by Terry Odell
She’d removed her panties. He shifted Kelli to her back and straddled her. Her eyes squinted shut and he felt her tense, despite her obvious desire. Crap. Of course. He flipped to his back and pulled her atop him.
“Open your eyes. Look at me. It’s Blake. Say my name.” He took his hands and clasped them on the pillow above his head. “You’re in charge.”
“Blake.” Her eyes stared into his. “I want this. Really.” Her voice was tremulous.
“I know. Take your time.”
She leaned forward, pressing her breasts to his mouth. He suckled, nipped and teased. With a shaky exhale, she reached for him and guided him between her legs. Grasping for control, he resisted the need to thrust into her, letting her take him at her pace. Hot, wet, but so tight. Almost too tight. Afraid?
He was torn. If he stopped, would she feel like a failure? Never be able to let herself love or be loved? Or if he didn’t stop, was he making things worse? Crap. This was way too much thinking for someone with no blood supply to the brain. Right now, the closest things to coherent thoughts were, God, yes! and Not yet, not yet, please, not yet.
* * * * *
Kelli heard Blake’s voice, calm and soothing. “Look at me. It’s Blake. Say my name.” Over and over, he repeated the words, lying beneath her, barely moving. Blake. She wanted him, had ached for him, knew he wasn’t Robert, but when he’d positioned himself above her, so big, so powerful, the fear came crashing over her like a storm surge. Her mind wanted him, wanted this, but her body was rebelling.
“Look at me. It’s Blake. Say my name.”
Exhaling a shaky breath, she did as he asked. And when she gazed into his eyes, she saw him. Blake. Saw the unabashed desire in their molten chocolate depths. Knots loosened, tensions dissolved and she lowered herself onto him, took him easily inside her. She moved slowly, rediscovering sensations, exploring long-forgotten pleasures.
Golden afternoon sun streamed in through the window, bounced off the glass bricks, reflecting the sheen of sweat on Blake’s face. She rocked, moving faster, her gaze intent on his. Knowing he was struggling for control heightened her arousal. That she could wield power over him, could be in control, sent waves of desire through her. Yet she slowed the pace. Watched his hands flex, aware he wanted to touch her, but respected her needs.
She reached for his hands. Brought them to her breasts. “Touch me,” she whispered. And when his palms caressed her breasts, his thumbs rubbing circles over her nipples, pleasure shot through her, a pleasure she hoped would never end. Unbidden, her hips moved faster and Blake found her rhythm and matched it.
She leaned forward, brought her lips close to his ear. “Are we in a hurry?” she murmured, slowing the pace again, rising above him, almost breaking their bond, then taking him back, an inch at a time. She adjusted her strokes so his thickness rubbed against that part of her where all sensation centered, faster, until there was nothing else and oblivion beckoned from a hair’s breadth away.
“Sweetheart, you’re killing me.” His words were labored, his expression almost pained. “I—I can’t—Oh, God—” and his climax filled her. His spasms of pleasure triggered her own release and her cries joined his. She collapsed onto his chest and his arms wrapped around her until she felt they were one person.
Neither spoke. They lay together, still joined, until their breathing slowed to normal. When they separated, he rolled to his side and spooned her into him. She quivered as he nuzzled her neck.
“I’m not sure if I should say I’m sorry or thank you,” he whispered. “I can usually last more than forty-five seconds.”
“It was enough for me.” She wondered why he didn’t understand how much of a turn-on his lack of control was—the realization he was at her mercy was almost enough to send her over the edge by itself. “But we can try for a full minute next time, if you like.”
“I’d like. Very much.”
“Hold me for a while? Or do you have to get back to work?”
“Actually, I told them I was going to be working from home the rest of the day.” He put his arm over her waist and she clasped his hand in hers, snuggling it between her breasts.
“You had this whole thing planned?” She ran her thumb up and down his fingers.
“Mmph. Not planned. Just left my options open.”
“Options? Well, that sounds romantic, Mr. Executive.”
“How about I hoped, dreamed, longed for this moment?” He nuzzled her neck.
“Better.” She relaxed, aware of his warmth, his steady breathing and the comfort of his heartbeat against her back. Right before she drifted into a sated doze, she realized she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—remember the last time she’d felt so secure, so safe. Memories of Charles had no place here, nor did they intrude. She was with Blake.
She didn’t know what time it was, but the sun hadn’t disappeared when she became aware of Blake’s fingers stroking her breasts and his hardness pressing against her buttocks. She did know that this time, he lasted a lot longer than a minute.
At six p.m. they stood under the hot spray of the shower. Blake stood behind her, lathering her body. His hands, slick with sandalwood scented soap, caressed as they slid over her body.
“If you keep that up,” she said, “I’ll pass out and drown.”
“Can’t have that. And I think you’ve drained me.” His hands disappeared for a moment. “Duck your head,” he said.
“What?”
“Get your hair wet. I want to wash it.”
Strong, nimble fingers lathered and massaged until she moaned with pleasure. He patted her buttocks. “Rinse.”
“Remind me to leave you a big tip.”
“The pleasure was all mine.” He spun her around and pulled her against him while the water cascaded over them.
She laughed. “I can tell. I thought you were drained.”
“What can I say? You bring me to life.”
“Much as I hate to disappoint your friend, I don’t think I can handle another round. Rain check?” She tilted her face up and he bent to kiss her. Before they both choked on the shower stream, he reached behind her and turned off the water.
“Fair enough. But I’m going to hold you to it. Hell, I want to hold you to me. For hours. Forever.” He opened the glass door of the shower enclosure and reached for a towel. She let him wrap her in its oversize plushness, then watched him grab a second for himself. He started at his head, towel drying his hair, then worked his way down his body. His magnificent body. She’d forgotten about the cuts at his torso and she stopped him to inspect them.
“The bandages can probably come off,” she said. “Does it hurt much?”
“Soap stings a little, that’s all. I can handle it.”
“I wish I knew how Jack is.”
“Does he know where we are?”
“No. If someone asks, he doesn’t have to lie.” The towel fit twice around her body and she padded into the bedroom looking for her clothes. She found clean panties in her bag and when she stepped into them, Blake stood beside her, his towel hooked around his hips, holding a silk shirt—the one she’d left lying on a chair.
“I’ve been thinking about you in this.”
She took the shirt from him and let the towel fall to her feet. The sleeves were still rolled up and she slipped into them, savoring the feel of the expensive fabric against her skin. Braless, she felt her nipples pressing against the silk. She watched Blake as she fastened each button, his lips parted and his face flushed.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he said.
“Don’t. I’m not. It sounds like a line—like you’re hitting on me.”
He stepped forward and straightened her collar. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? And you are beautiful. I can’t imagine anyone more appealing.” He kissed her, his lips brushing against hers—a gossamer touch, yet she felt the passion.
“I’d like to dry my hair,” she said, sidling past him into the bathroom. She concentrated on the d
rone of the hair dryer, wishing it could drown out her thoughts. Riding in the cab from the restaurant, she’d convinced herself she would succumb to her physical desires. That she needed to prove she could feel again. Nothing more. That being one in Blake’s string of women was fine.
But she hadn’t bargained for how deeply he’d make her feel. That he’d forged a bond with their lovemaking. Her breath caught. In the cab, she’d been thinking about having sex, not making love, with the man. She should have known she couldn’t have sex unless there was something much deeper behind it. Casey hadn’t. Why should Kelli?
She shut off the hair dryer, fluffed her hair and peeked out the bathroom door. Blake had left the bedroom. She found him standing behind the kitchen counter, pouring two glasses of straw-colored wine, still wearing nothing but a towel.
He extended a glass to her. “It’s a Clos du Bois Sauvignon Blanc.”
She remembered when they’d shared a bottle of wine at the cabin. How careful he’d been not to touch her. Definitely not hitting on her. But today, she’d certainly sent enough signals. This was why she preferred her reclusive lifestyle. No questions, no confusing, Does he or doesn’t he? Should I or shouldn’t I? Get up every day, do the work, and take satisfaction in that. None of the anxiety. None of the pain.
Yet, she admitted, none of the exhilaration either. She accepted the glass, letting her fingers slide down his. And when she felt that spark pass between them, she realized the exhilaration might be worth some of the pain. Might. But she wasn’t ready to decide and his rugged chest, with the red reminder of what he’d gone through for her was too unsettling. She had to break things off. One way or another, people she loved died.
“Umm … You can get dressed now. I’m done in there.”
His expression was unreadable and he broke their gaze. She heard a drawer open and he dropped a stack of papers on the counter. “Pick something. Unless you want to go out. I’m afraid I kind of destroyed our leftovers when I kicked the bag inside the door.”
She smiled, remembering their haste. She looked at the pile of menus. “No, this will be fine.”
Chapter Twenty
Blake picked up the hair dryer and aimed its hot airflow across his chest before moving it up to his head. Once more, he remembered why he never brought women to his place. Why he never stayed the night at theirs. The “afterwards” was too damn awkward. Let ’em know up front it’s not going any further than some mutual itch-scratching. Some very pleasant, hot, itch-scratching, but not the sort that ended up picking out china patterns.
He’d vowed never to end up like his father, who had lost his wife and never fully recovered. Saddled with two young boys, doing his best, but unable to let anyone else inside. Someone who might have cared about them. Always moving, always avoiding the chance to settle down where someone might make him remember what it had been like to love someone completely.
He flung the towel on the dressing room floor and dug a pair of plaid flannel drawstring pants from the bottom drawer of his built-in wardrobe. Stepping into them, he couldn’t help but laugh. The last time he’d worn them, he’d had a whopping case of the flu—and right now, he didn’t feel much different. Six-thirty p.m. might not be the “next morning” but that was a mere technicality.
Once she’d relaxed, Kelli had been wild with passion. He realized she’d made him give everything of himself. The part he’d never released before—the part he kept buried so he could walk away and not wake up next to a woman the next morning.
He pulled a black t-shirt over his head. Holy crap, he was falling in love with her. And suddenly his knees felt like mashed potatoes and he had to lean against the wardrobe to catch his breath. Scratch falling. The fall was over. He’d hit ground zero like a sack of potatoes. Somewhere between being drugged, hit on the head, sliced with a knife, and pretending to be someone he’d never heard of, he’d dropped his defenses and Kelli had sneaked through. Worked her way inside through some unseen crack in the shell he kept between himself and his emotions—the shell that made him so effective in the boardroom.
As for being able to read people—Kelli was a chameleon. He never knew exactly what was her and what was the skin she put on for the rest of the world. Leave it to him to fall in love with the one person on the planet who could keep her thoughts and emotions from him.
When she’d come out of the bathroom, scrubbed and fresh-faced, wearing his shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hem hanging below her knees, she’d looked so pure and innocent and so scared of something. Not of being discovered. He’d bet his next paycheck on that. Of him?
After they’d bared their souls to each other all afternoon? And it hadn’t been one-sided. She might have been hesitant at first, but she’d held nothing back after the first time. Was she regretting it? He remembered the look on her face when she’d climaxed. For that alone, he had no regrets. Putting on his best boardroom face, he stepped back to the living room.
Kelli sat on the couch, swirling the wine in her glass. She looked up at his approach, leaned over and picked a menu from the coffee table. He recognized it immediately as his favorite Chinese.
She extended it toward him. “Anything here seems fine. Maybe the cashew chicken?”
“Excellent choice. One of my favorites.”
“Yeah, well the big red circle around it was kind of a giveaway. That and the Speed Dial 7 next to their phone number.”
He almost sat down beside her, but it was as if she’d erected a force field around herself. Her own boardroom façade. Instead, he went into the kitchen and phoned in the order.
“Is Quan on delivery tonight?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Windsor. I’ll have him there within half an hour.”
He thanked her and picked up the glass of wine he’d left on the counter. Kelli had moved the blanket and pillow he had used last night to the center of the couch and it sat between them like a barrier. Almost grateful for the distance it created, he sat at the opposite end.
“I need to review some papers for work,” he said.
“No problem. I’m sorry I made you miss half a day at the office.” She buried her nose in the wineglass.
He shoved the blanket and pillow to the floor. “Listen to me, Kelli. You did not make me do anything. Everything that happened—I wanted it. And I’m sure you did, too. Look me in the eye and tell me if I’m wrong.”
Her eyes flashed. “Yes, I wanted it. And it’s been pretty obvious you wanted it. But that doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do. I had something to prove. To myself. We had a great time.”
“Kelli—”
“It’s over, it’s done. No regrets, okay?” Her chin was lifted, her gaze steady. “Since you said Hollingsworth wasn’t behind Scumbag, and he bought your story that I wasn’t Casey, I should leave. I can get a flight out tomorrow morning and go back to EnviroCon. I owe Stockbridge. Big-time.”
His stomach dropped six stories, but he ignored it and kept his tone neutral. “Is that what you want?”
“It’s what I have to do. I owe you a lot, too, Blake. Much bigger time. But I have to put my life back together. And you have your work. Go back and tell yourself you’re doing good deeds while you put money in Dwight Hollingsworth’s pocket.”
Her sarcastic tone surprised him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not every deal is as happy-ever-after as Phoenician Garden is it? Or do all your deals end up with everyone winning? Nobody ever loses?”
“Sweetheart, you’re not making sense.”
She waved a file folder in his face. “Whittaker Candies. Your next project. Have you looked at it?”
“Some, yes. Why?”
“Are these your notes?” She pointed to some hand-written notations.
“Yes again.”
“‘Reduce workforce by fifteen percent.’ With—let’s see—eighty-seven employees, that’s thirteen people out of jobs. People with families—kids to put through school, elderly parents to provide for. It doesn’t b
other you to put people out of work? You think if you call it fifteen percent, they’re not real?”
“Better thirteen people lose their jobs than all eighty-seven when the company goes belly-up.”
He pushed away the faceless individuals who haunted his dreams sometimes. When the good of the many meant hurting the few. Of the people there was no room for under a Hollingsworth takeover. He knew they existed, but refused to let them into his thoughts. Only rarely were they the people he’d meet at the conference table. When he toured a facility, he never allowed himself to connect names and faces with the employees.
Kelli went on. “Hollingsworth seems to get a decent cut. And I imagine your take isn’t too shabby, either. Supports your glitzy lifestyle where people bring food to your door. I wonder how many of those thirteen would have jobs if you did a little more compromising.”
“I told you what I did for a living. You didn’t seem to mind when I was saving your cute little ass.”
“Maybe I’m thinking more clearly now that my cute little ass isn’t on the line.” Her voice quavered and she stormed past him and around the corner.
This couldn’t be about thirteen people losing their jobs—maybe losing their jobs, because he’d barely had a chance to analyze the statistics. He heard the bathroom door slam and he sank to the couch. This was why he never stuck around. Sex made women crazy, analyzing everything afterwards. He thought about going after her and telling her how he felt about her. Right. He could hear her answer.