by Cari Quinn
She moaned when he clenched her waist and slammed their bodies together. His rigid length wedged against her stomach, spurring her on. Slowly, she dragged her lips down his neck. She picked up the fresh scent of his soap, and images of him in the shower scrolled through her mind. Except she was there with him. Sipping the water droplets from his shoulders. Dropping to her knees to take him deep in her mouth. Swallowing more when he begged her not to stop—
“Victoria.” His guttural use of her name caused her to still. “This will change everything.”
Then his mouth crushed down on hers.
Its weight was a brand, forever stamping her with the memory of this night. Of stars in an inky black sky. Of his heart racing against hers.
Of wanting him more than she cared about the consequences.
His tongue snaked through her parted lips and he pushed his hand under her sweater. Just the sweep of cold flesh against warm had her moaning. He swallowed the sound, pulling her up on her tiptoes as he devoured her with kisses so desperate and hot she couldn’t do much more than try to keep up.
His touch didn’t travel upward as she’d expected. He never did anything she could anticipate. One cool finger stroked her belly ring and his lips curved against hers as she trembled. Oh, he liked that he could make her quiver.
As easily as he aroused her anger, he could inspire her lust. Now he exploited both, teasing her to the point of madness with his talented tongue sucking on hers and that single finger reminding her how close she was to begging.
He caressed her thin leather belt as he lowered his mouth to her jaw. With one pull of his lips on her pulse point, she had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling off the edge of the world.
“Do you know how long it’s been for me?” He used her belt to yank her closer. His cock was so hard she could feel its imprint on her flesh as if they were both naked. “Long enough that I don’t want to hide what I need. How I need.”
She offered him her throat, holding on while he took full advantage. There would be marks from his teeth, his lips, and she’d happily resign herself to turtleneck sweaters for eternity if only he’d just keep going.
“This.” He yanked on her belt, his mouth almost vicious in its blazing sweep down the column of her neck. “I want you in this. Around your wrists. At my mercy.”
His words finally reached her in that blissful cocoon of longing she’d retreated into, and she snapped back with enough force to lose her balance. She scrabbled to hold on to him as he pulled her fully upright, his gray eyes locked on hers as if his life depended on her answer.
He’d been serious. This wasn’t just fun and games or a way for him to push her away. What he wanted from her was a lot more extreme than her body.
He was asking—demanding—her trust. Even without truly earning it, he’d settle for nothing less.
After a humming moment, he stepped back. “Exactly what I thought.”
Shivering in the cool air, she risked a look at him. He’d already shoved his longing behind those thick icy walls he summoned so effortlessly, causing her to wonder if she’d ever seen it naked and aching on his face at all.
Maybe it had simply been the reflection of her own.
She flung a glance at the sky until her hazy vision cleared. Once it had, she chanced another look at his face. Taut jaw, hooded eyes. All locked up tight. Whatever she said now, the moment between them was gone.
Did it really matter? If he expected her to bare all with giving nothing in return, he was asking for too damn much.
She’d never let herself look too closely at her interest in him for a number of reasons, the biggest that she’d feared he would laugh in her face. Hot on its heels was that Cory wasn’t the kind of man who would share himself with more than one mistress. He was completely and totally owned by his work.
In his world, she would rank right around the level of a goldfish he forgot to feed until he discovered it floating belly-up three months after it had died.
Sex with Cory was one thing. What he was asking for—a trust that went way beyond an on-and-off snarktastic friendship—didn’t slot neatly into that category. Giving him more without a guarantee of the same would be a mistake she wouldn’t make.
After her mother had left years ago, she’d spent too long using things outside herself to quell her fear at being left again by those who mattered most. She’d found other coping strategies, such as yoga and even feng shui, and had learned how to quiet her mind during times of stress. Inviting Cory to play games with her emotions would be akin to summoning a deadly tornado and then stepping back while he wreaked devastation. Not going to happen.
“Better hold on to your notebook, Santangelo. You’re going to be out here a while waiting for Orion to show up in the night sky at this time. Like a few months.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder before marching inside.
He’d never know the stars had blurred from her tears.
Chapter Five
She could do this.
After Friday night’s disaster, walking into their usual Monday magazine meeting with her head held high took balls, but Vicky had them to spare. If her life had taught her anything, it was that she could handle whatever was thrown her way.
So what if she suffered from recurrent bouts of lust for a man who not only was emotionally unavailable, but was in a whole other league sexually as well? So what if she still had to lean over his desk and pore over photos of daybeds and antique armoires while she tried to breathe through her mouth so she couldn’t smell his sex-potion cologne?
She wasn’t fazed. In fact, she was so unfazed she could turn to face him while he stood at her side and playfully toyed with her starfish necklace as if she didn’t have a single care.
His gaze dropped to her throat—mostly unblemished, though he’d certainly tried to leave his mark—then rose to her eyes. “Arrangements have been made at the Helping Hands donor house on Seeley Drive for a week from Friday. The living room is close enough to what I had in mind for the cover, but there are no Christmas accents yet.”
“Jill, Lorelie, and I will handle decorations.”
“From the store, please.” He tapped his fingers on the side of his desk as he sifted through the photos from their last shoot. “We have an expanded Christmas section from last year.”
“I saw some of the stuff in the storeroom. Thank God the store hasn’t begun decorating for the holidays yet. It gets earlier every year.” She shuddered. “Though that Santa’s toolbox display is adorable.”
He glanced up, a smile playing around his mouth. “That was my idea.”
“Here I thought you were just a pretty face.” She ran her nail under her necklace. “Once you select the bedroom shots you want, we can focus on the cover. I think carrying the country-chic theme through works best, especially with Christmas, but that’s up to you.”
“I told you I’d give you room to work.” His voice was even, though his eyes burned. She didn’t get why until she realized her nervous fingers had strayed to the neckline of her V-neck shirt. Rather than move her hand, as was her inclination, she slid her fingers just that much lower. His nostrils flared. “Stage the cover as you’d like. All I ask is that I’d like you to leave the decorations after the shoot so the house will be decorated for the new owner. Her deployment ends right before the holiday, and I think that’d be nice for her to come home to.”
She swallowed as his words sank in. “Sure.” Surprised at how weak her voice sounded, she cleared her throat.
“We need to wrap up the magazine and put it to bed week after next if we want to meet our deadline. The printer’s already booked tight and if we miss our window, we’re out of luck until December and that’s too late for a holiday issue.”
“We’ll make it. Don’t worry.”
“There’s still outstanding editorial. Some of it yours.”
“On it,” she said cheerfully, glancing down at her watch. “Gotta book soon. I need to go look at paint swatches for the Taylo
r job.”
When he didn’t reply, she looked up to see him staring fixedly at a photo of an old-fashioned slatted bed with a gauzy red canopy. “I knew you’d never go for that shot, but I had to take it. That bed screams homemade carpentry.” Something about those carved bedposts made a girl think very bad thoughts. Maybe of a broad hand gripping them for support while he moved harder, faster. Driving her into the cloud-like mattress, pounding into her until the red canopy fluttered from the force of his thrusts.
He traced the slatted headboard with his wide thumb and she swore she felt her panties disintegrate. “Interesting design. Lovely craftsmanship.”
“It is.” She sounded entirely too breathy. “I’d put candles in those grooves in the headboard. With the canopy, and all those pillows—” and that hard, toned body fucking her into oblivion “—the scene would be set for romance.”
He slanted her a look. “Or extremely hot sex.”
“My, my,” she murmured. “Someone’s mind is in the gutter.”
“Potato, potahto. You call it one thing. I call it something else.” He shrugged and flipped the photo over. Slipping it into the keep pile, rather than the discards.
She suppressed a sigh. If he kept this up, she’d bind her wrists for him herself.
Then he delivered the kill shot just before she left.
“Sunday night my parents have a thing.”
She blinked innocently. “Well now, that sounds thrilling.”
A smile played around his mouth. “Do you have plans?”
“Unless hanging out with Jill counts, no.” She gripped the doorknob at her back, suddenly realizing she should’ve lied. “This is…a date?”
He leaned a hip against his desk and gave her a hard stare. Eyebrow lifted, of course. “You’re my girlfriend, are you not? You campaigned for the role with all the zeal of a missionary.”
“The only missionary ever mentioned in conjunction with me is sex.”
“No wonder you ran from my balcony.” Though his tone was teasing, his eyes were dark and broody. “Never would’ve pegged you for a strict traditionalist.”
“I’m not that traditional,” she muttered. Slippery slope, Townsend. “And I did not run.”
“Not all running involves your feet moving, sweetness.” While she went goggle-eyed at the nickname, he folded his arms over his chest. “You’ll be eating with us. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“Is six-thirty okay? I started teaching an hourlong yoga class at four thirty on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays at Wyland’s gym.”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Six fifteen. Haul your cute little ass home faster.” She started to argue, but he held up a hand. “Invoking boyfriend privilege. Now go pick out your paint chips and let your man do some damn work.”
Not smiling would’ve been a Herculean task. At least she waited until she was alone in the hallway outside his office.
It was the little victories that counted the most.
Their meeting lingered in the back of her head all day and into the next, popping up again the following afternoon when she was getting ready for her Tuesday hot yoga class. Last night she’d learned from Dillon that Cory hadn’t only come up with the Santa’s toolbox display at the hardware store, he’d also set up the donation program to collect tools and supplies for needy families so they could repair their homes after the big coastal storm last fall. Haven hadn’t been affected nearly as badly as many other places, but there were still downed trees and damaged homes. With all the budget cuts, supplies were badly needed, and her fake boyfriend-slash-corporate raider wanted to get them into people’s hands.
He had no business being sweet. How was she supposed to resign herself to never drizzling caramel sauce on his naked body when he could be so damn nice?
She exhaled and bent at the waist to stretch. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about convincing the world at large she and Cory were a couple, dinner with Cory’s family promised to be interesting.
In the plus column, at least Bryan had visited for only one day to consult with his local physician about a recurring knee injury, then flown back with his dog, Bingo, to rejoin his team, the Maryland Mariners, the next morning. If he’d stuck around longer, she would’ve had a situation on her hands once he heard about the pictures. Since high school, Bryan had thought Cory was a stuck-up prick. The phone call last week hadn’t exactly convinced him otherwise. She’d have to face the music with her big bro soon enough, but one problem at a time.
Like spending Sunday night acting all lovey-dovey with Cory in front of witnesses. She should probably start drinking now.
Thank God for yoga. It always helped her find her Zen. She’d discovered it when she’d been desperate to find something to quiet her mind a few years ago. Eventually she’d ended up getting certified in Bikram yoga and led four beginner’s sessions a week. Usually she had energy to burn afterward. The high lasted hours.
As the first student slipped into the studio, she smiled and handed out a wireless headset. Though they all heard the same instructions, the headphones helped contribute to the impression of becoming one with the movements.
Class went by quickly. As usual, the rhythm of the poses along with the cooperative environment lessened her agitation. It was hard to carry stress into a yoga studio. She watched her breathing and made sure to keep her spine straight. Her mind emptied as her skin heated to the room’s standard 105-degree temperature, and the sweat that left her pores helped clean all the junk out of her head.
As she glanced at her flushed face in one of the mirrored walls, she noted her smile. That resilient woman was who she was now. She no longer allowed fear to rule her, and she refused to worry about what might happen with Cory. After all, she’d helped set things in motion. He couldn’t hurt her if she didn’t hand him the knife.
After the final savasana, she maintained her corpse pose on the floor while the students filed out. She didn’t have to fake her sense of calm. The benefits of yoga aside, it was hard staying stressed out in this room. The owner of the gym had temporarily relocated classes there while the usual yoga area upstairs was renovated, so it wasn’t the more traditional glass-walled studio. High-polished hardwood floors and colorful panels of stained glass contributed to the soothing experience. The dimmed lights and utter silence also helped lull the class members into a state of total relaxation, and she didn’t want to jar anyone by getting up too soon.
Typically she stood once the last student left, but today she let her boneless arms sink into her cushioned mat. She was in no hurry to leave. She had a late meeting with a new client, but she always made sure to build room in her schedule to ease back into her routine after class so she didn’t have to rush just yet. Still, she could definitely use a shower.
Sighing, she sat up and opened her eyes. And locked gazes with the object of way too many of her thoughts.
Her heartbeat didn’t accelerate immediately, demonstrating her newfound tranquility. Cory in a navy suit and French cuffs, and with his dark hair cut shorter than usual was definitely a sight worthy of a racing pulse, especially since he was reflected in triplicate in the mirrors that surrounded the studio.
As the moment stretched out, she fought to maintain her stance. Arms resting on her thighs, hands upturned, spine erect. Area between her thighs, throbbing.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, feigning calm.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You don’t work out at this gym.”
He worked out alone, as he did so much else. Including working late into the night, day after day. She was sure his candle had to be crispy at both ends.
“No, but after what I just saw, I may give yoga a try.”
She snorted, unable to help it. “These are private classes. You’re not supposed to observe the students.”
“I wasn’t observing them. My eyes were only for you.”
Oh. Okay then. “Still.”
“You’re beautiful,
Victoria.” While his words echoed through her, he crossed the room. She just stared as he extended his hand.
“I’m all sweaty,” she mumbled, rubbing her palm against her yoga shorts. Her exceedingly minuscule shorts, to go with her revealing, one-shouldered top. She needed to dress lightly for class—all the students did—but under his gaze she felt overexposed. And more sexy than she ever had in her life, droopy hair and all.
Thank you, yoga.
“I’m sweaty, too.” He reached up to tug at his tie. “What is it in here? A thousand degrees?”
She smiled. “One hundred and five. The ideal temperature to release toxins and achieve maximum well-being.”
He let his gaze wander over her unabashedly, and her nipples stiffened to get their share of his attention. He didn’t disappoint.
Yep, Cory Santangelo definitely preferred the T part of the T&A equation.
“It certainly works for you. You take my breath away.”
“Is the heat getting to you?” She cast a glance toward the door he must’ve shut on his way in. Quiet as a feline, he was. But a dangerous one, the kind that lured a victim with its graceful beauty and then went for the throat.
“Get up, Victoria.”
He was bossy, too. Though judging from the need swelling between her legs, she didn’t mind.
Vicky accepted his hand and stood, her breath catching at the desire in his eyes. He didn’t even try to mask it. Yesterday he’d been business as usual, but now he was back to the Cory he’d been on his balcony. And she was back to being as horny as a cat in heat.
She looked down to where he still held her hand, his finger circling the trigger point just beneath her thumb. “Why are you here?”
“I came to see you. You told me when your classes were, remember?”
“How did you find me? This isn’t even the usual yoga studio I teach in—”
“Yet I found you just the same. I must be a genius.” His mercurial smile didn’t slow down her racing heartbeat. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’d contributed to the toolbox fund?”