But he was that guy now.
“Hey, hold that elevator!”
He pushed out of the crowd and jogged across the lobby just as Erica stepped inside, ticking off last-minute instructions to a woman he assumed worked for her. The woman, a striking redhead dressed in an outfit that reminded him of black-and-white movies starring Humphrey Bogart, jumped out of his way with a start.
“Going up?” she asked.
He used every ounce of self-control not to grab her by the hips and pull her hard against him to show her just how up he was going.
“Most definitely.”
They managed to keep their hands to themselves until after the elevator door closed. Once they were locked away for the fifteen-floor climb to her floor, however, all bets were off. Rip kissed her hard, wrapping his arms tightly around her in a burst of possessiveness that was entirely new to him—and completely addictive.
“Where’d you disappear to?” she asked as he drew a line from her earlobe to the hollow of her neck with his tongue.
“Had to…park…the bike.”
She cut into his explanation with moans and coos that spawned his need to get her into her room faster than any elevator could take them. He spared a glance at the numbers. They were nearly there.
Laughing at their own impatience, they jogged down the hall hand in hand. He grabbed the key card from her back pocket, but had to swipe it in the reader twice to get it to work. He pushed his way inside and before the door had swung closed, had her braced against the wall, his mouth on hers. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the clatter of her helmet hitting the carpeted floor, the last sound he recognized before the rush of blood and the pounding of his heartbeat flooded his ears.
“Is this how you want our first time?” he asked, tearing off his jacket and then divesting her of her vest. “Hot? Hard? In the hall?”
“Yes, please,” she said, ripping his shirt over his head.
“Thank God.”
If not for the task of unlacing their riding boots, they would have been naked in seconds. For a split second, Rip thought about carrying Erica to the bed, but the idea flew out of his mind the minute she spun him up against the wall and dropped to her knees. His mind exploded as she cupped him, stroked him and then took him into her mouth.
The sensations tore him in two. His physical half surrendered to the burst of sensations. Her mouth. Her tongue. Her teeth. The slick, sliding pressure. The tight, humming heat. He tangled his hands into her hair and pressed his full weight against the wall.
The mental half—blinded and confused by the riot of pure pleasure—tried to balk. This was Erica. His Erica. Sweet Erica. Good Erica. Oh-so-good.
“Yes,” he muttered, along with an unintelligible string of words that might have made sense in another time and place, but now only sought to spur her deeper, tighter, harder.
When she pulled away with a gasp, he lifted her and swung her around so that they thudded against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her hot sex wet against his.
“I wasn’t…done,” she said.
He positioned his thighs and knees, needing just the right leverage to do this right. “Any more done and I wouldn’t be able to do this.”
He slid inside her. He gave a brief thought to the condom he kept in his wallet and stilled.
“Protection?” he asked.
“Pill,” she replied, shifting her hips so that he slid deeper inside her.
“I’m clean,” he assured.
“Then do me, Rip. Do me now. Please.”
With this plea, all conversation stopped—at least the conversation that existed outside of the language needed to heighten pure, intense pleasure to orgasmic peaks. Everything they said, everything they did, existed in a haze of lust and need and fire. She was tight and hot and loud. He was hard and concentrated and selfish. He wanted her to come and he wanted it now.
Now.
Now.
When she cried out in utter release, he drove harder and faster until his climax exploded through the last of his fantasies. Erica was no longer the good girl he shouldn’t touch—she was now the complicated woman he couldn’t wait to have again and again and again.
6
ERICA SCANNED THE GROWING crowd in the rooftop bar, her skin tingling and her knees a little weak. It had taken what was left of her strength—and there wasn’t much to spare—to force her out of the suite in time to give the party space a walk-through and make sure her assistant had not missed a single detail. Which, of course, she hadn’t.
But she’d needed the activity of checking to keep her escalating sexual energy from driving her mad. Her afternoon with Rip should have left her satisfied, exhausted and spent. Instead, her nerve endings prickled with renewed awareness. Their hot sex in the hall had only been the start. From there, they’d gone into the shower, where Rip skillfully introduced her to the pleasures of making love on a slick surface. Then, barely dry and scarcely sated, they’d tumbled under the bedcovers. Between the stiff cotton sheets, they’d talked, teased and tormented until the party’s start time approached and he’d left the suite to retrieve fresh clothes from the bags he’d left in his bike.
But no matter the music pulsing around her or the former classmates mingling in the open air of the rooftop bar, Erica couldn’t shake the memories of lying in bed with Rip, sharing secrets and suckling each other to orgasm. He’d coaxed her into confessing precisely where she liked to be touched and tasted, for how long and with how much pressure. He’d fulfilled her every desire—then introduced her to a few new tricks that had sent her soaring over a sharp edge that had sliced away what might have been left of the past.
They’d gone too far to think of each other in high school terms anymore. They’d shared too much for her to pigeon-hole her attraction to him as simple lust or naughty nostalgia. Her weekend fling was threatening to turn into something new, adult and terrifying. And yet, she couldn’t wait to find out where it would lead.
Aware that she was allowing her personal fantasies to get in the way of her job, Erica gave herself a shake. She took a few minutes to look over the hors d’oeuvres table, check in with the head waiter and consult the schedule. Then she joined a group of former cheerleaders drinking cosmopolitans and took a few minutes to catch up with them before greeting two classmates who’d once shared biology class with her and a former track star who had, not surprisingly, kept in incredible shape.
And through it all, she kept glancing at her watch. How long did it take a guy like Rip to throw on a pair of slacks and a shirt, comb his fingers through his luscious dark hair and stroll into the party like a returning hero?
No, not “like” a returning hero. He was a returning hero. In bed, he’d told her about his time in Afghanistan, about the foundation he ran for kids affected by crime, about his goal of drumming up some donations from his former classmates. Learning about who he was now had been fascinating and they’d only scratched the surface. He might have ridden out of town on a Harley, but who could have possibly expected him to come back as a man who was more exciting than he was before?
Just the thought of spending the rest of the night with him, first at the party and then later in her suite, spiked her body temperature. She gravitated to one of the oscillating fans placed strategically around the rooftop bar and lifted her hair to invite the breeze onto the back of her neck. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the breeze while Shaw’s band tripped through an instrumental version of the Kelly Clarkson hit that had been the theme of their prom.
“A Moment Like This.”
“Now that’s an invitation no man can resist,” she heard Rip mutter right before he kissed the exposed spot on the back of her neck.
Startled, she jumped. He braced his hands on her bare upper arms.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” she lied.
Suddenly, she was terrified. Of what people would think—of what she feared wo
uld happen now that she was no longer just Erica Holt, Goody Two-shoes, and he wasn’t only Rip Ripley, class scoundrel. It was one thing to enjoy the clash of differences in private. But in public? It was unthinkable.
And utterly, intensely invigorating.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I do that a lot around you.”
She turned her head. Lord, his eyes were mesmerizing. Clear and blue and dancing with possibilities she wanted to experience so badly, her mouth watered.
“But not from fear,” she clarified.
He spared the people around them a passing glance. “You don’t care about what everyone is going to gossip about when they see us standing so close?”
“No,” she said, meaning it—possibly for the first time in her life.
His grin was sin on a satin pillow—decadence with a dare. He was pulling her into a world she’d always wanted to live in…a world where she could do whatever she wanted simply because she wanted to.
“Want to dance?” she asked.
His gaze narrowed. “I don’t dance.”
“Oh,” she said, twisting so that their bodies were practically pressed together. Somewhere behind her, she heard an increase in chatter, but she ignored it. It was easy to do with Scott Ripley staring down at her with unfiltered hunger in his eyes. “Did I just find something you’re afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of stepping on your toes,” he replied.
“You haven’t seen the shoes I wear on a daily basis. Anyone who can pull off a four-and-a-half-inch-heeled Christian Louboutin platform pump for eight hours on a workday has feet of steel.”
Taking his hand, she led him to the dance floor. As she’d asked Shaw to play slower, softer tunes during the first hour of the cocktail party to facilitate conversation, she knew that he’d segue from the Kelly Clarkson tune to something just as rhythmic and cadenced, something just as conducive to holding each other close and gently swaying to the beat.
As the party had just started, no other couples had yet to get on the dance floor. And when they stepped onto the custom-built tiles Erica had leased for the night, the ground underneath them lit to a soft, sensual blue.
If anyone had not been watching them before, they were now.
* * *
AS RIP FOLDED ERICA into his arms, he felt every muscle in her body tense. Not from fear…from anticipation. They’d made love less than a handful of times, but he was already keying into her responses.
The way her breath caught when he snaked his hand onto the small of her back.
The way her nipples peaked against his chest.
The way she slid her tongue over lips that were moist with rich color just as her gaze darted to his mouth.
He hated that they were in public, not because he gave a damn about the chatter escalating around them. He just wanted to make love to her again.
“Now who’s the one shaking?” she asked, glancing up at him with those liquid silver eyes.
“Only because it’s taking all of my self-restraint not to grab your ass like I might have at the Susan Hawkins dance.”
She laughed. “That’s Sadie Hawkins, and I thought didn’t dance.”
“I don’t. But you’ve got me doing all sorts of things I’ve never done before.”
Her laugh was an explosion of doubt. “Like what?”
“Like wondering if we can slip behind that silk screen over there and get busy without anyone noticing.”
“How is that different from all the times you lured girls under the staircase at school?”
“At school, I never cared if anyone noticed.”
He spun her around, then braced his thighs to ensure that his attempt at distracting her didn’t make her tumble off her high heels. But like a pro, she remained steady in his arms, her body as in tune with his as it had been first in the hall, then the shower, then the bed.
Only they hadn’t made love in the bed, though he had gotten her off one last time. No man could lie around with a naked Erica Holt and not make sure she came undone. But now that he’d had time to recharge, he could think of nothing he wanted more than to carry her back up to her suite and finish what they’d started on a soft mattress. It was one thing to be inside her, but he wanted to be on top of her, covering her, enveloping her with every part of himself in a way they had not yet experienced.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
Stunned, he twirled her again, hoping to distract her question.
“I’m thinking this dancing stuff isn’t as hard as I thought.”
“I don’t know,” she said, glancing around. “It’s a little more difficult when everyone is watching.”
“Do you care?”
“No,” she answered. “It’s just weird. I mean, haven’t they ever seen two adults who are hot for each other before?”
“Not exactly like this,” he replied, “especially since you always put out that ‘do not touch me’ vibe in high school.”
“I did not put off that vibe,” she said, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “I had boyfriends.”
“Is that what you called them?”
“What else would I call them?”
“Future gay best friends,” he quipped. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
She slapped him again, but her eyes sparkled with laughter. “None of my boyfriends in high school turned out to be gay. And I would know. I’ve planned four gay weddings this year alone, two for people I knew from school. And besides, I’ve been engaged more than once. I do know how to put out the welcome mat to the right guy.”
“If they were the right guys, then why didn’t you marry any of them?”
“That’s a longer story than can be told during the course of one song.”
Only one song had already become two. And if he was lucky, three or four or five. Despite his lack of enthusiasm for the act of dancing, Rip had no desire to let her go. He tugged her just a little closer and maneuvered them over to the left, hoping another couple would join them, make them less conspicuous so he could drop his hands a little lower on her waist without causing a scandal that would light up the alumni association’s Facebook page.
“Well, unless you have a sudden desire for me to let you go, tell me your long story.”
“I’m more interested in the future.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and expectant. “And the present.”
If only lightening someone’s emotional baggage was that easy. He knew better.
“You can’t really move forward in life without understanding the choices you made in the past.”
She snickered. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Ripley?”
He cleared his throat and took a chance in attempting a twirl. It was more of a spin, but since they didn’t fall over, he considered the move a success.
“Actually, yes,” he answered. “That is my professional opinion. I am a licensed psychotherapist.”
Erica stopped dancing long enough to stare at him directly, as if she might spy a reflection of his degree in his eyes. She must have found what she was looking for because soon after, she eased back against his chest, first with her face away from him, then quickly shifting so that she could meet his gaze.
“I thought you ran a foundation.”
“I do,” he said. “But I worked with psychological services in Kabul before the end of my tour and that was my course of study once I got back. Does that freak you out?”
She snorted. “Of all the things about you, that’s the least likely to freak me out. I told you earlier. I’ve been to therapy. And what’s your professional opinion of me?”
“That you’re hot.”
“That’s your personal opinion,” she countered.
“No, actually, it’s an irrefutable fact.”
“And you think I was engaged three times but never made it down the aisle because—” She paused, leaving him room to fill in the blank.
He opted to take a different tack. “It’s
not uncommon for women to gravitate toward men who won’t consciously hurt them,” he assured her. “And it’s not a bad idea to pick the safe guys. They’re generally underrated. But clearly, the ones you picked didn’t meet your needs or you’d be married and dancing with one of them right now.”
“Maybe I didn’t meet their needs. You’re assuming I did all the leaving at the altar.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I had the decency to break things off before anyone had put down deposits or sent out ‘save the date’ cards.”
“But you did break all three hearts.”
“Maybe one,” she conceded, “but I didn’t mean to. Do we ever mean to break hearts?”
Their gazes locked and he saw the glimmer of a challenge in her eyes—as if she was still holding him accountable for the emotions left over from him cutting off their friendship. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t meant to hurt her—just the opposite. But he had hurt her—and if he wasn’t careful, he’d do it again.
“No, I don’t think we mean to.”
She shrugged and continued talking quickly. “I don’t think the other two were that invested. One even invited me to his wedding to a mutual friend of ours six months after I returned his ring.”
Rip grimaced, though he was thankful for the change in topic. “Ouch. Think he invited you for revenge?”
She laughed. “No, I think he just made a list of people he knew and I was on it.”
“I’d like to think that if a woman dumped me after I shelled out the big bucks for a ring, I’d at least have the common decency to be pissed off.”
“You’d never get engaged to a woman you didn’t love entirely and completely.”
“Now who’s psychoanalyzing?”
The music ended and the people nearest the dance floor broke out into applause. For a horrified heartbeat, Rip thought they were clapping for their solo turn on the dance floor, but then he registered that while Erica had been revealing more about herself and her past to him than he ever imagined she would, Shaw Tyler had been singing. Damned if he’d recognized the song, but it had obviously gone over well with the crowd.
Erica pulled away, but not too far. Just enough so that he no longer had any valid excuse to keep his arms around her, which kind of ticked him off.
The Guy Most Likely To...: Underneath It AllCan't Get You Out of My HeadA Moment Like This Page 17