by Lori Foster
Her head cracked into the door as his mouth slid down her throat to her chest. Buttons popped as he ripped her dress open, and she moaned at the hot, wet kisses he trailed down to her breast. Her already puckered nipples tightened even more when he nuzzled the scalloped edge of her bra and then suckled her through the lacy material.
She ran her fingers through his hair and arched into his touch. Mac continued to tear open her dress, washing her body in cool air until he pressed against her, blocking out everything but his heat, his scent, the delicious friction of cotton and leather and denim on bare skin. He pressed the hard bulge of his erection into the notch between her legs, and suddenly she wanted him—needed him—as naked as she.
Shoving at his jacket, she wrangled it down his arms until he was forced to lower his hands from her waist to shrug it off. His shirt followed, her nails raking the firm planes of his abdomen and chest as she pushed the fabric up and over his head.
He growled in her ear, leaving biting, sucking little marks all along her skin while he allowed her to undress him. His own hands were busy stroking up and down. Her midriff, her thighs, the undersides of her breasts. Everywhere he could reach, his rough palms grazed her, set her on fire.
She fumbled with his belt buckle and then the snap of his jeans. He tugged and yanked at her panties. As soon as he had them down and off one leg, he pushed her hands aside and finished unzipping his pants.
He didn’t bother taking them all the way off but shoved them down just enough to free himself. Then he was lifting her, wrapping her legs around his waist, and driving into her.
A single long, hard thrust buried him deep and forced a gasp from her lungs. She hadn’t been with a man in years, not since before the accident—and a while before, at that. Partly because of the burns, she supposed. They’d made her self-conscious about her body, insecure about the one thing she’d always had the utmost confidence in.
More so in the beginning than now, which was why she was so determined to get back into modeling. To prove to herself—and the world—that she was still beautiful, still worthy of admiration. And to show other women and young girls that just because you weren’t perfect, just because you had a few physical flaws, didn’t mean you covered yourself up or hid yourself away. You picked yourself up, held your head high, and made the world meet you on your terms.
The other reason she hadn’t taken a lover was frankly because no one had appealed to her in the months since she’d been released from physical therapy and returned to her (almost) normal life. But Mac appealed. Oh, did he ever.
And the length of time since her last sexual encounter didn’t seem to matter to her body or her mind. She was so aroused, so hot and wet for this man that he slid right in, filling her in a way that made her feel whole, complete.
Hooking her arms around his neck, she tugged him in for a soul-stealing kiss. He groaned as his tongue tangled with hers, sweeping inside her mouth to tease, to taunt, to drive her crazy.
His fingers flexed on the soft curve of her hip, and she tightened her grip on him. She couldn’t pull him any closer, but she also wasn’t letting him get away.
“You feel so good,” he murmured against her lips.
“Mmm.” It was the best she could do to voice her agreement.
“You never should have come here,” he told her, pulling out a few scant inches before sliding back into place. “I was doing fine before you came.” Out again. “And now …” In again. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.”
Each time he pulled back, the sensations caused her to take a deep, shuddering breath. Then when he slid in again, she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.
She hoped he was right about never getting enough, because she wasn’t sure she ever would either. She could easily imagine dying a happy woman if she could make love like this with Mac every day of her life.
His mouth sucked tiny love bites on the side of her throat and she purred, actually purred, while she rubbed her breasts along his chest and dug her nails into his shoulders like a cat kneading for cream.
“Mac,” she whimpered, “stop teasing me.”
“Not teasing,” he responded, nostrils flaring. “Just trying to make it last.”
“Don’t need it to last. Need it now. Hard, fast, now, Mac.”
Before the words were even out of her mouth, he’d hitched her up another inch around his waist, his fingers digging into her hips, her thighs. Her back and head cracked against the flat panel of the door, rattling it on its hinges, but she barely felt the impact. Wouldn’t have cared if she had.
All she felt was Mac. All she cared about was having him inside her, hot and hard and pounding to oblivion.
And he gave her exactly what she wished for. No more words, no more soft touches or unnecessary foreplay.
His mouth captured hers. One hand came up to clutch her breast and tease the nipple. Then he was thrusting, driving into her again and again, harder and faster, just as she’d begged. Demanded.
She didn’t have a lot of room to move, but neither could she resist canting her hips, lifting and falling to meet him as he pounded her like a drum.
Thank God.
Mouths parting, they both gasped for air. Sophie’s blood felt as though it was about to boil out of her body. Her skin tingled as if she’d touched a live wire, and the sensations building between her legs and low in her belly made her want to moan and whimper and scream all at once.
“Sophie,” he grit out, nipping at a muscle in her throat and following its taut line to her bare shoulder. “Sophie, Sophie, Sophie.”
His rough grating of her name punctuated each of his hard thrusts, knocking her into the door over and over, and all she could think was yes, yes, yes.
Her lips parted and the words slipped out. “Yes, yes, yes. Mac!”
She cried out as the orgasm ripped through her. Powerful, intense, shooting through her body like a falling star, ricocheting off every bone and internal organ until she was nothing but an oozing mass of liquid goo.
While her head was still spinning and small aftershocks were still rippling up and down her spine, Mac continued to drive into her. Once, twice more. And then he, too, gave a shout of completion, stiffening as he spilled inside her.
six
Sophie tried not to laugh as Mac moved around in front of her. First on the right, then the left. One minute standing, the next hunkered down on the balls of his feet.
She hadn’t seen him this animated, this energized, in years. At least not without the assistance of drugs or alcohol.
And though she was used to being naked in front of photographers, she wasn’t used to her photographers being naked in front of her. Which is why she was having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“Watch your expression,” he chastised, not for the first time. “We’re going for sexy and ethereal here, not happy and ready for anything.”
“That would be easier if you’d put some pants on,” she told him.
He looked down, as though he’d forgotten he was flapping in the breeze. Then he shrugged, uncaring, and went back to work.
After collapsing to the floor in a heap, boneless from their bout of lovemaking up against the back studio door, they’d crawled their way unceremoniously to the small, brown velvet sofa on the opposite side of the room. Mac had taken the bottom while she’d sprawled on top of him, and they’d lain there for what seemed like forever, giving the depleted cells of their bodies a chance to recover. Then they’d gone at it again—not quite as hot and heavy as the first time, but still steamy enough to leave Sophie once again drained and gasping for breath.
When Mac had begun to recover the second time, he’d decided they should start shooting photos for her portfolio. She’d laughed at his announcement, certain he was joking.
He wasn’t.
He’d climbed to his feet, naked as a jaybird, and started setting up his equipment. Thank goodness the front of his studio was dark, the blinds drawn—otherwise any
one passing by on the sidewalk might have seen Mac dragging her off the couch and positioning her in front of his camera Lady Godiva-style, right where he wanted her.
She’d argued with him, protesting that she wasn’t ready to be photographed, especially not for something so important. And that she needed a better wardrobe than her now-torn dress for a fully rounded shoot. She needed a bikini, a little black dress, a long, flowing gown. Because though the idea behind the new portfolio was to get modeling agencies and fashion designers to accept her with her scars, it wasn’t about flaunting them or leading people to believe that she couldn’t model unless she was showing them off.
And last but not least, she needed to do her hair and makeup, sure that both were a disaster after having Mac’s hands and mouth all over her. Her portfolio should convey a number of different looks, a number of different hair styles and makeup jobs, not simply “rumpled” and “thoroughly ravished.”
But he hadn’t listened. He’d been determined to snap some pictures and wasn’t taking no for an answer. And since it had been so long since she’d seen him this way, seen him so enthusiastic and passionate about his work, she hadn’t had the heart to refuse.
He had her sit on the floor, legs crossed at peculiar angles, head tilted, her floral dress draped strategically to look like simply an extraneous bolt of fabric. Then he pulled her up and had her stand completely nude, hands crossed and covering her breasts. Every other inch of skin, including the full extent of the burn scars, was completely visible and captured forever on film.
Then, surprising her, Mac set up his tripod and connected his camera to a timer. He pulled his jeans on, leaving the top button loose before joining her and snapping shots of the two of them together.
His hands on her body, his bare chest against her back, sent heat spiraling through her. And imagining how the photos would turn out—sexy, sensual, hinting that they were more than just old friends or impulsive lovers—made her stomach dip nervously.
Was there more to their relationship than casual sex or a favor between friends?
Did she want there to be?
She didn’t have an answer, and before she was forced to think about it too long, Mac’s hands began to wander, intent on more than producing a seductive pose for a photograph no one else would ever see. Leaning into him, she let him distract her, let him ease her to the floor, impromptu photo shoot forgotten.
Which was fine with her. As strong as her feelings were for Mac, she didn’t know where this was going or how he felt about her. She would rather keep things light, enjoying the moment and whatever time she had with him.
The rest, as the saying went, would take care of itself.
TWO weeks later, Sophie’s portfolio was complete and she was ready to return to New York. She’d spent much longer in Summervale than she’d planned … longer with Mac, both in bed and out … with only a couple of short trips back to the city for wardrobe changes and other items needed for the shoots.
But the moment of truth had arrived. Her portfolio was strong. The pictures Mac had taken were incredible, if she did say so herself. It wasn’t even that she was blindingly beautiful or exceptional in any way, but that he was amazing behind the camera. She suspected he could shoot a can of pork and beans and have it come out looking like a movie star.
And even though her scars were readily visible in nearly every photo, Mac had made them look good. A part of her, he’d made them look almost like a work of art splayed haphazardly across her body.
That didn’t mean agents or designers would be accepting of the injury and shower her with contract offers, but it was the very best she ever could have hoped for.
They stood on the sidewalk now, in front of his studio, hands clasped, faces long with regret.
“You could come with me, you know,” she suggested, reluctant to let go, walk to her rental car, and leave him and this small town that had grown on her over the past weeks. “See old friends, keep me company while I make the rounds. Hold my hand and distract me while I wait for the phone to ring.” She wiggled her brows, letting him know exactly what she was envisioning as a distraction.
One corner of his mouth twitched even as he gave his head a small shake. “My answer is the same as the last fifteen times you mentioned it—no. I can’t risk it, Soph. I had to leave that place and that life behind along with the drugs and alcohol.”
She leaned forward, pressing herself close to the long, hard planes of his tall, lanky frame. “You’re better than that,” she told him. “Stronger than you think. Nobody in that world made you do anything, you just got wrapped up in the fast and crazy lifestyle. And I firmly believe that if you don’t want to go back to it, you won’t, and no one you meet along the way can make you.”
He lowered his head, resting his brow against hers. “You’re good for me, you know that?” he murmured in a low, heartfelt tone. “You have more faith in me than I have in myself, but I’m glad you came. I needed this.”
So had she, more than she’d realized when she’d first driven into town.
“Guess this means I’ll be making a lot of trips to this little ’burb. When I’m not jetting off to Jamaica or Paris for million-dollar photo shoots, that is,” she added with a hopeful half grin. Hopeful that she really would be flying off to places exotic or otherwise as a working model. But more that he wouldn’t shoot down her hint that she’d like to continue their relationship, long-distance, if necessary.
Holding her breath, she waited, wondering how he would respond.
Lifting a hand, he brushed his fingers through her hair, tucking a strand behind one ear. “You know where to find me,” he said simply.
As commitments went, it wasn’t exactly a marriage proposal, but she would take it. Mac was too special, and she found herself too wrapped up in him to walk away without a backward glance.
“You’d better get going,” Mac offered gently. Lowering his head, he pressed a long, soft kiss to her lips before leading her to her car and seeing her safely inside.
He stood on the curb while she drove away, and she watched him in the rearview mirror every minute until he disappeared from sight.
seven
A month had passed since she’d driven away from Summervale. Away from Mac. And though things were going well for her, she’d missed him every second of every minute of every day.
So much so that she was rethinking her decision to pursue getting back into the modeling business. It was what she knew, what she’d always done before the accident, and what she’d thought she wanted more than anything, fighting her way back from her injuries just so she could return to work doing what she did best.
But now … If Mac wouldn’t come to New York and she was busy with shoots and fashion shows all over the country, as well as internationally, when would they see each other? How often could they truly expect to be together?
Not very often, she admitted with a sad sigh.
Maybe it was better to give up the idea of modeling. After the fire, everyone had assumed her career was over anyway.
And what would be so wrong with moving to a small town in Pennsylvania and finding a job she enjoyed? Dating a man who made her elbows sweat and who she was pretty sure might be The One. Maybe one day marrying that man and starting a family.
When she thought of it in those terms, she wasn’t sure getting back into modeling held a candle to the rest.
The only problem was, she currently had her toes dipped firmly back into the modeling world, which made the decision a much finer wire to have to cross.
Stepping through the lobby doors of the tall office building in the middle of Manhattan, she stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and wondered what she should do.
Instinct drove her to dig her cell phone out of her bag and dial Mac. For better or worse, she was brimming with excitement and happiness, and couldn’t think of anyone else she was as eager to share her news with.
Moving down the street in the direction of her loft apartment buildi
ng, she listened to the rings and waited for him to pick up. When he did, with a simple hello, the very sound of his voice sent skitters of awareness and longing dancing down her spine.
“Hey,” she said, her tone low even as she had to raise her voice to be heard over the loud background city noises around her.
“Hey,” he said back, and she couldn’t tell if he was happy to hear from her or not.
Because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, she blurted out, “I’ve got some news.”
“Yeah?”
“Pulse Model Management just offered me a contract. They loved your photos and said my burns may actually be an asset to some designers and in some arenas. But even if they’re not, they’re easy enough to cover.”
“Way to go. Congratulations, Soph, you deserve it.”
He sounded genuinely pleased for her, and warmth burst in her chest, spreading outward. She smiled, adding a little bounce to her steps.
“So what are you up to?” she asked, wishing she had the nerve to ask if he missed her … if he would reconsider his decision never to visit the city again … if there was any way for her to slip away this weekend to visit him …
“Oh, nothing much. Hangin’ out with a few friends.” A horn honked and the blast seemed to echo through the phone line. “Thinking about you,” he added softly.
The earlier warmth of contentment that had filled her chest heated by several degrees and moved lower, into her belly and between her legs.
“Really?” Geez, could she sound any more like a pathetic high schooler?
“Sure. Your silky blond hair, your ruby lips, the way you fill out that sexy red raincoat.”
She chuckled, imagining his spiky, even blonder hair … the way he filled out a pair of faded blue jeans … the mouthwatering sight of his smooth bare chest …
“Hey, wait a minute.” Her footsteps faltered as she frowned into the mouthpiece of her phone and glanced down at herself. “How do you know I’m wearing a red raincoat?”
How did he even know she owned one? She hadn’t had it with her while she’d stayed with him last month.