A SURE THING?

by Jacquie D'Allesandro

  She drew him deeper into her mouth, dragging a growl from his throat. His entire body tightened with the need to come, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold off his orgasm much longer.

  Grasping her upper arms, he urged her upward. "Can't take anymore," he whispered against her mouth, as he toed off his loafers. "Want you. Need you. Now."

  Without a word, she stepped back and yanked her turtleneck over her head and unfastened her bra. While he shoved down his jeans and boxers and stepped out of them, she kicked off her flat shoes then skimmed her drawstring cotton pants and lace panties down her hips. Naked, she entwined their fingers, then led him to the bed.

  "Lie down," she whispered. She quickly grabbed a condom from their new supply. Straddling his thighs, she tore the packet, rolled the latex over his erection, then slowly sank herself onto him.

  He gritted his teeth against the sweet torture of her leisurely movements as she lifted herself until he almost left her body, then slowly glided down, burying him deep in her snug, velvety heat once again.

  He palmed her full breasts, his fingers grazing her taut nipples, his senses exploding from the sight of her astride him, the feel of her inner walls surrounding him, squeezing him, the scent of their mutual arousal rising between them. His gaze riveted on the sight of his erection sliding into her body, and his fight for control was irrevocably lost.

  Grasping her hips, he reared up to a sitting position, and drew one of her erect nipples into his mouth. Her nails dug into his shoulders, she arched her back, a long moan rumbling in her throat. He felt her tighten around him, grind against him, and his orgasm ripped through him. Burying his face between her breasts, he held on tight and whispered her name like a prayer while the tremors shook him.

  When his breathing returned to normal, he lifted his head. Her head hung down loosely, like a rag doll left in the rain, shiny skeins of tangled dark hair obscuring her face. Touching his fingers to her jaw, he urged her chin up. Their eyes met, and the area surrounding his heart went hollow, only to then fill with a sensation unlike anything he'd ever before experienced.

  He released her hips, then traced his fingers over her face with hands that were noticeably unsteady, like a blind man seeing her features through touch. He felt the strong need to say something, but a lump of emotion he couldn't, didn't even want to, try to explain clogged his throat. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against hers and murmured the only word he could manage—the one that seemed to sum up all he was feeling.

  "Jilly."

  Her fingers skimmed through his hair, and her warm breath brushed past his lips. She said only word in reply, but it was enough.

  "Matt."

  * * *

  An hour later, Jilly gave herself one last quick check in the full-length mirror before they left the room to join Jack for dinner. Dressed in a tailored, white, French-cuffed shirt tucked into her favorite black, slim skirt that skimmed her knees, and strappy Ralph Lauren heels, she looked calm, cool, and professional. From the neck down.

  From the neck up, she looked like a woman who had just been thoroughly and magnificently loved. Even her prim chignon could not disguise the glow in her eyes, the rosy flush of her complexion, the slight swelling of her lips. She might as well have pasted a sign on her forehead that read, Yes, I just did it—twice, in fact. And I can't wait to do it again.

  Matt stepped behind her, and their gazes met in the mirror. Heat whooshed through her at the barely banked fire in his serious, dark-blue gaze. Sliding his hands around her waist, he drew her back against him, then bent his head and nuzzled her neck with his warm lips. She really needed to step away from him. Instead she arched her neck to give him better access.

  "You look beautiful, Jilly," he murmured against her ear, sending heated shivers down her spine. His hands skimmed upward, cupping her breasts through her shirt, stalling her breath. "And you smell incredible. What is that scent you wear?"

  Okay, she'd tell him as soon as she remembered how to speak. Drawing a deep breath, she said, "It's called Clean Laundry."

  He lifted his head and looked at her reflection in the mirror, his surprise evident. "You're kidding."

  "Nope." No need to tell him that his distracting touch had rendered her incapable of doing anything as complicated as "kidding."

  "That's exactly what you smell like. Clean laundry that's been hanging outdoors in the sunshine."

  She managed a smile at his reflection, trying not to concentrate on the sight and feel of his hands cupping her breasts. "Thus the name of the cologne. The same perfume company makes several interesting scents I like. Another favorite is Angel Food Cake."

  "Sounds delicious." His teeth gently closed over her earlobe. "Good enough to eat."

  She briefly squeezed her eyes shut, allowing herself to wallow in the pleasure the images that evoked, before she turned to face him.

  "Listen," she said, trying but spectacularly failing to ignore his erection pressing against her and his hands running slowly down her back, "if you don't stop touching me and looking at me like that, we'll never make it to dinner. And even if we do, Jack will know exactly how we've been spending our time."

  "Since he met that woman, it's pretty clear he's spending his time exactly the same way."

  "And that's fine. But this dinner is business. Let's keep it that way." Grasping his hands, she forcibly planted them against his sides, then wagged her finger at him. "No touching until we're back in the room."

  He blew out a long sigh. "I guess that means no kissing, either."

  "That's right."

  "Fondling?"

  "Out of the question."

  He shot her a mock frown. "Is looking at you okay?"

  "Sure. As long as you don't look at me in that way."

  "What way?"

  "In that 'I'd like to spread you between two slices of bread and gobble you up' way."

  "Hmmm … yeah. That's exactly what I want for dinner." He leaned back against the wall, shot her a half smile and a wink. "Any chance you're on the menu?"

  Oh, boy. This was bad. She was a total sucker for a sexy guy winking at her. It was irrational, ridiculous, idiotic, and inexplicable—but there it was. That wink turned her insides to mush. They needed to get out of the room. Now. Before she gave into temptation and removed his pale blue cashmere pullover and navy dress pants and reminded herself of just how good he tasted.

  After snatching up her purse, she headed toward the door. "I'm on the dessert menu. But you have to be a good boy. Remember—no dessert until dinner is finished."

  The ride in the elevator was a torturous exercise in restraint. They stood on opposite ends, staring at each other in silence. Finally Matt cleared his throat. "I just want you to know that even though I want you naked, I realize this is a business dinner and will behave myself accordingly."

  "Excellent. And even though I want you naked, I realize this is a business dinner and will behave myself accordingly."

  He erased the distance between them with two long strides, bracketing his arms on either side of her. Only inches separated them, and although he didn't actually touch her, the warmth emanating from his body heated her as if he'd lit a fire under her skirt. "But after dinner, all bets are off, Jilly." The low words whispered close to her ear, sending desire shuddering through her.

  Damn him. No fair. Why hadn't he stayed on his side of the elevator? Now she was all flushed. And distracted. Clearly he'd shifted into his take-charge mode to have the last word. Typical.

  The elevator stopped and he stepped away from her. They crossed the lobby in silence, their shoes tapping against the polished marble. As the maitre d' led them toward the table, she looked at Matt over her shoulder.

  "Matt?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm not wearing any underwear."

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  Matt halted as if he'd walked into a brick wall and stared at Jilly following the maitre d', her words reverberating thr
ough his mind. I'm not wearing any underwear.

  His gaze zeroed in on her shapely butt. Heat sizzled through him, and he ran his hands down his face. Wrapped in that black skirt that offered nothing more overt than a hint at her curves, she looked as good from the back as she did from the front.

  Forcing his feet to move forward, he inwardly chuckled—at himself. He'd thought he'd cleverly gotten in the last word. Well, she'd shut him up but good. He only hoped that when he did finally locate his voice, the first thing that flopped out of his mouth wouldn't be Jilly isn't wearing any underwear.

  Bludgeoning back thoughts of that, and shifting his gaze away from her butt, he quickened his pace to catch up, and focused his attention on the table set in the far corner where Jack sat opposite a blond woman. Must be the lady friend Jack had met. A fissure of annoyance edged through him that Jack had included her in their business dinner, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Besides, maybe it was for the best. The more people, the more conversation, the more to concentrate on besides Jilly—who wasn't wearing any underwear. Another bolt of heat shot through him. Damn. She'd picked a hell of a night to go commando.

  When they arrived at the table, Jack rose to greet them, then introduced his new friend, Carol Webber. Matt shook hands with the attractive blonde, whom he placed in her early thirties. Once Jilly and Matt were seated opposite each other, Jack asked, "So what did you two do today?"

  "Some holiday shopping, and we visited another winery," Jilly said with a smile as she settled her napkin on her lap.

  "And managed not to kill each other?" Jack asked with a laugh. "That's quite a feat for competing co-workers."

  "We came close a couple of times," Jilly said, "but my facial and Matt's massage this afternoon took the edge off."

  "Isn't the facial marvelous?" Carol asked. "I had one yesterday, and I still feel all tingly."

  "Oh, I'm definitely still tingly," Jilly agreed.

  She was looking at Carol, her voice was perfectly neutral, but Matt knew the words were directed at him. And damn it, he was more than tingly. He was hard. And uncomfortable. And annoyed. It was freakin' difficult to think of something intelligent to say to the man whose account you hoped to win when all Matt could do was hope he wouldn't have to stand up for any reason. He hadn't experienced a problem like this since high school. When the hell had his penis spawned into this out of control appendage?

  Friday night, his inner voice informed him, around 3:00 a.m. When you entered 312 and found the current Miss Commando wearing that damn black satin getup.

  Matt wrestled back the image of a sexy, disheveled Jilly from his mind, shifted to relieve the strangulation occurring in the front of his slacks, then asked Jack, "How did your day trip to Orient Point go?"

  Jack embarked on a lengthy retelling of his day, with numerous flirty interruptions from Carol, and Matt heaved an inward sigh of relief that the conversational ball was out of his court, temporarily requiring nothing more from him than a nod, and a few noncommittal phrases. The talk turned to food, and they chatted, perused the menu, and Matt began to relax.

  After the waiter took their orders, Matt turned to Carol. "What sort of work do you do?" he asked.

  "I'm a nurse. Jack tells me you and Jilly work in advertising, and that you're both vying for his company's account." Her gaze bounced between him and Jilly. "That must be making for an interesting weekend."

  "It certainly hasn't been dull," Matt agreed.

  "You're both very creative," Carol said with a smile. "Jack told me all about your presentations, and they're both wonderful. I can't imagine how he'll be able to choose."

  Matt glanced at Jilly, and he stilled when their gazes met. Something unspoken seemed to pass between them, something that Matt couldn't put his finger on, but he knew it boded very poorly for his competitive instincts. He should have grabbed Carol's comment and sprinted toward the end zone with it, subtly stating reasons why Jack should choose his presentation over Jilly's. But he remained mute, unable to utter a word.

  "Well, speaking of choosing," Jack said, striding into the awkward silence, "I need to choose whether I want to take the mud bath or the seaweed wrap tomorrow morning before heading back to the city. Anybody have any ideas on that?"

  The conversation veered onto nonwork-related topics, and Matt made a concentrated effort to participate. And he was doing a damn good job of it, too, until midway through his entree, when something nudged his shin under the table. As the table was quite small, he moved his leg slightly to get it out of the way, while continuing to listen to Carol's story about a Caribbean cruise she'd taken last year. But seconds later, he was nudged again. And then he felt the unmistakable glide of a shoeless foot slipping up his pant leg.

  He froze, his forkful of chicken arrested halfway to his mouth. His gaze swiveled to Jilly who resembled the picture of innocence—except for the telltale crimson stain rising on her cheeks—a stain that surely wasn't caused by Carol's retelling of her shopping adventures in the Caribbean straw market.

  He tried to move his leg away, but there wasn't much room to maneuver, and she was persistent, brushing her foot over his shin.

  A combination of irritation and desire nipped at him at her tactics. Clearly she'd abandoned their agreement to stick to business during dinner, and while he couldn't deny he liked her attentions, he didn't care for her timing.

  Shooting her a warning glare, which she missed as her attention remained focused on Carol, he moved his leg again. And again her toes followed, gliding over his pants, this time inching higher, past his knee, and onto his thigh.

  Damn it, enough was enough. Two could play at this game. If she thought—

  She pushed back her chair and rose. Sizzling him with a pointed look that appeared to throw more daggers than Cupid's arrows, she murmured, "Please excuse me. I need to visit the ladies' room."

  Matt mentally counted to ten, then rose. "Excuse me, please. Men's room." He walked swiftly toward the archway through which Jilly had disappeared. After turning two corners, he reached the rest rooms. She stood outside the ladies' room, hands on hips, shoe tapping against the marble floor, her narrowed eyeballs all but emitting steam.

  "What the hell are you doing?" she said, her voice an angry hiss.

  He simply stared. "Me?"

  "Yes, you. When we agreed that this dinner was strictly business, that didn't mean monkey business."

  "Something you might want to recall, Miss I'm Not Wearing Underwear."

  "I only said that because you pulled your macho take-charge act in the elevator."

  His gaze skimmed over her skirt. "So does that mean you're really wearing underwear?"

  Her eyes narrowed further, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "That's not the point right now—"

  "No, it's not," he agreed, stepping closer to her. "The point is that for someone who claims she prides herself on playing fair, you've been cheating. I'll play by whatever set of guidelines you want, but the next time you decide to switch rules, I'd appreciate it if you'd deal me in."

  "You're a fine one to talk," she said, her eyes glittering with obvious anger. "What, are you pissed because I wouldn't participate in your little game of footsie?"

  "You call that not participating? For God's sake, your foot was practically in my crotch." A frown tugged down his brows. "And what do you mean my little game of footsie?"

  "What do you mean my foot was practically in your crotch? I didn't touch you."

  "Well, I didn't touch you, either."

  Her eyes widened. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me that wasn't your foot caressing me under the table?"

  "Yes. Are you telling me that wasn't your foot snaking up my leg?"

  She held her hand over her heart. "Swear." They stared at each other in silence for several seconds, then she said, "It was definitely a man's foot making nice-nice with me. So if it wasn't you, it had to be Jack."

  "And the foot making familiar with me was definitely a woman's—so it must
have been Carol." He cleared his throat. "Sorry for thinking you'd played foul."

  "Apology accepted—and extended back. Sorry." Jilly blew out a breath. "I guess the only question remaining is did they mean to fondle us? Or were they trying to fondle each other and we just got in the way?"

  Matt's jaw tightened. "That bastard. He damn well better not have been making a pass at you."

  "I agree. I knew Jack wouldn't win any Mr. Charming prizes, but what a lousy thing to do, with his date sitting right there."

  "Yeah," Matt agreed, although that wasn't at all what he'd meant. Anger pumped through him that Jack had dared to touch her, an emotion that wasn't calmed at all by the recollection that she might not be wearing panties. "Just how friendly did he manage to get with you?"

  "I stood up when he reached my knee." She blew out a breath. "This is no less awkward for you. After all, the date of the man you're trying to impress might be making the moves on you."

  "Definitely awkward," Matt agreed.

  "Surely they thought they were touching each other."

  "I don't know. While I was talking to Carol, I noticed Jack sort of giving you the eye." The bastard.

  "Unfortunately I think you might be right. He made a few comments that definitely skidded the line."

  "Oh? And how did you respond?"

  Her expression cooled to a mask of chilled detachment. "The same way I've responded every time I've been placed in a similar situation. With professional courtesy and nothing more. I told you—I don't play footsie, or any other games, with clients." Lifting her chin, she asked, "So, how do we handle this potential problem?"

  "Personally, I think it's time for the meal to end. If they were trying to make the moves on each other, it's time for them to be alone. And if either of them was making a move on either one of us, it's way past time for this meal to end."