One-Night Man

by Jeanie London

  "When I'm not touching your beautiful body, I'm thinking about touching it."

  Something about such a simple, bold admission moved Lennon deeply, but she squelched the feeling. She wouldn't clutter the moment with emotions. Not when Josh wanted to blaze new trails.

  She nuzzled his neck, brushed a kiss above his collar. "I like being your fantasy."

  His arms lashed around her and he scooped her up and carried her to the chaise. He settled her upon it and she arched against the curved back in an artful pose. Lennon knew she must look like something out of a gentleman's entertainment magazine, and felt vulnerable and trembly as he watched her.

  His expression smoldered with passion and...something else, something intense, unreadable. And when he reached into his pocket, extracting a pair of shiny metal handcuffs, her breath hitched in surprise.

  "Handcuffs and scarves? Are you afraid I'll leave?"

  "No." That one bold word epitomized how much power she was giving him, how much control he would take. "I wouldn't let you."

  His admission sent a tremor of awareness through her, and her breaths grew tight as he guided her hands over her head, forced her to arch her back and thrust her breasts forward.

  With the clink of metal, the cool bands circled her wrists.

  Josh was a man who knew what he wanted, and right now he clearly wanted more than restraint. Threading the silk scarves through the handcuffs, he tied her to the chaise's mahogany finials, a position so reminiscent of their first night in the Carriage House that Lennon realized just how much Josh had been thinking about her.

  She gave a token tug and found her wrists securely bound. He didn't say a word as he sat beside her, swept her hair back from her temples and arranged it on the pale pink leather. Then his face descended and he kissed her, a hard, hungry, devouring kiss that Lennon fell into with a longing sigh.

  He nipped at her lower lip with his teeth, making her moan as a spark burst into flame at his touch.

  Then Josh shifted his attention downward. He cupped her breasts, fingers kneading her nipples until they strained toward his touch, and she recognized the passion in his face, not just passion for sex, but as an artist shaping his creation, bringing his vision to life.

  She was his vision, the way she looked aroused by his touch. And the intensity, the honesty of the moment exposed such an unexpected side of Josh, a man affected by her and unafraid to show it.

  "Close your eyes and don't open them until I tell you," he said, and she didn't pause to consider, didn't need to. Seduced by the moment, she cast a final glimpse at the concentration carving his dark features into stark lines, then let her eyes flutter closed.

  "I want you to lie there, knowing I'm watching you." His rich voice filtered through her, and he kissed her mouth again, a kiss of reassurance. Then the cool air caressed her where he'd been, and she heard him move toward the shelves of equipment.

  He dragged something across the floor, heard the clinking of metal joints as he unfolded or adjusted some piece of equipment. A tripod? Lennon waited, half expecting to hear the electronic clicking of a digital camera, though he'd said he wouldn't take pictures.

  Anticipation took on an edgy thrill, the moment suddenly so titillating, so tense, that suddenly a simple little thing like keeping her eyes closed became an effort. She breathed deeply to curtail the urge to shoot up off the chaise and shake off this feeling of vulnerability.

  Yet vulnerability had a double edge, because she found power in the feeling, in the connection between them, a connection built on Josh revealing how much he wanted her and how much she had to trust him to do as he asked.

  Then she felt warmth brush her bare skin and guessed he'd positioned a photographer's lamp to highlight her body. With her arms bound high above her head, her body stretched naked across a pink chaise, her skin flushed with desire, her nipples peaked for his touch, Lennon had never felt more beautiful than she did now, being this man's fantasy.

  Then she heard his measured footsteps moving away, the scrape of a chair and...silence.

  She'd never heard silence so rich, so filled with expectancy and eagerness. She wanted to capture this moment in her mind, wished she had a notebook to describe the sensation as each layer of her world peeled away and her awareness narrowed down to the size of a pinprick, where she heard only hints of Josh's steady breathing, the rustle of a page flipping, the rasp of something...a pencil, perhaps?...scratching across paper.

  Surely he wasn't sketching her?

  Lennon didn't know, but the idea brought to mind the memory of a scene she'd written recently where her spy hero intruded on the heroine as she sat for a portrait. A sensual, tantalizing scene, with undertones of voyeurism, where the heroine's attraction to the hero builds as he watches her image being recreated by an artist on canvas.

  In this moment, Lennon might have been her heroine, might have been living that scene, for the emotions were so similar, so powerful. Like her heroine, she struggled to meet the challenge of appearing calm and unaffected, when the heavy silence and knowledge that he watched her aroused her with an intensity she'd never known before.

  She gave over to the sensation, determined to savor this moment where fantasy and reality collided. She let thoughts flow freely from her mind, concentrated instead on how her breasts stretched tight, how her nipples still ached from where he'd touched them, how her desire built slowly, until she could feel the moisture pool between her thighs.

  And Josh never spoke, never broke the spell of his steady breathing, of the confident strokes of what sounded like pencil against paper.

  Lennon lay in a haze of awareness and heady sensation when she finally heard him move. Before her dazed mind even registered that he was heading her way, she heard the clink of metal as he untied the scarves from the finials and removed them from the handcuffs.

  He may have released her, but he didn't remove the handcuffs. He kept her restrained, restricted in movement just like he dominated her senses, her thoughts, her emotions.

  Squeezing her eyes tightly shut as he sat on the chaise, she resisted the urge to open them when he guided her bound wrists in front of her. He scooped her onto his lap and maneuvered them around until he rested back against the wall. She felt her nakedness keenly against his fully clothed body.

  "Look at me," his gruff voice commanded, and Lennon obliged, gazed up into a face stark with hunger, yet somehow softened by need.

  It was a look that touched her on so many levels, made her want to feel him buried inside her, made her want to tenderly caress the tense line of his jaw. Made her yearn to hear loving words that she had no business wanting to hear.

  But then he kissed her, chased away thoughts and wishes with a demand so strong Lennon could only kiss him back, tangling her tongue with his, wanting to touch him, yet halted by the handcuffs that still bound her.

  But Josh knew, oh, he knew exactly what she wanted, even though she never dragged her mouth away from his to tell him, even though she couldn't use her hands to show him.

  With his mouth still devouring hers, he fumbled with his zipper, freeing his erection from the tangle of fabric. Lennon responded to the sight with an urgency she couldn't control, a need to feel him inside her. Maneuvering off his lap, she hooked her bound wrists behind his head, straddled him.

  Josh groaned--a raw sound that erupted from his mouth--and broke their kiss--to guide his mouth down, down, toward her breast.

  He latched on with enough force to make her shudder, from a jolt of pleasure that rocked her from head to toe. She could feel his hot length between them, searing the moist flesh of her sex, and she glided against him, wanting to reach down and guide him inside her, frustrated that the handcuffs blocked her efforts.

  But Josh's hands were free and he grasped her bottom, drove his fingers deep into her cheeks, taking care of the problem for her. One slick thrust and he sank in to the hilt, stealing her breath with the sensation, her thoughts, her will.

  He sucked on he
r nipples in turn, and all Lennon could do was bury her face in his silky hair, inhale the musky scent that was Josh's own, and meet his short, driving thrusts. Need mounted. His hands dug into her bottom, lifting her, dragging her back, their motions intensely, perfectly in sync. She felt him arch hard against her and that was just the push she needed. She gasped aloud as her climax burst upon her, her halting gasps mingling with his throaty growl of completion.

  Lennon clung to him. She'd never known such desperation, such urgency, such complete and utter absorption in another human being. She couldn't rally enough brain cells to make sense of the thought, or to register anything but an awareness of how Josh's heartbeat matched the break-neck pace of her own, how he looked as staggered and stunned as she felt.

  Wrapping his arms tightly around her, he maneuvered and leaned back on the chaise, pulling her with him. "Come here, chere," he said softly. "Give me your hands."

  He fished a key from his pocket and freed her wrists. Tossing the handcuffs onto the floor, he cradled her against his chest, his lips brushing lightly across the top of her head.

  She buried her face in his neck, the fine silk of his shirt cushioning her cheek as he stroked her hair, soft gentle caresses that made her think of lovers in the afterglow, of couples who cherished each other, of tender scenes she'd written when her heroes and heroines had professed their love.

  But avowals of devotion had no place between her and Josh, Lennon reminded herself fiercely, grasping at the reins of her runaway emotions. They'd signed on for a fling, and she couldn't let herself interpret his actions as anything beyond that. She wasn't a teenager in the throes of a first crush, and she certainly wasn't her mother in paroxysms of the first bloom of grand passion. She was a responsible woman who'd made her choices, and right now she'd chosen to become involved in a fling with this man. No more.

  But why, oh why did that thought make her so sad?

  "So what were you doing over there, Josh?" Lennon asked, a diversionary tactic. "It sounded as if you were drawing."

  "I was," he said simply.

  Lennon tugged out of his arms and launched herself off the chaise, putting desperately needed distance between them. "I didn't know you could draw."

  He just shrugged. "How well will be for you to decide."

  She could feel his gaze following her, but any vulnerability she might have felt from her nakedness evaporated beneath the weight of her surprise the instant she viewed his sketch.

  The dimensions, the balance, the movement of the drawing took her breath away. With a commanding technique she'd had no idea he possessed, he'd created an image on paper so powerful it took her a moment to see past the bold pencil strokes and detailed shadowing to recognize the image was of her.

  There was no mistaking the rapt look on her face, the sleepily closed eyes and the parted lips that came to life on the page, and while his unexpected talent stole her breath, it was the context of the image that made tears sting her eyes.

  This was how Josh saw her. This exquisite, wanting woman, so vulnerable in her position, yet so strong in her passion, was what Josh saw when he looked at her.

  He'd titled the sketch Sleeping Beauty.

  Lennon simply stood there, absorbing the wonder of his gesture, of this moment, which felt so far beyond sex, so beyond a fling, that her eyes burned with unshed tears.

  "Maybe I should have used the camera, chere, if my sketch hurts your eyes."

  Though his comment was light, his voice sounded oddly strained, and Lennon knew he was fishing for a reaction as a way to bridge the distance, to give her something tangible to cling to, because he obviously recognized how moved she was.

  "I had no idea. Did your grandfather know you could draw like this?"

  She managed to drag her gaze from the sketch, hoping he interpreted her tears as appreciation for his artwork and not the thousand soft emotions around her heart. He nodded, but something vaguely sad flickered across his face, making her realize she wasn't the only one struggling to hide her emotions.

  "He must have been thrilled."

  "He was disappointed I didn't take art seriously," Josh said. "I put myself through school sketching suspects for law enforcement agencies. He wanted me to pursue art as a career."

  She held his gaze, not asking the question, not willing to ask him to go someplace clearly painful for him.

  "It wasn't in the cards, chere," was all he said, and Lennon couldn't help but wonder if she wore her emotions on her face, because in her silence he seemed to hear her questions as clearly as a bell.

  "You're very talented."

  "I haven't sketched for a long time."

  With his shadowed expression, his shuttered gaze, Lennon couldn't tell whether he was reconciled or saddened by that admission. Yet he'd sketched her. Though he'd chosen to live his life separated from creative endeavors and family and love, he'd picked up a pencil and sketched her, made her feel special and cherished while he looked at her...and the memory of how she'd felt as he'd sketched her brought another thought to mind.

  "Coming to this studio wasn't just your fantasy, was it?"

  His shuttered gaze never changed. "No."

  "You read a scene from Milord Spy?"

  "Your document was open the night I put you to bed."

  "Oh." She wondered what else he might have read. She didn't really mind, but the idea that he'd been interested enough to even bother struck another blow to the distance she struggled so hard to hang on to. That he'd wanted to recreate her fantasy stunned her, and even more overwhelming was that in doing so he'd shared such a beautiful, and very personal, part of himself.

  A man with the courage to spin fantasies.

  Lennon gazed down at the sketch again, the beauty of the image striking her anew, making her long to cling to the man who'd drawn this, not to let him retreat into his isolated world that allowed no time for art or family or love. Or her.

  And with tears still stinging her eyes, Lennon stood there, forced to face the fact that she'd gone and done exactly what she shouldn't have--she'd fallen in love with Mr. Wrong.

  15

  REGINA NEEDED ONLY TO SEE the Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the doorknob of her suite to realize that her son and Davinia had assumed she'd be occupied with the exhibition lectures for the afternoon.

  Mistakenly assumed, because she hadn't been able to bear another minute of the recitation on the importance of sex through history and its impact on society's cultural evolution.She'd skipped the late brunch, as the time had varied from her normal routine, and had intended to place an order with room service, then rest until the banquet that preceded the auction tonight.

  Bachelors. Regina shook her head, actually considering knocking on the door and disturbing her son's tete-a-tete. She'd endured too much already this weekend to stand in the hallway in front of a suite she'd been forced to share. Then again, if she interrupted Joshua and Davinia, she'd be forced to endure his annoyance and her daughter-in-law's fluttery attempts to cover up what they'd been doing behind locked doors. Regina dismissed the idea, deciding she simply wasn't up to facing two more family members who'd succumbed to this sexfest.

  She retraced her steps to the elevator, not at all pleased this weekend wasn't turning out as she'd planned. She'd meant to find out why her grandson had taken it upon himself to surface in a place he had no business surfacing, and, hopefully, appeal to the boy to act in a manner befitting his name and station. She hadn't expected to become a featured guest.

  No doubt Quinevere McDarby was laughing like a hyena at the idea of her sitting though a lecture about the imagined symbolism of sucking mouths and thrusting male body parts.

  Picking up a house phone, Regina directed the front desk to connect her with her grandson's room, only to receive voice mail--which meant he and Lennon were either out or occupied.

  She preferred not to know which. Making her way down to the lobby, she settled herself in for a wait, dismissing the idea of ordering lunch in the hotel'
s restaurant. Though she knew the food would be exceptionally well prepared, she didn't intend to eat alone, didn't care for the message it conveyed. Let today's women tout their independence all they pleased, but as far as Regina was concerned, a woman alone in a restaurant meant no one wanted to eat with her.

  As she mulled over the unsettling fact that apparently no one did want to eat with her, she heard the very last voice she wanted to hear.

  "Regina," Quinevere said, approaching with Olaf in tow. "Whatever are you doing sitting alone in the lobby?"

  Alone.

  "My room's occupied at present. Apparently my son and his wife needed some privacy."

  "Oh." Quinevere's big blue eyes widened as she guessed the implications of that statement. "So the sex toys got to them, did they? Well, good. That's exactly what Olaf and I were hoping when we arranged the event. Right, Olaf?"

  "Yes indeed, Miss Q." He flashed a wide grin, dazzling against his dark skin, and made Regina wonder what could possibly make this man abandon an upwardly mobile career with Eastman Antiquities to play houseboy to an aging sex maniac.

  Some of Regina's bemusement must have revealed itself, because Quinevere asked, "What's the problem, Regina? Don't you want your son to be happy in his marriage?"

  "I believe sex belongs in a bedroom," she said shortly, so Quinevere understood she didn't intend to discuss the subject.

  "You haven't seen anyone having sex in the halls, have you?" Her voice held such an innocent air of surprise that it took Regina a minute to realize she'd meant the question as a joke--a coarse, tasteless joke, but a joke, nevertheless.

  Regina could think of no reply, but Quinevere apparently hadn't expected one, because she said, "If you've got nothing more pressing scheduled, why don't you come with me until your suite's available again? I'm heading up to mine to take tea and rest before the auction tonight. It's just Olaf and me. We've got plenty of room."

  Regina wasn't at all sure she'd heard correctly, but when Quinevere said, "We haven't visited in forever--"

  Ever.