So Delia should have headed for the airport that Friday feeling quite pleased with herself, but she didn't. The flight was long, the landing rough, and Delia's mood was not improved when her plane was grounded at Dulles. Her need to get home was reaching a feverish pitch. But snow and ice was pummeling its way toward the East Coast, taking a toll on the airports. Pittsburgh and Chicago had already closed.
Up and down Concourse C, flight delays were flashing as frantic gate agents announced re-routings and cancellations. Hard-bitten business travelers already lined the corridors, bellowing into their cell phones like lunatics. The college kids had given up hope and lay scattered about the terminal using backpacks for pillows. Yep, it was going to be a long night.
Feeling tired and grubby, Delia scrubbed herself from head to toe in the Red Carpet Club and put on fresh clothes. Then she bought a frozen yogurt, propped her feet up on her briefcase, and started checking her office voice mail. Three hours, two yogurts, and a dead cell phone later, United performed a miracle. The club attendant announced her plane was boarding.
The flight was mercifully uneventful, and after circling Raleigh for thirty minutes while a runway was plowed, they touched down in a ferocious shudder, the last flight in before RDU shut completely down. Unfortunately, when they inched up to the gate, the plane hit a patch of ice and slid into the jetway, jamming up its hydraulics. Delia wanted to rip out her hair by the roots.
An hour later the passengers finally disembarked, made their way through baggage claim, then strolled out into a winter wonderland. Delia dragged her suitcases through the chemical slush and wished she'd had sense enough to change out of her pumps. They were Nick's favorites, she knew, because he always stared at her feet when she wore them.
In the parking garage she hefted her bags into the car, slid inside, and cranked the engine. The Volvo purred out of the garage like a tamed tiger. Delia thought of Nick, and wished she could kiss him. Traffic on westbound 1-40 was nonexistent save for SUVs and snowplows. Unlike her native Pennsylvania, the Carolinas could be paralyzed by three inches of snow. Along the highway, silvery trees bowed low, beautiful but treacherous. The power lines, too, were sagging, and the precipitation was now peppering off her windshield, pure ice. The snow deepened and the sky darkened the closer she got to Durham. It was then that Delia began to notice the downed power lines.
By the time she reached Hidden Lakes, the Volvo was fishtailing. She spun her way through the security gate and skated sideways, trying to make it up her driveway. Deftly she cut into the skid, tapped the gas, and slid home, the front bumper just six inches from the garage door. Cold, starving, and glad to be alive, Delia dragged her bags into the kitchen, which felt like the inside of a meat locker. It made her remember her Parisian hotel's cramped rooms and bitter coffee with newfound affection.
After fumbling through her junk drawer, she found a stub of a candle, then felt her way toward the pitch-black dining room. There were some matches in the buffet, she hoped. But when she turned into the living room, a bright light flicked around the opposite corner, catching her squarely in the eyes. Blinded, Delia screamed, and her candle went clattering across the marble floor.
"Hey, it's just me," said a rough, deep voice. "It's okay."
"Nick?" The word was edged with hysteria.
The bobbing light, accompanied by heavy footsteps, came toward her, and a strong arm slid around her waist. "Christ, Delia, I've been worried half to death," Nick whispered, his warmth and scent surrounding her. "I was just checking upstairs before heading to the airport."
"Jeez, you s-scared me!" Delia's teeth were chattering with fright and cold. "How d-did you get in?"
Nick put the flashlight down on the buffet and pulled her close. "Resources," he said. "I kept imagining you'd wrecked your car or fallen down the stairs. United said your plane landed two hours ago."
"Yes, but we skidded into a jetway." A sense of warmth and relief was flooding through her. "How did you know my airline?"
"Resources," he repeated.
"Oh, right," said Delia. "Thank you, Sergeant Woodruff. What time is it, anyway? Why is it so cold?"
"Midnight," he said, then his tone shifted to his gruff policeman's voice. "Look, Delia, you can't stay here."
"I can't?"
In response Nick scooped her up in his arms, then somehow grabbed his flashlight. "It's twenty degrees outside," he said, sweeping her neatly through the kitchen door. "And ten in here. God only knows how long the power will be off. You're going to my house."
Delia squirmed. "Hey, put me down!"
"Why?" he asked, fumbling at the doorknob. "I have food, fire, and hot water."
"No, put me down." Delia began to push at his chest. "And don't let your knuckles drag on the way out."
"Nope. You're going next door, darlin'. And we are going to have ourselves a little talk."
"Oh, God." She wasn't sure she was ready for this. "Can I at lease take my bag?"
Nick flicked the flashlight at her big rolling suitcase. "You gotta be shitting me."
"The small one," she whined. "Please?"
Somehow he snagged it off the kitchen counter.
"Okay," she said. "Now I'll go quietly, Officer."
"Yeah, I'll bet," said Nick. "Hold the flashlight."
"Just let me walk."
Nick shouldered his way through the kitchen door. "No way," he said as the wind slapped them both in the face. "Not in those shoes."
Delia didn't have much fight left in her. Nick's body was warm, his shoulders broad and protective. And she was so tired. So tired of being without him. He wore heavy boots that crunched deep into the snow as he made his way across her yard and into his. Delia pulled her coat tighter. Other than the yellow beam of his flashlight, they were surrounded by a darkness so silent and so deep it was eerie. No lights. No sound. Anywhere. Just the crunching rhythm of Nick's footsteps, and the certainty of his stride.
Delia really did feel as if she were being carried off by some caveman—and it didn't bother her all that much. "I'm not getting any say in this, am I?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.
"Nope."
In his embrace she shrugged. "So I'm more or less at your mercy?"
Nick's gait faltered ever so slightly, and his breath hitched. "Yeah."
Delia thought on that for a second. "I, um, I thought we split up, Nick."
"You said."
Delia tried to look up at him, but could make out nothing but the hard angle of his jaw. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not now."
"I think I see," said Delia quietly. "Is this going to be strictly a monosyllabic conversation?"
"There you go again," he said. "Thinking. And using big words."
Nick went effortlessly up his steps, which had already been shoveled, and shouldered his way through the door. Delia felt instantly awash in memories. The soft candlelight, the warm earth tones, and the comforting smells of Nick's house: wood polish, dried rosemary, and his own spicy soap, all these things flooded her senses.
The place was toasty, too. In the living room a huge fire burned in the fieldstone hearth, its flames licking up behind the wide brass fender. In front of it a half-dozen quilts had been spread on the floor, and topped with a pile of pillows. To retain the heat, Nick had nailed up blankets to seal off his office and the corridor that led to the bedrooms. Delia hadn't missed the two Coleman coolers on the back porch, either. She'd have been willing to bet a month's salary they were stocked with steaks and other delicacies. In fact, she had every idea she and Nick could safely camp here for a month or better. The man was like some overgrown Boy Scout. He was prepared.
Mr. Boy Scout put her down next to the fire, tossed her bag on the sofa, and shucked his coat. Then he began to unfasten hers. Delia started to kick off her shoes, but something stopped her. Nick's gaze flicked up from her buttons. "Delia," he said, his voice suddenly raw. "I—"
"Yes?"
The coat slid off. Nick dropped
his eyes, staring down at her breasts. Beneath her blouse and jacket, Delia could feel her nipples hard and peaked against the silk. His throat worked up and down. She touched him lightly on the face. "What, Nick?"
He tossed the coat on the sofa and set his hands at her waist. "I want you," he whispered, bowing his head until their foreheads touched. It was a tender gesture, one she'd come to love. "I still want you. Under me. On top of me. With me, Delia. Just for tonight, if nothing else. Please?"
Outside, the snow was still falling, soft and steady, all around them. Delia realized she was trapped here, alone with Nick. Leaving was impossible. But the impossibility had little to do with the weather, and everything to do with the hungry look in his eyes. With the swell of warmth in her heart. And the truth was, almost two weeks without him had driven her insane.
"Please?" he said again.
Delia leaned into him and set her hands against the hard wall of his chest. "Well, I am totally at your mercy," she whispered, her tone suggestive and throaty. "Aren't I?"
Nick didn't miss her suggestive tone. At his mercy. God, what he wouldn't give for that. But Delia had him by the balls—and worse, by his heartstrings. Surely she knew it? He watched her lick her bottom lip uncertainly, and crushed the sudden urge to jerk her body against his.
Delia's eyes had grown soft and warm. "Nick," she said, her voice husky. "The other day, you said… I mean, I thought we were—" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, God, Nick."
Nick just shook his head. "Don't talk, Delia," he whispered. "For once, just don't talk or think. Just feel. I need to make love to you, baby. God, it feels like it's been years. Like I can't breathe."
"All right."
Her words were soft. Submissive. That was her mood; too, he thought. Something inside him thrilled to that knowledge. She still wanted him. Needed him, at least in this one way. And somehow he'd build on that. He wouldn't screw up twice. Nick's hands went to her jacket, shaking a little as he unbuttoned it. He pushed it off and draped it over the sofa.
Delia wore a gray silk blouse with a camisole underneath. They still stood by the hearth, the glow outlining her slender waist, casting her face in shadow. Slowly he undressed her, easing the delicate garments from her body, his rough hands catching in the fabric. The camisole was just a breeze of black silk with thin, fragile straps. Underneath it, Delia's breasts swelled inside a matching demi-bra, a scrap of sexy nothing, its lace cups cut just across the tips of her hard, pink nipples. She moved to unhook it, and he caught her wrist.
"No," he rasped. "It's beautiful."
Delia smiled, dropped her gaze, and instead unhooked her skirt, and let it slide down her legs. She wore sheer black thigh-high stockings, the kind that stayed in place by themselves. Above them, she wore more black silk, and damned little of it. Just a tiny thong with a triangle of fabric. The sort of underwear a woman wore when she had plans. And she'd shaved, too, Nick noticed. Shaved real close, to reveal lots of soft, creamy skin. He wondered just how much of that creamy skin would be visible beneath her tiny triangle. Nick lifted one brow.
Delia leaned forward until her nipples touched his chest. "Do you like it?" she whispered, pressing her lips to his left ear.
Nick swallowed hard. "Oh, baby, is the Pope Catholic?"
She opened her mouth against his throat and sucked a little of his flesh between her teeth. "I'm glad you approve," she said, nibbling at him. "I paid a fortune for it In Paris."
"Why?" Nick choked out the word.
Delia pulled back, her expression suddenly shy. "I missed you," she confessed. "And, well, I was kind of hoping I might get lucky."
"Then you can stop hoping," he said, reached down to cup her mound. She was hot, already radiating dampness. He eased one finger beneath the silk and stroked her pubic hair, or what was left of it. "What's this about, darlin'?" he asked softly.
Delia blushed. "I wanted to… to do something daring," she confessed. "I'm tired of my boring old life. I want pleasure. Satisfaction. I want you, Nick."
"Well, that's good to know, Doc," he whispered, sliding his finger back and forth through her swollen lips, easing just a little deeper with each stroke until he lightly brushed her clitoris. Delia moaned and melted against his hand. He stroked her again, feeling the creamy heat flowing around her sex. Delia's breath came faster. With two fingers he gently parted her, then slipped his fingers inside. Her silky sheath clutched at him, inviting him deeper. Nick felt his groin tighten, and his stomach bottom out.
"Nick?" Her voice was unsteady.
"God, Delia, you are so hot," he whispered. "So beautiful. I want to lick you. And make love to you. And then I want you to walk all over me in those wicked black shoes."
She laughed weakly. Nick released her, swiftly stripping down to his jeans. Impatiently he kicked the pillows away from his makeshift bed and pulled Delia down on top of him. Her eyes soft and eager in the firelight, she shifted a little and reached greedily for his fly.
Nick watched her slender hand free the snap and ease down his zipper. She set her hand flat against his belly, skimmed her fingers underneath the elastic of his briefs, and Nick's skin shivered with want. Gently he pushed her hand away. "Not yet, darlin'," he whispered. "Let's go slow."
He rolled onto his side, his back against the couch, and dragged her against him until his erection nested snugly between the plump swell of her bottom. Delia eased her hips wickedly up and down. Nick tightened his arm around her waist and groaned. "Oh, you are going to pay for that."
Delia couldn't resist doing it again. The feel of Nick's hardness made her think naughty thoughts.
"Whoa, sugar," Nick warned, his voice unsteady. "We'd better move." He sat up and pulled her into the vee of his legs.
"Nick, you're so hard," she whispered. "You felt so wicked against my bottom." Delia let her head fall back against his shoulder.
"Yeah, and it's a loaded gun, shoved up against your cheeks like that." Nick's free hand came around, his finger easing beneath the edge of her bra.
He slid his slightly rough finger back and forth across her pouting, sensitive nipple. "God," she said breathlessly. "Oh, God, Nick."
Nick nibbled gently at her ear. "Watch us," he whispered, his voice thick. "Look how beautiful you are, Delia."
Confused, she lifted her head from his shoulder. In the polished brass fender that surrounded the hearth, she could see her reflection, or part of it. She was sprawled wantonly, her legs apart, one knee pulled up. Her thong and her black stockings looked erotic, and her black high-heel contrasted sharply against the faded denim that covered Nick's calf. She watched their reflection as his right hand stroked up her inner thigh. Watched Nick ease the silk thong to one side, revealing her neatly shaved flesh, wet and swollen with need.
He rubbed between her lips again, as his other hand stroked and pinched at her left nipple. "Good Lord, Delia," he rasped. "What you can do with a Lady Shick is pure art."
Delia laughed, a little embarrassed.
"Don't laugh," he said, picking up her right hand and pressing her fingers to her damp flesh. "You are beautiful beyond words, Delia. Here, feel how pretty you are. Let me watch. Let me touch your nipples and watch you make yourself come."
Delia did as he asked, sliding her middle two fingers through her lips. It felt good. Bad. Embarrassing. "I can't," she whispered. "I can't. You do it, Nick. Make love to me."
Nick bent his head to the turn of her neck and kissed her, cupping both her breasts in his big, warm hands. "You can do it, baby," he whispered. "You're hot and you're beautiful."
Delia let her head fall back against his chest. She was wet. So wet. She touched herself again, and shuddered. She wanted it. Wanted it, and yet was so self-conscious. "My bag," she choked. "I have a vibrator in my bag."
Nick chuckled softly. "Well, aren't you just full of surprises tonight."
Delia gave a bark of laughter. "God, I had to do something. I was going insane."
"I'll take care of you now
, honey," he whispered, pinching her right nipple so hard it hurt. So hard it felt good. "And I'll bet we put that vibrator to good use eventually. But right now I'd rather watch just you. Open your legs wide, baby. Touch yourself, and let me watch you orgasm. Then I'll give you what you really want."
He had pulled her firmly back against his chest, making her small breasts thrust out. "You promise?" Her voice was thready. Not hers.
His lips seared her neck again. "Oh, I promise."
Delia was so hot she thought she might explode. She thought of her last three nights in Paris, alone with her vibrator, missing Nick. She'd been horny then. Now she was wild with it. So she did as he instructed, rubbing herself with her fingers, massaging her flesh. And watching herself. Watching Nick nuzzle against her throat, then lift his smoldering eyes to watch her as she stroked herself. As his gaze grew hotter, he pulled and rubbed her nipples until they throbbed and tingled.
Her breasts were spilling from her cups now, the areolas dusky in the firelight. And then, as if he couldn't resist, Nick slid one hand around her thigh. The other hand followed suit on the opposite thigh. His fingers were dark against the milky whiteness of her thighs as he held her open wide. Together they watched as Delia rubbed and circled, her edge sliding nearer.
She felt so decadent. So naughty. She was watching herself. Good Lord, it was the wickedest thing she'd ever done. And it felt good. She listened to the sound of her own wetness. To the sharp ratcheting of her breath. Felt her body stiffen. And then her head went back against Nick's chest, and she came undone. Wave after wave shook her, rocked her. The orgasm was so powerful she went rigid in Nick's embrace, let it flow through her body, then fell to pieces afterward, limp and sobbing.
And then he was there, hugging her. Crooning to her. Telling her how beautiful she was. How much he loved her. How much he loved her.
He didn't mean that, she thought. Did he? But she didn't have time to think. Nick rolled her facedown on the pile of pillows, and ripped down his zipper.
"Nick?" she asked uncertainly.
BIG GONES - OUT OF UNIFORM Page 17