by Robyn Grady
CHAPTER EIGHT
RELISHING the startled look on Phoebe’s face, Pace focused his energy on snapping what remained of his silk chain. Adrenaline pumping, he stored some oxygen, clenched his teeth and pulled.
His hands flew forward and apart. Continuing the movement, he looped his arms over Phoebe’s head. After she’d wriggled her arm free from under his back he tugged her relentlessly close, openly smiling at her wide-eyed surprise. He hadn’t spoilt her fun. He’d merely spiced it up.
“You’d like to say something?” he asked.
Phoebe barely managed a squeak. With an exaggerated hug that flattened her chest snug against his, he glanced around the room, as if they were a couple about to christen their new home.
“Yes, indeed.” He exhaled heartily. “This sure is cosy.”
He heard her swallow. “Pace…you can let me up now.”
He grinned. Not a chance.
Seemed she’d decided to go through with taking care of her wish list after all. Oh, she’d had him fuddled for a while, not knowing if he were coming or going, when she’d teased him under that tree and then later in the doorway. But there was no misunderstanding this time. With this scintillating bump and grind routine she’d let him know precisely what she had in mind, and he would do everything within his power to help her out.
But when he angled up to kiss her again she broke free and scrambled off the couch. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to catch her runaway breath. Beneath the black lace bra her nipples called to him, dark and deliciously beaded.
“This isn’t…isn’t what I planned,” she panted.
He sent her a lopsided grin. “Nothing beats a good surprise.”
He slid to his feet and moved towards her with an intentionally predatory gait. He didn’t give her time to think or back out. He brought her into the merciless circle of his arms and kissed her—hard, without apology—precisely the way she wanted him.
The moment his mouth took hers, she surrendered, quivering delectably against him. Several heady heartbeats later she rose up on her toes and returned his passion, stroke for blessed stroke. Her tongue parried with his as her fingers drew up over his shoulders, up through his hair. With her breasts pushed against his chest, he felt her heart beating a million to one.
Her skin felt on fire…her back, waist, the amazing curve of her hips. Without breaking mouth-to-mouth contact, Pace scooped her up off the floor and into his arms, then moved a few blind steps to the rug. There he carefully laid her down and then, taking a moment, drew slightly away.
The rug was a snowy aura surrounding her gloriously tight body. Her smile was dreamy and her eyes were dark, slumberous and wanting. When she reached to trace the line bracketing his mouth, he pressed his lips to her palm and buried his face in the sweet berry fragrance of her hair.
A pulse drummed at the side of her throat. His lips brushed its fluttering beat, and that drugging sensation heightened, driving white-hot flames through his blood. He needed to touch her—everywhere and all at once. He wanted to take her to the ultimate, unbearable brink and have her teeter there for as long as humanly possible. More than anything he wanted to show her how good it could be.
What making love was all about.
He manoeuvred out of his jeans, his shirt, then joined her again, lying front to front. She at once coiled a silky thigh over his hip. When her hand found his erection, as if waving a wand she turned solid rock into a span of high-tensile steel. In the fireglow he slipped down one bra strap, his touch sculpting down to expose her breast. After his thumb grazed and teased its tip, he lowered his head and drew her deep into his mouth.
With his tongue circling the peak, he groaned out his pleasure while Phoebe gripped his shoulder and snatched in a lung full of air. When his tongue flicked back and forth, then circled again, she arched against him, holding on with an intensity that ended with beads of sweat breaking free at his every pore.
Amazing that through that heavy haze of arousal he remembered to be responsible. Feeling around, he found his discarded jeans and a condom in the back pocket. Shifting his mouth from one breast to the perfect other, he extracted the rubber and rolled the protection on. Then he moved back up to meet her mouth, kissing her with an incontestable force as his fingers slid down her flat tummy, beneath her panties, and through the satin tangle at the apex of her thighs. When she shuddered out a rapt sigh, his touch slid further and curled inside.
His erection shuddered and hardened more.
She was so warm and wet and gloriously ready.
His blood on fire, he snatched several hungry kisses from her lips, her chin, then pressed his hips in against hers, imagining the moment of ecstasy when her inner walls would contract around more than his finger. His breath laboured, he tasted a seductive line down the curve of her throat while adjusting his stroke to draw a moist, slow circle around the nub at the top of her sex. She shivered violently. He grinned against her throat and circled again.
When her pelvis began to rotate against the movements of his hand, fresh dampness broke down the line of his back. His throat thick with want, he dragged her lace panties down to the knee, then whipped them completely off. His mouth found her breast again and he matched the rhythm of his swirling tongue with his concentrated caressing down below. When he applied a slip more pressure to both place, her body jerked up, lifting higher…higher…before she tensed.
He felt every string in her body stretched tight. Sensed her every fibre on the brink and aching for release. Gently he tugged at her nipple with his teeth and lightly pinched her most sensitive spot, then pinched and tugged a little harder…a little faster. When he drew the bud of her breast deeply into his mouth she gasped, grabbed his head and his hand and, groaning out his name, held on tight.
Pressing up, she convulsed countless sublime times. Every muscle braced, he held on to her, caressing her, murmuring her name as she rocked against him, gripping the rug with one hand and his arm with the other. Still in the throes, she rolled her head from one side to the other as the waves washed on.
Gradually the tremors ebbed. Her sighs were long and satisfied, and as she dragged the damp hair from her brow and floated down from her rise Pace eased himself over and on top. He murmured against the shell of her ear and pushed carefully, needfully inside. As his length filled her a hot rush of pleasure swept over his skin and a barrage of burning arrows shot to his groin. She felt so soft and tight and infinitely feminine.
Losing himself to sensation, he closed his eyes and curled his arms around her head. Nuzzling against her temple, he worked his way in and blissfully out, repeating the action until the rhythm left his mind exquisitely blank to anything other than her body joined with his.
Groaning low in his throat, he held her closer.
All he could think of…all he wanted…was Phoebe.
Her nails trailed up the sides of his back, leaving tracks of goosebumps as they curved around his shoulders, then clawed lightly like a kneading kitten at his chest. When he set his teeth and thrust in to the hilt she arced up, drinking from his lips while he kissed her back, heart and soul. He gripped her hip, fastened her calf over his thigh, then thrust again and again until his scalp tingled and the urge to unload was more powerful and wild than a stampede of stallions.
She whispered in his ear, dug her heel into his thigh. Her parted lips traced up his damp throat, and as her hot breath teased his skin her teeth grazed and nipped his jaw.
Enough.
An almighty thunderbolt cracked. He clenched down, cupped her face, and kissed her mindlessly while he spasmed and found his own sweet release.
Early the next morning Phoebe woke with a start and a thrilling flash from the night before. She remembered lovemaking that had gone on into the early hours. She remembered tender words and the thrilling way Pace had brought her to climax again and again. Now all she wanted was to relive those wild, mindless moments. Tingling all over, dying to see his face, she carefully rolled onto her side.
Before they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms Pace had recovered from her loft a quilt and pillows. Asleep beside her, now Pace began to stir. Quietly propping up on an elbow she drank in his profile—sweeping dark lashes, strong straight nose, that full bottom lip she’d kissed and kissed but could never get enough of. That inky-black hair and bronzed super-toned body…
At this moment, asleep, Pace was more dazzling and desirable than he’d ever been before.
The fireplace was a bed of cold ash where earlier it had burned like a veritable inferno. Never in her life had she known a more consuming heat. Never had she enjoyed a more feverish time. Making love to Pace was everything she’d hoped it would be. Everything and more.
After all the angst and doubt she’d finally discovered it was true. Multiple fireworks could explode when a woman made love with the right man. Not just fireworks. The entire world had ceased to exist. She wouldn’t have cared if plum-sized diamonds had begun to fall from the sky. What she and Pace had shared last night was all-consuming. So strong, so intense, the sensations and emotions he’d brought out in her were the most achingly beautiful she’d ever known.
Now the workings of her body hummed and heated anew, begging her to be selfish, to reach out and touch him…wake him. As her gaze roamed his bare shoulder and strong corded arm, her lips burned to brush the hollow of his throat and kiss a slow, blissful line from his chest to the ridges of his exposed six-pack.
She wanted him to fill her again so badly she felt faintly woozy with the need. With him she’d felt confident, beautiful, desirable and…
Secure.
Pace sucked in a rousing breath and stretched one strong arm high above his head. His eyes blinked open, his brow furrowed at his surrounds, then recognition sparked in his eyes and he tipped towards her. His smile illuminated the room more brightly than any morning light. With a playful sexy growl, he leaned close and nipped her ear.
“Morning, gorgeous.” He circled the lobe with his tongue, then blew gently, and a wondrous awakening shiver shimmied through her. “Did you sleep well?”
“I know you did.” Cocooned in a warm sense of belonging, she burrowed in and wrapped herself around all that marvellous masculine heat. “I don’t think you moved all night.”
His lips grazed her brow. “After the third time you’d exhausted me.” He dragged her up against him, closer and higher, until their noses and foreheads touched. “But I’m all rested now.”
Sighing, Phoebe fell into the practised magic of his kiss—a gift that was predominantly natural but to some extent must also be acquired. His skill in the bedroom was an art form. He might try to play down his obvious fascination with women—and their fascination with him—but she wasn’t fooled. Heaven knew how many times he’d been in just this situation, in bed with someone he’d met less than a handful of times, immeasurably pleased with how successfully he’d brought her to life with his finesse.
Deep into the kiss, her eyes closed, Phoebe had no regrets. She’d set out to play with fire last night and she’d enjoyed every minute. But after today she needed to leave those flames behind. She’d proved what she’d set out to prove, but she didn’t intend to make a habit of it. Pace Davis would be way too easy to fall in love with, and more than common sense said he wasn’t the kind to reciprocate.
Men who could play the field so effortlessly—with such dedication and relish—normally kept their hearts. It went with the bad boy territory. Now that he’d accomplished what he’d set out to achieve—now that he’d bedded her all through the night—she’d bet that he’d quit the chase and move on quickly enough. It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have a string of women wanting to take her place.
But when his mouth continued to lay its claim over hers Phoebe didn’t resist. She had no intention of making these last hours together anything but unforgettable.
Right Now wasn’t over just yet.
CHAPTER NINE
“ROSES.” Sam Campbell smacked a spanner into Pace’s outstretched hand, planted the seat of his navy blue overalls on a nearby workhorse and stated, “Women love roses.”
Pace manoeuvred his head out from beneath the hood of the classic Mercedes that he’d worked on the best part of the day. Stretching his back, he gave Sam’s suggestion some serious thought.
Was it that simple? A dozen roses and the wall Phoebe had erected between them this past week would crumple and disappear into the sunshine?
Sam knew Pace better than anyone. They’d done college together, had white-water rafted a few times and jumped out of planes on occasion. Every Tuesday they played pool at Pitt Street. Pace trusted this man with his life, and had trusted him today with the story of his rollercoaster weekend with the delectable, frustrating as hell Phoebe Moore.
He’d explained how that Saturday at Tyler’s Stream had gone from promising to dead to electrifying in a matter of hours. The night they’d spent together had been beyond compare—he believed for both of them. When he and Phoebe had driven back to Sydney they’d stopped at Brodricks and swapped the Aston for her contracted BMW, which had arrived. Then he’d kissed her goodbye and, waving, she’d driven off. From that time to this, other than one bizarre phone conversation when she’d told him that she was busy over the next few days and would call when she had more time, Phoebe had refused to pick up and speak to him.
He was confused, certainly. Annoyed? You bet. The time for playing those kind of you-can’t-catch-me games was long over.
“I fronted up at the television studios,” he told Sam, weighing his wrench in his hand. “But she never seems to be there. And they didn’t record her show the Saturday just past. I’ve even knocked on her apartment door.” Perhaps louder than he should have. That old bat Mrs G had popped her jet-rinse head out through her door and grumbled that her young neighbour was away visiting friends.
Pace swiped his brow with the back of his forearm.
Was Phoebe embarrassed that she’d let herself go with him so completely? She needn’t be. What they’d shared had not only been better than sensational, it had been inevitable. He’d told her as much. Inevitable, and far from over.
Cursing, he dropped the wrench into the toolbox.
What was she playing at? Did she want him to do loops chasing her? Did she think he’d give up?
“I’m no expert on the workings of a woman’s mind,” Sam announced, unwrapping his ham and cheese on rye, “but maybe she’s hanging out for more.”
“Hanging out for what?”
Sam shrugged. “A proposal?”
Pace’s blood stopped flowing, then he hacked out a raucous laugh. “Who mentioned marriage?”
The office trainee was striding into the garage. His teenage shoulders pinned back, he handed Pace a memo. His mind still on Phoebe, Pace accepted the note and absently thanked the kid.
“I don’t want to marry her,” Pace announced, scrunching the memo in his hand. “I just want to talk to her.”
“Talk?” With a wry grin, Sam bit into his sandwich and chewed. “Uh-huh.”
Pace gave his friend a look, then remembered the memo and flicked open the crumpled page.
From: Nick Brodrick
Pace, due to cutbacks, regrettably the penthouse in Darling Harbour will no longer be available for your personal use. It’s been decided that the facility will be—
When Pace growled and screwed the paper into a tight wad, Sam asked, “What’s up?”
“My brother trying to box me in yet again.”
Would it always be like this? A continual battle? One brother trying to upstage the other? Sometimes he thought it might be better to simply walk away and leave Nick to his spoils. He’d thank God every day for not having to see Nick’s face and be reminded of the final tip of the scales that had cast him out and hoisted Nick Junior into the top chair.
But bowing out wasn’t an option. This company was a part of him. Nick would never throw in the towel either. The brothers had always duelled and would continue to do
so, Pace feared, until one of them fell and couldn’t get back up.
But he wouldn’t waste any more brain cells on that battle today.
His brow furrowed, he lobbed the paper ball from one hand to the other as he paced to the far side of the garage and back.
“This thing with Phoebe is doing my head in,” he admitted. And he wasn’t completely certain why. If he boiled it all down, Phoebe was just another woman. There were lots of women in the world. In this city, for that matter. Women who wouldn’t give him this kind of runaround.
He over-armed the paper ball and it landed in the bin. “If I was smart I’d forget her.”
Sam brushed his hands free of crumbs. “But you can’t?”
Exhaling, Pace sank down heavily beside his friend. “Right.”
“Ever consider the possibility that you might have fallen in love?”
“Fallen in—” Shaking his head, Pace strode back to peer, unseeing, into the engine cavity, his hands clenched either side of the grille. “That’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said.”
Sam sounded reflective. “I haven’t been in love since sixth grade, when Kelly McCormick held me down behind the gymnasium and gave me the biggest, sweetest snog I’ve ever received. For a ten-year-old, Kelly sure could kiss.”
His jaw tight, Pace kept his nose near the oil stick. “Nice story. But I’m not looking to swim the English Channel, Sam. I just want to splash around and enjoy the water.”
Admittedly, that water was damn fine. To date, the finest.
He’d never forget the way his body had simmered with unrefined need when Phoebe had danced and dipped for him that night. Thinking about her warm tongue delving around in his mouth, flicking over his skin, sent the constant tightening in his loins into overdrive.
Straightening, he cleared his throat and eased down the Merc’s hood.
“Phoebe and I are beyond compatible in the bedroom,” he confessed. “But no one said anything about love.”