Velvet, Leather & Lace: A Man's Gotta DoCalling the ShotsBaring It All

by Suzanne Forster

  He put his hand where hers had been, covering her breast. He moved deeper into her space, and she pressed herself against him. It was hopeless. She loved his touch. She loved every single thrill he gave her.

  She lifted her mouth to him, and he gazed at her waiting lips, as if he might actually be able to resist them. She hissed and nipped his lower lip. It got her the kiss she wanted, savage and satisfying.

  “Just in case you’re wondering,” he said, gripping her face with his hand, “this isn’t business.”

  He brushed her lips again and growled, the sound vibrating deeply in his throat. His hand kneaded her breast, bringing her to a crescendo of excitement. Her breath caught. The sensation was almost as painful as if he’d burned her. Everything was surging, running away with her. It was too fast, too fast. If she didn’t stop herself now, she never would.

  She shook her head and stepped back, searching for the right words, but the look on his face startled her. It ripped through her heart.

  His eyes flared and burned out, turning to cinders. He seemed to be unable to grasp what she’d done, and perhaps he didn’t even understand his own response to it. She saw confusion and frustration. She saw anguish, and she understood. She wasn’t the only one being torn apart.

  A second later, she was in his arms, tears brimming. This night was doomed, and she knew it. “I can’t.”

  He drew a breath. “I know.”

  He released her, and she stepped away from him. But what she should have done was run. She didn’t expect her body to react so violently. It clambered for his arms, for everything about him that was male. She let out a little whimper, and it seemed to crush his resolve.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, “come back.”

  She couldn’t, not yet. But in her hesitation, she saw what she’d been looking for since he’d arrived. His body in full-blown arousal. Beautiful. Maybe it was her hormone-soaked state of mind, but all that raging male muscle looked beautiful to her. His darkening shaft had thrust through the opening of his robe, which was still very much tied.

  “That’s not fair,” she whispered. Why couldn’t they have just said good-night? Now, everything hurt. Everything hungered. She was a sparkling bundle of nerves and needs.

  An impulse took her over to him. It made her touch him.

  His groan was sweetly agonized. She watched his face contort and knew what he was going through, the deep, hard pulls of excitement. She felt them, too.

  “God, too much.” He wanted her to take her hand away, but she dropped straight to her knees, her mouth open and wet with desire. She wanted to taste the hardness she’d touched.

  “Lorna, if you do that, I won’t—”

  But her lips had already closed over him, and she was lost in the carnal pleasure of it. Another savage groan came out of him. He gripped her head, trying to be tender, but cursing the violence of his need.

  His hands worked in her hair, pulling her into him. He began to move, and her throat ached with the sweetness of it. She curled her tongue around him and sucked on him, gently at first. Within seconds, they were caught up in an orgy of thrusting.

  “Stop,” he said suddenly. “Lorna, stop.”

  He held her back, and she looked up at him, still breathing hard. “What’s wrong?” she asked. A moan of frustration escaped her as he lifted her to her feet.

  “I am wild to be inside you,” he said, “wild.”

  They clung to each other tightly, surging, both of them. Earlier he had touched her in a way that had stirred fantasies, forbidden dreams she didn’t even know she had, and they were still burning in her mind. The most intimate part of her body was hotly enflamed, but she doubted he would guess the turn her imagination had taken.

  As he bent to pick her up and carry her to the bed, she stayed his hand, turning her back to him. Before he could question her, she felt behind her and found the pocket, surprised to learn that he’d closed it.

  She heard him suck in a breath as it fell open.

  “Lorna, what is this? You want me that way?”

  He dropped to one knee and cupped her with his hands, stroking her bottom like butterfly wings. Lost in sensation, she could hardly differentiate his fingers from his lips and his tongue. He was a magnificent lover, touching, kissing, nuzzling, nipping. He did everything but enter her as he aroused her exquisitely sensual flesh.

  Lorna soared to a peak of pleasure, and she’d already begun to tumble down the other side when she felt him exploring with his fingers. He trailed them along the cleft of her derriere on his way to the sweet flood of moisture that dampened her satin curls.

  Moments later, she fell over the bed, wet with need and screaming as she felt him behind her. His body pressed against hers, male flesh against female. Throbbing, ready. He entered her with slow deliberation, and she could hardly bear it. She loved exactly what he was doing, but she was crazy for more. Some primitive impulse had taken over her. Helpless, she thrust her hips back, taking him deeply.

  He let out a guttural sound and grasped her flanks, as if to control her, but she wouldn’t be controlled. She rocked back again and again, and at last she felt him shudder. He began to move and the thrusting was as primitive as her need. She’d broken his control, and it was fast, deep, glorious.

  She had never felt such wild pleasure in her life, even with him. But mixed with her ecstasy was a sense of wild despair. She had promised herself that this wouldn’t happen. She was hopelessly out of control and yet enthralled with every sweet, terrible thing he did to her. Apparently she had no shame. But worst of all, she had betrayed her convictions. And as he flooded her with mindless pleasure, and she thrilled to every second of it, she began to fear for her sanity, too. If there was a hell for wayward women, then surely she was going there. They were probably preparing the bonfire now.

  If there was a hell for rogues, he ought to be there already.

  But none of her concerns seemed to matter as he fell over her and cupped her breasts. He held her roughly, tenderly. His body fused with hers as one, and the last thread of her resistance snapped. They came together violently, sweetly and completely.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A BED OF ROCKS. Could have been a bed of thorns for all the sleep Jamie was going to get. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rubbed the small of his back and stretched. His yawn turned into a low growl of displeasure.

  Moonlight poured through the French doors, so dazzlingly bright it forced him to squint. It was well after midnight, but he’d already made up his mind that his insomnia had nothing to do with his conscience. Or her. Or the interview tomorrow. It was the rocks.

  He got up and yanked the louvers shut on the French doors, shrouding the room in darkness. There’d been too much light to prowl and growl. He felt like an animal that couldn’t sleep because of hunger pangs or some other unfulfilled lust. But how could he be having pangs after the lust he’d just experienced? What was it about the two of them that led to volcanic sex and other natural disasters?

  He stopped and rubbed his back. “Hell, it isn’t the rocks,” he said. “It’s a thorn. One thorn.”

  She was jammed in his side like a spine with barbs. How had he ever let her get so deeply embedded? This was one of those crazy fatal attractions. He was hopelessly hooked on a maniac. The woman couldn’t decide whether she wanted him or hated him. Maybe she hated wanting him. Whatever it was he’d made a mistake in letting things get so far out of control.

  Afterward, she’d gone quiet, like catatonic quiet, and he hadn’t known what to do. He’d wanted to comfort her, but she wouldn’t let him. He’d apologized, and for some reason, that had made her angry—and she’d retreated further. He didn’t want to leave her that way. Perhaps he should have been quiet with her, and waited her out. But he’d been shaken up by the sex, too, and he’d wanted to bring her out of her shell so they could talk about it. He’d even tried a confession to lighten things up. He’d admitted that after watching her pole dance he no longer liked the
idea of her doing a demonstration for Hudley Campbell.

  “Poor guy will make a fool of himself,” he’d said. “A man isn’t safe around you.”

  That’s when it got bizarre. She’d started to laugh, but she was crying, too. Maybe she’d thought he was trying to blame the sex on her. She’d accused him of being callous and insensitive and a few other things that didn’t make sense. Finally when she’d calmed down, she’d thanked him in a razor-edged voice for making it so easy for her to find her inner bitch.

  “Please, just go,” she’d whispered, “or it really won’t be safe.”

  Did he want to write her off as crazy? Yes. It would have made everything much easier. But she wasn’t crazy. She was hurt and angry, furious at him for something that she wouldn’t talk about. It couldn’t be because of what had happened six months ago. She would have confronted him about that, right? That’s what a guy would do. He’d get it out on the table, deal with it.

  Hey, Jamie, we had a date, didn’t we? What happened?

  However, he had to admit that if she had confronted him, it would have been awkward. He would have had to say that he’d been swamped with work and had forgotten, which was true, but might have hurt her feelings, and she probably wouldn’t have believed him anyway. That was where it got complicated. Feelings.

  Jamie stretched and wandered into the bathroom, congratulating himself on his policy of leaving toilet seats up. It was too dark to see, which was the reason they should always be up. Interesting how most women didn’t get the infallible logic of that.

  As he stood there, absently answering nature’s call, he puzzled over how she could have labeled him insensitive. Look at the thinking he’d just done about her, and the effort he would have made to spare her feelings over that missed date, if she’d given him the chance. He would have had to make up some elaborate excuse, like being in intensive care, maybe in a coma, to be safe. Just so she wouldn’t think it was her.

  And it wasn’t her.

  He hit the lever and left the room to the sounds of swirling water. The woman had been lurking in some dark corner of his mind ever since he met her in the produce section. He’d mentally pushed her away, along with everything else that wasn’t about VLL, but clearly she’d been working her magic on him all along from behind the scenes, inspiring his sketches. Obviously, she’d had a big impact on his success, too, but he didn’t dare tell her that, given the way she reacted to compliments. She would probably thank him with a skull fracture, courtesy of the dancing pole.

  He looked around the bedroom for something to wear, which was a lost cause, given the absence of light and the way he tended to fling things when he undressed. His shorts were in her room.

  Tomorrow should be an interesting day. His gut instinct was to leave Hudley Campbell a message and call the interview off, but the L.A. Times was crucial to their advertising campaign, and Jamie had a lot of people depending on him, not to mention investors at risk. Still, partnering up with her was a risky proposition. He didn’t know how much longer he could handle being at this woman’s mercy.

  He roamed the dark room, still feeling very much like a restless animal as he stalked the answer to his unanswerable dilemma.

  “MS. BAIRD, IS THAT YOU?”

  Lorna turned to see a man’s face pressed against the glass panel of the screen door. Whoever he was, he’d caught her in the great room, making a last-minute check of her packed bags.

  “It’s Hud Campbell,” he said. “I’m a little early.”

  Lorna nodded, not quite sure what to do. Campbell was the reporter from the Times, but he was more than early. He wasn’t supposed to be there at all. Jamie had slipped a note under her door earlier that morning. It said that he’d cancelled the 10:00 a.m. interview and would be out for a while. He hadn’t offered any explanation, so Lorna had packed her things, expecting to go home.

  She’d hoped he would have talked to her before doing anything so drastic. She’d planned to apologize to him for last night. It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t control herself. But he wasn’t around when she got up this morning. She’d been naive to think that having a roommate would stop him from disappearing. It hadn’t even slowed him down. He could have been his own Vegas magic act.

  Now she was just hoping to leave before he got back.

  “I’ll be right there,” Lorna told the reporter, thinking she might be able to stall him. But he’d already let himself in by the time she got to the door.

  “I hope this isn’t too inconvenient,” he said, offering his hand.

  Lorna didn’t know what to do with him. She couldn’t say she was Jamie, but she’d probably better not say she wasn’t, either. Where was Jamie?

  She quickly sized Campbell up as they shook hands. Tall and gangly, with tinted wire-rimmed glasses, he reminded her of a basketball star she’d had a crush on in college. She’d been mad for nerdy athletes in those days.

  Perhaps he’d liked redheaded women in college. He seemed to like them now, especially ones wearing lime-green sundresses with spaghetti straps.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he said.

  He still hadn’t released her hand when Jamie walked in the front door a moment later, carrying some shopping bags and a surly expression.

  “This is Hudley Campbell,” Lorna said quickly.

  Jamie could barely conceal his double take. “I left you a message this morning,” he told Campbell. Jamie noticed Lorna’s bags and pointed at her. “On Ms. Baird’s behalf, of course. She’s been called away on business and can’t do the interview.”

  “Sorry, never got the message,” Campbell said. “Damn cell phone, it’s always hiding from me.” He peered through his glasses at Jamie and his shopping bags. “And who are you?”

  “My assistant,” Lorna gushed, “and what would I do without him? He does everything for me, don’t you…Loren. He even shops for me when I’m busy working. Loves to shop.”

  Jamie blanched, which gave Lorna more pleasure than she could have imagined. Actually, he looked hunkier than hell in khaki shorts, flip-flops and a black T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out. But there were lots of guys in sleeveless tees who loved to shop.

  She smiled brightly, warding off Jamie’s stare. Hopefully, she looked as cool as a cup of lime sherbet, but inside she was soft serve, melting and running at the mere sight of him. It was almost inconceivable that she could long to be in his arms again, despite the embarrassing things she always did when she got there. What was wrong with her?

  A sigh welled in her throat. It was probably a good thing she had an L.A. Times reporter in between her and that kitchen island, or she and Jamie would be having primal sex there, too. She had no control whatsoever. There should be rehab units for people like her.

  “Loren,” she said, “why don’t you put the bags away and fix our guest some iced tea. Would you like that, Hud?”

  He beamed. “I would love that. May I call you Jamie?”

  “Excuse me?” the real Jamie cut in. “What about your flight, Ms. Baird? You’re going to miss it. Shouldn’t I be driving you to the airport?”

  “No.” She tapped her wristwatch. “Just our luck—that flight’s been delayed. Hud and I should have plenty of time to rap.”

  “Rap?” Jamie glowered at her from the island countertop, where he set the packages. He raked a hand through his dark hair, messing it up in interesting ways, and then planted both hands on his hips.

  Lorna’s heart seemed to be running on the spot. She couldn’t tell if he was angry because she was doing the interview or because of Hud’s admiring glances, but one thing was clear. Mr. Baird was dangerously sexy when he was perturbed.

  She was hopeless. Just wheel her in for a lobotomy. Immediately.

  She dragged her attention back to the interview, which was exactly what Jamie didn’t want her to do. The great room had a large leather couch near the fireplace. Beckoning the reporter over there with her, she said, “Hud, why don’t we get started on those questions? Please, as
k me anything.”

  The reporter rushed over, yanking his notebook from the pocket of his jacket as he sat down. “Rumor control, here,” he said with a lopsided grin. “The grapevine has it that you don’t just crunch numbers, Jamie, you design, as well. Was the breakaway underwear your idea?”

  Lorna was startled by the question. She could see Jamie gesturing at her from the kitchen. He shook his head, waving at her so frantically she couldn’t think straight. “Jamie, stop it.”

  “He’s Jamie?” Hud looked puzzled. “I thought you were Jamie.”

  “Oh, I am,” Lorna said quickly. “I was talking to myself, really. It’s a bad habit. Sometimes I can go on and on, and that’s how I stop myself. ‘Stop it, Jamie!’ See?”

  Hud didn’t seem to see at all, and Lorna had to act fast. She diverted him by going back to his question. “If by breakaway underwear, you mean StripLoc lingerie,” she said, “let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that I did come up with that concept. How do you like it?”

  “Well, it’s definitely a male fantasy. Is that what you had in mind when you designed it?”

  Now Jamie was nodding and mouthing the word yes, which confused Lorna even more. He wanted her to say she designed it? Or that it was a male fantasy? Or what?

  “Absolutely not,” Lorna said.

  Hud frowned. “You don’t design women’s lingerie with the idea of turning men on?”

  “No, I design it for women to turn themselves on.”

  He leaned toward her. “So, then you do design? Tell me why, Jamie. Tell me more about that.”

  Lorna blithely ignored his eager questions. She also blithely ignored Jamie, who was still doing semaphore in the kitchen.

  “VLL is a company run by women for women,” she said, taking another tack. “Our customers are women of all shapes, sizes and ages, and we want them to feel sexy and good about themselves whether men are around or not. We believe it will translate into every area of their lives. Sensuality has an energy all its own, and it radiates confidence.”