The Irresistible Mr Cooper

by Roslyn Carrington

  She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “You’re getting your heroines mixed up. Pocahontas, Juliet. . . . ”

  “I’m adding the Snow Queen to that list, if we don’t both go inside. Come on, baby, it’s cold out. Open up.”

  “Oh. Right.” She dashed inside, remembered she’d left the doors to the balcony open, ran back, shut them, and then rushed down the stairs.

  He stepped in gratefully when she opened for him, stamping his feet and pushing the door shut.

  The first thing she said was, “I’m not dressed.”

  A brow shot up. “And that’s a problem because . . . ?”

  His frank appreciation made her smile. Then she remembered he wasn’t invited. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Good to see you, too.”

  She flushed at her rudeness. “Sorry. I thought we . . . I told you I was going to a party.”

  “But you don’t really want to go.”

  She gaped. “How could you—”

  “You weren’t planning on it. Sure, you had an invitation lying around. But you only decided to accept it yesterday, after I asked you out.”

  “Why would I do that?” she challenged.

  “‘Cause you’re afraid.”

  Nobody accused her of being afraid and walked away without bruises. “What do you think I’m afraid of?”

  His smile was far from mocking; rather it was compassionate and sad. “Being alone with me.” He seemed to think they’d put the subject to rest, because the next thing he asked was, “Which way’s your kitchen?”

  She pointed without thinking, and when her brain fully registered the comment, she protested, “And I’m not afraid of being alone with you.”

  “Good.”

  She had to run to catch up with him. Like the rest of her house, her kitchen was high-ceilinged and brilliant white. Oversized, curtainless windows contemplated the night sky.

  “Speaking of alone, where’s Ruby?”

  “Out with Brianna and her family. They’ve gone to the balloon drop on Independence.”

  Times Square had its New Year’s Eve ball drop; Independence Avenue had a balloon drop, in which tens of thousands of balloons were tossed down at midnight, followed by a frenzy of balloon-popping by all and sundry. Corporate sponsors put vouchers for prizes in many of them, making the game that much more interesting. And it all went down to the thunderous crash of fireworks.

  “She’ll be sleeping over afterward,” he notified her helpfully.

  Jenessa thanked him silently for the heads-up, but if he thought it was going to be of any use to them. . . . She watched as he set the big black box carefully down on her marble countertop. “What the hell’s that?”

  “Dinner.”

  “I’m going out to dinner,” she reminded him stubbornly.

  Instead of answering, he tugged open the bright red string, lifted the heavy lacquered lid off the box and set it aside. Then he began removing similar, shiny black boxes from inside it. “Japanese,” he commented. “You said you like Asian.”

  “You said you wanted us to go out. In public.”

  “Mohammed refused to go to the mountain.” He shrugged. “So the mountain grew legs.” When he was done emptying the big box and setting down all the glossy mini-boxes, only then did he remember to remove his gloves and coat. Jenessa followed him back to the hallway, where he hung them up on a rack.

  He spun around so suddenly he almost bumped into her. His hands fell onto her shoulders. “Jen, look at me,” he commanded. The insistence in his voice made her comply, and once she was trapped in his gaze she couldn’t look away. “There’s no one in the world I’d rather be with tonight but you. Tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

  Lie, something inside her hissed. Lie; put your whole heart into it and tell him it’s not so. Maybe then he’ll go away. Then you’ll be safe. She tried, hesitantly. “I . . . don’t. . . . ”

  “Easy now,” he warned. “Once you shoot that arrow, it won’t come back.”

  She tried again. “Mitchell, I don’t. . . . ” But her arms were raising upward, and her hands were curling around his neck. As she did so, the blanket slipped off her shoulders and onto the floor.

  His cheek was still a little cold from being outside, but his lips were warm. It was almost difficult for her to press a proper kiss against them, smiling as he was, but he soon got over it and kissed her back. The connection felt good and right. His kiss was an answer to a question she hadn’t even known she was asking.

  His hands slid down her sides, along the satiny black teddy that clung to her body with an electric charge, skimming her ribs and spanning her flaring hips, and then traveled up again along their erotic path. To the hollows under her arms, where her skin was bare and vulnerable, sending nerves skittering.

  Frontward now, to lightly cup her breasts. She wasn’t a woman who filled out a bra much, but his touch made what she had feel more than bountiful, as her breasts swelled and nipples puckered under his hands. A surprised “Oh!” left her.

  He murmured his agreement. His tongue flicked enticingly at the corner of her lips, and then trailed downward along her jaw to her throat. Then home again, to her mouth. She parted her lips for him, delighting in the feel of his teeth against hers.

  “I could kiss you all night,” he whispered. “I want to sit you on my lap and kiss you, on and on. ‘Till midnight comes and goes, and when the firecrackers go off, I’ll still be kissing you.”

  Sounded good to her. “Couch!”

  “Where?”

  “Left.”

  He got it. “Right.” He looked down at her slippered feet, toe to toe with his heavy-shoed ones. “Hop on,” he invited.

  Understanding immediately, she kicked off her slippers, and stepped lightly onto each of his feet. He kissed her again for good measure, and then danced her backward until they were in her spacious living room. As she glided in without her feet touching the ground, she closed her eyes, briefly transported backward twenty-five years, when she used to wait for her father to come from his job at the auto plant with his heavy boots on. She’d greet him with an embrace, place her feet on top of his, and he’d dance her to the kitchen to see what her mother had prepared.

  “Why’re you smiling?” he asked as they reached the divan. The ride was over, but to make up for it, he sat and let her climb onto his lap.

  “I was remembering my father.”

  “Good memories?”

  “Mm-hm. We used to do that thing . . . with the feet. My dad had big feet.” She felt a brief moment of melancholy in which she missed her father terribly, but it was soon over.

  “Ruby liked it too, when she was little. We used to dance in the kitchen with the radio on.”

  “Us, too!”

  His eyes were on her face, a caress. “That’s one more thing.”

  “One more thing . . . ?”

  “One more thing we have in common.” He cradled her face in his hands and just before he kissed her again, said, “And this is another.”

  The last time they’d kissed together on a couch, she had the fleeting thought that they could be teenagers, making out in their parents’ living room. This time the feeling was far from juvenile. Like a local train stopping at every station, their kiss glided along from emotion to emotion: hope, wonder, curiosity, desire and craving, gathering intensity as it sped along.

  From time to time he stopped to look at her, as if her face fascinated him. “Do something for me,” he said.

  “What?” She was half-drunk from kissing him. Whatever he wanted, whatever he asked for, was his.

  “Take your hair down. Take the pins out.”

  “Why?” she asked, but her hands were already up above her head and feeling around for the rough little beads.

  “I want to feel your hair against my skin. I want to bury my hands in it.”

  Obediently, she withdrew the pins and placed them in his upturned palm. With each one, another lock of hair tumbled around her sho
ulders. He set the pins aside carefully and when his hands were free, brought them both up and buried them in the thickness of her hair. “I’ve wanted to do this since the first day I saw you. I remember looking down on you as you walked in from the parking lot. Your hair was open, and the breeze was playing with it. . . . ”

  He pulled her forward as she straddled him so he could bury his face in the thick sheaf of hair. He inhaled. “Sun,” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “Your hair smells like sunshine. Touching you feels like summer.” His hands were on the straps of her teddy, which were slipping off her shoulders. He helped them along their journey. The scrap of fabric now barely covered her breasts. His thumbs toyed with the lace; his hands communicated their intent. But he stopped and gave her a questioning look.

  She knew what he was asking, and there was only one answer she could give. But she had a nagging thought: “Aren’t you hungry?”

  He was so incredulous and puzzled she hastened to explain. “The boxes. The Japanese . . . aren’t you hungry?”

  “In a few hours, I’ll probably be starving. But right now, I couldn’t swallow a bite.” Then he remembered his manners. “Are you?”

  “Not anymore,” she answered truthfully.

  He inched the top of the teddy down until it was around her waist. He scrunched his eyes shut and took a few breaths as if the sight of her so excited him he needed to regain control.

  She placed her hands against his chest. The ribbed knit of his sweater was rough, but the muscle underneath was smooth and hard. “Cheater.”

  “What do you—”

  “You’re still fully dressed. I’m not. That’s not fair.” She eased up off his lap. The broad hand on her bottom made it hard to do. He leaned over and removed his shoes and socks. She yanked the sweater up over his head and threw it carelessly to the floor. It was like opening a late Christmas present. One more sensuous gift he’d been holding back, biding his time.

  Standing before him, she touched his shoulders, then his biceps, and felt muscle move under his warm skin. Needing to allay her doubts that all this magnificence could be real. Oh, he was real all right! The hair on his chest was crisp, the exact color of his eyebrows. The pattern of whorls surrounded his nipples, which were flat, dark, and taut.

  He raised his arms to her. “You getting back on, or what?”

  She clambered on, facing him again. Much as he’d just done to her, she buried her nose in the nape of his neck and inhaled. Subtle cologne, warmth, and the pungent smell of sexual hunger. She was sure she was giving off pretty much the same odor. She felt the sharp metal of his belt buckle against her thigh as she pressed down upon the bump in his pants. She was so turned on she thought of riding him to ecstasy right now, just like this. She wondered if he’d let her.

  His eyes were half closed, shielding pupils that had morphed from their nuanced hazel to the deepest green. He was doing nothing but admiring her. He’d bared her breasts, but hadn’t touched them. If he wasn’t planning on doing so anytime soon, she had news for him. She grasped his hands and brought them up to her chest.

  Instead of cupping her breasts, he ran his fingers under their curve as if looking for a heartbeat—which wouldn’t be difficult to find. “Did you read the poem? The one I asked . . . ?”

  “Page 42.” She moved her hips against his fabric-covered erection, deciding that if he wasn’t going to do anything she was taking matters into her own hands. So to speak.

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Couple of times.” She pressed down and rocked, finding her rhythm.

  “What’d you think?”

  The graphic and erotic lines of the short poem came to her easily; she’d read it so many times since yesterday it was branded on her soul. What did she think? She thought this man could Page 42 her all night if he had a mind to. And that was enough to send her over the edge. She clamped her thighs around his hips, feeling a hot gush flow out of her and soak into her teddy.

  Then his fingers were there. With butterfly touches he kept her orgasm going long after it should have died. She put her hand over his, cramming it in between his knuckles on the crotch of his pants, adding more pressure. Teaching him how she liked it.

  When she finally had enough, when pleasure began to turn into pain, she grunted her protest. He withdrew his hand long enough to lift her off his lap and place her on her back on the divan. He pulled the damp teddy down off her thighs. “You won’t be needing this.” Quickly, he unbuckled his belt and shucked off the rest of his clothes. “And I won’t be needing that.” Before throwing his pants onto the back of a nearby chair he took a fresh pack of condoms from his pocket. Then he joined her.

  “Sure you don’t want to take this upstairs?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Probably wouldn’t survive the trip.” He stretched himself over her, every inch of him hard and trembling.

  “Want me to turn off the—”

  He cut her off hastily. “Please, not the lights. I want to look at you. I want to look down between us and watch myself move in and out of you—”

  Which was almost enough to set her off again.

  “Leave the lights on,” he begged. “For me.”

  11.

  Mitch looked down at the naked woman drowsing in his arms. Her head was heavy on his bicep, and his hand had gone to sleep, but he’d cut it off rather than rouse her. He took in the sheen of perspiration beading her face, and wondered if there was any experience more rewarding for a man than to make a woman sweat.

  They’d made it upstairs to her bedroom eventually. He shifted as best he could, so he was lying on his back and looking up at the vaulted ceiling. Everything about the room was absolutely beautiful, from the scrollwork along the moldings to the recessed platinum light fixtures, to the artwork on the walls. The bed linens. The carpets. Jenessa liked pretty things.

  With his free hand, he stroked her hair. He was sure he’d never get tired of the feel of it, so long and wild and glorious. She raised her fingers to brush against his. She was completely naked, except for the crystals glinting at her earlobes and the bracelet he’d given her. It gave him a childish thrill to think that she hadn’t taken it off, not even to replace it with a piece from her more expensive, much fancier collection. All week he’d taken pleasure in seeing to his daily duties knowing she was at her desk, in constant contact with that small reminder of his presence.

  He realized she was looking at him. And she was smiling. “Headache all gone?” she asked.

  “It was mercifully short-lived,” he answered dryly.

  “That’s what you get for holding your breath when you come. It was a stupid thing to do.”

  “You touch me, I get stupid. Simple equation.”

  Her smile was mischief itself. “That so?”

  “Yup.”

  “So, if, say, I was to do this. . . . ” She slid her hand down between his legs, her fingers light and fluttery.

  “That’s another ten thousand brain cells gone right there.”

  “I’ll have you back in kindergarten by morning,” she threatened.

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  She finally sat up, relieving the pressure on his numb arm. The blood rushed back into it like glass splinters.

  “But before I ruin you, are you hungry yet?”

  He toyed with her. “Hungry for . . . ?”

  “That whole mess of food sitting on my counter.”

  “Oh. That.” He scratched his jaw. “Yeah, I could take a bite.”

  “Then why don’t we—” She was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone, barely audible from downstairs. “Going to get that?”

  He considered it, but shrugged it off. “Won’t catch it in time. Probably one of my friends drunk-dialing to wish me a Happy New Year.”

  “Is it after midnight already?”

  “Well past. Didn’t you hear the fireworks?”

  “I thought they were in my head,” she said slyly.

  H
e bowed slightly at the compliment. “Flatterer. But thanks, anyway.”

  “Now, let’s go eat.” She hopped down from the big bed, found herself a bathrobe, and slipped it on. When he made to follow her out, she observed, “You’re buck naked.”

  “All my clothes are downstairs,” he reminded her.

  “Sorry I haven’t got anything to offer you.”

  “No spare bathrobe hanging up behind the door, size large?”

  Her brows arched. “You fishing for information?”

  “I could be.”

  They were at the top of the stairs. She put her arm across his chest to stop him from going further. “Mitchell, I’m not seeing anyone right now, if that’s what you’re asking. I haven’t for a while.”

  He was elated by the news, but played it cool. “Me neither.”

  Her smile shone out from her eyes. “That’s good to know.”

  What he was about to say was cut short by the sound of his phone again. He knew it was all his imagination, even technically impossible, but the ring was more insistent, frantic. He looked at his watch. It was almost one o’clock. There was only one reason for calling him at this hour.

  Something had happened to Ruby.

  He thundered down the stairs and snatched up his cell. When he saw the number on the screen, his chest hurt. “Hugh?”

  From the other end of the line came a commingling of noises: music and shouts, laughter and firecrackers. The sound of crowds in an open area. Brianna’s father’s voice was indistinct. “Mitch,” he began.

  “What happened? Is Ruby okay?”

  “I’m sure she is, but . . .”

  “You’re sure she is? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. We’re all here together: me, Sadie and the kids. Everyone was busting balloons, having a great time, you know? Then I looked ‘round and couldn’t see her anywhere.”

  His heart thudded. “How long?”

  “Thirty minutes, maybe.” Hugh sounded miserable. “We all went to the rendezvous spot, but she wasn’t there. The two big boys have gone off to look for her, but the rest of us, we’ll wait here.”

  The rendezvous spot was a family practice Mitch and Hugh enforced when they were out with the kids. If anyone got lost they were to meet up at a predetermined spot. Whenever they spread out, they met there on the half hour to do a head count. “It’s almost one,” Hugh assured him. “Rendezvous time. She should be here any minute.”