by Barbara Daly
He slid his briefcase—of course he'd bring his briefcase—off his shoulder, let it settle gently into the closest fauteuil and nodded at the bouquet. "That was downstairs and I volunteered to deliver it. I brought the Christmas spirit." He glanced down at the poinsettia. "Where do you want it?"
She was right. He was cool.
"Let me think." She struggled over to her new coffee table with the bouquet and set it down, then scanned the room. "Let's put it there, right under the windows, so it's the first thing you see when you come into the room. Oh, Sam, it's beautiful."
"Should I leave while you read the card?"
"The card that came with the bouquet? No, of course not," she said. It appeared that a bouquet from heaven knew whom was about to destroy the evening. She vented her frustration on the card as she ripped it out of the envelope. It began, "Hon…" She looked up and smiled, not needing to read any further. "It's from my decorator," she said. "She's been doing a few little things to the apartment. She's an—unusual person. Just like her to send flowers."
"I noticed some changes here and there," Sam said. At last he seemed to be warming up.
"I think these are ginger blossoms," Hope said, looking at the fat, fleshy flowers. A few morning glory-type flowers floated down from the edges of the bouquet. "I don't know what these are." She returned her attention to the card and read it aloud.
"She says, 'Hon, you have yourself a nice weekend.'" Hope paused, wishing she hadn't started. "'I made the man put in some passion flowers.'"
She halted completely as the telltale heat climbed her face. "'He said they wouldn't last. I said what the heck,'" Hope mumbled. "Signed 'Maybelle and the boys.'"
"Who are 'the boys'?"
Hope gazed at the man standing across the room, filling it with his aura of power, maleness and the delicious scent of cold air. All of a sudden she felt that everything would be fine. She lifted an eyebrow. "They are two of the most gorgeous men I've ever had the pleasure of meeting," she said, and sighed theatrically. "They spent most of the day in my bedroom without giving me a tumble."
She moved toward him, relishing the darkening uncertainty in his eyes, and cocked her head to one side. "On the other hand, one look at you, Sam Sharkey, could have done some serious damage to their relationship. With each other."
For a moment he gazed at her in silence. Then, "Let's start over," he said abruptly. He reached down, swept up the poinsettia effortlessly and strode to the door.
"Sam, wait, don't—" Hope watched helplessly as the door closed behind him. As a terrible coldness swept through her, she saw he'd left his briefcase. "Sam!" she called again, just as the doorbell chimed. One sluggish step at a time, she moved toward the sound, then cautiously opened the door.
"Merry Christmas," Sam said. His voice was low and husky. He slid through the doorway, reached out, cupped her chin and brushed her mouth with his.
"Sam, you shouldn't have," she whispered.
He set the plant down on the floor and folded both arms around her, pulling her to him, tucking her under his overcoat, tight up against the softness of his sweater, the hardness of his chest.
His kisses feathered against one corner of her mouth, then the other. Sudden warmth drove away the cold, the heat and moisture between her thighs sending delicious rivulets of aching pleasure into her stomach, her breasts, out to her trembling fingertips.
His mouth was warm, too, and unbelievably soft as it slid across her cheek to her ear. She shuddered when his tongue tipped her earlobe, flicked into the shell. "Want to go out to dinner?" he murmured. "Someplace close?" The hot sweetness of his breath blew gently into her hair.
"Let's just stay here," Hope whispered. "I have lots of—"
His mouth took hers, stifling her words, driving every thought from her mind except her final admission of a desperate need, not merely for a man, but for this man.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
First, there he was, big-time lawyer Sam Sharkey, acting like a jealous adolescent. Then the relief of knowing another man wasn't pursuing her, a man who might meet her needs better than he ever could, had turned him into an adolescent with a libido running amok. He had to kiss her, just had to, there was no arguing with himself, and the second he touched her he was a dead man.
He was too hungry for her to hide it. Her mouth, God help him, was even fuller, softer, more pliable than he'd remembered. His mouth slipped and slid over her glossy lipstick in a way that was orgiastic.
At the first signal from her that felt like a yes he parted her lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth, searching for the honey-sweetness he knew was hidden there for him alone to find. And she gave it to him, tangled her tongue with his, let him feel her own need. It rocked him to his very center, the way she felt against him as he gathered her closer. Hot and hard for her, nearly out of control, he'd lost interest in everything but taking possession of her.
His hands spread out over her back, luxuriating in the feel of her delicate bones under black velvet. She was small and fine, but so alive, so full of energy, he knew she would move under him, engage in the battle of two forces moving toward the same victory, and they would win gloriously.
For a moment he gave in to the fantasy that it would happen in one seamless sweep of time, that somehow all the steps would be behind them, their clothes would miraculously evaporate from their heated bodies and he would take her there, leaning against the door, empty both of them into the yawning vessel of their desperation.
But he couldn't let it seem like an act of desperation. It was, but not for the reasons she might imagine.
He had to slow down, slow down… Sam, he said to himself, you've used up all your adolescent points for this calendar evening.
If he didn't slow down, he was going to scare her, and then it would be all over. Putting it that way finally got the attention of the brainless parts of his body.
He eased away, letting his mouth linger on hers until the last second because he just couldn't help himself, and he almost lost it again when he sensed her own reluctance to let go. "That's a better beginning," he said. It was hard to talk. His throat had closed up. All his systems had shut down but one, and the less time he spent thinking about that one the better. "I know where we want this."
Hope was in a state of floating bliss. She registered his voice—low, rich and deep, it seemed to vibrate inside her, a kiss in itself—but had a hard time grasping the meaning of his words. Anywhere's fine, she thought dreamily. In bed would be the most… Oh. He meant the poinsettia.
He slipped his arms out of his overcoat and let it fall onto the fauteuil before he took the poinsettia to its spot under the windows, then stepped back as if he were admiring it. "What do you think?"
Blood rushed to the hot, damp apex of her thighs with an intensity that almost bent her double. I think you're gorgeous. You have better buns than Dickie and Kevin, and I love the way your shoulders move when you walk. And even more than your looks I love your touch, your mouth, your hands, your arms, your— "Looks great," she said, then cleared her throat. "Just right. We needed a little Christmas spirit around here."
He turned to her. His heavy-lidded eyes and come-fly-with-me smile jolted her into a sudden flurry of hostessing.
"I'll just put things out on the coffee table, okay? We can eat and talk and… Would you open the wine? White and red. In case one of us wants one or the other."
While she listened to herself prattle on incoherently she fluttered in and out of the kitchen, bringing out an array of specialty-store takeout food that in one of her saner moments, if she survived to see another one, she'd call "indecisive." Chinese ribs. Grilled baby lamb chops. Shrimp Remoulade. A platter of French cheeses with a thinly sliced baguette. Pasta salad. Tabbouleh. Greek salad redolent with feta cheese. Calamari salad.
She ran out of serving dishes. She'd bring the rest out if Sam still looked hungry. Then dessert Many, many desserts. She'd had to take a taxi home from
Zabars. It was only five blocks away.
Sam looked hungry. But she wasn't sure it was food he wanted, and she knew it wasn't what she wanted. She hoped he wouldn't see the things she'd bought for breakfast.
* * *
The wind chimes shimmered musically. Rachmaninoff's First Piano Concerto, turned down low, created an old-movie ambiance. Which old movie Hope couldn't remember, but it had seemed right at the time she was setting the stage. Outside, the snow fell relentlessly, hushing the sounds of the city.
On the sofa beside her, his knee brushing hers with an intimacy they'd shied away from before, Sam licked the last crumb of lemon tart out of the corner of his mouth. Hope followed the path of his tongue, remembering the way it had felt against hers, shivering with anticipation for what was surely to come.
It seemed clear to her that they'd done about all the postponing they could. It was time for the main event.
She could tell Sam thought so, too. He reached out for her hand, took it, turned it over, then gently raised it to his lips. "Tastes like raspberries," he said as he trailed his tongue over the tip of her index finger.
The caress sent a shiver through Hope. "Maybe you'd like a—"
"Another taste of you," Sam said. "That's all I want." He drew her closer. "If your fingertip tastes like raspberries, the odds are your mouth tastes like—"
"Wait," Hope said, scooting back.
"Right. We ought to clean up first."
Clean up? Cleaning up was the last thing on her mind.
"Do you have a tray?"
"A tray? I think so." Delighted to have a reprieve, she scurried into the kitchen, found a tray and scurried back. It took Sam about three minutes to load the contents of the coffee table onto the tray and carry it into the kitchen, locate the matching set of refrigerator storage containers with the blue tops she hadn't seen since she moved in, dump the leftovers into them, rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
"There," he said, "all done."
Maybe it hadn't taken just three minutes. All Hope knew was that he finished way too soon for her peace of mind.
"There's just a drop of the red wine left," he said next. "We'll share it."
"Wouldn't you like some coffee?" Hope asked. Hopefully.
"No."
The gaze he leveled at her told her in no uncertain terms what he wanted. But he sounded gentle when he said, "If you've changed your mind, if this is too much for you, just say so." He stroked her cheek, down under her chin, his thumb grazing her throat.
She felt the pulse beating there; beating hard. "No, no," she breathed. "I'm fine. It's fine. We're fine. I mean, we have a deal."
He smiled. In one effortless move he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, pushed her knees apart and moved between them. Cupping her startled face in his hands, he said, "Forget the deal. I'm not going to hold you to it if you regret making it."
As soon as his hands touched her kneecaps the waves of heat had begun to spread up her thighs. She tightened them against his waist, instinctively seeking the pressure of him against her, frustrated when it didn't quite work, their bodies didn't quite meet in the spot where she had gotten desperate for them to meet. "I don't." A husky croak was the best she could manage. "I don't regret it."
But she did have something important to say. "There are a couple of things we should bring right out in the open, I guess. We, ah," she hesitated a moment, "we will use, um, protection?" She made it into a question. She'd bought a box of three condoms and had stashed them in the drawer of her new night table.
"Well, sure." Sam said. He left her sitting on the counter while he brought his briefcase in from the living room. "Amazing," he said as he burrowed into it, tossing out a dopp kit, an undershirt, a sweater, "what you can get in a briefcase when you leave the laptop at home. Here we are." He brought out a box.
Hope drew in a sharp breath. His box of condoms was enormous. She did some quick mental calculations. If her box was sufficient for a one-night stand, then his box could handle a lengthy, flaming affair.
He must have read her thoughts. Or maybe just read the look on her face. "The big box was more economical than the small box."
"Oh, yes, of course," she murmured. Unless you counted the opportunity cost, what you could earn by investing the difference between the cost of her box and the cost of his. Hope shook her head a little in a desperate effort to shut off the left side of her brain.
"And look." He pointed to the message on the bottom of the box. "'Most effective if used before July, 2005.' I'd say we're safe, wouldn't you?"
Safe from pregnancy, maybe, but Hope didn't feel the least bit safe right now. His energy and enthusiasm were terrifying. The size of him was terrifying. The cheerful way he'd devoured a huge dinner, while she sat there having death-row thoughts, was terrifying. She was ready for darkness, nudity and a quick closure to this whole hazardous undertaking.
She had come to the conclusion that her life would have run more smoothly, been less challenging, if she'd never met Sam Sharkey. It was, however, a little late for that.
"Quite safe," she lied, "and that's good." She ripped her attention away from The Box to gaze at him earnestly. "Because it's important for us not to be nervous."
He put the box aside and resumed his position between her thighs, his face close enough to hers to turn the conversation into a kiss at any moment. "I'm not nervous. Are you?"
"Oh, heavens, no," she said, feeling the lies grow easier with practice. "And it wouldn't matter anyway. Not for me."
He stared at her, his eyes sending pinpricks of sparkle into her very soul. "Not for you. Just for me."
"Right. Because when a man gets nervous, it can affect the expansion and contraction of his, um, coupling gear."
She felt the involuntary jerk of his body, his withdrawal, putting an extra inch of space between them. "Coupling gear. Coupling gear?" Then felt him relax, felt the warmth as he leaned closer to her, his mouth moving toward hers. "Oh, Hope," he said, strangling the soft laughter in his voice. "You've been in pipe too long."
His kiss brushed her lips, then brushed them again on the wake of his sigh. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. "This is going to be fun."
His hands cupped her face, and his thumbs gently massaged her earlobes as he continued his soft, whispery kisses. For a moment she let herself flow along with the thrumming sensation from his light caresses. They felt sweet, delicious and not at all frightening. Pure pleasure.
His mouth hovered over hers for a second, and then his kiss deepened. His fingers threaded through her hair as his hands found their way to her neck, her shoulderblades, until his arms closed around her. Pure pleasure gave way to something more demanding as she returned the kiss.
His arms tightened around her waist and he lifted her off the counter, sliding her down his body with a sensuous slowness, letting her feel his arousal until at last he held her just where she'd wanted to be, her breasts tight against his chest, his hardness against her heat. She heard his breath quicken, felt the moan rise in her own throat.
His quiet, persuasive assault seemed to last for hours. She floated on a cloud of escalating desire. A storm was building up inside that cloud. She could feel it in the pounding of her heart, the shortness of her breath, the waves of euphoria that swept over her.
The change in tempo wasn't sudden, but it was definite. His mouth felt harder against hers. His tongue explored more deeply, exciting her to play against him, thrust hers against his. His hands cupped her buttocks, caressing them through the velvet, through the silk of her panties, molding her body ever more closely to his.
She was aware that he was moving them toward the bedroom, engaging her in an enticing dance she wished would last forever. They were almost there, almost there. He pushed the bedroom door open with his elbow. Through half-closed eyes she saw the candles burning, just as she'd left them, waiting for this moment.
It was her turn to lead now. She reached out with her hand toward the bed—and lurch
ed suddenly to one side.
He caught her, held her tighter. She could feel the hard pounding of his heart against her breasts. His words rasped against her ear. "What's wrong? You okay?"
"I can't," she gasped, "I can't…"
"Hope." It came out as a groan. "Can't what? Can't…"
"I can't find the bed."
He stood absolutely still for a second, then suddenly swept her off her feet and cradled her in his arms.
"I'll find it, don't you worry. Like an explorer in uncharted territory."
Level with the foot of the bed he paused again. "You are an amazing woman, Hope Sumner." He took a step forward. "You have hair like copper and eyes like emeralds." Another step. "You're smart, you're cute, you're funny." Step, step, step. "It makes me happy just to be with you." The last step. "And tonight you're mine."
He laid her gently on the flowered coverlet and slid down beside her.
When he put his hand, such a warm, strong, smooth hand, to her throat, trailing one finger down, she thought her heart might stop beating.
He unbuttoned the first satin button and then another. He trailed his finger across her skin, moving closer and closer to her breasts and finally sliding it down between them.
She moved restlessly against his touch and heard his breathing quicken. Then his lips were against her skin, just above her breasts, nudging the lace of her bra aside, moving hotly, inexorably downward.
Her nipples tingled, tightened. She moaned, raising her body to meet his kiss. He slid his hands behind her to unfasten the strip of lace. It fell away and her breasts were open to him, open to his mouth, his fingertips, his tongue. He teased them, circling them until she wanted to pound her fists against his back out of pure frustration. She wanted more, so much more.
"I think you should stop doing that," she whispered, raking her fingernails across the back of his sweater, wanting to feel skin instead.
"Why?"