
She shrugged. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
“Good. That’s settled, then.” He set his glass down. “Finish your drink.”
“Why?” She asked, but took a healthy swig anyway.
“I want your hands empty.”
She was bringing her glass to her lips again to drain off the last of the creamy liqueur, but stopped halfway. “Why?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“I have a suspicious nature.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You were thinking it.”
“That’s nowhere near what I was thinking.”
He was sure that, to her, asking the obvious question was like putting her arm down the throat of a dragon to tickle its tonsils, but it stumbled off her tongue nonetheless. “What were you thinking?”
He took the glass from her and set it down precisely next to his on the coffee table. Then he turned to her again, looking into her face, which was glowing like a moonbeam. “I was thinking we should get this out of the way.”
“Get what out of the—”
He gave her a smile that was devilish, confident, and sensual. “Our first kiss.”
Her mouth worked, as if she was trying to decide if she was outraged or excited. “What makes you think I want—”
“Your eyes, your mouth. . . . ”
“You’re being ridiculous.” But her face flushed; the moonbeam transformed into a ray of sunlight.
The iron was hot. He struck. Lightly, he placed one hand on her waist and let the other sink into her thick hair once again, thinking how much he liked the feel of it, and how much he wanted to let a strand trail across his lips. But his lips were otherwise engaged.
The feel of her mouth was everything he imagined: soft and warm, moist and sweet. Her taste was a more indulgent pleasure than the Irish cream they’d shared. He heard and felt her suck air through parted lips as the shock of that first contact ricocheted between them. Her front teeth were straight and hard, and he flicked the tip of his tongue out, running it along their sharp ridges. Under his right hand, her rib cage rose and fell as a warm, tingling vibration ran through her.
He was assailed by a desire that came out of nowhere, the image of himself setting her back down on the couch, and kissing her, and kissing her, and kissing her. Tousling her long, long hair, and letting it cascade around his face so he could breathe in its scent. But this woman needed to be handled carefully. Slowly. With effort, and great regret, he broke the kiss.
When he lifted his head he was smiling. “There you go. Now it’s not lurking around, waiting to be noticed, like an elephant behind the potted plant.”
Her hand rose to touch her waist, fingers lingering over the spot where he’d held her. He waited for her reaction, knowing what it would be. In spite of all evidence that she’d enjoyed it—breath that caught in her throat, a hungry glitter in her eyes—she decided to be contrary. “There was no elephant in the—”
“You didn’t want me to kiss you?”
“That’s a bit presumptuous—”
He was enjoying this. It was like playing tennis with someone who had as much game as he did. He lobbed the ball back over the net, right at her, with a powerful forehand. “Want me to kiss you again?” His face loomed near as he waited for her signal.
“Self-confident son-of-a-bitch—” But her luminous eyes were fixed on his mouth, and that was the only sign he needed.
This kiss was even sweeter. Although he ached to take it up a notch, communicate with his tongue and lips how much he desired her, he held his sharp hunger in rein. He was firm, but not demanding, waiting for her to meet him halfway.
She did, boldly. Her left hand rose to the nape of his neck, her fingers brushed by the tips of his thick, overlong hair. Her body tilted forward, leaning into him. He encircled her shoulders with one arm, its strength and firmness both providing support and making sure she didn’t pull back.
He had no cause for concern. She showed no sign of retreat. Her mouth opened under his, allowing his tongue access once more. As his teeth raked her lip, she let out a soft groan. His reply was a muted grunt.
Her right hand slid up to meet her left and they lost themselves in the thickness of his hair, twisting
the dark brown curls around her fingers. Her fingertips skimmed the base of his neck; he stiffened briefly as she touched a nerve close to the skin. The jolt traveled straight down his spine and slammed into his groin, bringing an instant, agonizing erection.
She pressed the length of her body against him, leaving him no doubt that she was fully aware of the rigid bulge that strained at the front of his pants. “You started this,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Listen, Cooper,” she began.
“Mitch.” He was erect and ready and pressing against her warmth. Surely they were past the ‘Cooper’ stage now.
“Mitchell,” she conceded.
He tried again. “Mitch is good enough.”
“I like Mitchell better,” she countered. She pulled her head back so he could read the challenge in her eyes. You wanna make something of it? they said.
“Call me whatever the hell you want.” She could call him “Bud” or even “Sparky”, as long as she let him taste those exquisite lips again.
“Listen, Mitchell, like I said, you started this. If you want to play—”
“This isn’t a game.”
She went on as if he’d said nothing. “If you want to play, you play by my rules.”
She was taking charge, or, at least trying to convince herself she was. That amused and excited him even further. He dipped his head to run his tongue along the vein that pulsed at her throat. “And your rules are . . . ?”
“This isn’t gonna get serious.”
“Define ‘serious’,” he taunted.
“You know damn well what I mean,” she snapped, but his tongue was still at her throat and the soft rumble, a purring vibration, made a lie of her irritation.
“So this is for entertainment purposes only, huh?”
She put her hand up to his chin to stop him from tracing that crazy-making trail of kisses from her collarbone to her jaw. “I know it sounds bad . . .”
“Sounds like you’re building fences where you don’t need to.”
Her honey-colored eyes were a darker shade, as if the bees responsible had begun collecting their nectar from deep-hued mountaintop flowers. “I mean, I like you. . . . ”
“I like you, too.” Then, a little devil prodded him in the ribs and he added, “a lot.”
“You’re not making this easy.”
She was trying to act tough, trying to protect herself with a bossy tone and manner, but all that did was confirm her nervousness and excitement. He decided he’d had enough fun playing with her. He guided her backward onto the couch, and knelt on it, leaning over her as she settled into the cushions. He put an arm around her, partly to keep her from falling off and partly because not touching her right now was not something he wished to contemplate.
“It can be as easy as you want it to be.” He added with a mischievous smile, “or as hard. . . . ”
“Mitchell!”
“Relax. Tell you what: you call all the shots. I’m cool with that.”
She examined his face suspiciously for signs of a lie. “You’re prepared to. . . . ”
“Why not? Bossy women excite me. Maybe that’s what caught my eye in the first place. . . . ”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her.
“Hush. Relax.” He let his body settle against hers, and picked up where he’d left off, pressing kisses along the curve of her arched neck. “This is as far as it’s gonna get tonight, so enjoy it. Plenty of time for you to make up your mind about . . . anything else.”
He could almost hear her gears grinding as she considered responding, and then, with a soft exhalation, she surrendered.
6.
Jenessa felt Mitchell’s breath against her cheek, a puff of warm air. She knew for sure he could feel the erratic beat of her pulse as it thundered along the side of her neck, and it both irritated and exhilarated her that he could tell how aroused she was.
Here they were, on his couch, on Christmas night, with him half-lying on her, making out like teenagers. It was so impulsive, so natural, and yet so forbidden that she half expected someone’s mom or dad to walk in on them, raise a stink, and ground them both. The idea made her laugh.
“What,” he asked, as she tried to choke down a grin.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? I’m trying some of my best moves, you start laughing, and it’s nothing?” His outrage was fake; his curiosity wasn’t.
She decided she’d better explain. “I was just thinking; I feel like I’m 17 again.” She looked down at his hand, which had dared to cup her breast over the fabric of her blouse. “Like I should run up to my room and call my best friend and tell her how I got to second base with the coolest guy in school.”
He laughed at that, trying to look both modest and flattered at the same time.
“It feels . . .” she searched for the right word, “. . . naughty.”
“Do you like to be naughty?”
“That’s a loaded question,” she hedged. She had the feeling that, given the mood he was in, anything she said could, and would be held against her. . . .
“Take your time answering it.” His mouth had grown tired of its migration, and was against her lips again. “And don’t worry, we’re both well over the age of consent. . . . ”
“Some of us more than others,” she couldn’t resist reminding him, although there couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years between them.
He ignored her. “So Simon says we can do whatever the hell we want.” His fingers closed around her wrist, the one already encircled by the bracelet he’d given her. The metal and small stones seemed cool in contrast to her warm, vibrant skin. It thrilled her to think of the time he’d spent finding it for her. As he brought her wrist to his lips, she felt the pressure of his mouth against the small, jutting bone there, and the fat vein that ran alongside it like a river following a fault in the land. It could have been her imagination, but she’d have sworn the fine gold links tinkled as they moved.
“You like this,” he murmured softly.
She wasn’t sure whether he was referring to the bauble he’d bought her or the kisses he was planting against it. “I . . . uh. . . . ” She struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t incriminate her, and his knowing grin told her that little cat wasn’t finding its way back into the bag soon.
His eyelids drooped a little, shading his darkened eyes as if trying to keep his own churning impulses in check. The self-protective gesture was almost enough to make her forget all that nonsense about taking things slowly. What she wouldn’t give for the luxury to turn down the lights, slip her shoes off, and help him with the zipper on her prim-and-proper-to-the-point-of-sexy wool skirt. . . .
Then the warm mist of eroticism enfolding them both was swept away by a gust of cold air as the front door flew open, the doorknob banging against the wall.
Jenessa went rigid, eyes widening in shock, but his weight still pinned her to the couch. For several seconds he didn’t move, as if his mind was trying to process the invasion. Several seconds was enough time for an apparition to fill the doorway.
It was a woman; thin, light-skinned and angular. Her snow-dusted coat was much too meager for the weather, but she didn’t seem to notice or care as the melting droplets glistened in her heavy, braided hair. Her voice was a smoker’s rasp. “Mitch!”
He was off the couch in an instant, his face registering shock. “How’d you get in?”
“Front door,” came the sarcastic reply. “Like normal people.”
Mitch threw Jenessa a startled glance. “Didn’t you—”
“Lock it?” She slapped her forehead in dismay. “No, I . . . I didn’t think to. . . . ” She hopped to her feet, almost falling over in her haste, hands coming up unbidden to finger-comb her hair into some sort of order. He’d popped the top button of her blouse; a wisp of lacy lingerie peeked out from the collar. With shaking fingers, she struggled to get it closed. Her dignity was like an ov
erturned bowl of peas; the least she could do was try to scoop a few of them up off the floor.
Mitch’s face was stone, all warmth and burgeoning desire gone. The eyes that had darkened and mellowed to a warm hazel while he was skimming her nape with lazy kisses were now dull and flat. “For that matter,” he asked steadily, “how did you get out?”
“I’m a big girl. I can come and go when I want.”
Out of what, Jenessa wondered. There were a lot of places a body would want to “get out” from. None of them was pleasant.
“That’s not doing anyone any good.”
“I decide what’s good for me.” The woman’s head snapped in her direction, a sudden, jerky movement that reminded Jenessa of a bird. A suspicious, scrawny-ass bird with dull, damp feathers. “Who’s this?”
Who’re you, Jenessa wanted to retort, not liking the tone of the woman’s voice one bit. And more importantly, what the hell was going on? If this woman was involved with Mitchell Cooper, and he’d gone and dogged her off by bringing Jenessa in here for a make-out session while his main squeeze was away, she was gonna stomp on him.
“She’s my dinner guest,” was all he would allow.
“So you bring some ho to your house on Christmas night—”
“Excuse me?” Jenessa sputtered.
“And feel her up on your couch—”
“That’s not the way it is,” Mitchell cut in.
Jenessa’s neck and face were getting hotter. The ‘ho’ remark burned like cat-scratches on her throat, and the contemptuous look the woman threw her was enough to being out the Storm-spirit that dwelled within. One more remark like that, she decided, and lightning bolts would get thrown.
“That’s what it looked like. And let me tell you something: you think you’re all that, and you got it all together, but that don’t give you the right to be carryin’ on with some melon-assed—”
“Hey!” Jenessa felt the sulfur rising in her nostrils. She didn’t even feel herself move, but next thing she knew, she was standing beside Mitchell and this wild ferret, ready to jump in and defend herself.
“—yellow weave-wearin’—”
The Irresistible Mr Cooper Page 6