“Dance,” he said again, grinning indulgently. “With me.”
“Oh. I, um, I’m not sure I can dance after that big meal,” she hedged.
“Sure you can,” he insisted. “That’ll just make it even more enjoyable, because we’ll have more energy.”
Hmm, Naomi thought. For some reason, he seemed to be talking about something other than dancing when he said that…
“C’mon,” he wheedled one last time, extending his hand toward her.
And, God help her, Naomi found that she simply could not resist the promise—or the temptation—that lit his blue, blue eyes. So, without questioning why she did it—or speculating upon what the ultimate outcome might be—she, too, stood and placed her hand gingerly in his.
The moment she touched him, a warm, wistful sensation suffused her entire body, wandering indolently through her limbs before pooling heavily deep in the pit of her stomach. Wow, she thought. She would have sworn there wasn’t room for anything else in there, but somehow, Sloan just slipped right in.
He had already signed the credit card voucher—laughing her off when she’d insisted on paying for her half of the meal—so Naomi looped her little purse over her wrist and allowed him to lead her into the next room, where a small ensemble was playing something languid and lusty and low. A half-dozen or so couples were swaying languorously on the floor, and, without comment, Sloan led her to the center of them all. Then he drew her into the circle of his arms, pulled her very close, and tucked her head comfortably against his shoulder.
Never in her life had Naomi been able to lean her head comfortably against a man’s shoulder. At best, she had always looked eye to eye with one. At worst, she’d had to keep a straight face while one nestled his head against her breasts—what little she’d had to nestle against when she was in high school, anyway. She’d always felt like such a great, hulking ogre around the boys at school and at college. Even her ex-husband had only been a scant half-inch taller than she. With Sloan, though, she felt almost petite.
She smiled at the thought. Talk about a fantasy…
But he was a fantasy, she reminded herself. Because in many ways, he really was too good to be true. Men like him simply did not come along very often. And for women like her—women who were busy being moms and going gray and driving mini-vans and pushing forty—men like him never stayed long.
She tried to remind herself of that again as she gingerly urged her hands over his shoulders and folded her arms loosely together behind his neck. Really. She did try to remind herself of that. But as he looped his arms around her waist and urged her against his long, hard body, Naomi realized she wasn’t really listening to herself—mainly because she was too busy nestling herself more resolutely against him. And as she filled her lungs with the spicy, masculine scent of him, as she registered the heat of his body seeping into her own, as she felt the gentle, rhythmic thumping of his heart beating in time with hers, she realized that she wanted to think about the fantasy instead.
And then somehow, as Naomi was nestling herself against Sloan, he was suddenly nestling himself against her, too. As a result, the two of them ended up with their bodies rubbing flush against each other, and it felt almost as if he were wrapping himself around her, enveloping her in all that was him. And Naomi let herself be absorbed willingly, because she’d found herself in a place that was just too sweet to retreat from.
As the music shifted, so did their bodies and their rhythm, fluidly, as if each were completely in tune with the other. Without planning any of it, they moved gracefully as one, and without ever speaking a word, they expressed quite eloquently their wants and needs and desires. Vaguely, Naomi reminded herself that she was going to have to be going home soon. But every time the realization drifted into her head, she halted it by promising herself, Just one more song…
But as one song folded into another, each of the other couples began to leave the floor, leave the room. Eventually, even the band took a break, replacing their live music with taped. Naomi and Sloan scarcely noticed, however. They’d left the real world behind some time ago. They didn’t need live music or other couples to enjoy what they’d discovered. They simply needed to draw each other close.
For long moments, they danced without speaking, their bodies swaying gently to and fro, to and fro, to…and…fro… One song segued into another. And then another. And then another. And with each passing tune, they grew more comfortable with each other, moving their hands from shoulder to neck to back to arm and around and about again. Bit by bit, Naomi investigated every polite inch of Sloan she was able to reach, her discovery making her fingers itch to explore those other, less accessible, parts of him, as well. He, in turn, explored her body at his leisure, with deceptively harmless little touches that struck flames wherever they fell.
And the more he touched her, the more Naomi wanted to be touched. And with every caress he stole of her body, the next was a little bolder, a little more curious. Tiny fires erupted along her arms and shoulders and back, then wandered inward, imploding in her midsection with an incandescent heat. For the first time in years, she wanted a man—really wanted him. And for the first time in years, she allowed herself to think about what it might be like to have him.
And then suddenly, before she realized what was happening, Sloan was kissing her. Or perhaps, she thought hazily, she had kissed him. In either event, it wasn’t a soft, uncertain, solicitous kind of kiss she might have expected for a first-time kiss, but a confident, almost commanding kind of kiss that scorched her from her mouth to her belly. It was the kind of kiss that demanded a response. So what else could she do but respond?
And the moment she did… Oh. Sloan swept her away into a tempest. Their bodies, which had swayed so sublimely for… How long was it now? she wondered hazily. She couldn’t quite remember…. But their rhythmic to and fro halted abruptly the moment she returned his kiss, with a fierceness and fire to mirror his own. And then the two of them only stood still in the center of the deserted room, hands tangled in hair, fingers bunching in fabric, mouths locked in heated exploration, bodies on fire with need.
Naomi couldn’t think, couldn’t form a single, coherent idea in her brain. All she could do was feel—the way her blood was humming in her veins, the way her heart was hammering in her chest, the way heat pooled deep in her pelvis, demanding satisfaction. And heavens, how she never wanted those sensations to stop. Heavens, how she wanted to cling to Sloan Sullivan forever.
“Oh, Naomi, I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” he gasped against her jaw before covering her mouth with his again.
Naomi nodded, not sure she trusted her voice, hoping she conveyed to him her total agreement on that score. She had wanted it, too. For so long. Probably from that first night the two of them had spent chatting in her living room. As he’d left that night, she’d felt as if something were missing, as if there were something she wanted, needed, to do before he left. Kiss him, that was what it had been, she realized now. Kiss him and hold him and maybe even—
“I want you, Naomi,” he murmured as he pulled away again. He gazed down into her face, his eyes dark with his wanting, his cheeks flushed with his passion. “I know it sounds crazy, but I want to make love to you. I think I’ve wanted to make love to you since that first night I met you. Over the past month… Watching you… Talking to you… Spending time with you…”
He seemed incapable of finishing a single thought, and Naomi was completely sympathetic. She couldn’t begin or finish one herself. She let her eyes flutter closed, hoping that by blocking out the sight of his face, she might retrieve her senses and say the things she knew she should say. But by blocking him out visually, she only sensed him more powerfully in other ways—through his heat, his scent, his touch. And she realized that even though she knew what she should say, she doubted very much she could get the words past her throat. Because, to be honest, she didn’t want to get them past her throat. She wanted to keep them buried inside.
Sloa
n dipped his head to hers again, but this time, instead of pressing his lips to hers, he dragged his open mouth along the sensitive column of her throat. “I can get us a room,” he rasped as he went. But even through his rough passion, Naomi could sense his uncertainty. “It would only take a minute,” he hurried on. “Please, Naomi. Let me get us a room.”
Oh, God, she thought. Heaven help her, she wanted to say yes. She wanted to say yes very badly.
“It doesn’t have to go any farther than you want it to,” he promised her before kissing her hastily again. “Just…we need to be alone. At least for a little while. Now. Please.”
Before she could think about what she was doing, and before she could second-guess herself, Naomi nodded quickly.
Sloan, evidently as uncertain about his own reaction as she was of hers, didn’t wait around long enough for her to change her mind—or for him to change his mind, either. With another quick, passionate kiss, he murmured, “Stay right here. I’ll be right back.”
And after what seemed like seconds, but must have been much longer, he was back. Brandishing a plastic key card.
Naomi swallowed with much difficulty as she looked at it, but when her gaze flew to his, and she saw that he was as confused and consumed as she was, she nodded silently. He took her hand in his, and with surprising calmness, led her to a bank of elevators off the lobby. She watched the illuminated numbers as they rode up in silence, then let him lead her, their fingers still linked, to a room at the end of a hall. He opened the door for her and bid her enter first, and she preceded him in. Her gaze went immediately to the big king-size bed at the center of the room, already turned down, chocolates on the pillow, as if someone had been expecting them.
And then she heard the door click softly closed behind her.
Chapter 10
When Naomi turned around, she saw Sloan standing with his back pressed against the door, his gaze fixed on her face, as if he couldn’t quite believe that they had done what they had done. And he looked at her with some uncertainty, too, as if he couldn’t tell for sure if she would stay or she would go.
A thrill of something hot and urgent rocketed through her, and she suddenly felt as if she were a teenager, poised to experience her very first sexual encounter with a boy she’d dreamed about for years. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but she couldn’t wait to get started. Here was mystery and the unexplored and the promise of something electrifying.
Middle-class, single, working moms didn’t do this kind of thing, she told herself. They didn’t go to luxury hotel rooms with incredibly handsome, charming men, with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They didn’t indulge in passionate, impromptu sexual encounters. They didn’t dare.
Did they?
As she argued with herself mentally, Sloan continued to gaze at her in silence, as if he were waiting to take his cue from her. So, banning any and all second thoughts, and without blinking an eye, Naomi tossed her little black beaded purse onto a nearby chair. She was staying, dammit. She did dare.
This was just so exciting, she thought. So thrilling. So fantastic. So unreal. So unlike her. She didn’t want to think about the repercussions, didn’t want to think about anything at all, except for how she felt in that moment. Good. She felt good. Better than she had felt for a long, long time. For so many years, she had been doing for other people, and neglecting herself. For so many years, she had been a mother to her daughters, a teacher to her students, a coach to her team. But she’d never seemed to find the time or opportunity to be just a woman. She’d never done anything for herself.
Tonight, she would do something for herself, she vowed. Tonight, she would be just a woman.
Evidently taking the tossed purse as a positive sign, Sloan reached for his necktie and began to untie it. Naomi watched with fascination—and a dry mouth—as he unlooped the length of silk and tugged it from beneath his collar. He tossed it to the chair beside her purse, then shrugged off his jacket and discarded it, too. Then he went to work on the buttons of his shirt. With each one he freed, he took a step forward, until the garment hung open and he stood mere inches away from Naomi.
Oh, my, she thought. When she saw the rich scattering of dark hair that spanned his broad chest, her throat parched up like paper. Which was strange, seeing as how other parts of her body grew damp in response to the sight. Before she even realized what she was doing, she lifted her hands and tucked them under his shirt, skimming the garment open wide before nudging it over his shoulders and down his arms. He smiled as she performed the gesture, then cupped his hands over her shoulders and pulled her close, covering her mouth with his. Naomi buried her fingers in the soft hair of his chest, marveling at the density of the muscles she encountered beneath her fingertips.
He growled something soft and contented as she pressed her palms more resolutely into his warm flesh, then he shot a hand behind her, to the zipper of her dress. Naomi, too, murmured a low, feral sound as he dragged the zipper down, down, down, past her waist and over her bottom, until the dress gaped open and she felt the cool kiss of air on her bare back. She moved her arms so that he could skim the garment down over them, then the dress pooled in a heap of black at her feet. She stepped out of her shoes, hooked her thumbs into her panty hose, and pushed those down over her legs, as well. And then she stood before Sloan in nothing but a pair of plain white panties and a perfectly functional white bra.
Mom underwear, she couldn’t help thinking. Immediately, she wished she’d had the foresight to don a pair of sexy black lace panties and demicup bra instead. Then she remembered she didn’t own a pair of sexy black lace panties or a demicup bra. She only owned plain, functional white cotton. She wasn’t the sexy black lace type. At least, she hadn’t thought she was. Not until now. Sloan, however, seemed not to notice or care. No, he was much too busy unhooking that functional white bra and tossing it, too, to the floor.
Naomi was amazed that she didn’t feel one scrap of self-consciousness in being undressed with this exciting, thrilling, passionate man. Instead, she felt emboldened. Because Sloan had ceased kissing her as he undressed her, and now he gazed at her half-naked body with much reverence.
She knew she was in good shape for a woman her age who had borne four children. But she knew wasn’t a teenager anymore, either. And for one brief, terrifying moment, she knew that was as obvious to Sloan as it was to her. Then he smiled, an utterly lascivious, salacious smile, and she realized that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want a teenager. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted a woman instead.
He opened his mouth to say something, but for some reason, Naomi didn’t want him to talk. She didn’t want to talk, either. She only wanted to touch and feel and experience. So before he could speak, she pressed her lips to his, slipping her tongue into his mouth as she moved her hand to his belt.
But she gasped and pulled back some when she felt his hands on her breasts, his fingers closing over her possessively. He palmed her and squeezed her and rolled his thumbs over the swollen peaks, then he bent and filled his mouth with one of them. First he raked her nipple with the tip of his tongue, and then he laved her with the flat of his tongue, and then he sucked her deeply into his mouth. She gasped again at the wantonness of the sensations that shot through her, tangling her fingers in his dark hair. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to stop him from doing what he wanted to do, or ensure that he continued forever and ever. She only knew a heat and a passion and a hunger that fired through her body, through her soul, through every last part of her. And she only knew that she wanted more.
“More,” she murmured aloud before she even realized she meant to speak. “Oh, Sloan. More. Please. More.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought he chuckled seductively against her damp flesh in response to her command. Then, for a moment, she wondered if he had heard her at all. Because he didn’t alter what he was doing, only continued to lave her as he filled his hand with her other breast, capturing the tender peak between thumb and forefinger, rolling
the stiff bud gently as he suckled its twin. Clearly, he intended to do this at his own pace. And, lucky for her, his pace seemed to be very, very leisurely.
Gradually, though, he began to urge her backward, toward the bed. Naomi went willingly, pulling him along, even though she knew he would follow enthusiastically. When her legs bumped against the mattress, they buckled beneath her, and she landed on her fanny. Sloan didn’t even break stride as he joined her on the bed, fairly crawling over her as he pressed her backward onto the mattress. At some point she had freed his belt and unfastened his fly, and she felt him pressing hot and urgent against her thigh as he lay down beside her. Immediately, her hand flew to that part of his anatomy, her fingers dipping into his open trousers to curl around his solid length.
“Oh,” he said softly in response to her exploration. “Oh, Naomi. Oh, boy…”
She grinned at her command over him, then urged him over onto his back. He lifted his hips long enough for her to tug down his pants and boxers, then kicked them off completely. But her command of him ended there, because he rolled her onto her back then, insinuating one strong thigh between her legs. The pressure of him there was an exquisite torture, and, instinctively, she thrust her hips upward. The rubbing of their bodies struck a spark of heat against that most sensitive part of her, and she moaned softly at the keen pleasure the gesture brought with it. Then she lowered her hips to the bed again, an action that generated yet another scintillating friction of heat, one that shot an erotic shudder of delight coursing through her. Again and again, Naomi bucked against his thigh, her body growing warm and fluid with every movement she made, until she finally groaned aloud her frustration at being unable to satisfy herself that way.
Sloan seemed to understand her distress, because she suddenly felt his hand at the waistband of her panties, shoving them down over her hips and legs without ceremony. And then his hand was there, where his thigh had been before, his fingers moving deliberately, unhurried, between the damp folds of her sensitive flesh. She cried out at the invasion, but thrust her body upward again, and he buried a finger deep inside her. She bucked again, and he inserted two. Again, and he penetrated her with three.
A Mother's Day: Nobody's ChildBaby on the WayA Daddy for Her Daughters Page 24