‘I know you will.’ He ached to pull her close and kiss her and tell her not to worry about the damn price of anything. But he wasn’t going to do that to her. He respected her need for independence. For space.
They were things he needed himself.
They walked into the Great Hall of the museum. She inhaled a deep breath, she even seemed to grow taller. Yeah, this was definitely what she’d needed.
He glanced around the interior—taking in the vaulted ceilings—and felt his own spirit revitalise. Yeah, he needed it too. To keep busy—his mind busy.
He let her pick which collections to tackle, happy to follow in her wake—the requisite ‘five paces behind’ perfect for checking out the inherently seductive sway of her hips as she walked. She wore another floral dress that accentuated her waist and the lush curves of her breasts. Ah, he shouldn’t be thinking of her breasts. It was going to be hours before he could bare them and set his mouth over her pretty pink—
He slammed the brakes on his thoughts and stared hard at a painting instead.
Focus, James.
But it was hard. He was hard. Why had he thought trailing around a gallery, unable to touch her, would be a good idea? He gave up on looking at the painted 2D beauties and concentrated on the live, warm, real woman right in front of him.
‘You don’t want to take photos? Buy postcards?’ he asked as they wandered from hall to hall.
‘No. I put things in here if I need to.’ She pulled a small sketchbook from her bag.
‘You draw?’ He peered over her shoulder to see the pages.
‘Enough to remember what I need to.’ She snapped it shut.
But he’d got a glimpse—small, neat, pencilled pictures. ‘What kinds of things?’ He was intrigued.
‘Patterns. Ideas. Scraps of memory. But mostly it’s all up here.’ She tapped her temple. ‘Treasures.’
Yeah, she was smart. Intense. Enthusiastic.
His brain wandered off course again. Hell, he needed some fresh air.
‘So are we going to Central Park?’ she asked when they finally headed back to meet the cabbie.
‘That would be too obvious.’ He grinned.
‘Oh.’ Her brows arched.
‘This is a park where you wouldn’t expect to find one.’
‘Where’s that?’
He pointed a finger to the sky.
‘This is really cool—the views are amazing.’ She almost bounced in excitement a half-hour later as they walked along the disused railway line that had been developed into an elevated, slim park. She turned to him and blushed. ‘You’ve seen all this.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry if this is boring.’
‘Never boring. I love New York.’ Hell, he’d forgotten just how much fun the city could be. When had he last had a holiday? He honestly couldn’t remember. Not a real holiday anyway; he always combined travel with work. ‘And I’ve not seen any of this with you before. Come on.’ He nodded to a stand ahead. ‘You can buy me lunch.’
She glanced at him. ‘You want this for lunch?’
‘I love those pretzels.’
‘Real carbs man, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘I find I need the energy at the moment.’
Laughing, she went to the stand and bought two of the giant, doughy pretzels.
She handed him one with a flourish. ‘I know you’re doing this to soothe my penniless pride.’
‘Careful,’ he said softly. ‘Looking at me like that might make me want to kiss you.’
‘Uh-uh.’ Laughing, she stepped a couple of paces ahead of him.
They walked along the High Line, eating. Ruefully he pondered how amazing it was that the decision not to touch made him so aware of how close she was. How easy it would be to touch. He glanced up and saw she’d caught him—no doubt his thoughts had been written all over his face given she was blushing now. But she shook her head provocatively, as if she were the mistress remonstrating with the misbehaving boy. She was going to pay for that. Later.
‘We’d better keep moving,’ he growled. ‘The Public Library,’ he instructed the cabbie when he met them at the end of the park.
‘The lions are called Patience and Fortitude,’ James informed her as they walked towards the entrance a short-ish drive later. ‘Which do you identify with?’
‘Definitely Fortitude,’ she answered wryly. ‘And you?’
‘Patience,’ he groaned. ‘I need much patience today.’
‘Poor James,’ she cooed. ‘Are you suffering?’
She had no idea.
The library was beautiful, stunning, fascinating. Just like her. James struggled to contain the rising sense of impatience as they slowly walked through the massive reading room. But he was determined to control himself—and his wayward urges. He could do something for someone else, put someone else’s needs first...
Except he was starting to wonder what her needs might be right at this time. She was looking at him more than she was looking at the building and the treasures within.
‘James?’ she asked softly—all the sass gone. Her blue eyes had gone smoky.
‘You got lunch, I’ve already got dinner.’ He sent her a quelling look and marched her back to the waiting cab. ‘No arguing. Central Park please,’ he called to the cabbie. ‘Best entrance for the Delacorte.’ He couldn’t let her derail his carefully laid plans. Not so quickly.
‘Sure.’
James peeked into the basket the driver had collected for him while they were at the library. ‘Thanks,’ he said as the car pulled over. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Nine-thirty?’
‘Perfect.’
But when he followed Caitlin out of the cab, she stood in his way, her hands on hips. ‘See him tomorrow?’
‘He owes me big time.’ James nodded, switching the basket to his other hand.
‘James—’
‘Shall we go to a show?’ He walked past her towards the park, ignoring her half-frustrated laugh. ‘Come on.’
‘James!’
‘Don’t worry.’ He pointed to a poster. ‘It’s free. All the tickets are free.’
Diverted, she stopped and scanned the print. Her gaze flickered to him accusingly. ‘I don’t recall you queuing for tickets today... How did you do this?’
‘Pulled strings,’ he answered honestly. ‘And I have a picnic in here for us to have first.’
One thing he could do was organise.
‘Thank you.’ She stepped in front of him, looking up at him. ‘I mean it. Thanks for taking me to all these places today. I have had the best time.’
So had he. But honestly? The best was yet to come.
‘You just thanked me?’ He opted to tease her—mainly to stop himself from pulling her close and plundering her mouth the way he’d been thinking of for hours now. ‘Have I finally redeemed myself in your eyes?’
‘Hmm.’ She put a hand to her chin and pretended to think about it. ‘Maybe one more night of sexual slavery will do it.’
James groaned, hard and hurting. ‘Don’t torment me. We have hours of Shakespeare to sit through first.’
He was almost bursting out of his skin with desire for her. Why had he agreed to the no-PDA idea? Madness.
She was aware of it too—sending him sly looks. Her cheeks and lips reddened, her eyes big and sparkling. She was a minx. He knew she was sitting just slightly too close, knew she was acutely clued into his physical discomfort. And she was maxing it out for the fun of it.
Yeah, she was trouble.
He tried to concentrate on the play, truly he did. But it got about forty per cent of his attention tops. Mostly he sat watching her, watching the play. He delighted in her delight. And he couldn’t wait to have her home alone and all his.
; If they stayed this busy, it’d be okay. The two weeks would go by fast enough and then he’d get back into the usual routine—work, work, work, sleep. But for now he tried to think up more plans: what else they could do for free—or for very little—in New York. Only he kept glancing at her, his awareness of her so acute it hurt.
Finally the play ended. They walked through the park to the condo. The air was warm enough but the atmosphere between them sparked as if an electrical storm were raging. They didn’t speak. He was too ragged and near the edge to manage it and he could hear the little shallow breaths she was taking. Was she as keyed up as he?
It wasn’t possible.
But as they rode the elevator up to his condo they faced each other—each with a back to the wall, keeping that distance between them by tacit agreement. Because the second he touched her he’d be out of control.
She knew—her eyes gleamed with that knowledge. She was the same. She was already on fire—because her hands clutched her dress. He hissed out a breath as she lifted the hem up her legs a couple of inches. She leaned right back against the wall, her legs parted. Her breasts rose and fell quickly as she lifted her dress higher still.
‘I want you,’ she said.
James swore, grabbing her wrist and striding out of the elevator the second the doors slid open. He unlocked the condo as quickly as he could, pulling her inside and slamming the door. He hauled her close and kissed her like the sex-starved animal he was. Furious satisfaction roared through him as she slid her arms around him and clung, opening instantly for him. Quickly, desperately, he worked to undo his trousers enough to release his agonised cock and sheath it, kissing her still, claiming the cavern of her mouth with his tongue.
He needed to claim all of her.
He pushed her back against the wall and dropped to his knees. Thankful she wore a dress. Thankful she moaned and spread her legs and let him. Just thankful.
He skimmed his hands up her inner thighs, his haste fuelled by her breathlessness, her willingness, her revealing heat. Beneath her dress, he pulled aside her panties and kissed her intimately, tasting her readiness, loving the clenching of her sex as she came. He loved her quick response, loved that he had to secure her hips in a firm hold because she writhed so wildly. Dominant, victorious instincts flared. He shredded her knickers so he could delve deeper with his fingers and tongue. He loved to make her take more—give her more of that unbearable pleasure until she bent double, her hands tearing his hair as she screamed for mercy. And screamed in release. Then he just gave her all of him. Pulling her to the floor and driving home.
The expression on her face when he entered her... The unutterable pleasure of being inside her... He was possessed of the primal demand to thrust, ride, own. She was his woman—to pleasure, to hold, to enjoy. Vitality, victory flowed through him as he entered her realm. Their chemistry was nuclear powerful, their bodies brilliantly compatible. He’d never tire of the sexy sighs she released as he wound her higher again. He gritted his teeth, bucking like a wild animal, driving them both full speed to oblivion.
It was minutes before he could see again, could breathe easily again. With a rueful smile he rolled off her, kicking his legs free of his trousers. He scooped her into his arms, loving the way she clung—not just with her arms, but with her dazed eyes.
No wonder people got fixated on sex. Who’d have thought it could be so restorative? Was he really that shallow that all he needed was regular sex to keep him happy? But this was vastly different from the wild-oats, different-woman-a-week phase of not that long ago. Different in that this was with the same woman.
His gut tightened. No, it wasn’t just sex. It was sex with Caitlin. And there was no one in the world like Caitlin. He carried her up to bed, running his hand down her smooth, pale skin, appreciating the way she arched into his touch as he placed her on the mattress. Undeniably pretty, yes, but also smart, spirited. Sassy.
And sad. It appeared in her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. In the moments before he touched her and made her forget everything. Or before he teased her about something and made her laugh. He liked it when she laughed.
So he ran his fingers down the vee of her dress now, teasing as he unbuttoned it and got her blessedly naked. He pinned her down to kiss her and summon the sighs and smile he found so addictive. He loved that it was so easy.
Nothing felt as good as her climaxing around him, her cries filling his ears, her hot damp body collapsing as he wrung the last drops of tension from her. She was as eager for abandonment as he, passionately throwing herself into the heat that flared between them. Physical was everything. It wasn’t always fast; sometimes he made it a slow drawn-out tease.
And it was always pure ecstasy.
EIGHT
The sated feeling never stayed. James, himself, never stayed. Not anywhere. Not even in bed. And Caitlin had cottoned on quick.
‘Do you never sit on a park bench? Never lie down in the grass?’ she teased as they walked through the Riverside Park after they’d been to the Guggenheim.
‘No. I like to keep busy.’ He fobbed her off with a smile.
‘You don’t know how to relax?’
‘I don’t like being bored.’ He didn’t like lying still. If he wasn’t kept busy, his brain started to replay things he preferred to forget.
‘No rest for the wicked?’ she joked.
‘That’s right,’ he answered with a smile, but was perfectly serious.
So for the next few days they stuck with the plan—gallery, park, place and no PDA. They took in an outdoor screening of a classic movie at Bryant Park, rode the Staten Island Ferry past the Statue of Liberty, walked down Wall Street, went to several indie, abstract, out there galleries in Chelsea. They visited memorials and museums, watched musicians in parks, stood by sculptures, went to another Broadway play, lunched in Little Italy, Chinatown, and ate yet more from street vendors, from urban markets, scoffed pancakes in small diners. They explored the flagship stores—from Apple to Lego to Tiffany’s—and the boutiques in the Meatpacking District, Tribeca. He kept them on the schedule—and he was liking it a hell of a lot more than he’d ever thought he would. They saw loads, talked incessantly, laughed often.
But on the fourth day, Caitlin rebelled.
‘My feet hurt,’ she explained.
She marched to a stand and bought herself an ice cream. ‘You want one?’
He shook his head. ‘Come on.’
‘No,’ Caitlin said bluntly. She was not walking another five miles around a park. It wasn’t that she was unfit or anything, but she just wanted to sit. It was a beautiful, sunny day. She wanted to watch the world go by and relax.
‘No?’
‘No.’ Passive resistance. That was the way. She took her ice cream and walked onto the spring lawn, selecting a spot far enough away from other people for some privacy—though she still planned to enforce the no PDA rule. It made life fun. ‘You can sit for ten minutes.’ She told him. ‘It’s not that hard.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Ten.’
‘Maybe twenty—it’s a big ice cream.’ And she proceeded to lick it ve-e-ery slowly.
He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and flung himself down on the grass beside her. Caitlin ignored him, just kept on licking her ice cream. He turned his head to the side, she knew he was staring at her, willing her to look at him. She wasn’t going to. Ten minutes of doing nothing. How hard could it be?
She rested back on one hand, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the taste of the ice and the fascinating mix of people making the most of the park. So many people. So much to see. And someone so gorgeous to do it all with...
She glanced down to flash him a quick teasing smile but to her utter astonishment his eyes were shut. Was he asleep? She leaned closer. His face was fully relaxed, his breathing regular, deep, s
low. Oh, he was asleep. And gorgeous. Warmth flowed through her—not just the usual ‘I-need-to-jump-him’ warmth, but something else. She sat back, crumbled the last of her cone and tossed it for a pigeon or twenty.
Holiday fling, Caitlin. Just lust.
She could remember that, right? Because that was all this could be. But she looked down again, fascinated to see him like this. Almost vulnerable, utterly relaxed. And a little alone. She felt oddly protective of him. She’d known he’d been tired, but he never seemed to want to stop—why was that? Why couldn’t he give himself a day or two to just laze about? He so obviously needed it. He might even enjoy it if he gave himself the chance.
A kid suddenly bellowed—a sound of despair and outrage. Caitlin glanced up and winced. The poor little girl had dropped her ice cream. Caitlin hoped the indignant wails wouldn’t wake James. But of course they did. His eyes snapped open, that slight edge returned, that tension never seemed to leave him. It was a thread running right through his fabric. Caitlin smiled ruefully, wishing he hadn’t woken and that he’d been able to relax a little longer.
‘Hell, I fell asleep?’ Looking sheepish, he sat up. ‘You should have woken me.’
‘Don’t worry, you didn’t snore.’
He didn’t look any more comfortable, if anything he looked more embarrassed. And confused. ‘I never sleep in public places.’
Coyly amused, she shrugged. ‘Guess you must need it.’
‘You think?’ He drew in a deep breath and then released it with a huge sigh. He looked at her and smiled, that winning, slightly wicked smile. ‘I have to go to a gala tonight.’
She lifted her brows, not sure what he wanted her to say.
‘Fundraiser, for the foundation I work for. There’ll be benefactors there. Medical people. All kinds really.’
She was pondering a benign reply when he spoke again.
‘Come with me.’
‘No.’
‘What if I said please?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Leaving the invite a little late, aren’t you?’ She cocked her head. ‘If it’s tonight.’
Whose Bed Is It Anyway? Page 11