by Inara Scott
This is how I feel about you.
He slid his hands under the sides of her backless dress, found the delicate skin of her waist, and left his thumbs there to stroke at the soft flesh. Instantly, he was struck by the image of laying her down on his bed, removing that dress, and replacing his hands with his mouth.
God, he wanted her. He wanted her with an intensity that scared him, that made him question everything he’d ever believed, every rule he’d ever made for dealing with women.
He focused on her lips, used every ounce of control he had to keep from grabbing her butt and tucking her tightly against him. His hands moved to her back, and he traced the line of her spine as he slid his mouth down her neck to land at the hollow at the base of her neck. She moaned softly, her breath caught low in her throat.
This is how I want you.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured against her skin, his breath a mix of desire and pent-up need. And then he kissed her again and let his hands and his mouth say the things he needed her to hear.
…
The man was a magician. A sorcerer. There was no other way to explain how quickly and completely he undid her. How he made her want, need, feel things she hadn’t felt in years. His lips traced the edge of her neck and she arched her back, let her breasts brush against his chest, and stifled a moan. Her nipples were hard and aching, and she could picture his hands on them. Teasing them, torturing her with his mouth and tongue.
She was pressed against him like a cat, arching and straining for more closeness. She moved her hips and felt him hard against her.
One of his hands slid from her back to her bottom. With a firm hand he rocked her against him, pressing them tightly together, and it was everything she wanted. Exactly what she needed. Her dress was a frustrating impediment. She wanted skin on skin. Flesh against flesh.
“I think we might be making a scene.” His breath was warm on her cheek. He pressed a kiss behind her ear.
She tried to make her mind focus, but his touch had left her senseless. “A scene?”
He pulled away with a sigh. “A scene.”
She glanced around, remembering with a start that there were people still spilling out of the Aspen, others walking past on the street. She felt the warmth of a blush color her cheeks. “Oh. Right. I guess this is a public street.”
He nodded. “I think there are laws about this sort of thing. Even in San Francisco.”
She couldn’t help but smile. The moment had been broken, and she felt a wave of indecision that forced her eyes to the ground. He touched her chin, dragging her gaze back to his.
“Come home with me?” he said.
There were so many reasons to say no, and one very good reason to say yes: she wanted him. And he wanted her.
Could that be enough? There were so many risks. So many things to be afraid of. Could she take a chance, knowing she might get hurt?
“I have to get my car.”
“Leave it. I wasn’t going to let you drive home anyway.”
She looked up, momentarily startled. “What?”
He smiled. “You’re a bit of a lightweight, you know. That second cocktail was one too many.”
She smiled, then bit her lip. Maybe he wasn’t for her and maybe she didn’t fit in, but maybe tonight it didn’t matter. Maybe sometimes Cinderella just had to take her one night with the prince, even if she knew that it was all going away in the morning.
“Come home with me?” he asked again.
She reached up and linked her fingers behind his neck. Heat seared the space between them. “Yes.” She leaned into him and dragged his face down, pressing her lips against his. One night. Maybe that was enough.
“Yes.”
Chapter Twelve
They drove back to his apartment in silence. There was no way to make it logical. And yet, maybe it made sense. It wouldn’t be long before Wick didn’t need her at all, save a walk in the morning or afternoon. No more coffee at the door in the morning or walks with Mason in the evening. No more quiet high-rise in which to do her homework and stare out at the city.
She was careening right back into her life.
As the doors of the elevator closed behind them, his arm snaked around her waist, hand coming to rest possessively on her hip. The heat between them was enough to erase any lingering doubts she might have had, the need between them palpable. She could feel the muscles in his neck tense as her fingers wrapped around him, tugging him closer.
She took his face in her hands and stared into his eyes. They were familiar now, that mix of gold, green, and brown. A tiny laugh escaped her, and Mason quirked a brow.
“What?” he asked.
“When we first met, I found your eyes incredibly annoying,” she said.
“Annoying?”
“Too pretty.”
“Pretty?”
“Maybe not pretty,” she said hastily, stifling another laugh at his injured expression. “More like…supernatural. Not quite mortal.”
He snorted. “Ah. Of course. I can see how that would be annoying. And now?”
She ran her hands down over his shoulders, reveling in the hard line of muscles that formed the edge of his bicep. With a deep breath, she skimmed her hands lower, pausing at his hips before slipping behind, to cup his backside. He was one glorious shifting mass of muscles, each one rippling under her fingers.
“I guess everyone needs a night with a superhero.”
When she squeezed and arched toward him, he grabbed her waist and picked her up, then spun her around to press her back against the wall of the elevator. One hand reached under her thigh, raising it up so her knee came to his hip. He bucked against her, pressing his hardness against her core. “I’m just a man,” he growled. “Nothing more.”
She answered with a hungry kiss, losing herself in the surge of pleasure that followed everywhere he touched her. When the elevator dinged and stopped at his floor, he let her go with a sound that was half groan, half promise.
He gave her a gentle push out of the elevator, and she laughed as they fell into his front door, barely able to pause long enough to unlock and wrestle it open. Wick raised his head in a lazy greeting when they stumbled through. Her knees were weak, her body uncoordinated, as weeks of anticipation drove a relentless wave of need.
They groped their way down the short hall to the bedroom, stopping by the bed, where Mason trailed a hand around the gold ring around her neck. “This dress is masterful. But inconvenient. How does this thing come off, anyway?”
Tess leaned back and undid the clasp at her neck. Slowly, she slipped the ring from around her neck and slid off the dress and the tiny thong she’d been wearing. Revealed to him, and she felt her own breathing like an earthquake rattling across her body.
When was the last time she’d been naked with a man? Five years? More?
“Jesus, sweetheart.” His voice was hoarse.
When she looked up, he was staring at her with open hunger. Her nipples, already peaked and hard, ruched under his gaze.
“You’re beautiful.”
How could she feel anything but radiant when he looked at her like that? He took a step forward and gently slid his thumbs across those hard peaks, then followed with his mouth. When he kissed her needy flesh she gasped and tangled her hands in his hair.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Please.”
His tongue trailed around one nipple, covered it with warmth and wet. He sucked gently, and her body convulsed.
“More,” she begged. “Don’t stop.”
“Lie down,” he breathed against her chest, pulling away slowly.
She did as he said, the cool fabric of the bedspread raising goose bumps on her flesh. He did not take those golden eyes off of her as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, then removed his belt and pants. As she watched, Tess felt her body loosening, each ligament and tendon relaxing even as all her muscles and bones turned to thick, languid honey.
His body was a work of art. Broad shoulders, tape
red torso, exquisite definition in each ridge of muscle, including those lines alongside his hips, leading straight to the dark hair below. After years of unintended abstinence, her body was as primed as a fifteen-year-old boy, and when he climbed above her on the bed, her legs fell open to welcome him. She tipped her hips up, wanting more contact.
He chuckled softly. “After all the time you made me wait? I don’t think so. Not that quickly.”
She had no interest in patience, but then he settled between her legs, his mouth closing back over her nipple, and she forgot how to move or think. He stayed there until she was mindless with need, teasing her tender flesh as she strained against him. First one breast, then the other was treated to his tender torture. Just as her body began to spiral out of control, he moved lower, lavishing attention on the curve of her stomach and the flesh above her hip. She was mewling now, straining to touch him, to be filled by him.
He watched her face as his hand traced the line of her stomach down to the top of her mound. She sucked in a breath when he paused, then cried out as his finger teasingly drew along the seam of her flesh. The touch slid along the edge of her clitoris, teased and stroked the edges, then slipped deeper.
“Yes,” she moaned. “Please.”
He pushed deeper, then withdrew, knit two fingers together and thrust again. She strained against the entry, needing to be filled more. Deeper. Harder.
“Open your eyes, sweetheart,” he said.
The command was as erotic as the scene: his tawny head above her, his fingers thrusting between her legs. Their eyes met, and what had been a purely physical encounter took on a deeper, even sweeter tone, as she saw him promise to take care of her, to give her pleasure. She let go of her last inhibition as he replaced his fingers with his mouth, and arched at the stab of sensation. He licked along the edges of her folds, and when his mouth closed over her and gently sucked her in, she jerked and cried out. He gave her more, sucked harder, and she exploded, every ounce of her tensing, and then shattering all at once.
She lay there, panting, as he pulled away. For a few minutes, she couldn’t speak, just let her body relax and enjoy the waves of pleasure still lapping at her breasts, her belly, and the delicate flesh between her legs. He lay beside her, his hand heavy on her hip, his own breathing ragged.
If she hadn’t been in a temporary pleasure coma, she would have rolled over and kissed him again. Because he was willing to make this all about her.
But she wanted more. She wanted him.
Her muscles still languid and unwilling to move, she forced herself to roll to the side and reach for the drawer in the bedside table. She was surprised to find it empty.
He smiled. “Rumors of my promiscuity have been somewhat exaggerated.”
Though she wanted to pretend it didn’t matter—because this was all about sex, right?—she couldn’t, and a little part of her sighed with relief.
“But I do have a condom in my wallet,” he said. “And a box in the bathroom. I’m not exactly a monk.”
She laughed, and watched as he stood and crossed over to extract his wallet from his pants, and then pull out a foil-wrapped square. When he came back to the bed he was serious again. “You’re sure?” he asked.
“Are you really asking me that?” She reached for his hips, waited as he rolled on the condom, then sighed with pleasure as his hardness made contact with her. Her eyes slid closed, and she groaned with pleasure as she leaned back against the pillows, pulling him with her. “I need you inside me.”
He hesitated as he moved over her. With a surge of desire, she grabbed him and pulled him more deeply between her legs. Slowly, he began to move. Inch by inch, never turning away, he sent his hips further against her, let his thrust deepen, until they were joined.
Joined.
“You okay?” he asked, voice deep and husky.
“Only if you keep it up,” she said, looping her feet behind his back to draw him more tightly against her.
He tangled his hands in her hair, withdrew, and then thrust again. They moved together and the pressure inside her built to a new peak, this one deeper, coming from somewhere inside. He moved faster, his breath a moan, and she met his every movement with her own. When he stiffened and groaned her name, she felt her own body spasm, hold tight to the feeling, then explode in exquisite pleasure.
Chapter Thirteen
When Mason woke the next morning, he realized three things. First, that he’d probably made the biggest mistake of his life by sleeping with one of the only women he’d ever actually been friends with. A woman he cared about. A women he knew more intimately than just about anyone. Sleeping with her twice, actually. Or was it three times? Depended on how you counted, of course. Really, there hadn’t been much sleeping at all.
Second, that he wanted her again. Like, now. Apparently, his body did not care in the slightest that he now had to figure out what to do with a woman he cared about and had nonetheless slept with. This, of course, being a combination he strictly avoided. No, all his body seemed to care about was the fact that it had enjoyed a night of unrivaled pleasure that it was eager to continue.
And third?
That she was gone.
Trying to remain calm, he felt around the empty bed. The pillow, sheets, and comforter next to him—where he distinctly remembered her being when he fell asleep—were all cold. He lurched to his feet and stumbled to the dresser for a pair of boxers, noting along the way that the green dress and gladiator sandals were also missing. He had a brief, hopeful thought that maybe she was simply out walking Wick, but then he heard the familiar tap of the dog’s nails on the hardwood and was greeted by a nose in his palm and a friendly string of drool.
He blinked at the dog, trying to get his brain to work. “Where’d she go, Wick?”
The thought occurred to him that he’d disappeared before dawn a time or two, but only after he’d been clear all along that that was the plan. What the plan was here, he had no idea, but he was fairly certain it did not involve her leaving before he awoke.
“Tess?”
He checked the rest of the house. It took only a couple of minutes to find all traces of her had been removed from the apartment. No purse by the door, no jacket in the closet. Even her damn yogurt was gone from the fridge. He searched for an explanation, sighing with relief when it came to him. Astro. She’d gone home to take care of her dog. That must be it.
He grabbed his phone and checked the log. He had four texts waiting, all from last night, none from Tess. He scrolled through as he headed back to the kitchen.
Zoe: Don’t be an asshole. I like her.
Luke: She deserves better. Like me.
Nate: I can’t believe you unleashed Cecilia fucking Kerr on us.
He chuckled at that. There had been something between Cecilia and Nate. Some history there. He’d have to get the full story on Monday.
Rafe: Luke wanted me to tell you you’re a dick and can’t keep all the good ones for yourself.
Right. Because Luke had such a hard time finding women.
He texted Tess: Where are you? I’m making coffee.
When a reply didn’t appear, he set down the phone and ground the beans for the morning pot of coffee. By the time he’d finished, she’d replied.
Didn’t want to wake you. I walked Wick before I left. He should be good until lunch, maybe later. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding someone else to walk him. He’ll be fine going out once or twice a day.
The words on the screen made no sense.
Wait, what do you mean? You need me to find some else for today? Do you have exams or something?
What was she trying to do?
I can recommend someone if you need.
He blinked at the screen, still finding it impossible understand what was happening. Was she quitting? She wasn’t planning to come back ever?
Clearly, this was not something to discuss via text message. He dialed her number, but she declined the call and texted back instead.
Sorry, driving. Just let me know if you need to go into work or have trouble finding someone for the day and I can come back.
He frowned and replied: Not sure what’s going on here. Call me when you get there.
There was a long pause, then: I think it’s probably better we don’t see each other anymore. But I don’t want to leave you in the lurch. I’ll see if I can find someone who can take over walking Wick for you.
He called again. She declined again.
Oh hell no. He swore under his breath.
This was not how things were going to go down.
Resolutely, he made his way into his office and riffled through a stack of papers on his desk. At the bottom of the pile, he found what he’d been looking for: the tax form he’d had her to fill out. Her address was printed neatly on top.
Feeling only slightly stalker-ish, he plugged the address into the navigation app on his phone. It said he could be at her house in fifty-five minutes.
“Don’t worry, old man,” he said to the mastiff, who was watching him from the doorway. “I’ll bring her back. I promise.”
…
Tess sat at her desk and stared at her computer. Every few seconds, she picked up the phone and stared at the screen, waiting for another notification to arrive. When an hour went by and none did, she told herself she was relieved. Of course, texting was a coward’s way out. But surely this was a relief to him? Not to have to deal with her again? No half-hearted “I’ll call you later’s” to deliver?
She couldn’t have faced the awkward morning after. The night had been too perfect to spoil with that. He’d made her body sing last night. They’d fit together in a way she hadn’t even known was possible, but that didn’t mean a thing and she knew it. After all, hadn’t Mason’s friends gone out of their way to make sure she knew about the four-date rule?
Given how much time they’d already spent together, this was probably the equivalent of date three or four anyway. No sense waiting for him to cut bait. If you wanted something done right, Tess had learned, you had to do it yourself.