A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  There was no disappointed expression typical of a man hearing that he might get turned down. No, the man’s eyes just darkened, pupils flaring in response to the sex in her voice.

  “Maybe you should. Maybe you shouldn’t. You don’t know. Think about it for a minute.”

  She had to smile a little at that, and as their eyes met again briefly, she saw his answering smile, sapphire glinting behind thick lashes. A merciless tease he could be, something she had not expected from him.

  And if he could also be possessive and aggressive, those characteristics were tempered by his humour, making her feel as if the centre of his universe was the safest place to be . . . and she was in it. At least for the moment. Later, he would send her back to the periphery where, despite careful planning and hard work, life was precarious and uncertain and a little cold.

  But for now, there was warmth.

  His mouth touched hers.

  Still teasing her, seducing her, he retreated from the kiss even as her lips moved against his in welcome, his breath fanning her cheek as he stayed close. The edge of the key card he held ran down her bare arm, and the hand resting on the crest of her bottom moved up again to finger the tab of her zipper, lowering it slowly, inexorably.

  The tiny gasp she released was one of pleasure—not shock that they still stood in the corridor—as his hand slid over her bared skin, coming to rest in the small of her back, his thumb caressing small circles on her spine.

  “Have you decided what you should do?” he murmured in her ear before the tip of his tongue explored the shell.

  The options were staggering, and perhaps there was no right or wrong answer. She was no innocent; she had a life dotted with terrible moments. This felt right, being with Lucius, learning about the real man in order to finally dispense with the god she had worshipped over the last months. It was real; but a clean, untarnished reality.

  And in the same breath, it was escapism. Temporary; but a chance to shake off those blinkers for a moment, and be one of those rare and jealously hoarded happy memories to bolster her in the years to come.

  “I’ve decided what I’m going to do,” she whispered huskily. “Whether I should or not is still debatable.”

  Blue eyes sliced to hers, his mouth curving devilishly. “I love the way you come to your decisions.”

  She did not hear the click as the electronic lock released, for blood was rushing in her ears as he kissed her deeply, his tongue curling around hers like damp silk. But she felt the open space behind her as the door swung inward. Needing no further encouragement, she stepped backward without a moment’s regret, and he followed her, not breaking their kiss.

  The door closed with a soft hiss of compressed air and snap of latch; the air conditioner hummed. Her purse and key card fell unnoticed to the carpet. And still they kissed, still fully clothed—unzipped dress notwithstanding.

  She reached for his hand; the one not splayed on her spine, tangling her fingers with his, the sweet contact feeling more intimate than the act they were contemplating.

  But contemplation was long past, in fact, and he backed her toward the bed.

  “Do you need anything?” he murmured hoarsely, his mouth sliding down her throat, the chiffon scarf sliding sensually away to parachute to the floor as he cleared it out of his way.

  “Yes,” she replied, and was rewarded with his groaning approval as she cupped him through his suit trousers. “This will do just fine.”

  And though she was Callie-in-an-alternate-universe, she was still Callie, so she blushed madly.

  But laughed.

  Lucius raised his head with a bemused smile. “I’ve never heard you laugh like that.”

  “I laugh all the time!”

  His smile widened to a grin as he slid the jet chopsticks from her hair; they clattered on the bedside table. “Not like that. Free. Happy.”

  “How do I normally laugh?” She tossed her head, curls rampant.

  Watching the curls fall, “Ironically.”

  “The irony will return not too long from now, I’m sure.”

  His breath was drawn sharply as if she had shocked him in some small way, and he looked poised as if to ask a raft of questions. He swore a little. A flash . . . of guilt? Crossed his features.

  “Don’t back out on me now, Luscious,” she teased, hiding her desperation. Just once with him—she would hold it close to her as long as she lived. She had blown it the last time she had been so close to him; but that was when her infatuation was running her. The crush was gone, replaced with something else much more solid and real and frightening and as yet unanalysed. But whatever it was, it made being with him so much more urgent now.

  “I’m not backing out, doll.”

  The fitted pink dress slithered to the floor, leaving her in those new black panties and thigh-highs and heels.

  Embarrassed anew, she closed the distance between them—hiding—placing her palms on his chest, ducking her head beneath his chin. The silk of his dress shirt caressed the tips of her breasts, making her hiss with erotic pleasure.

  His breath was hot on her cheek as he dipped his head. “Let me see you,” he encouraged, but did nothing to force her.

  Summoning some bravado—helped by the recollection that her body was a better view than her face—she stepped back again, arms falling to her sides as she raised her chin.

  His gaze was disconcertingly gentle, and he was looking at her inferior face, not her body. But slowly, his gaze fell, devouring her in intimate survey.

  “Damn, but you’re gorgeous. So many wolves crowding you tonight. All wanting you.”

  I only wanted you. She didn’t say it aloud. Better he think that her desire was general, just a bit of champagne married to a wish for some action. “Dancing with me marked your territory adequately,” she murmured. “They backed off fast enough then.”

  “I didn’t intend this, exactly,” he muttered. “I promised myself—” He broke off, his brows knitting in consternation even as his fingertips traced the generous lower curves of her breasts.

  What? What was your promise? But she dared not ask. Speech was too dangerous, for careless words could steal this moment from her.

  Move forward. Blinkers on . . . don’t see anything but this moment.

  She pushed the suit jacket from his broad shoulders, and his hands left her as he assisted in its hasty removal, stripping off his tie at the same time.

  Then he was kissing her again, pushing her back on the bed and following her down. One of her pumps fell with a thud to the carpet.

  The pace did not alter from before. He kept everything slow and deliberate, allowing her to explore him, but not letting her rush. So she savoured him, as he savoured her.

  For he touched and tasted her with such utter care and thoroughness; fingertips traced leisurely paths that his mouth followed. Light caresses that somehow carried more weight than aggressive strokes, stoking her to a fever pitch until still-untouched areas quivered in anticipation.

  He was mapping her.

  His topography held her enthralled, too, as she released one-by-one the buttons of his dress shirt and exposed the man beneath: the swell of muscles in his shoulders; the swirl of hair on his chest that arrowed down into the waistband of his suit trousers; the firm hills and valleys of rock-hard abs that she counted as she followed that arrow, slipping the button and zipper to burrow in, taking him in her hand.

  The resulting groan from him was flattering; it had been a long time since she had been in a man’s bed. But she was not nervous with him. Not worried about anything with him. He would never demand her attention; never ask for her love. And he wanted to be with her, for Lucius Ransome only did things he wanted to do. He was un-seducible.

  “Moving too fast, doll,” he murmured tensely against the nipple he had been feasting on.

  Slow was very good. She moved along, over his hip to trace the muscles of his back before helping him shed his remaining clothes.

  Her stockings we
re rolled down and off; he nuzzled her inner thighs. Knuckles brushed her mound through the inadequate panties, and she jumped a little, gasping at the frisson of energy. He shot her a reckless smile.

  “Very wet,” he observed of the moisture the lace couldn’t contain and, in a slick move, peeled them off her.

  The throaty laugh she gave was an incongruous match for her blush. But as sapphire eyes caught hers, she read deep approval there.

  Then his hands cupped her bottom, lifting her to dine on her, continuing the slow mapping of her with tongue and lips, nibbling teeth and hot breath.

  This was not practical. Practicality demanded cool rationale. Arching, she tried to hold back the cries and hold on to her sanity, but the ability to do either slipped rapidly away. All that existed was Lucius and his exquisite ability to wring everything from her. With slow deliberation and long, loving sampling.

  She came on cries that were nearly sobs, crashing from the heights and terrified to land. But he caught her in the aftermath, sliding up to gather her to his powerful body and silence her with rich, lush kisses that tasted of her.

  Drawing back, his gaze flicked over her face.

  She smiled at her own overwrought state, still fighting for breath. Tilting her chin, she caught that talented mouth in hers again, burying her fingers in his thick hair to hold him close.

  His erection thrummed where cradled in the juncture of her hip and thigh. With a leisurely kiss that only hinted at his inner tension, he reached for a condom.

  Maybe there was tremble of excited urgency in his fingers as they tore at the pack, but she could barely believe that. He was too controlled, too experienced, to let a little matter of sex with insignificant Callie Dahl tangle his nerves. Nonetheless, he swore mildly as the pack fought back, and he resorted to tearing it open with his teeth.

  “Sexy,” she purred.

  “Oh, yeah? How’s this then?” And sheathed, he slid into her.

  She was not a big girl; he was a very big boy. They both groaned over the tight fit. And when he shifted, withdrawing a little before pushing further in, she gasped as he filled her.

  “Doll,” he breathed, kissing her hungrily, and moved again.

  A hand hooked behind her knee, encouraging her to wrap herself around him. Doing so eagerly, her pelvis tilted further and the last of him entered her, going to the hilt, nudging her womb.

  “Good girl,” he muttered heavily, and stroked inside her. And again. Still slow; time to adjust.

  But the trembling urgency she thought she had imagined before was unmistakeable in him now, and she pushed up, letting him know she was ready for anything.

  Smoothly he thrust, the rhythm steady and deliberate. Tension built inside her again, sneaking up behind the almost enervating, almost hypnotic feel of him inside her, the weight of him on her, the tickle of his chest hair against her breasts, and the flavour of a trickle of sweat she licked away from his strong throat.

  He was perfectly controlled; studied.

  She bit his earlobe and tightened her muscles around him.

  The rhythm stuttered; came back harder and faster.

  “Oh.” The syllable was incomplete, even; it left her throat as an unintelligible squeak. Gripping his shoulders, she kissed that mouth that moved and hovered so close to hers.

  Something snapped; braced over her, his hammering thrusts devastated her, his breathing harsh as he nipped her mouth, throat, breasts. She clung to bulging biceps, his skin and hers slick with sweat as he ground against her.

  And her orgasm caught her unawares, shaking her violently, triggering his. And they fell together, their ragged breaths the only sound.

  ***

  In a list of the plans he had made on the fly today, this was the only one that needed and lacked prudent reflection. But he couldn’t have predicted running into Anita; couldn’t have predicted that that moment would have shot the decent-guy scenario all to hell. All Anita had sparked was awareness of a vast emptiness inside him. The emptiness demanded to be filled, and who better to fill it than the soft girl with the sharp intellect who he intended having anyway? Timetables and playing nice were all swallowed up in the abyss, and hotel arrangements were swiftly made.

  But . . .

  But if he hadn’t given Callie the choice of rooms, merely backed her into hers, he would be making a clean exit now. How the hell did he get her out of here without thoroughly insulting her?

  Being alone had nothing and everything to do with her. Something was happening to him—something had happened to him just now—and he needed distance from this gentle wrecker of his control to analyse it. But what a colossal prick he was being! The sweat hadn’t even dried on their skin, and his heart rate only barely returned to normal, and he was wishing her gone.

  Yet even as those thoughts spilled through his brain, he pulled her closer, cuddling her, burying his face in her hair. God, she was so soft, so pliant. So responsive. Even now, his sated body stirred at the recent memory of her instinctive eagerness, the sound of her moans and panting, wordless cries still echoing.

  He closed his eyes.

  She shifted, pulling away from him to slide from the bed. He let her go, ignoring every nerve ending that demanded that he stop her. She’d be back in a minute.

  The rustle of clothing had his eyes flicking open again, and he watched with stunned amazement for several seconds as she shimmied into her rumpled dress with unconscious sensuality. “Cal?”

  The bittersweet cynicism of the smile she sent him clashed sharply with the glow of her skin and the cloudy saucers of her eyes. “I’m going to my room,” she said quietly. “Thanks. I had a great night.”

  That worked out well! Then why the devil did he ask, like some callow idiot, “Don’t you want to stay?”

  The ironic laugh was back as promised, and her delivery of it made him inwardly cringe. “You ask such complicated questions! Zip me up, will you?” She sat on the edge of the bed beside him, gathering the mass of curls in one hand as she presented her back to him, her look mischievous as she glanced over her shoulder.

  Smiling (because he was happy about this turn of events, right?), he slid the tab of the zipper up. Knuckles brushed over her silky skin, and suddenly the zip wasn’t moving up anymore, and his hand was stroking her back instead, his bronzed skin dark on her pale flesh. He flicked his gaze to hers, holding it, feeling a clench in his gut at the sophisticated expression that even now could not mask that outrageous innocence. He wanted her again. Just once more . . .

  At least for tonight. I just need to think. After this.

  Her breath hitched; she blushed, destroying the sophisticated veneer. “I have work to do,” she protested weakly, lashes falling, and he knew she had seen his intent.

  Following through, he tugged her down on top of him, seeking her mouth with his, his hands of their own volition stripping her dress off her again, his desire for her bringing every dominant, aggressive trait raging to the surface.

  This time, the taking of Callie Dahl was rampant, right from the start, with zero attempt this time to control his physical response to her—which had proved fruitless at any rate.

  When he awoke, she was gone; her side of the bed cold. He stared for a long time at the indent where her head had rested on the pillow, a chill blankness settling over his mind.

  Chapter Ten

  The sun, red and threatening, crested the horizon into a brassy sky. It was already as hot as it had been midday yesterday. And damn, the city needed rain.

  Collecting the Saturday paper from the front step, Lucius let himself into his house, tossing his keys haphazardly, anger simmering.

  She had simply left, about an hour ahead of him. The doorman had arranged a cab for her, the front desk assured him when he, on the pretext of her safety (only a peripheral thought at that point), inquired after her.

  Flicking on the TV in the kitchen, he went through habitual motions: making coffee, fishing the crossword out of the paper, listening to the news.


  But focus eluded him and he stepped out into the heat and a wet wall of humidity, onto the unfinished back deck to sullenly peruse the orderly stack of lumber that waited for the remainder of the project. It was going to be a great deck when it was done.

  Holy crap. It wasn’t even seven yet. There was no way he wanted to, or should, work outside in this. Stepping back into the cool house, he glanced at the TV. They were calling for a high of forty-two with the humidex.

  Screw it. Lazy morning, then some paperwork in the afternoon. There were still Callie’s reports . . .

  Though he had showered and changed at the hotel, he still imagined he could smell her on him; powdery sex. Little girl wanton. Sophisticated innocent.

  Changing into board shorts and grabbing up a towel, he went back outside and dove into the swimming pool, the chlorine instantly wiping out the olfactory memory . . . making him glad he had not got around to switching the pool to saltwater.

  Ludicrous and desperate thought processes.

  Though quite warm, the water of the pool still felt refreshing compared to the cloying air. He did some laps, not working too hard, letting his mind run freely through the ludicrous and desperate as he found a steady pace in his crawl.

  What the hell is going on with you? He felt all at-sea, pulled in so many directions that he felt torn apart. That scene with Anita had been upsetting for the sheer reason that it wasn’t upsetting.

  That’s just stupid.

  But the truth was that he hadn’t been that dismayed by losing Anita. She was merely symbolic of a moment in his life, and all the other things that occurred at the same time. And being stuck here in this bloody city trying to fix things again was the result of those ‘other things.’ But was he really so emotionally isolated from his surroundings that the woman who had done her damnedest to hurt him out of spite didn’t even spark an iota of anger? Regret? Loss?

  Reaching up, he grabbed the diving board, stretching out his shoulders and arms. Almost immediately, the heat evaporated the water from his skin, but the humidity replaced it with a sheen of sweat.