I Gotta Feeling

by Kress, Alyssa

  Meanwhile, ignoring his warning, she came right next to him. Her hand landed softly on his forearm. "Felix?"

  Too frightened to look at her directly, he drew in a ragged breath. "You shouldn't do that."

  "What?" She kneaded his forearm. "You're so tight, you feel like a rock. What's wrong?"

  Felix spoke through clenched teeth. "You. You don't know what you're doing. You don't know—"

  She stopped massaging his arm. "What? I don't know what?"

  He should explain to her, though he hardly knew how. "I'm...not in good control of myself when I'm around you," he gritted out.

  "Really?" She sounded strange, far more flattered than alarmed.

  He chanced a glance at her. She was wearing a light smile, not worried at all. Her hand slid up his arm.

  God, he wanted her. He wanted to take those magical hands of hers... But he had to explain better, make her understand. "There's something inside me."

  "Yeah? Something inside you that you're not in good control of when you're around me?" Again, she sounded oddly pleased.

  Felix frowned. "You saw it. With the Pakistani."

  Aletheia nodded. "And by the freeway yesterday. And...right now? Yes, I know what you mean."

  He didn't glance at her now. He stared. She mentioned her perception as if it were only mildly worthy of notice. "It's a darkness," he tried to explain. "It lives inside me. Usually I can control it, push it down, but when I'm with you... " His eyes widened as her hand slid up further, to his shoulder, her face turned trustingly up toward him.

  Hoarsely, he asked, "What are you doing, Aletheia?"

  "Go on."

  Go on? He could barely breathe. The touch of her body against his, however light, was making the darkness swell like lava in a volcano. "You should be scared," he breathed.

  She let out her own breath. "I'm turned on."

  Holy cow. That was it. The end of any resistance. All of Felix's darkness splashed up and over, inundating him completely. She claimed she wasn't scared. She said she liked it.

  He turned and grabbed hold of her, then took her mouth in a wild kiss. His tongue swept her mouth with hungry desperation. Oh, God—finally. She tasted like spice, like sultry tropic afternoons, like hot, tangled sheets. Felix had never felt such urgency to devour. It didn't help when she wrapped herself around him.

  "Is there more?" she wanted to know, a breathless whisper.

  "More?" he croaked.

  "About this darkness business." Her mouth rained kisses over his cheeks, his nose. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons at the top of his polo shirt. "For example," she breathed, "are you feeling it now?"

  "Better believe it." Felix put his hands on her face, tilted it up and gave her another deep, open-mouthed kiss. Her heat, her taste, the little flickers of her excitement— He wanted to take her and lick her all over. Around him the darkness throbbed. Somehow, in the midst of it, reality struggled to reassert itself. Felix managed to extract his tongue from the compelling warmth of Aletheia's mouth. "You should be running away from me," he remembered.

  "Should I?" She gasped as he slid one hand to cup her breast. "But...I don't want to run away."

  Felix lowered his head toward the breast he was holding.

  "In fact—" Aletheia drew in another sharp, excited breath. "I think I want to be even closer."

  She had no idea what she was saying. She couldn't. She didn't really know. He wanted her the way an alpha male wanted its mate. Unconditionally. Thoroughly. Until she didn't know anything in the world but him.

  "Aletheia," he murmured, wondering how on earth to make her understand, and if he really wanted to.

  "Yes," she murmured back.

  He palmed her breast, his gaze feasting on its soft, curving shape beneath her blouse, his breath going heavy. "You should ask me to stop," he managed to warn her.

  "I should?"

  He growled softly and nuzzled the silk covering her breast. "If you don't say no to me now, there'll be no turning back."

  "Oh, Felix." Aletheia sighed and squirmed. "Is that a promise?"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Aletheia sincerely hoped Felix meant it as a promise when he took her breast into his mouth—bra, silk shell and all. Incredible sensation ricocheted through her.

  She didn't want this to stop. Never had she felt so excited, so important. So turned on. She felt like a live wire, something that set off sparks wherever it touched. She made Felix lose control. How heady was that?

  Her shirt slipped over her head. Her bra disappeared to parts unknown. The skirt she'd put on because a trip to a museum gave her an excuse to wear it shimmied down her hips.

  Felix's skill in undressing was remarkable, especially compared to Aletheia's lack thereof. She'd barely managed to get his belt undone and lower his fly before she was down to nothing but her thin, pink panties.

  Felix appeared unconcerned about the discrepancy. He lifted her into his arms.

  "Try to stay calm," he said. "I don't think I'm going to hurt you."

  "I refuse to stay calm." Aletheia put her hand against his cheek. His eyes were the most marvelous molten gold. She felt deliciously seared by them. "You aren't hurting me, Felix. You aren't going to hurt me. Just please, please, take me to your bedroom." She didn't want him grabbing back any of that icy control of his. She wanted to ride this tiger.

  His gaze managed to intensify, and he took her mouth in another one of his deep, plundering kisses. Everything inside Aletheia turned liquid when he did that. She wanted to pour right inside him. Thankfully, just when he'd turned her all docile, he obeyed her last request. With a delightful growl, he carried her down the hall.

  Aletheia was not in a state to notice much about Felix's bedroom. Her dim impression was of a deeply male atmosphere, something in shades of warm gray with accents of burgundy.

  He lowered her to the bed.

  "Felix." She tugged at his shirt and, with some assistance from Felix, managed to pull it over his head. With a sigh of satisfaction, she speared her fingers through the rough curls covering his taut, muscular chest. He was so different from her, so rugged and hard. The fact that all this toughness wanted her made her want him, too, in every way possible.

  Felix growled again, deeper, wilder, and put his hands all over her. Where he touched her, how he did it— It made Aletheia lose her breath. Bolts of pleasure jabbed through her, only to create more want. She needed...to get closer.

  It wasn't easy, but Aletheia managed to get his pants off. God, he was beautiful, all muscle toned to perfection. A work of art. Some day she'd want to sit and just look at him.

  Not today. Her passion was too hot. Flesh touching flesh made her dimly recall, however, that they were going to need something—protection. If Felix was out of control, then she'd need to find some. As his mouth drifted dangerously south, Aletheia managed to reach the night table with one hand. She opened a drawer.

  Felix parted her thighs.

  Aletheia gasped as his tongue gave her a delicate pat. "Felix," she breathed, desperate to communicate before they were both too far gone. "Condom."

  He grunted his impatience, but swept northward to help her in the drawer. A string of condoms lifted out and he tore one off.

  Still craving closeness, Aletheia sat curled to watch over his shoulder as he put the thing on. She nipped lightly at the round muscle there as the sight of his size made her stomach feel like jelly.

  Finished, he twisted to take her in his arms. "I want to slow down, make this perfect."

  "Let's do perfect some other time," Aletheia suggested. She pulled him over her as she sank onto her back. The place between her legs felt empty and aching. She widened her thighs.

  Apparently unable to refuse this invitation, Felix found his spot, and thrust.

  An incredible wave of pleasure slammed through Aletheia. Her grip on his shoulders spasmed.

  Felix stopped, shuddered, and hissed. "Are you all right?"

  "No." Aletheia gripped him
closer with her knees. "Why are you stopping?"

  He paused, clearly surprised, then, very slowly withdrew in order to plunge into her again.

  Aletheia bit her lip as pleasure rippled through her in liquefying waves.

  He repeated the motion again and again, slow and purposeful. Utterly possessive. Yet each deliberate stroke gave Aletheia some possession of him in return. It was like taming a wild wolf in the midst of running with the pack.

  "Don't. Stop," she muttered.

  He didn't. She could sense his loss over his body's responses march in time with her own. Climbing. They were both climbing, fast and faster, claiming pieces of each other as they reached for a common goal.

  Just as Aletheia flew over the edge, she felt Felix stiffen and growl in triumph.

  A wolf to the end, she thought, smiling, and wrapped him in her arms.

  ~~~

  "Now, at this point in the process, right between the first and second rises of the dough, you add a good tablespoon of salt. Not any salt, mind you, but Himalayan pink sea salt."

  On Friday night, Meredith watched as Parker explained this, meanwhile dancing his way through the action of sprinkling a layer of salt onto the dough he'd laid on the kitchen island counter.

  Sophie sat on a stool beside Meredith next to the counter. "Why himma-whatever salt?" the little girl asked.

  Parker drew in a sharp breath. "The Himalayan sea salt changes everything." He gestured dramatically. "Taste, texture, aroma. The right salt will make the guests at your table close their eyes in gastronomical pleasure and moan in delight. They'll do this," he told Sophie, and kissed his fingertips.

  Sophie laughed. Meredith couldn't help laughing, too. Parker lowered his gaze to meet hers. His smile sent a thrill through her.

  Quickly, she lowered her eyes. Strange. What a strange life she'd fallen into here. It was completely unreal. As far as Meredith knew, reality was what she did back in San Francisco: juggling budgets, meeting schedules, finding the bottom line.

  Reality wasn't the simple pleasure of a warm kitchen or the joy of jumping into a mountain stream. Reality wasn't getting a serious little girl to laugh, or the way her taste buds danced when she bit into the chicken cacciatore Parker had served last night. Reality wasn't the feeling she had while sitting here watching Parker make bread that she wasn't wasting time. It wasn't the feeling that, instead, she was perhaps connecting to something more fundamental than dollars and deadlines.

  Most of all, reality was not the powerful longing she felt for this crazy man.

  "Now you shape the dough into a ball, like so."

  With her gaze still lowered, Meredith watched Parker's long, tanned fingers handle the dough. Everything he did spoke of a deep satisfaction with living in his own skin.

  "Eh, voila. The bread is ready for its second rise." Parker snapped a clean kitchen towel, then draped it over the loaf now sitting on a wooden board.

  "How long does it have to do that?" Sophie wanted to know.

  "At least two hours. But never fear. I will stay up. I will put it in the oven. You will have fresh bread in the morning." Parker bowed, with a Renaissance flourish.

  "I'd like to put it in the oven," Sophie suggested.

  The mention of time tipped Meredith back into the world of her own reality. She looked at her watch. "Oh, my. I hadn't realized—I don't think you'll get oven duty tonight, Sophie. It's already half an hour past your bedtime."

  "It is?" Looking startled, Sophie scrambled off the kitchen stool. "I'd better go find Aunt Penelope quick. She won't read me a story if it gets too late." Not bothering to remove her apron, she hurried out of the room.

  Her departure left Meredith alone with Parker. Suddenly, blood rushed to her head.

  "So." Smiling crookedly, Parker leaned against the kitchen island and crossed his ankles. "Look who's left with the dishes."

  Hating herself for the nervous gesture, Meredith tucked her hair behind one ear. "No problem. Those who don't cook and want to eat, wash the dishes. I know that." But as she got up from her stool, she knew it was, indeed, a problem. Being alone with Parker made her feel tall and gawky and full of nerves. Taking extra care not to drop it, Meredith picked up the dirty mixing bowl.

  "I like that," Parker said.

  Meredith swung around to look at him.

  He smiled. "You're a good sport."

  Meredith whirled back toward the sink. His smile made her lungs feel tight. "Wait till you see how much of that bread I'm going to eat. It already smells terrific."

  She set the mixing bowl in the sink, then jumped when Parker brushed her arm as he brought over the rolling pin and some measuring cups.

  "I'll do the washing." His voice was suddenly too deep for the subject under discussion. "You can dry."

  Meredith nodded and found a dish towel. A Parker who was grinning and confident was bad enough. A Parker who was sober and intent was much worse. She needed to turn the atmosphere, get the charged particles out of it. Relying on instinct, she blurted, "George showed me his toys today, the little sculptures you made for him."

  "Oh." Parker smiled. "The menagerie." It worked. He was back to casual and off-hand again. Although...maybe a bit too casual.

  "They're really quite ingenious," she went on, probing. "The giraffe with the neck that telescopes, and the kangaroo with the spring legs." Not only clever, the toys had an indefinable zest. They'd made her smile. "Have you ever tried to market them?"

  Shooting some soap into the sink, Parker slid her an amused smile. "They're just toys."

  "Very good toys."

  "Then they're serving their purpose." Still smiling, he swept the soap bottle upward and set it on the counter.

  Why was every move he made infused with physical confidence? Her entire body tuned to him. "They could be serving more than one purpose," Meredith pointed out. "A lot of toys make money."

  "Not everything has to be about money." Parker began scrubbing the mixing bowl.

  Meredith thought about the note on the house for fifty thousand dollars, but said nothing. The overdue mortgage was not her problem. She probably wasn't even supposed to know about it. Her problem was how to defuse the sparkles running over her body for a man who didn't give a rip about anything serious or practical. He'd obviously spent hours making those toys—and who knew how many years developing his skill—but wanted no remuneration.

  He was the antithesis of the type of man she wanted in her life, the type who worked his ass off to meet high and ambitious goals. Yet here she stood with the almost irresistible urge to turn her head and lick Parker's ear.

  Meredith bit the inside of her cheek. She took deep, careful breaths.

  Parker appeared content to let silence reign until they finished the dishes. Meredith's nerves meanwhile twanged and stretched.

  "Done," Parker declared, finally setting the last dish on the drainboard. "Well," he amended, throwing a glance over his shoulder toward the kitchen table. "Done for the next two hours, anyway." With an easy smile, he turned back to Meredith. The smile froze as he halted.

  God, Meredith thought, horrified. Was her outrageous attraction to him showing that bad, right in her face?

  Apparently so, for Parker's casual smile faded. His eyes got darker...and warmer. "Meredith," he said, with a faint tremor in his voice.

  She needed to tear her gaze from him. She needed to break this—this connection that was forming in the air between them. For that matter, why didn't he break it? Didn't it matter to him they were complete opposites?

  Apparently their fundamental incompatibility didn't matter to Parker, or maybe he relished that part of things, for he turned fully to face her. He put his back to the kitchen counter and ranged his arms along it. His come-on gaze managed to intensify.

  No, Meredith thought, don't say it.

  "Two hours" Parker said, in a very deep voice. "What do you think we ought to do?"

  He hadn't said it, but close enough. Blood pounded in her ears, her teeth, her kn
ees. She liked to think she chose not to answer him, but feared her heart was simply thumping too hard for her to speak.

  His golden-brown lashes half-lowered. "I know what I'd like to do." He paused a significant moment. "How about you?"

  Meredith felt like the answer was written in her eyes in thousand-watt flashing neon. At least, it was the answer her body wanted. Her body wanted her to walk toward him, cross her arms behind his neck, and lean herself right against him. Once they touched, this would move toward its natural conclusion.

  The image of that natural conclusion both thrilled and terrified her. That it was an image she shared with Parker was evident from the gleaming heat in his eyes.

  "The two of us, doing that." Her voice was a mere croak. "It wouldn't be a good idea." No, it wouldn't be a good idea at all, but she prayed he'd have a decent argument against her.

  His lashes rose a little. "You don't want to?"

  "I didn't say that." She felt like stamping her foot. He was supposed to argue, not investigate.

  "You want to," he corrected himself, frowning. "But...you're afraid to."

  Meredith's eyes widened. "I am not afraid."

  "You're not." He appeared to be getting confused.

  "Just because I don't intend to go to bed with you doesn't mean I'm afraid," Meredith explained. The implication of cowardice rankled, bothering her even more than the terrifying, thrilling image of her body entwined with Parker's. She was so rattled she blurted out her worst fear, the one she was not a coward about at all. "Having sex with you wouldn't change me one bit."

  He appeared genuinely surprised by the statement. "Did I say having sex with me would change you?"

  "No, but you're thinking it."

  Parker was full out staring at her now. "I am?"

  "Yes." Meredith swung her hair and huffed. It had obviously been a mistake to admit it, but she was committed now. "You think if you seduce me in one way, you'll be able to seduce me in another."

  "I do?"

  "The stream yesterday, your chicken cacciatore, this baking lesson." Meredith listed his crimes.