Twenty lung-busting laps of butterfly stroke in the pool, and several hours of mindless program debugging had also proved completely useless. He’d been at the point of ringing Gary and finally agreeing to one of the many blind dates his wife had been advocating for the past few months when the doorbell rang.
Now she was standing on his doorstep, her long legs in faded denims, her face pale as she stared back at him.
“Can I come in for a moment?” she asked, her voice low.
She looked tense, uncertain. He opened the door wider and stood back to allow her to pass. Her perfume came with her—musky, spicy. Alluring.
Wordless, he gestured for her to follow him up the covered walkway to the front door of the house. Every muscle in his body was on high alert. Why was she here? He wanted to leap to conclusions—well, The Conclusion—but he couldn’t presume anything. He knew enough about women to know that.
She wiped her feet politely on the front mat, then trailed him into his home.
“Wow,” she said, eyes wide.
He followed her glance, seeing the broad, airy entrance hall with new eyes. To one side, a wide staircase swept up to the second story. In front, double doors led into the first living area. Huge windows let in light on either side of the front door behind them, flooding the sandstone floor with the sun’s last golden rays. The walls were painted a soft wheat, and polished timber glowed from the window frames and the stair balustrade. It was an impressive space, an impressive house. And he didn’t give a fig for any of it right now.
He led her into the living room, then turned to face her.
“Can I get you a drink?” he asked politely, unable to stop himself from eating her up with his eyes.
Under her casual denim jacket she wore a bright grassy green T-shirt which stretched across her full breasts in a way that made it almost impossible for him to look away.
She cleared her throat, and he watched as her hands clutched at each other nervously a few times before she finally shoved them into her pockets. Which only dragged his attention to her thighs, sleekly outlined by the washed and worn denim…
“I wanted to ask you something,” she said.
He shoved his own hands into his jean pockets so they wouldn’t be tempted to reach for her.
“Yes?”
She cleared her throat again, and her cheeks colored up attractively as she lifted her gaze to make eye contact with him.
“I wanted to know if your offer was still open. To…meet you?” she asked in a rush.
He almost laughed. “Are you kidding?” he said on a tidal wave of relief and lust.
If only she knew how much she’d haunted his dreams, how much he’d been fantasizing about this exact thing happening.
She frowned uncertainly. “Is that…is that a yes?” she asked.
Marc let out an explosive breath and crossed the space between them in three long strides. Her eyes widened slightly, then she was in his arms and he was kissing her the way he’d wanted to all week. Her hands clutched at him, and she made a low, needy sound before letting her head drop back and giving herself up to the kiss. Her tongue was deft and just as eager as his as they explored one another’s mouths in a greedy, grabby kiss that was all lust and no finesse.
He was instantly hard, absolutely ready for her, and he broke the kiss to start undressing her. He needed her now, right now.
“That’s a yes, by the way,” he told her, his voice low as he reached for her jacket.
“I got that,” she said, helping him peel her jacket off and fling it to one side.
He reached for the hem of her T-shirt and tugged it unceremoniously up over her torso. She lifted her arms and tilted her neck to make it easier for him to pull it over her head. Her breasts were already tight and aroused, the nipples poking through the silk of her bra.
“We need to get a few things straight before this goes any further,” she said, reaching for the hem of his own T-shirt. He tore it over his head impatiently.
“Sure, whatever,” he said, sliding her bra straps off her shoulders and exposing one creamy breast to his touch.
“I’m not looking for commitment or anything permanent. This is about sex, that’s all,” she said, the last word dissolving into a gasp as he ducked his head and sucked her nipple firmly into his mouth. Her hands clutched at his head as he ran his tongue over and over the straining peak. His hard-on throbbed against the zipper of his jeans, eager to join the party.
“Sex. Absolutely. No commitment,” he murmured as he transferred his attention to her other breast.
She made a guttural noise and grabbed his belt buckle. “No future. No feelings, one of us says it’s over, it’s over,” she panted as she pulled his jean stud free and grasped his zipper.
“Couldn’t agree more,” he said, reaching for the stud on her jeans.
They were both panting by now, tugging at each other’s jeans. They bumped heads, and she laughed suddenly.
“This might go easier if we take our own jeans off,” she suggested.
“Excellent idea,” he said, sticking his thumbs into his waistband and shucking his jeans as though his life depended on it. She followed suit, and then they were standing naked in front of each other.
He groaned as his eyes ran over her full curves. “You have no idea how much I want you,” he said.
Her eyes dropped to the throbbing evidence of his desire. “I’m getting the picture,” she said.
Then they came together as though they’d just been told that they had two minutes before the earth exploded.
ANNA STRETCHED LANGUIDLY, pointing her toes and pulling her arms tight over her head. She felt fantastic. A little tender in places, but three bouts of intense lovemaking in as many hours would account for that. The instinctive, relentless drive inside of her was gone—for the moment. She had no doubt now that it would return. All Marc had to do was look at her, his eyes smoky and intense, and she was hot and ready for him again. But she had the solution to that problem now—she had Marc. She had embraced the fling, and as far as she could tell just three hours in, the fling had embraced her back.
Beside her, Marc stirred in his sleep, his thigh shifting to rub against hers. Right on cue, her body sat up to full attention. She didn’t need to look down to know her nipples were already puckering, ready for his touch. And she could feel the wet heat pooling between her thighs. As though he could read her mind, Marc rolled toward and pulled her close.
She could barely see his face in the darkness as he began kissing her again. Long, slow, lazy kisses, because he knew they had time now. The first time they’d made love tonight, they’d both been so desperate for completion there’d been no frills, just hard, driving sex, the two of them straining to get as close together as possible. Then they’d made their way upstairs to his enormous, decadent double shower, and he’d made love to her more slowly against the cool tile of the shower wall. When they emerged from the steam he made them soup and toast in the kitchen—then lifted her onto the kitchen counter, spread her legs wide and showed her exactly how good he was with his hands and mouth.
Now his hands drifted lazily over her body, touching here, plucking there, smoothing over her hips. He was a consummate lover, but she’d known that already. Focused and assured, his touch by turns gentle and demanding. He seemed to know exactly what she needed, and when.
But Anna was used to being an equal in all things in her life. Despite the delicious desire building inside her, she nudged his hand away from between her legs and his mouth away from her breasts.
“Lie back,” she told him instead.
Then she took him in her mouth, using her tongue and hands to drive him crazy. She swirled her tongue over the straining head of his penis, enjoying the way his body tensed in reaction. She wrapped her hand around his hard shaft, working him slowly, languidly as her tongue teased and taunted the tip of his penis. When she judged he’d had almost enough, she slithered lithely on top, slipping a condom on quickly before
sliding down onto his hardness in one smooth action. His eyes glinted dangerously as she rode him, her breasts swaying with the movement.
Afterward, he smoothed the short spikes of her hair away from her damp forehead. Their legs were still tangled, and she felt his ribs expand and contract with his breathing.
Her stomach rumbled, and he laughed.
“Hungry?” he guessed.
“Starving,” she said.
“Don’t move,” he said, sliding to the edge of the bed. She watched avidly as he stood, loving the play of light and shadow over his body. He was so damned hot. And he was hers to play with for as long as she needed him.
“Don’t be long,” she called after him as he dragged on a pair of boxers and padded out of the room.
His low laughter echoed back up the hallway, and she collapsed back onto the pillows with a smile on her face.
It was so good not to have to second-guess herself anymore.
She dozed lightly for a few minutes, then woke to the rattle of crockery. She stared in amazement as Marc entered the room with a loaded tray, his biceps bulging as he carried it to the bedside table.
“Okay. Scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, toasted bagels, cream cheese and capers on the side if you’re that kind of girl. And pancakes for dessert, of course,” he said as he handed her a linen napkin.
“Wow. You made all this?” she asked, seriously impressed.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I can’t cook at all,” she admitted. “Can’t even boil an egg properly.”
“My mom worked a lot when I was a kid. It was learn to cook, or learn to like baked beans.”
He said it casually, but she wondered if the fact that he hadn’t mentioned his father meant anything. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, to probe—but then she remembered rule number three: no personal talk. She figured questions about sad family stories definitely counted as personal. Swallowing the need to know more about this intense, exciting man, she scooped up a mouthful of scrambled eggs and made appreciative noises at their creamy, savory texture.
“You are good!” she said vehemently.
He breathed on his fingernails and pretended to buff them on his naked chest. “I try.”
She rewarded his little joke with a smile, liking how comfortable she felt with him. It could have been incredibly awkward, after they’d gotten what they needed from each other. But he had a good sense of humor, she was learning. And he was considerate outside of the bedroom as well as inside it. And he could cook.
He spread cream cheese over half a bagel for her, and passed it over. Their fingers brushed, and she saw the way his eyes darkened instantly. It was like that for her, too.
“Hurry up and eat your bagel,” he growled, polishing the last of his off with one big bite. The gleam in his eye told her he would like to do the same with her.
“What about the pancakes?” she said, teasing.
“Haven’t you ever had cold pancakes? Manna from heaven,” he said, whipping her napkin from where she’d lain it across her breasts.
“I’ll take your word for it,” she gasped as he took possession of her breasts.
Much later, she woke from a light sleep and caught sight of the clock on his bedside table. It was nearly five o’clock. She stiffened, remembering Danny’s rule number one: never stay the night.
Good grief—she’d almost broken two rules and her fling wasn’t even twenty-four hours old!
She didn’t quite know how to go about politely extricating herself from Marc’s bed without tortured explanations or excuses, so she opted for the cowardly route: sneaking out. His leg was thrown over one of hers, his hard, hairy male arm across her belly. Slowly she eased out from under him, then slid from the bed. The first gray light of dawn was showing on the horizon, and she glanced down at his sleeping form as she pulled on her clothes.
He looked younger asleep, more vulnerable. A dark lock of hair had flopped across his forehead, and she felt an absurd desire to smooth it back. She frowned. She shouldn’t be standing here staring down at him like some moony teenager. She rolled her eyes at her own behavior. She could practically hear Danny’s voice in her ear, “Typical girl, having to make everything all pretty pink and perfect.”
Marc Lewis was her lover, not her partner. Not her friend, even. He was her fling, a walking penis who existed to satisfy her base carnal desires and nothing else. And that was exactly what she was to him, too. She needed to keep reminding herself of that, or this fling of hers was going to go seriously off the rails.
It would be easy, she suspected, to become addicted to Marc’s touch. To give in to her curiosity about him and his world. To fall for him in a big way. An iron band tightened across her belly at the very thought. He was very charming, very good in bed, very seductive. But she couldn’t contemplate having a relationship with anyone. It just wouldn’t work right now.
There was a deeper, darker reason lurking, but Anna didn’t want to go there. And she didn’t have to, either. She and Marc were having a fling—they even had rules to ensure it stayed that way. She was just going to sit back and go along for the ride, and at the end she’d say thanks with a smile and be on her way.
On her way to the stairs, her eye was caught by a stack of boxes visible in one of the rooms running off the hallway. Feeling incredibly nosy, she paused to peek inside. It was a bedroom, she guessed, and it was empty of everything except the boxes. Two more open doorways revealed empty rooms, also, before she got to the stairs. She frowned as she padded down to the ground floor. Everything else was so nice—the kitchen was a paradise of stainless steel and granite, the living room where they’d first talked was fitted out in neutral-toned couches and beautiful timber pieces. But half the house was empty.
It made her wonder, again. And again she told herself that it was none of her business. His life was closed to her—and it was only his bed she was interested in, anyway.
She let herself quietly out of his house and inhaled a deep lungful of early-morning air. She felt good, she decided. Things were good. She was her own boss, pulling in a respectable income in a low-stress job doing something she enjoyed. She had plenty of savings, a clean bill of health—and now she had a hot lover who knew exactly how to please her. She just had to remember Danny’s rules, and all would be well.
MARC WOKE when he shifted in his sleep and registered the chill, empty sheets on the other side of the bed. He sat up and blinked in the early morning light. She was gone. There was a hollow in the pillow from where her head had rested, and he could still smell her perfume on the sheets, but she was definitely gone.
He checked the clock. Just past six. Flopping back down onto the bed, he flung an arm across his eyes and wondered why she hadn’t woken him to say goodbye. Then he frowned at his own stupidity. She’d outlined the rules very simply and clearly before they’d leaped on each other last night. No commitment, no feelings, no future. And when one of them said it was over, it was over.
The perfect deal for a man who had just declared his complete lack of interest in ever settling down again. He couldn’t have arranged it better himself. Smiling, he rolled out of bed and padded into the en suite bathroom. He hadn’t exactly caught a full eight hours last night, but he was feeling better than he had in weeks. Turning the shower on, he realized he was even humming to himself as he stepped under the warm water. He had a vague commitment to have brunch with Gary and his wife, and later in the day he’d planned on giving himself a break from weekend work by just bumming around. Hell, he might even read a book. Yesterday, the idea of being able to concentrate enough to read a book had felt like a far-flung fantasy. He’d been wound so tight with frustration and desire he’d been practically jumping out of his own skin. Now he felt great. Relaxed. At ease within himself. Having a short, hot affair with Anna was just what the doctor ordered.
SHE MANAGED TO GET an extra couple of hours of sleep when she got home. Marc’s mansion was a convenient five-minute drive from
her house—or a fifteen-minute walk, depending on how urgent a girl’s need was. She giggled to herself as the thought crossed her mind over a late breakfast. She felt like the most liberated, decadent hedonist in the world. She, Anna Jackson, was having a no-holds-barred fling with a sexy, vibrant man. She’d acknowledged her adult desire, and pursued it. She felt sophisticated, and completely in charge of herself.
It wasn’t until she was taking care of the week’s ironing that she realized she didn’t know his phone number. And he didn’t have hers. In fact, they hadn’t really discussed when they would next see each other at all. So…was she supposed to call him? Or wait for him to call her?
She chewed her lip, doubt assailing her. Then she remembered that he’d called her on her work line. So, he knew how to contact her. If he wanted to.
Suddenly she felt like a teenager again. What if she wanted him more than he wanted her? She’d been so sure of herself this morning when she snuck out of his bedroom, empowered by the fact that she was the one leaving him, and not the other way round. That put her in the driver’s seat, right? But now she began to see that the fling thing had its downside, too. Sure, there was no risk of getting hurt because she definitely knew this was just about sex.
But there were other things to consider. Like pride, for example. She’d laid herself on the line, going to his house and boldly propositioning him. His response had been gratifyingly instant and passionate—but there was nothing to say that that would continue. That he wouldn’t get sick of her before she got sick of him. It was something that hadn’t really occurred to her when she laid down the ground rules while they ripped each other’s clothes off last night. Sure, it was over when one of them said it was over—but what if that person was him?
Anna stared at the shirt beneath her hands. She’d just ironed the same patch three times over. And she was obsessing about Marc when she shouldn’t be. She was so used to analyzing and planning and negotiating everything. But part of finding a new way to live her life was giving up on some of that. She should just enjoy the afterglow of having had sex with a consummate lover, and forget the rest of it. Crossing to the stereo, she put on her favorite chill-out CD and returned to the ironing. Afterglow. She would enjoy the afterglow if it was the last thing she did.
Cruise Control Page 13