Breathless

by Nancy Warren

  He shifted his body weight soundlessly, but she felt the movement against her and felt the response in every follicle and cell.

  Did he feel it too? This intense connection? Her fingers ached to touch him, but she fisted them, keeping them at her sides. Hot images licked at her imagination, though. She imagined him kissing her, touching her in all her aching needy places.

  A tiny sigh escaped her lips, and she could have sworn he nudged even closer. The voices in the outer office hummed distant and low, like a muted television set, while inside this small, enclosed space, the tiniest sounds seemed amplified in her head. The brush of his shirt against hers, the hush of their breathing. It felt as if there wasn’t enough air to feed her pounding heart as scenes played in her head like a porno flick with herself and Blake in starring roles. Was it her imagination or had his breathing quickened also?

  She couldn’t stand much more of this. She had to get out of here or she’d do something foolish.

  Mr. Forsyth was a garrulous man at the best of times. He’d been a banker for thirty years, and every one of those years teemed with anecdotes, which he dispensed with the placid dignity of an elder statesman. It was more than politeness that had caused her to listen to his stories. She genuinely liked the man. How she hoped the investigation would reveal nothing more incriminating than that his best years were behind him.

  She’d been in enough meetings with Mr. Forsyth to know that, as Blake had supposed, the two of them would be trapped in here a while.

  Blake shifted again and she recalled that he’d left his crutches hidden in her office. It was probably too soon for him to be walking on the cast, never mind stuck standing in one position. Maybe, if she helped him, he could sit down.

  She turned to suggest it, but in the pitch dark she hadn’t realized his face was turned her way. Instead of his ear, her lips came in contact with lightly stubbled skin. She felt the shock of it through her lips. Had she brushed his cheek? There’d been a boniness and an indentation. His chin. Her lips had brushed his chin.

  In the split second it took her brain to decode the shockingly delicious sensations, he’d dropped his chin and brought his lips down on hers. The humming shock jumped from her lips like an electric charge zipping around her body creating more sparks.

  If he’d had any idea how hot and bothered she’d become, being in such close proximity, he never would have kissed her. The effect on her system was akin to splitting the atom. And he didn’t know yet about her little problem. Oh, but he soon would if they didn’t stop now.

  But how could she pull away when his firm lips controlled her mouth with casual mastery? His hands, those wonderful, warm, capable hands traveled lightly up her arms, more to see her by touch, she thought, than in any intent to caress. But everywhere he touched her she did feel caressed. She wished she had a braille sign imprinted on her body for him to read. Back off before it’s too late.

  Her skin felt ultrasensitive, as though she could feel the blood pulsing, warm and full of life, just under the surface.

  He brought his hands up to cup her cheeks, holding her head in place, his thumbs resting at the corners of her mouth.

  She shouldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t be doing it. He’d completely misunderstood her intentions, thinking she’d made a pass when she’d only intended to ask him if he was comfortable.

  She should make him stop immediately.

  She flicked his fingers with her tongue.

  He needed no other invitation to deepen the intimacy. His lips increased their pressure and her whole body seemed to sigh as his tongue, hot and wet, entered her mouth. She met his tongue thrust for thrust, licking, nipping, nibbling at him all the while remembering to be quiet. So quiet.

  Outside this warm and exciting cave, she was dimly aware of the low murmur of voices, but inside it was as dark as the deepest secret. Inside her body there was a hell of a racket going on: fireworks exploded, her heart pounded and her blood roared. But outside it was so quiet she could hear their clothing rub together, hear the soft inhalations and exhalations.

  She felt the tide of desire rising fast—too fast, the way it took her sometimes so her reason went cloudy and she acted crazy.

  Oh, she didn’t care. She was always a model of propriety at work. Setting a good example, keeping her sex life well outside the office. So far in fact, that her last relationship had been a long-distance one with an engineer in California. The sex had been great, but ultimately there hadn’t been enough there to make a future.

  Her eyes snapped open in the dark. Four months. After a dry spell like that, no wonder she was acting totally and deliciously irresponsible.

  It was too late to stop now. She knew that. Like a partyer who’s had one too many and can’t stop, so her desire had climbed too fast for her to tamp it down now.

  She was squeezed so close to Blake in the tiny closet she felt as though she’d bear his imprint on her body for days, but still she couldn’t get close enough. She was growing mindless and greedy with need.

  Her hands reached for him, finding the silky spikiness of his hair, tracing the contours of his neck and shoulders. Oh, those shoulders. Strong and wide, as though he could carry the world and not topple.

  Pushing her breasts into his chest only made them ache more. She rubbed them against him, needing the friction, even though her nipples felt like striking matches bursting into flame.

  Whimpers of pleasure and need were crawling up her throat and she bit her lips to try to contain them.

  Quiet. She had to stay quiet.

  But it was so difficult with her body throbbing for fulfillment.

  She rocked her pelvis against his, loving the feel of his erection against her neediest place. She felt empty, hollow without that glorious hardness to fill and complete her. A moan escaped her, cut off by his lips. He trailed a path of kisses to her ear and whispered, “Shh.”

  She should tell him, she should tell him now her shameful secret—that quiet wasn’t an option when she was aroused—but then he’d stop.

  And she’d die.

  Getting caught going at it in the chairman’s office closet seemed preferable at the moment to death from sexual frustration.

  The murmuring voices outside the door continued, but in her foggy state they’d taken on the almost soothing quality of ocean waves in the background.

  Her breasts were heaving as her breathing grew thick, not from panic, though. This was the opposite of panic, the tension that rises and rises only to burst in a great relaxing wave.

  But her tension was building and building with no relief in sight. It was too tight in here to move. Besides, they hadn’t exactly come prepared for this. Unless Mr. Forsyth kept a supply of condoms in his spare winter overcoat, lust among the galoshes seemed like it was going to be cut short.

  Maybe she could be satisfied with kissing. Kissing Blake was one of the greatest pleasures she’d ever experienced. He acted as if he owned her mouth, and for the moment she was happy to hand over control.

  His hand squeezed between them to cup a breast, kneading the aching flesh.

  She moaned softly into his mouth and felt his lips curl in a smile. “Shh,” he said against her lips.

  He had no idea how restrained she was being. She might be quiet and professional at work, but she made up for it in the bedroom, as Detective Barker would be detecting before long.

  He did a kind of pressing-pulling thing with her nipple that sent a hot spurt of desire spiking right to the core of her womanhood.

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. She slipped out of her left shoe and her leg—the one that wasn’t jammed against the back wall of the closet—climbed his castless one.

  He wasn’t slow to take advantage of a situation, she’d give him that. The hand left her breast and worked its way down to hike up her skirt and pin it between their bellies. Then his fingers plunged beneath her panty hose and into her panties.

  His questing fingers must have figured out for themselves h
ow very close she was, for he had the presence of mind to whisper in her ear, “Can you come quietly?”

  Not a chance. She was a moaner, a yeller, a shrieker. Her vocal chords seemed to be under the impression that anything that good should be celebrated. But if she had to restrain herself or go without, she figured the woolen sleeve of a winter overcoat would make an effective gag. She nodded.

  Even in the darkness she felt him gazing at her, trying to decide whether he could risk it. But the heat and tension emanating from him were clear indications he was as far gone as she.

  She knew he’d made up his mind when he covered her mouth with his lips and began sliding his fingers over her hot spot, swirling her own wetness around and against that exquisitely sensitive flesh. The trembling began from deep inside her. He rubbed faster and she felt like one of those whirling fireworks that spins until it throws out sparks, then flames, then explodes into a million stars.

  The trembling was becoming shuddering and she was jerking her hips back and forth in counterpoint to his rhythm. He thrust a finger inside her, still keeping to the same rhythm and she felt herself begin to lose control.

  She had to be quiet. She knew she had to be quiet. God, it was too much, she wanted to scream. But no. Have to be quiet. She was panting with the effort to hold in her mounting passion. She pulled his head down and kissed him hard, but even from their sealed lips, she was certain her cries would be heard.

  Two fingers inside her, up inside, pushing forward, found her G-spot. How could she not wail?

  Frantic now, she pulled her mouth away from Blake’s, and, with a mental apology to Mr. Forsyth, grabbed the sleeve of his winter coat, stuffed it into her mouth and bit down. She barely noticed the scratchy fibers against her tongue or the taste of damp wool as she gagged herself.

  The pressure was building and building. A drop of sweat trickled between her breasts. She was going to blow like a volcano half a dozen centuries overdue for a good lava flow. Knowing her control was about to slip, she slapped both hands over her mouth, hoping the combination of heavy wool and her two hands would stifle her cries.

  A thumb on her pulsing clit and she was gone. Explosion after explosion rocked her world, along with the cries of fulfillment spilling into the gag, and trapped by her hands. Mindlessly, her hips rocked and jerked and only as she came back to herself did she realize she’d been trying to climb his erection, to put him inside her.

  9

  “I WANT YOU INSIDE ME,” she whispered, her voice half hoarse from the screams she’d stifled.

  “If this closet weren’t so damned tiny,” he panted in her ear, “I would be.” He sounded almost in pain as he said the words.

  Feeling some of his pent-up tension, she reached between them for his zipper. “Why don’t I—”

  He grabbed her wrist. “Later.”

  He must have a lot more self-control than she did, she thought to herself as he glanced at his watch, the numbers glowing pale green in the dark.

  Only now did she realize the sounds had ceased in the office. She hadn’t even noticed, distracted by more immediate sensations.

  “Can we go now?” she whispered, almost reluctant to leave the dark and musty confines of the closet. It seemed warm and safe in here, and after the intimacy she’d just shared with Blake, she felt shy about going back with him to the real world.

  Her rather over-the-top sexual response embarrassed her. She’d read enough women’s magazines to accept that she was lucky to have such exuberant orgasms, she only wished she could train her body to be less noisy about the whole business. Because of her little problem, she usually confined herself to having sex in her nicely cement-walled and well-insulated apartment or somewhere equally soundproof.

  The vertical strip of light startled her when it cracked the black darkness as Blake eased open the door. Slowly, the crack widened and black became gray as the overcoat in front of her took on shape and hue.

  With a pang of embarrassment, she straightened the sleeve she’d bitten and brushed the fabric, though it seemed none the worse for the experience. Blake held her wrist in one hand as he pushed the door wider. He listened intently, then eased his head out rather like a reluctant groundhog not sure he’s ready for spring.

  Sophie felt no more eager to emerge from the closet. In the dark there’d been only sensation and need, but in the light of day—even the low-wattage night lighting in the office building—she’d have to deal with the man who’d pleasured her. Now that reality had intruded, her sanity made a belated return. She couldn’t get involved with Blake.

  The only way she could live with herself, sneaking an undercover cop into her bank, was believing she was doing the right thing professionally. But she knew she was on thin ice ethically. If she started sleeping with that same cop, how could she face herself in the mirror?

  Much as she hated to do it, she was going to have to send him home sexually frustrated.

  She glanced at him, but he was clearly unaware of her decision. He’d obviously concluded the chairman’s office was empty, and now he pulled her out of the closet.

  She blinked, feeling disoriented and stunned by the light and the change from erotic to professional. Clearly his mind was back on business, not sex, as he pulled her behind him to the door into the hallway. He opened this one just as stealthily as he had the closet door.

  “I didn’t finish my search. Keep a lookout.”

  She’d lost the taste for being lookout. She wanted to go home. Her glance must have told him as much for he said, “Give me five minutes,” and swiftly kissed her before calmly crossing the room back to Forsyth’s desk.

  Sophie racked her pleasure-addled brain trying to think of some plausible explanation as to why she and a junior account manager might be in the chairman’s office so long after everyone else had left.

  As she walked back into the hallway and shut the door behind her, nothing occurred to her that was remotely plausible, but luckily she concentrated so hard on making up and discarding unbelievable tales that he was back by her side before she knew it.

  Not until they’d collected his crutches from beneath her desk and were standing outside the elevator did she take a full breath.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Did he mean from the suspense or the intimacy? She wasn’t sure. And hadn’t in fact fully recovered from either.

  Steadying one crutch under his armpit, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. She recognized it as his pension form. At her raised brows he said, “I’ll flap this around when we get near the security camera.”

  She nodded, but in truth she’d forgotten all about the security cameras on the main floor, where the retail operations of the bank were located. It would be clear she and Barker were in the bank much later than usual, so it made sense he’d flap his alibi under the camera’s nose.

  Surreptitiously she checked her clothing for traces of debauchery, but, as far as she could tell, their little escapade in the closet had left no outward signs. A quick glance at Blake showed him looking the same as always. She tried to appear calm and collected as they crossed the main foyer and took the parking elevator to the garage.

  They passed no one, but it seemed to her the security cameras were malevolent eyes watching as she gestured to the company forms and kept up a pension-centered conversation as though the cameras had ears as well as eyes. Normally, she never even noticed the things, but now it took all her self-control not to glance at them nervously.

  He helped her keep up the inane conversation until they’d reached the car park and her rental. Her own car still hadn’t turned up, so she imagined she’d soon be shopping for another.

  “So,” he said, as they reached the beige sedan, “are you following me to my place or am I following you to yours?”

  He’d acted so businesslike, she’d almost believed he’d forgotten all about what had happened in the closet. Now, a glance at his face revealed not only the hot blaze of desire
, but a certain smugness.

  While her body responded automatically to the former, the smugness acted like a slap in the face with a cold, wet washcloth and made her feel a lot less guilty about sending him home unsatisfied. “I’m certainly not following you home,” she told him with high-handed disdain, marred slightly by the fact that she was blushing hotly. “And if you follow me home I’ll have to call the police.”

  He grinned at her, looking far more dangerous than a man on crutches ought to look. “I’ll give you my cell number.”

  “Not you,” she told him, trying not to give in to six feet of temptation standing in front of her. “The real police.”

  He chuckled. “You’re just pissed because I was right.”

  “What are you talking about?” She assumed a tone of outraged incomprehension.

  “You told me you wouldn’t have sex with me while we’re working together. I just proved you wrong.”

  “I did not have sex with you.”

  He chuckled, low and wickedly taunting. “With a couple more inches to maneuver and no cast on my leg there would have been more going on upstairs than a little diddling.”

  “There most certainly would not!” she informed him. “I told you I don’t have sex with men I work with.” As if she had random near-sex encounters in closets every day of the week.

  In fact, she’d love to go home with him. She still ached deep inside, her emptiness unfilled. But, just as in her childhood, the closet was a place of imaginary feats of daring where reality was suspended. An affair with Blake was a terrible idea, both for the obvious professional reasons, but also for personal ones.

  “Anyway,” she said, “if it happens in a closet it doesn’t count.”

  He grinned at her in a totally unsettling way, as though he could see right through her airy excuses and into her heart. A heart that was afraid to trust. “I happen to have a very nice walk-in closet in my bedroom. Wouldn’t count at all.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, trying not to let him see that she was tempted beyond belief by the idea. She couldn’t tell him that men, even the most casual-seeming, had a disastrous habit of falling in love with her. She couldn’t tell him about her two failed engagements and the way she started to feel panicky and trapped whenever she ended up in a serious relationship—as though she’d somehow taken a wrong turn and ended up in a blind alley. They had to work together under difficult circumstances and the simpler and more casual their personal relationship, the better for all concerned.