by Anne Oliver
The urgent need to have that naked body—all of it—against her, in her, was like a fever in her blood. And the hot, hungry, almost unbearable anticipation had her squirming to get closer, her sweaty thighs sticking to the counter top.
As they watched each other he slipped an impatient hand under the strap of her thong. She felt a finger sliding along the moist folds, then inside her. She gasped and saw his eyes flash with heat and wanting. Her inner muscles contracted, liquid desire pooled as he manipulated her flesh with fast, flicking passes, but she grabbed at his hand. ‘Not here,’ she managed.
‘Where?’
Every pulse point hammered out a primitive beat at his feral growl. Somewhere close. ‘Family room.’ She wrapped her trembling legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and he dragged her off the counter into his arms.
Half walking, half stumbling, Jack made it as far as the doorway. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. She wiggled, wanting more friction between their bodies. More Jack.
He pinned her against the door jamb to devour her mouth once more, then released her slowly. She slid down between cool, smooth wood and the hard, hot length of him. He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, his fingers pressed against her flesh. ‘You make me weak.’
Upper body gleaming in the slant of light from the kitchen, he looked anything but weak as he hooked a finger in the thong. And tugged. She felt callused palm and silk slide down her inner thighs. The scrap of fabric pooled at her feet and she toed it aside.
He shoved his boxers down and oh...my...God. A fully-primed-and-ready-for-action weapon. And she had no doubt it had destroyed more than its fair share of the female population.
He’d slept with so many beautiful, experienced women. She wasn’t beautiful or experienced, and she felt a quick lick of fear that he’d find her lacking.
But that didn’t seem to be a problem for him right now. In the slant of light from the kitchen he looked like a bronze sculpture. A wickedly gorgeous, delicious male sculpture who was obviously more than capable of doing wickedly gorgeous, delicious things to her.
Her legs turned liquid. She was pinned there by his hands on her waist and one power-packed, hairy thigh between her legs.
Hard and hot as molten steel, his thigh pressed upwards against already sensitised flesh, the hair-roughened skin rubbing, abrading as he rocked against her, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Her back and head slapped against the wood. All she could do was hang on.
Fast hands rushed up her body, over her breasts, stroking, squeezing, kneading. Her fingers dug into his upper arms, and beneath her palms she could feel the bunched ropes of sinew and muscle.
He swore—a rough-edged, almost violent sound—and for one panic-filled moment she thought he was going to back out again and she’d have to kill him. But he crushed his mouth to hers again, and, with their lips locked, he lifted her, whirling her across the room as if they were performing some mad, erotic waltz.
They hit carpet, collapsed onto the floor in a tangle of limbs and pink chiffon. It broke the connection, but only for a second. There was a cool draught down on the carpet and the scent of summer roses from the vase on the coffee-table. She’d never smell roses again and not think of this moment and Jack.
The kitchen light was behind him, leaving his face in shadow. Only his eyes glittered in the dimness as they fused with hers. The glint of his watch caught the light as his hands shoved her skirt up to her waist, then raced over breasts, belly, thighs.
Lower.
Quick, clever fingers plunged hard and deep into her heat. Her breath caught at the shockingly intimate intrusion and she made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a purr. But she wanted this, wanted more. Wanted all.
Her thighs fell open under his skilled assault. He knew his way around a woman’s body. Knew where to stroke, how to rub, and—oh, God—he slid his knuck-les back and forth along her quivering flesh until her bottom lifted off the floor. ‘Jack!’
She was flying apart, hurtling towards the edge of the world and didn’t know if she’d ever find her way back. Reaching down, she rode his hand to anchor herself.
Then his mouth was on hers again, hard and unforgiving. There was an edge of desperation in the way his tongue invaded her, as if he were battling a war he’d wanted no part in. Arching her back, she willed him to love her as she was and let it be enough.
Abruptly he reared up, shoulders broad and dark as he rolled on top of her, his heavy thighs pushing her legs even wider. She felt the smooth, wet and hot tip of his erection against her exquisitely aroused inner flesh.
He looked into her eyes for a freeze-frame of time. And they were children again, poised on the edge of innocence.
In one long, liquid thrust he drove into her. The breath left her lungs in a whoosh; her inner muscles contracted around him as she struggled with the shock and speed of that first penetration.
He went absolutely still. She could feel his heat throbbing inside her. His hands gripped her hips, holding her prisoner while his eyes turned molten. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It’s okay; I’m okay. Please.’ She arched against him once more, drawing him further inside her. Already she wanted that urgent thrust of carnal power and heat again. And again and again.
Slowly he withdrew, creating a delicious friction and anticipation, then plunged deep a second time. Yes. A third.
She moved with him, learning his rhythm as if her body had been tuned to his, only his. His head dropped to her breast, his mouth suckling and feasting as their hips slapped together in perfect unison.
She ploughed her hands through his short silky hair, clenched them as pleasure built and swirled like ribbons through her body.
She wanted to stay here for ever, with Jack a prisoner inside her body, the cool blanket of night to protect them and the rest of the world asleep.
She was hot, so hot, her skin slick with perspiration, yet she shivered with every thrust, every glide of his tongue, every stroke of his hand. Each new sensation brought new delight and took her higher.
Harder, quicker, deeper, in perfect synchronicity, dancing to music only they could hear. The tempo grew wild, a primal beat that echoed in her blood, in her mind, until there was nothing but Jack, sweat-slick skin and hot, shallow breaths.
He tensed suddenly, his muscles quivering as he supported his weight on his arms, watching her, the tendons in his neck and shoulders standing out like ropes.
The ribbons of pleasure swirled low in her belly, then coiled. She was back on the edge of the world, but this time she wasn’t alone. And when she took that final leap, he poured himself into her still-pulsing body and was with her all the way.
* * *
Jack watched Cleo sleeping in the pre-dawn dimness, pale and luminous as a pearl on black velvet, her head against his shoulder, one hand curled on his chest. Some time ago he’d carried her to his room, a rag doll in his arms.
His jaw tightened and an ache spread through his body. Her crumpled dress on the floor was a stark and appalling reminder of what they’d done. What he’d done.
Cool, dew-scented air wafted through the windows and the silence in the house was absolute. As real and absolute as his self-contempt. Not only had he let his body do the talking instead of his brain, he hadn’t used protection.
He hadn’t used protection.
Of course, he hadn’t come downstairs with the intention of having sex, but when he’d seen her bending over the cat the rational part of his brain had simply shut down.
Her legs beneath the hot-pink hide-and-hint skirt had made him want to pant. But he’d held it together. Hadn’t he restrained himself from salivating at the sight of her newly bared neck, a particular weakness of his?
Until she’d laid that all-by-myself none-of-your-business crap on him.
All his self-talk, all his noble intentions had flown out the window. He’d lost it, plain and simple.
She’d been his business since the first day he’d laid eyes on the scrawny seven year-old with pigtails in her hair, a man-sized toolbox of scrap metal under her arm and the biggest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
For the past six years not a day had gone by when he hadn’t thought about her. Until he’d left home he’d made it his duty to look out for her.
That made her his business.
No reason it should change now. Except that last night Scotty had told him that probate was final. The only thing missing was Cleo’s signature on the documents and the estate was hers. She was an independently wealthy woman.
That didn’t mean he had to exile himself. It only meant... He blew out a slow breath. What did it mean?
One thing for sure; everything had changed.
TEN
Cleo smiled as she surfaced into semi-wakefulness. Her body felt like molten gold. As if Jack were the metal-smith and had forged the ordinary into something shiny and beautiful.
When he shifted, she protested with an indistinct, ‘No.’ She wanted his weight on her, his body joined to hers a little longer. A lot longer. Her limp hands slid bonelessly up and over the hard curve of his shoulders.
‘So this is what all the fuss is about,’ she murmured, nuzzling her face against his chest, hearing the ponderous beat of his heart.
Making love.
Making real love.
If only tonight, the Now, could last for ever. She breathed in the musky warm air between their bodies that smelled of their lovemaking, and opened her eyes. The half-dream fled. Bright early morning light tinged with pink already flooded the room.
Jack’s room.
Jack’s bed.
Jack’s body beside hers, not joined.
‘You let me fall asleep,’ she accused him, still hung over with sleep. Oxygen starvation probably had something to do with it since her nose was buried in his chest hair. ‘Did I miss anything?’
She wriggled upwards till they were nose to nose, bellies brushing, and not only bellies... Feeling adventurous for so early in the morning, she traced a finger down the line of their bodies, and moulded her hand around him.
It bucked against her as if it were a living thing with a mind of its own—probably why they said men thought with their—
A sound rumbled in his chest and he closed a hand over hers. ‘Cleo...’ He drew both to his lips, entwining their fingers. ‘We have to talk.’ He said it as if they were discussing the economy rather than sharing body heat.
Ignoring the tone, she kissed the sexy stubble on his chin. ‘No talk.’
‘Yes talk.’
A huge ball of uncertainty lodged in her chest. ‘Don’t you dare apologise.’
‘I could have made you pregnant.’
‘Oh.’ Relief washed through her, easing tensed muscles. ‘Is that all?’
‘Is that all? You don’t think that might deserve an apology?’
‘There’s no chance of pregnancy; I’m on the pill.’
His expression didn’t soften or relax. It remained grim, perhaps even grimmer.
Her muscles tensed again. ‘Ah...after the Sam thing and my ladder trick, I suppose you’d be forgiven for jumping to conclusions, but it’s a female problem. The doctor said the pill should correct it. And it did; I—’
‘Are you...were you...’ he seemed to struggle with the words ‘...last night, was I the first?’
Last night had been...hot and fast and furious, against the wall, on the floor...
Heaven.
But she supposed he could feel bad if he thought she’d been a virgin, which she almost had been—if such a thing were possible. She pressed her lips together, then asked, ‘Does in and out count?’
She almost smiled at his hard-edged confusion when he frowned and said, ‘Want to explain that?’
‘Just what I said. One in, one out.’ She shuddered at the memory of that bungled encounter. ‘Once was enough.’
His eyes darkened. ‘Sam?’ She shook her head. He didn’t look appeased. ‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No.’ Not so much body as heart. ‘I thought I wanted it, thought if I closed my eyes and imagined...’
‘Imagined what?’
That it was you, you idiot. But she only shrugged her shoulder and said, ‘Can’t remember now.’
After that terrible, mortifying night she’d known it could only be with someone she loved. And she loved Jack Devlin. Only Jack. With an ache so big, so wide, so high, she wondered that her heart didn’t burst out of her chest.
So tell him, whispered a little voice.
But how would he react to that profound piece of news? How would he rate his feelings for her on the love scale? She really didn’t want to know. Because, no matter what he said, she knew he didn’t want anything permanent, and long-distance love wasn’t her idea of happy-ever-after.
‘Who was your first, Jack?’ She stroked his collar-bone, turning attention on him and away from her inner pain.
His lips twitched as he remembered. ‘Kitty Cartwright.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Cleo couldn’t hide the grin. ‘The photographer’s apprentice. So, who apprenticed who?’
‘I’ll leave that for you to consider. Are you going to fill me in on yours?’
‘Not on your life. My first time was last night.’ She met his eyes. Last night’s heat and speed still vibrated along her nerve endings and shimmered in the air between them.
Jack cupped her face in one hand. ‘I shouldn’t have been so rough on you.’
‘I wanted rough; I asked for rough.’ She closed a hand over his. ‘In fact, I think I begged.’
‘Ah, Cleo,’ he murmured. ‘I thought that was me.’ As if in apology he lowered his lips for one long, soul-destroying kiss that stole the breath from her lungs.
His hard, masculine body slid over hers while his soft, full lips nipped at her chin, her neck, then closed hungrily over her mouth.
She melted under his hands as they warmed and teased. Not rough this time, but slow and deliberate, seeking out all the places that begged to be touched: her breasts, nipples, the hollow at the top of her thighs, just a scant fingertip away from her—
‘Jack?’ Scott’s voice. Scott’s face peering at them from the open doorway. ‘You through with those...’ The sound of a throat clearing. ‘Morning.’
Cleo stiffened, appalled. She’d invited Scott to breakfast and here she was laid out like the main course. The warm, melty feeling disappeared. Now it was a warm, flushed, embarrassed feeling from head to toe and every place in between.
When she tried to push up to cover herself, Jack’s body prevented her. Without looking at the morning intruder, he stopped his busy hands, and he raised his head enough to swear against Cleo’s mouth. ‘Ever hear of knocking, Scotty?’
‘Sorry. I’ll make coffee. Hi, Cleo.’
‘Make it a long black,’ Jack called back as Scott retreated down the corridor. ‘Very long. How did he get in?’ Obviously not embarrassed about being caught in the act, he took up nibbling where he’d left off. ‘And what’s he doing here on a Sunday morning at nine a.m.?’
‘He and Jeanne both...have keys, and I invited him—them, actually. But Jeanne couldn’t make it.’ Jack was kissing his way over a breast, making it hard to concentrate. ‘The three of us often have...’ her breath hitched ‘...Sunday brunch.’
‘I’d’ve thought brunch leaned more towards eleven a.m. onwards.’
‘Ummm.’ Frustrated with the interruption, she puffed out a sigh. ‘Jack...’
‘You don’t want to continue this right now, do you.’ A statement, not a question. He rubbed her arm before rolling off her.
‘I can’t—not with Scott prowling around downstairs.’ Probably tripping over her discarded underwear. Her very new, very sexy underwear.
Her morning-after glow had been tarnished. Sud-denly she felt more than naked. She felt exposed, and wished they were in the familiarity of her own bedroom.
‘I’m going to take a shower,’ she said, getting up and grabbing his sheet from the bottom of the bed. No way was she making that trek down the passage bare-bottomed.
‘You know, we could share a shower,’ he said with a sexy lift of his brows.
She paused as she adjusted the sheet over her shoulder. The idea had appeal. They could lock the door and...
His eyes took a leisurely stroll over her sheet-clad body. ‘I could wash your back for you.’
‘Mmm.’ Not nearly as exciting as having her front washed, but she’d take what she could get.
She made her own journey over Jack’s still relatively unfamiliar terrain. Taut, tanned skin stretched over muscle and bone, the little dip in his navel and the not-so-little jut of masculinity that beckoned every female cell in her newly awakened body.
Her eyes flicked to his face and the more familiar but no less arousing sight of that brown-eyed gaze, looking at her in an entirely new way, deep and penetrating.
Like last night.
And if she stood here any longer she was going to do much more than look. With an effort, she moved to the door, tossed a sexy glance over her shoulder. ‘I’ll bring my own soap.’
A few minutes later, clutching her toiletries and some hastily hunted-up clothes, she made her way back to Jack’s room. The sound of his voice had her hesitating at his door. He was on his mobile phone and using that voice he reserved for women.
‘Just some of those complicated family issues to resolve,’ she heard him say. He nodded at something the caller said, throwing in a sexy laugh for good measure. ‘Yes, I’m still interested. Very interested...’ Pause. ‘Tomorrow?’ Another pause. ‘Eleven-fifteen, Café Medici. I’ll look forward to it. Ah. Can we keep this just between us for now?’