If she’d had the presence of mind to think about what that meant, she’d probably have leaped off the bed and run screaming from the room. A last-ditch effort to protect the coveted independence she’d spent her whole life nurturing and fortifying. Not to mention protecting. Because she’d have known then that once she let him into her body, there would be no shutting off the avalanche of emotions that would come barreling along right behind it. There would be no losing herself in physical pleasure, no way to avoid admitting that she’d already long since let him into places inside her far more intimate, far more sacred.
And yet, even in their rush to claim the other they still had that ultimate connection, one that wasn’t remotely physical. The gasping and panting, clawing and grunting didn’t keep them from laughing, even while their bodies were throbbing for release.
“Condoms,” he croaked as she slid her hands, for the first time, down his fully naked torso, cupping his backside and smoothing her palms along those oh-so-sweet indentations on the sides.
“Unless you’re feeling particularly infectious,” she gasped, “we don’t need them. I’m on the pill.”
He lifted his head from where he’d been doing incredibly carnal and erotic things with her earlobe and looked at her. “Infectious?”
“What, you find that word offensive? Are you telling me that you aren’t a member in good standing of the Guys Who Think Bodily Noises Are Funny Club? But infectious is an eww?” She watched him try to frown, but she’d caught him off guard and the snicker was out before he could stop it. “Aha!” she crowed. “Busted.”
“Still,” he managed, trying to scrape his dignity together, “infectious was a little too—”
“Descriptive?”
He just gave her a look. “Mood killing.”
He was lying on top of her, the rigidly hard length of him prodding her, so close to where she absolutely had to have it . . . and she was delaying nirvana so she could tease him? But it was so much fun. He was so much fun.
She lifted her hips slightly, pushing him just between her thighs, and made him moan involuntarily. “Oh yeah, you’re totally not in the mood anymore.”
He growled, then nudged a bit higher, and it was her turn to gasp. On a quite wicked grin, he said, “What can I say, something about you is . . .” He pushed a bit more. “Infectious.”
She laughed, sliding her fingertips back down along his spine, along those perfectly tight butt cheeks, making him shudder now and loving it. “I can be very descriptive about a lot of things, you know.”
“Can you, now?” His eyes were glittering, fierce, his body so intent as he continued to nudge at her, making the muscles between her thighs almost cramp with pleasure. And yet he was still smiling. Willing to play. Despite the desperation they both felt. Like, just maybe, they had time.
All the time in the world.
And there it was, the elusive promise of a future. Just moments in time, but when strung together, they could add up to something. Something lasting. So tantalizing a prospect, so stunning that she wanted it. All she had to do—
He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “If you don’t stop this torture and let me inside you, I’m going to have to take desperate measures.”
“Oh?” A wicked smile of her own curving her lips. “You aren’t interested in my descriptive powers when it comes to, say, explaining just how I intend to bring you to a screaming climax? In minute detail?”
His eyes flashed, but so did his white teeth. “Why waste time talking about it?” And to punctuate his point, he pushed her wrists to the bed, beside her head, then traced his tongue along her lower lip. A quick kiss, then he moved before she could pull him in. “When we could be doing it.”
With a teasing glint in his eyes, he traced his tongue lightly over her chin, then dipped below, leaving her to press her head back against the sheets as he drew a damp line down her neck. He slid his body down a bit, making her whimper when the sweet, hard length of him no longer pressed between her thighs.
He looked up at her. “You did say minute details?”
She managed to nod, but couldn’t lift her head. It was difficult, as he took her nipple in his mouth just then, making her arch off the bed with a gasp of pure delight.
“I can do minute details,” he murmured, then shifted his attention to the other nipple. “Very sweet,” he said. “Perfect.” Then he let her wrists go, covered her breasts with his palms . . . and slid his tongue lower.
“Dear. God.” She was a writer of some reputed talent, and that was the absolute best she could come up with. She heard him chuckle, felt it, squirmed beneath it . . . and found herself grinning right along with him.
And when he plunged his tongue right into the spot that most needed plunging, she screamed in pure delight as the climax ripped through her with stunning speed and strength. “More,” she managed, breathless from both gasping and laughing. “More details.”
“Greedy,” he said, already climbing up her body.
She pouted.
He pushed inside her in one smooth, deep stroke.
She quit pouting. She was too busy arching beneath him, wrapping herself around him, both inside her body and out.
He paused, she pushed. He shook his head, gathered his breath. “Wait.”
“Why?” she demanded, still needy.
He lifted his head, smiling, eyes telling her there was so much more going on here. Between them. “Because I don’t want this to be over yet.”
And just like that, tears sprang to the back of her eyes. Emotional tears, good tears, scary tears.
“Not yet. Not—”
But it was too late. Her muscles had needs of their own and clenched convulsively around him, making him growl as he thrust deeply and repeatedly inside her, all control gone. She met each stroke eagerly, shifting so the humming sensation of her climax continued to buzz even as she coaxed him over the edge.
He pressed his face into her neck when he came, groaning long, deep, and sounding so satisfied it made her smile. “Not ever,” she whispered.
His heart pounded so hard, she could feel it inside her own chest. He started to move off of her, but she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around him, keeping him there, keeping his heart there, right on top of hers. “You know what?”
He lifted his head, hair damp from exertion, skin flushed. “What?”
That velvet voice, all rough and hoarse, made her shiver. Her body thrummed to life, needy despite the fact that she’d never felt such bone-deep satiation. Soul deep. She knew it for sure when his eyes met hers, looking directly at her, into her, knowing her, alert to every detail about her, and only her. This wasn’t the postcoital, pleasure-hazed, self-involved, and already-halfway-home look she usually saw. The one she usually gave.
“You do have an eye for details,” she murmured.
He grinned. It was lazy and sexy, contented. And somehow still oh-so-predatory. “Minute details,” he corrected.
She smiled as she sighed, stretching her legs beneath his, then rolling them so she was sprawled half on top of him. “Well, J.B. was right about one thing.”
His eyebrow quirked in surprise. “What?”
Her sleepy smile spread to a grin. “You do put the special in special teams, Rocket Power.”
He groaned, then pulled her reluctantly from the bed.
“What are you doing? Why—where are we going?” Her body was a limp, way past al dente, very satisfied noodle.
“Shower. Together,” he said, and tugged her along, scuffing barefoot and naked behind him.
As it turned out, it was his behind that had her coming around. Such a nice, firm tush, she thought with a sigh. And was apparently unconcerned with showing it off. Double bonus points. All that time spent in locker rooms, no doubt. Well, as far as she was concerned, flagrant nudity was absolutely, one hundred percent fine with her. Encouraged, even. Especially when it was his.
And just imagine how those buns of steel are going to feel, a
ll hard and slick with soap . . .
He stopped, looked back, caught her ogling. “You coming?”
She sighed, smiling. Not yet. “You scrub first, detail man.”
Riley limped down the stairs and made his way to Tanzy’s kitchen for some ice. His knee had survived the piggyfront and the romp in the bed fairly well. He had paid dearly for taking her up against the wall in her tiled shower. But he wasn’t swearing at the hot dagger of pain being shoved inside his knee with every step.
Hard to swear convincingly with a stupid, lovesick grin plastered all over your face, he thought . . . still grinning.
God, he hadn’t had an afternoon like this in . . . well, never, actually. And he was already plotting strategy, planning for that postcoital distance he’d bet she’d try to put between them once the haze of lovemaking and multiple—dear God, they’d been multiple—shower orgasms wore off. Hell, he already wanted her again. And not just in bed. Or the shower, for that matter. They’d gasped and moaned, shrieked and growled their way through some fairly spectacular sex. And yet, the images that came first to mind were the grins, the laughter, the fun.
And that’s what he didn’t want to lose. All the in-between stuff. All the things that made Tanzy . . . Tanzy.
He thought he’d be more hung up on the guilt part, questioning himself endlessly on having breached the very rules he’d so adamantly set for himself, tried to instill in his hopeless rogue of a father.
But he wasn’t. Not really. He already knew this wasn’t a fling. He had no clue how he was going to manage it, but she wasn’t putting him out. Not anytime soon. Stalker or no stalker.
He was so lost in his thoughts as he levered his bad knee off the last riser, he almost missed the slender cream envelope lying beneath the mail slot of her door. A mail slot he’d tried to convince her to seal shut, at least temporarily. A suggestion that had met with the same stony refusal his request to install a motion detector and outside security measures had.
Not that she didn’t take the threat seriously now. She did. In the way that anyone as self-sufficient as Tanzy could believe, she really was in danger, anyway. Ultimately, she just placed too much trust in his ability to personally keep her safe. Which was another argument they’d had. One that he had a sick, angry feeling he was about to discover he’d been right about, too.
Heedless of his state of dress, he immediately flipped the locks and hopped outside, scanning the street. But it was merely rainswept, empty of any cars or people. Swearing, he stepped back inside and locked the door once again, before crouching down as best as he could next to the note. He flicked over the sealed envelope with the edge of a fingernail, careful not to put any prints on it, or smear ones already there. There was no name, address, or stamp on the outside. Which wasn’t a surprise, as Tanzy had stopped getting regular mail delivery at her home years before, when her column first started heating up. She had diverted all mail to her post-office box, hence her belief that her mail slot wasn’t really an issue.
Apparently SoulM8 didn’t agree.
On the back, in a jerky scrawl Riley recognized from the note left at the dance, were the words For You.
It made his skin crawl, made his hands clench into fists so tight he thought his knuckles would pop through the skin. He wasn’t a violent man off the playing field, but if he could have gotten his hands on the little prick right at that specific moment—
He shut that avenue of thought down, forcing himself to stay on track, stay focused. She was depending on him and the last thing she needed was for him to go off half-cocked and pissed as hell. Despite the fact he could have easily done it at that moment.
He looked around for something to slide beneath it. He went into the front room and got several papers from the employee list, slid them under the letter, then transported the whole stack to the coffee table, where the rest of the papers still lay. He had to sit down, his knee was throbbing. He flicked the envelope over, but there was nothing else written on it.
He didn’t tear it open, despite how badly he wanted to. Burning it would give him even more satisfaction. But he didn’t even touch it. He had to go out to his truck and get his kit, see if they could get more prints. Make sure they matched the ones left on the first note. At least they might be able to ascertain if SoulM8 had delivered one or both of the notes himself. Or used the same delivery person, anyway. He still didn’t think this guy—whoever the hell he was—played well with others. He’d bet money the bastard had been at the dance, just like he’d bet money he’d been just outside Tanzy’s front door.
And Martin had been at the dance. Just as he damn well had Tanzy’s private address.
Acid pitched hard against his stomach lining. He didn’t want it to be her boss. But things were looking worse all the time. They were going to have to confront him, one way or the other. Ernie had been trying to track down handwriting samples, as all Martin’s work with Tanzy was done online. But Ernie’d been all caught up in tracking the charity ball information and setting up the virus and hadn’t gotten to that yet.
And maybe, just maybe, Riley hadn’t pushed as hard as he should have on the Martin angle, because he’d really wanted it to be some anonymous asshole instead. Then he remembered the figurine. He hadn’t run prints on it, had forgotten about it after his little nap and their foray into the FishNet employment lists. Well, he could run both the note and the coyote at the same time. First he had to get some damn clothes on.
He turned to leave the front room, and the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Tanzy called from right outside the front-room door. She must have just come down the stairs, only she was yelling down the hall toward the kitchen, assuming he was getting ice.
He instinctively lunged from his seat on the futon toward the door to stop her, but his knee locked up, sending him staggering. His warning shout ended up a grunted curse as he hopped on his good foot, catching his weight with a hand on the wall to keep from falling to the floor.
“Aunt Millicent!” Tanzy said, obviously surprised.
“No more than me,” Riley muttered. Looking upward, he mouthed Why me?, wishing he had been in the kitchen getting ice. At least there he’d have a place to hide. As it was, he was trapped in the front room, wrapped in nothing more than a towel and a grimace. Not exactly how he’d have hoped to let Millicent know about the shift in his relationship with her only and beloved grandniece.
He did have the presence of mind to shift a stack of papers carefully on top of the envelope. He put a hefty coffee table–size book on art on top of that for good measure. He didn’t want to talk to either of them about the envelope, or the breach of personal space made by SoulM8, until he’d had a chance to examine the note more closely. In the meantime, he had to get them the hell out of the open doorway.
“Tanzy,” he called out. “In here.”
She stepped back and leaned into the sitting room doorway. Fortunately she was wearing shorts with her Niners jersey. “Riley? I thought you were—”
“Oh, Riley, how wonderful,” Aunt Millicent trilled, stepping around Tanzy before either of them could do anything to stop her. “Why, it’s about time Tanzy let you in out of the—Oh my.”
And the three words he’d hoped never to utter came all too easily to his lips. “I can explain.”
Millicent had dropped the little monocle she was fond of using, but quickly retrieved it. After a silent and unnerving head-to-toe appraisal of his towel-clad body, she turned to Tanzy and said, “Got caught in the rain, did he?”
“No, ma’am,” Riley said, stepping forward, biting down on the wince when his knee protested the movement. “As much as I’d like to take that out you so nicely provided, I think it’s better to stick with the truth.”
Her monocled gaze swung his way again. If she’d had a British accent she’d have put Maggie Smith to shame. “Which is?”
“I’m no longer working for your grandniece.”
“I fired him,” Tanzy said, finally fi
nding her voice.
Riley glanced at Tanzy, expecting her to be mortified, at the very least. He should have known better. A slightly amused tilt to her lips, a twinkle in her eye. She was having no problems with this little ménage à trois. Of course, she wasn’t the one in the towel.
“You did what?” Millicent looked to them both. “Did something happen?”
“You might say that,” Tanzy murmured with a suppressed snicker. “Several times.”
Riley shot her a glare. “We haven’t gotten him yet—”
“But you’ve ID’d the little perp?”
Tanzy folded her arms. “My great-aunt, the armchair detective.”
Millicent shot her a look that would have made a grown man quail. To her credit, Tanzy’s smile wobbled only slightly. Riley actually found himself stifling a smile. At least he knew she’d come by her moxie honestly.
“Dame Agatha Christie might have been a clever octogenarian, but she had nothing on a Harrington,” Millicent stated, then turned to Riley, brow raised as she waited for an explanation.
“I’m not working for Tanzy any longer, but I am working with her. I’m going to have some other associates help me out in a paid capacity and I promise you we will see this thing finished.” He cleared his throat under Millicent’s steady gaze, his respect for Tanzy growing by the second.
“And you’re taking this backseat role because . . . ?”
Tanzy stepped in. “Because we’re having an aff—a relationship,” she corrected, with a little smile. “As of about an hour or two ago. And Riley doesn’t think he has the proper perspective to be in charge of this any longer.” She waved her hand, oblivious to his soft groan. “I didn’t agree with him, but it’s a compromise I can live with.”
“Ms. Harrington, please—” Riley began, but was waved silent, this time by Millicent.
“You are no longer in my employ, Mr. Parrish, so, in that regard, what you do with your time and who you do it with aren’t any of my concern. Professionally speaking.” She held her hand up again when he went to speak. He bit down hard and shot a look at Tanzy, who appeared far too satisfied for his peace of mind. Having fun, was she? Well, they’d see about that later, wouldn’t they.
The Big Bad Wolf Tells All Page 24