Do Not Disturb

by Christie Ridgway

  Then her hand moved, sliding down his bare back, around his ribs toward his chest. His mouth dried. He knew where she was heading. Tit for tat.

  He might have laughed at his own bad pun if he weren’t so afraid she’d have her way. Shifting his fingers across the lace of her top, he unfastened the first button.

  Thank God, once again she froze.

  That’s when he knew what he had to do. If she didn’t move, if he only touched her, he would survive this pleasure. Steadying his breath and ordering himself to think of England, he slowly began unfastening Angel’s buttons.

  She lay passively in his arms, her face flushed, her breathing shallow.

  “You’re so beautiful.” His voice was rough, unsteady. “Like an angel.”

  She smiled, then lifted her hand to his face. He caught it, kissed the fingertips, then placed it safely back at her side. “Let me,” he said to her. “Just be still and let me touch you.”

  He’d only managed to undo the buttons to the point below her breasts, but he couldn’t wait any longer. Pushing the lace edges apart, he created a gap that revealed the first rise of her breasts beneath a glossy pink bra.

  Lust beat like a fist inside his chest. Cooper sucked in a quick breath, beating back the sense of almost-panic. The overly rapid thrumming eased, and he lifted his hand to the bra’s front clasp.

  Where he fumbled.

  God, he never fumbled! But the fingers that had once—and, as far as he knew, still—held the dorm record for one-handedly unclasping twenty-five different bras in fifteen seconds were so unsteady that he couldn’t do the deed. Granted, the bras had been strapped to chairs instead of warm-skinned women, but he’d had plenty of opportunity to practice his technique in the flesh since that time.

  She started to squirm. “Cooper…”

  Hell, hell. There was a hint of trepidation in her voice and he didn’t want to stop now.

  “Cooper.” One of her hands rose to the edges of her blouse as if she wanted to draw it together. Her face flushed brighter, and he knew her embarrassment was about to ruin the mood.

  Damning his clumsiness, he blew out a calming breath and smoothed her protective arm away. Then he kissed her again and, giving up on the damn bra clasp, slid his hand between the open edges of her shirt to cup her bra-covered breast.

  She made a sweet little moan and Cooper glanced down. What a sight. Almost as much a turn-on as that sweet, warm weight in his palm was the vision of his heavy wrist disappearing inside her lacy clothes.

  His heart was pumping easily now and he decided it was because most of his blood was staying south. He was hard as stone and he went even harder as he rubbed his thumb over her stiff nipple.

  She made another little sound, but he didn’t look away from her lace-covered breasts. It was too good to see how she was trembling and to feel the fluttering of her heartbeat against his fingertips as he wandered toward the other breast. He weighed this one in his palm too, then stroked the side of his thumb back and forth to bring the nipple to a tighter, harder point.

  “Cooper,” she whispered.

  He glanced up, saw her nostrils flare and her tongue dart out to moisten her bottom lip.

  Watching her face, he lightly pinched her nipple. Her eyes closed.

  So he snuck up on her then, in a quick move pulling his hand away to put his mouth there, right over her clothes. Ignoring her little jolt of reaction, he wet the fabric with his tongue and felt her nipple go stiffer. His tongue flattened over it, getting the material wetter, until it was plastered against her skin. Then he took her breast into his mouth, pushing that sweet tight nipple to the roof of his mouth. Sucked.

  She bowed in his arms, her thighs shifting against his erection. The sweet, unconscious stroke made him suck stronger, made her shift again.

  But he couldn’t have her moving like that. No.

  Transferring his attention to her other breast, he circled the fabric over that nipple with his tongue. Like before, this new touch rendered Angel motionless. So he circled it again and again, feeling her tense as she anticipated that soft sucking she’d liked so much.

  When she was trembling with eagerness, he covered her breast with his mouth and bit down.

  She cried out.

  He lifted his head, pretended concern. “Did I hurt you?” He knew he hadn’t. He knew the cry had come out of pure pleasure.

  “No, I…” She shook her head, her hair floating away from her shoulders, then falling to settle over her half-buttoned blouse. “No.”

  “Then…” Keeping his smile to himself, he very deliberately brushed the back of his hand across one breast, moving the blond curls that were in his way. Then he stroked across the other, brushing her nipple with his knuckles. He heard her breath catch, and ran his knuckles by the nipple again. And again.

  “Cooper.” This whisper was agonized.

  He glanced up, reading the desire, the need, on her face. “Let me,” he said, suddenly knowing he couldn’t, wouldn’t stop unless she wanted him to. His original intention had been nothing more than high-school-level experimentation, but now he wanted to go beyond that.

  A last taste for himself. Relief for her.

  “Let me.” Without waiting for an answer, he bent his head to her breasts again.

  They smelled like her perfume, and even through the wet blouse and bra, they tasted sweet and warm. They fit perfectly in his mouth, and when he sucked them, the little sounds she released made him think he still served some purpose in the world.

  She made him feel like more than half the man that he’d been.

  Her body was vibrating, trembling with arousal. He tried to soothe her by stroking his hand down her thigh, but she flinched at the touch, her skin hypersensitive.

  “Cooper,” she whispered.

  He kissed the very tip of her nipple and he could feel her heart racing against his cheek. It was life in his hands, life under his control, and he knew, now, how very precious that was.

  “Cooper…” she said louder, putting a hand against her temple as if she were trying to pull herself together.

  Ah, but he was after making her fly apart.

  “Shh,” he said, kissing her mouth softly. “Don’t fight it.”

  He stroked down her leg again, ignoring another small jerk. He ignored the next, bigger jerk too, when he began to draw up the hem of her skirt. It was full enough to move easily along her thighs. To divert her attention, he kissed her mouth again, then ducked his hand beneath the ruched fabric to slide his fingers to the warm mound covered by silky material.

  His hand resting there, he kissed his way down her chin and throat to take her nipple in his mouth once more. Sucking strongly, he eased his fingers beneath the panties and cupped her. Her moan was long and sweet.

  She was hot. So wet that his fingers slid easily between the folds of her sex. Her clitoris was like her nipples—hard, and eager for his touch. He brushed his thumb across it once, and her body went rigid. Eyes squeezed tight, she was soundless now, totally focused on his hand.

  He brushed her lightly again, and then, in one deliberate coordination of movement, he slid his tongue over her nipple, he slid his thumb over her clitoris, he slid his two longest fingers inside her tight body.

  The moment stretched as her body bowed against his lap, went taut.

  He nudged her once more with his thumb, and her inner muscles clenched hard. Clenched hard again. Releasing her breast, he lifted his head to watch the climax roll through her, even as he felt every wave of it through his invading fingers.

  It was the most erotic, beautiful thing he’d ever seen. All that delicate blond prettiness splayed across his body, her clothes half-on, shoved up. But even more erotic, more beautiful was that, for a few moments at least, it was Cooper who was controlling every breath, every response, of a woman as complex and independent as Angel.

  God, he thought, amazed at the pleasure of giving pleasure. He could die at this moment and die happy.

  Even be
fore the aftershivers of pleasure had played out, Cooper had Angel’s hem back at her knees, her blouse rebuttoned, and her two feet flat on the ground. Swaying a little, she blinked down at him. “I…um…”

  She should say something, really she should. And as soon as she figured out exactly what that should be, she would. But no other man had ever managed to bring her to such a state and she was still befuddled by it.

  He unfolded stiffly from the seat, not quite meeting her eyes. “It’s late. I’ll walk you to your cottage.”

  She blinked some more, trying to reconcile his brisk tone with what had just happened on that bentwood chair.

  “Ready?” he asked politely. “It is getting late.”

  Since she assumed he didn’t have a curfew, she caught the clue and figured out their little interlude was going to end just like this. He didn’t want to come into her cottage tonight, much less into her bed.

  Good Lord. She didn’t know whether to feel rejected or relieved, but she’d been left out of pleasure enough times herself to know that he couldn’t be feeling very cheerful at the moment. So what was she supposed to do now, apologize?

  Ignoring the hot flush of embarrassment rushing over her face, Angel crossed her arms over her chest. Wasn’t this always the way of it? Though tonight the “before” hadn’t been half-bad—okay, it had been great—the “after,” as usual, sucked.

  “It isn’t fair,” she finally muttered.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced away. “It doesn’t always have to be fair.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I haven’t even gotten to that.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “I just hate all this.” Her hand waved to indicate him, her, the chair.

  “You hate to come?” he asked, his tone amused.

  Oh, curse him, Angel thought, narrowing her eyes. He’d decided to cover the clumsy moment by being cool. Cool and detached and amused.

  It only added a layer of irritation to her mood. “I hate after,” she clarified.

  “Well—”

  “What are you supposed to do, after? Can you tell me that?” She allowed righteous indignation to plow right over her discomfort. “I’ve read a thousand articles on how to get a man in bed, how to keep a man in bed, how to make a man breakfast in bed, but I’ve never read a word on how to gracefully pick up right where you left off with a man after…well…you know.”

  His eyebrows lifting, he rocked back on his heels. “Is that what you usually do? Try to pick up ‘right where you left off’ after you’ve had intercourse with a man?”

  Her jaw dropped in disbelief. How had she let this man, this man with the annoyingly calm voice and irritatingly superior expression, touch her? Was he really the one who, just minutes before, had one hand down her blouse and the other up her skirt?

  She pointed her finger at his chest. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me that assessing, amused look while asking me questions. That’s lawyer hoo-doo, and you’re using it to avoid this discussion.”

  “Angel—”

  “And then there’s that word. Intercourse.” She was on a roll now, and he wasn’t going to stop her. “What kind of word is that? It sounds like something cars travel along—you know, ‘take a left at the first intercourse’—not something a man and a woman do together. Which, by the way, we did not. Perhaps you’d care to elaborate on that, counselor.”

  Hah. Let him take the witness stand for a minute.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’re moving too fast for me.”

  “Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Let me slow it down for you, then.” She sucked in a breath. “The fact is, we didn’t—”

  “I don’t think we should go to bed together.”

  “Hey, I don’t recall favoring the idea either!” She tapped her toe, impatient with his maddening sangfroid and her just-as-maddening lack of it. “But see, well…the kissing was nice and then…and then…and now…”

  “Then? Now?”

  She threw up her hands. “Now I don’t know what to do or what to say.”

  “Why don’t you just say thank you?”

  At times like this it was hard not to believe that men were truly the inferior sex, Angel thought, staring at him and shaking her head. After thousands of years, they’d yet to figure out that reason and logic had no place under certain circumstances.

  “Look,” she said through her teeth. “I feel…I feel as if I’ve done you wrong.”

  “Come on, Angel, it’s not that big a deal.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he spun away from her. “Hasn’t any man ever done you right before?”

  That was such a good question—and on so many levels—that she should be laughing hysterically. But instead there was something about his abrupt about face that made her pause. That made her see there was a ruddy flush crawling up the back of his neck.

  She wasn’t the only one embarrassed.

  She wasn’t the only one who was wishing this awkward moment away.

  Well.

  “I think we should blame it on the eggplant,” she suddenly announced, walking over to Cooper to tuck her hand in his arm. She ignored his quick flinch and started strolling toward the door, tugging him with her. “I read all about it in last month’s issue of Vegetarian Times.”

  She peeped at him from beneath her lashes and saw the frown between his eyes ease.

  “Eggplant?” he echoed.

  “Eggplant.” Without a thought for the truth, she launched into an extensive, detailed account of how the purple properties of eggplant led people to do all sorts of out-of-character things. “It affects a person’s decision-making process,” she concluded, when they were outside her cottage. “The fact is, it’s the anti-garlic.”

  “The anti-garlic.”

  She waved a hand. “That’s right, anything good that garlic does, you know, like heighten the brain’s focus or whatever, eggplant un does.”

  “In some cultures garlic’s considered an aphrodisiac.”

  “Well, there you g—” Looking up, she broke off, her tongue tied by the half-smile on his face and the look of understanding in his eyes.

  His expression was so warm, so…honest that it almost had her begging to bring him inside. Angel Buchanan, nearly begging a man to join her in bed.

  What was wrong with her?

  He left before she came up with an answer.

  Only later did she fall upon something that satisfied her. Lying in bed, trying not to think of what she’d let Cooper do, she realized that it was the “letting” that had gotten her into trouble.

  Let me take care of you, he’d said.

  She knew better than to fall for that! A woman had to take care of herself, and take care not to give her heart.

  But the very fact that she had fallen for that line, and then that she had abdicated even a tiny, purely physical bit of herself to Cooper, made it all the more important that she finish up her interviews and get back to the city. Coupled with instant coffee, the eggplant—organic fare in general—was making her soft.

  Dangerously soft.

  The next morning, straight from the shower, Angel showed up at the Whitney house unannounced. “I want to finish my interviews ASAP,” she blurted out the instant Lainey opened the door. “I was hoping I could talk to Katie.”

  Lainey acted as if wet-haired women with urgent voices showed up on her porch every day. “Surely you’d like a cup of coffee first,” she said.

  Just like that, Angel found herself following the other woman into the kitchen, cursing her own frailties all the way. If she didn’t get back to the city, and soon, her self-command would be completely eroded. Not only did Cooper make her weak, but she couldn’t say no to Lainey’s coffee.

  The mug the woman handed her was filled with a dark brew that smelled of French-roasted, freshly ground beans. Angel liked Lainey’s coffee. She took a deep breath of its scent. Really, really liked it.

  One cup couldn’t destroy her
objectivity, could it?

  Telling herself to gulp it down and then get on with her job, Angel lifted the mug to her mouth. With it halfway there, she froze, gawking at Lainey.

  The other woman was warily approaching a cardboard box sitting on the kitchen table, a sharp knife in her raised hand.

  Angel set her mug on the countertop. “Shall I arm myself with a frying pan?”

  Lainey started. “What?”

  “You look as if you’re afraid of what’s inside that box,” Angel said, nodding at it.

  “Yes, well…” Lainey shrugged, then used the knife on the tape binding the cardboard flaps. “It’s from the licensing company. More of the Whitney merchandise.”

  Angel already knew of the licensing agreement, but Lainey’s odd manner aroused her curiosity. It only grew stronger as the widow reluctantly peeled back the box’s flaps and then, taking a deep breath, looked inside.

  “Well?” Angel asked.

  Flicking her a glance, Lainey drew from the box a cardboard, accordion-style car windshield visor. As she slowly unfolded it, a colorful, typical Whitney image was revealed—a drive-in movie theater at dusk, circa 1950s.

  Angel tilted her head. There was something part Norman Rockwell, part Andy Warhol about the artist’s work. Every one of the old-fashioned, sentimental scenes were as brightly colored and as marketing savvy as a soup can.

  Lainey set the item on the table and reached inside again, this time bringing out a bundled trio of small, shaggy rugs, all three printed with the same bucolic washbowl and pitcher filled with wildflowers. It took a moment for Angel to discern that while two were indeed rugs, the third of the set was actually the furry cover for a toilet seat.

  “Oh, Stephen,” Lainey whispered helplessly.

  Angel shook her head. The “Artist of the Heart’s” latest endeavors were going to give the art critics—who unanimously abhorred the Whitney paintings—a field day.

  “A chance to get in their potshots,” she murmured to herself, as she watched Lainey unfold one of the matching rugs.