“This isn’t a good idea,” Chelsea said, her voice shaky, when he broke off the deep kiss.
“I think it is. We’ve both wanted this from the beginning. You know we have. Say it,” he coaxed, his breath warm on her ear.
“I want you,” she said as his lips moved down her throat, exploring.
“Come here, sweetheart,” he urged. He backed up until they reached the table, then he dropped down into the chair. Chelsea stood before him, held by his gaze.
“You’re beautiful, sweetheart, you know that.” He used both hands to explore her body. His fingertips seared her skin wherever they roamed. She moved closer against his hands when they closed over her rounded breasts, then kneaded them gently.
She jerked involuntarily and sighed as his fingers tweaked their peaks. Moving ever lower, his hands measured her small waist and slid over her hips to cup her buttocks.
A slight gasp escaped her lips when he moved one hand back around to the front of her body to slip it between her thighs. He nudged her legs apart while the hand remaining on her buttocks pressed her to move against the hand that cupped her sex.
She found herself unable to resist his coaxing, felt herself irresistibly responding as waves of hot desire flooded her.
Whimpering when he thrust two fingers into her dewy mound, she began following his lead and moved against his insistent hand.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Rock for me. Rock and roll. Let me see your pleasure. A little faster… now slower… Come on, sweetheart, you’re almost there. Yes… that’s it, sweetheart.”
Mewing and breathless, she came apart for him.
10
DAKOTA PULLED CHELSEA down into his lap, where he stroked her face and murmured sweet love words as she lay deliciously limp in his arms.
Her eyes fluttered closed and she reveled in his touch.
“Don’t go to sleep on me now, sweetheart,” he said, loosening his tuxedo tie. “Give me a hand undressing here, would you? I’m feeling just a tad overdressed.”
Chelsea stirred. “We need to talk,” she mumbled, but she helped him push his jacket off his shoulders, then tugged it down his arms until he was free of it.
“Later. We’ll talk later.”
His kiss silenced her objection. He didn’t have to urge her to continue helping him undress; she took the initiative. Her hands reached to unbuckle the black cummerbund at his narrow waist. When the cummerbund dropped to the floor, she undid the tricky cuff links, then helped him shimmy out of his shirt.
She unbuttoned his pants, but his hands stopped her from going further. “I think I’d better handle this,” he said. He set her gently on her feet, then stood to undertake the precarious task of unzipping his very strained fly.
“No, I want to handle it,” Chelsea teased, pressing her hand against his fly and making the task even more difficult.
“Cut it out, woman,” he said with a stern look and ignored her giggles as he managed to undo the zipper without damage to his body. His pants fell to his ankles and he went to step out of them, but tripped when they caught at the shoes he’d forgotten to remove in his haste to shed his clothes.
He landed with a thud and a curse on the glossy wood floor of the kitchen. He sat up, yanked off one shoe, then the other, and tossed them at Chelsea who wasn’t even trying to hide her amusement.
He finally kicked free of his trousers, and was reaching to shed his socks when Chelsea stopped him.
“No, leave them on,” she said, shoving him back down to the floor and covering his body with hers. “You’ll be fulfilling a secret fantasy of mine—I’ve always wanted to make love to a man who was naked except for a pair of black dress socks.”
Dakota’s blue eyes danced. “You’re a crazy woman, Chelsea Stone.”
“And you’re gonna love it, Mr. Stuffed-Shirt Law,” she promised.
Taking control, she moved to accommodate the hard insistence probing against her belly. Sitting astride him, she lowered her body and slipped his penis inside her.
He jerked beneath her at the contact. “Sweetheart, you feel like heaven. So wet, so ready for me. Please…” he begged.
But she captured his wrists at his sides and bade him be still while she slid her lithe body back and forth along him. Her movements were exquisitely slow, sensual torture.
“I can’t—” He lost control, biting down on his lip while he threw his head back and arched up with a powerful thrust. A loud groan of pleasure escaped his lips as he went rigid, suspended in the moment of mind-numbing satisfaction.
She felt him contract inside her, felt him shudder, and it tripped her own response. She came, then, with a series of little pants that exploded in spiraling points of intense gratification.
“Was I right?” she asked a few minutes later when they had caught their breath.
“I don’t think anything gets any lighter than we just were.”
Chelsea smiled with satisfaction,
“It’s too bad it was nothing more than just a game to you.”
“What?” Chelsea exclaimed, moving away from him.
“I said, it was too bad it was nothing more than a game to you.”
“You really believe that?” she asked, hurt and anger fueling her move to collect her items of clothing scattered on the floor.
“Shouldn’t I?”
She stood before him with her clothing in the crook of her arm. “How can you… how can you say that?” she protested.
“I can say it because you get your jollies leading on two men. You get me so besotted, I lose my head and forget it’s you and Tucker who are a team. I’m just the patsy. I’ve had to remind myself now that the flare of passion has cooled that you’re using me for your career, that you want a song—not me.”
“That’s rich, Dakota. You make these terrible accusations because you can’t or won’t admit your feelings for me. You’re too busy protecting a heart you don’t have. You… you…can just go to hell, Dakota.” She turned and stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later he heard her slam the door to her bedroom. The sound reverberated endlessly in his mind.
CHELSEA AWOKE TO THE sound of scratching on her bedroom door.
She rubbed her eyes and peered at the clock on the night table.
It was almost noon!
She sprang out of bed. She’d planned to be up and gone early. Though she’d considered it, leaving in the middle of the night was a bit dramatic even for her. And she’d wanted to track down Tucker to let him know they were checking out of Dakota’s digs.
The scratching persisted, and she went to the door. She half expected to see Pokey’s master standing beside her, an apology on his lips for believing she would lead two men on.
It had been wishful thinking on her part. The dog was alone and looking for someone to play with. She had her tennis ball in her mouth and a hopeful look in her eyes.
“Come on in, Pokey. You can help me pack.”
“Pack? What’s going on?” a raspy male voice demanded.
Chelsea turned to see Tucker come hobbling into the room on crutches.
“We’re leaving,” Chelsea said shortly. She pulled on a pair of jeans and tucked in the T-shirt she’d slept in.
Tucker eased himself down into a nearby chair, then leaned his crutches against the wall. Pokey bounded over to him, her tail wagging, the tennis ball in her mouth. Tucker took the ball and tossed it for her to catch.
“Are we leaving of our own accord, or were we invited to leave?” Tucker asked, as Pokey dropped the ball in his lap and waited for him to toss it again.
Chelsea went to the closet and began pulling her things off hangers. “Dakota Law is an egotistical, puritanical snob,” she announced. She fired clothes into her open suitcase as she spoke.
“Yeah, but why are we moving out?” Tucker asked as he continued his game of catch with Pokey. “You knew Dakota’s finer points before you moved in.”
Chelsea stopped w
hat she was doing and turned to Tucker.
“You want to know why we’re moving out?”
“Bingo.” He grinned to infuriate her even more.
“We’re moving out because I’ve decided Dakota’s never going to write a song for me.”
“So, Dakota told you no and made it stick—is that what happened?” he asked.
Chelsea wadded the underwear she’d pulled from a drawer and threw it in a ball into her suitcase. “I didn’t say that. What makes you think that?” she snapped.
“That’s easy. You only get this angry when someone says no to you. I don’t think I know anyone else in the world who hates not getting her way as much as you do, Chelsea.”
“I’m not angry,” she insisted.
“Ri-ight. You’re a real puddle of sweet molasses like Miss Tennessee Prom Queen, downstairs.”
“Who?”
“Dakota’s personal assistant.”
“She’s here?”
“Yeah, she had a stack of folders and they locked themselves in the library. So, if you want to sneak out, now would be a good time.”
“I’m not sneaking out,” she lied.
“I see. Then Dakota knows you’re going?”
How could he not know she was going? He’d been a real bastard last night. “Not exactly, but he told me what he thought of me in no uncertain terms.”
“You want me to beat him up?”
Chelsea stared at him and started laughing. “Yeah, with your crutches.” That was the thing about Tucker, he could always make her laugh.
“So, how’s the Flood-Aid concert coining?” she asked. Her packing finished, she checked the room for any forgotten items.
“Great. We’ve lined up sponsors and a network commitment. Performers are coming out of the woodwork to volunteer their time. Both country and rock will be well represented, thanks to Dakota.”
Chelsea grumbled something disparaging under her breath, and felt small for doing it. “So what’s left to be done?” She closed her suitcase and had to sit on it to lock it.
“We need to scope out a place to stage the concert.” Tucker maneuvered to a standing position and retrieved his crutches.
“I’ll help out with that. Heaven knows, I’m not going to be busy recording a new song. How’s your leg feeling? You haven’t been on it too much, have you?”
“It’s a royal pain—slows me down. But it could have been a hell of a lot worse. I’m not complaining, not that you’d listen to me if I did.”
“Come on, we’re going where they have room service. You’ll feel much better. You can order up a greasy burger and fries.”
“Oh, talk dirty to me some more….”
“Chocolate shake, butter-drenched popcorn, double-cheese pizza…” Chelsea continued, laughing as they started down the sweeping staircase to the entry hall.
When they had descended only a few steps, the door to the library opened.
Dakota’s voice floated up to them, followed by Melinda’s tinkling laugh.
Pokey, hearing Dakota’s voice, dived through Chelsea’s legs, upending her. The suitcase in her hand went sailing. As it somersaulted through the air it came unlocked and its contents rained everywhere.
Pokey, delighted with this new game, chased a balled pair of socks that rolled toward Dakota’s feet.
Dakota bent to retrieve the socks from Pokey’s mouth, then looked to where Chelsea was scrambling to her feet on the stairs.
“What… what’s going on?” he asked.
“We were decorating for our going-away party,” Tucker said. “Looks kinda festive, don’t you think?”
Dakota glanced around. His eyes came to rest on the chandelier, where an item from Chelsea’s suitcase had landed. “Oh, my,” Melinda said from beside him.
Chelsea’s gaze followed his and her stomach sank.
Her red teddy was draped over one of the chandelier candles.
Ignoring it, she scrambled to pick up the scattered contents of her suitcase.
Dakota bent to help her while Tucker made his way down the stairs. They gathered everything in quick order while Melinda looked on with distaste.
“Well need a ladder,” Dakota said, glancing up at what Chelsea was trying valiantly to pretend wasn’t snagged on the chandelier.
“I could try to use my crutch to bat it down,” Tucker offered.
“Never mind,” Chelsea said, steering him toward the door. “You can keep it as a souvenir, Dakota.”
“A souvenir?” Tucker echoed, sliding her a look as they went outside.
“Just keep walking, Cheesebrain.”
CHELSEA SAT ALONE IN her room at the Opryland Hotel. Tucker had gone out to meet with someone about the concert. She’d begged off because she was still too wrung out by what had happened between her and Dakota.
The day was gray and rainy. It suited her mood. Her future looked equally bleak.
There wasn’t going to be any song from Dakota.
She’d thought she’d had her future all figured out. Thought she’d known what she was doing.
Tucker hadn’t been any help. He kept telling her that she didn’t need Dakota.
She lay down across the bed and read the card.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Don’t let Dakota
Get to you.
It was much too late to take the good advice.
He’d gotten to her.
DAKOTA SAT IN THE dressing room of his club, Dakota Country. He’d thought maybe singing would put him in a happier frame of mind. It hadn’t. He’d just been going through the motions onstage.
For the first time in his life he was lonely. Hell, he’d been lonely with a crowd of people applauding him tonight.
It was time for him to ask himself some hard questions.
Chelsea had accused him of being unable to be close to people. That he distanced himself as a form of protection.
What the hell had she meant by that? he wondered, all the while knowing the answer in his gut.
Chelsea had seen through to his fear of being hurt. Had seen past the facade that hid the pain of his family’s rejection.
Perhaps because she’d also been hurt, she recognized the reasons for the barriers he put up to avoid true intimacy. She’d gotten him to talk about his family—something he never did. They hadn’t just made small talk; they’d connected.
And when they’d made love… Well, that had certainly blown him away. She’d been open and vulnerable with him. All he could ever have hoped for.
What made him crazy was the fact that he couldn’t possess her; that she shared those same things with Tucker.
The problem with him was that he believed in true love.
And worse, it didn’t stop him from loving Chelsea with all his heart, even though his head told him he was crazy.
So much for all her advice about how he had to feel with his heart, instead of thinking with his head. All he’d gotten for his trouble was heartache.
There was a knock at the door and he snarled, “Come in.”
Burt ambled into the dressing room, looking cautious.
“Yes, what is it?” Dakota asked, aware that he’d been meaner than a pit bull to everyone around him because he was eaten up with jealousy over Tucker Gable.
His loneliness intensified with every passing hour now that Chelsea had opted out of his life. She was a real pain in the butt, yet perversely he sorely missed her bugging him at every turn.
“A fan wanted you to autograph a T-shirt for her,” the drummer told him, tossing Dakota the shirt. “She’s a real pretty redhead,” he added.
Dakota sighed. He was happy to autograph the T-shirt; it was just that it underlined how lonely being famous could be: Everybody loved you, and no one did.
After Burt left with the shirt, he shrugged out of his jacket, getting ready to go home. Home, Dakota thought gloomily, where onl
y Pokey waited for him.
He decided he needed another drink.
Melinda Jackson entered as he was pouring a glass of Scotch.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Are you talking to me?” Dakota asked. He downed the contents of the glass, then looked at her belligerently, clearly spoiling for a fight.
She walked toward him in a cloud of flowery perfume, but her eyes were bright and angry.
“Why are you sitting here feeling sorry for yourself?” she said acidly. If he wanted a fight she was ready, had been ready ever since finding Chelsea Stone ensconced in Dakota’s home—the home she’d decided would be hers.
Her cotton-candy-pink nails began undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“I can get my own buttons. You don’t need to take care of me, I’m perfectly sober,” he insisted, pushing her hands away.
“But you do need me, Dakota.” She splayed her hands on his golden-furred chest when he tossed his shirt aside.
“You’re being stupid mooning like a schoolboy over trash like Chelsea Stone. Can’t you see that she’s making a fool of you?”
Melinda dared to press her lips to Dakota’s, taking advantage of his lack of sobriety.
“Come on, Dakota, you know I’m right for you. I’ll do anything for you,” she promised, boldly unzipping his pants.
She kissed him again, then began licking his ear as she whispered her trump card.
“Don’t let Chelsea make a fool of you, Dakota. She’s probably with Tucker Gable right now.”
Maybe Melinda was right, Dakota thought.
Maybe he should let Melinda seduce him as she seemed hell-bent on doing.
Maybe he’d be better off if he went back to thinking and feeling with his groin.
To hell with his heart. Damn thing was broken anyway, and likely to stay that way.
But then a picture of Chelsea and Tucker together flashed into his mind and jealousy propelled him out of his languid acceptance of Melinda’s seduction.
He set Melinda aside, and reached for his Stetson and the bottle of Scotch.
“Where are you going?” she sputtered. “You’re going to her, aren’t you?”
Love, Me Page 11