Adored: A Love Letters Novel

by Kristen Blakely

  He was wearing too much. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and almost tore them off. She pulled back as she pushed his shirt off his shoulders to reveal a lean torso. Smooth, soft skin layered over hard, sharply defined muscles. She pressed the palms of her hands against his chest and then glided them down, over his abdomen, to undo his belt and the buckle of his pants. There was no hiding the evidence of his desire as she slid a condom over his erection. Por Dios, he was magnificent, and he was hers.

  Rowan stepped over his discarded clothes and drew her into the living room, onto the plush rug in front of the fireplace. Their reflection against the glass of the fireplace screen drew her attention. He turned her around so she could see herself—a woman in a silky chemise, on her knees, with her lover behind her. Her body swayed, trembled, but he refused to let her turn away. “Watch yourself,” he murmured into her ear. His voice was rough; desire was clawing at his self-control. “See yourself the way I see you.” He tugged at the laces of her gown, and it slid off her body into a silky puddle. “Hold me,” he ordered.

  She reached over her head with both hands to lock her fingers behind his neck, leaving her body exposed and vulnerable, his for the taking. He caressed up the length of her thigh with one hand and then flicked against the heat between her thighs. The shudders of sensation that shot through her would have crumbled her if he were not holding her up with his other arm. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “Your reactions so raw.”

  She couldn’t breathe quickly enough. The naked woman writhing with abandon in her lover’s arms couldn’t possibly be her. That woman was too sexy, too compelling, too perfect a match for the man who caressed her breasts and probed between her legs with his clever, wicked fingers.

  “You’re so wet,” he murmured. “So ready for me.”

  “Hurry, hurry,” she chanted. The need within her was so strong; she might die if he made her wait a moment longer.

  He unhooked her arms from around his neck and pushed her forward onto her hands and knees. Oh, God, he was going to take her from behind, savage and primitive instead of tender and intimate. The thought sent shivers of anticipation through her. She wanted his unchecked desire, his desperate need for her. She needed to know how much he wanted her.

  She spread her legs farther apart. Her back arched as he drove into her, filling her body. She ground back against his body, her inner muscles clenching around him.

  His fingers dug hard into her shoulders. “No, wait.” His breath came in jagged bursts as he fought for control. “Slow down.”

  Hell, no. A wicked smile curved her lips. The knowledge that she could push him to the brink, that she could wreck his self-control, was as arousing as watching herself get taken by her lover. She writhed against him, but he straightened, gripped her hips, and pounded into her. She did not even realize he was subtly altering his angle each time until he hit a spot that sent a jolt through her body. Her gasp became a squeal as he hit it again. Her muscles shook. Oh, God, no, not again.

  It was too late. Rowan had seized control once more, and now that he had found her weakest point, he exploited it ruthlessly. His grip on her hips kept her from wriggling away, kept the angle perfect for his entry.

  Yes, again. Her squeal became a scream. No, no, no. She couldn’t take all those sensations flooding her body. Too much. Too fast. He drove into her again and again. Screams became incoherent sobs as she raced toward a climax that had better come before she lost her sanity and her voice.

  When it came, it exploded through her mind, obliterating thought. Dimly, she was aware that Rowan had stiffened against her, his own hard climax expelling in a quiet gasp drowned by her screams.

  Long moments passed before she found the strength to open her eyes. Her reflection stared back at her. The woman who had, on her hands and knees, mated with her lover with the ferocity of an animal in heat was now a boneless puddle on the carpet. And what a thoroughly loved puddle she was, she reflected with a contented smile.

  Rowan reclined next to her, his fingers tracing the elaborate pattern of the tattoo on her left side. “I hadn’t pegged you for a screamer.” His tone was teasing.

  “I wasn’t one,” she swore. “Until you.” Actually, she had never realized it was possible to endure that much sensation without actually dying.

  “And look at what you were hiding under your clothes.”

  Vera flushed. “Darren hated that tattoo. He said it made me look like a slut. A prostitute.”

  “Only the most expensive kind.” His face tightened. “I have something I have to tell you.”

  “No, not now.” She did not want the moment ruined by confessions of how many women he had slept with that week as a part of his job, not when she was still trying to work her mind around the knowledge that she had fallen in love with an escort. “No words. No apologies. Just hold me.”

  “Hold you?” A smile tugged up on his lips. “I can do better than that.”

  Her eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “No way you’re ready to do that again.”

  “Not for a few more minutes.” His smile widened into an unholy grin. “But there’s no rule against how often and how closely a woman can climax, is there?”

  Chapter 9

  Before the sun rose, Vera woke to the rare sensation of being enfolded in a man’s arms. Even when she had been married to Darren, they had slept on opposite sides of the bed. Not so with Rowan; he was a cuddler. His muscular bicep was not nearly as comfortable as her Tempur-Pedic pillow, and he radiated enough heat to make blankets unnecessary, but Vera would not have traded the intimate discomfort for the alternative of waking alone.

  She had awoken alone far too often in her thirteen years of marriage.

  He had carried her to bed last night when she, limp from intense orgasms, had not been able to muster the energy to climb the stairs. How simple it all seemed last night when she had asked him to stay. Why wouldn’t he? What could have been more intimate than sex?

  Well, she had just discovered the answer to that question. Waking up together the next morning was more intimate than sex, and it was a step forward she was not certain she was ready to take. She was almost certain she had fallen in love with him, but love did not translate into marriage, let alone happily ever after. Not when he was an escort.

  How far would her love, their love, take them?

  She fell back asleep, mulling over the question, and when she woke again, the sun had risen and she was alone.

  A flicker of hurt pulsed through her. It caught her off guard. Intellectually, she knew she had no rights where Rowan was concerned; they had made no commitments to each other. It appeared, however, that the memo had failed to reach her heart. She did not have rights, but she had expectations aplenty.

  Her hand swept over the subtle indentation his body had left in the mattress. It was still warm. When had he left?

  At that moment, the smell of sizzling bacon wafted up to her. She relaxed into a smile. Oh, Rowan. She should have known better; she should have bet on breakfast in bed instead of a hasty abandonment. She shook her head. Go figure, the perfect man was an escort. Either God was female, or had an ironic sense of humor.

  Vera jumped out of bed and hopped into the shower. Her body ached—little surprise considering her strenuous workout the previous evening—but she felt limber and relaxed, and far more important, incredibly sexy. She smiled at the fresh-faced beauty in the mirror as she dressed to spend the day at the family health clinic. A week at the spa could not have accomplished as much as Rowan did for her in an evening.

  “So much for breakfast in bed,” Rowan’s voice cut into her thoughts.

  She turned and smiled at him as he walked into the room with a plate in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other. “Sunday’s my volunteer day. I have to leave for the clinic in a half hour.” She looked at the French toast and bacon on the plate. “Is this all for me?” She shrank from a mental tally of the calories on the plate.

>   “I have another plate for myself downstairs. I couldn’t find any trays in your kitchen and multiple trips seemed smarter than spilling orange juice on your stairs.”

  “We could have breakfast on the balcony.” She unlocked the balcony door and flung it open. A metal table and two chairs crowded the tiny space.

  “Cozy.” Rowan set her glass and plate down on the table. “Be right back.”

  He returned minutes later with his breakfast and joined her on the balcony. Their knees bumped under the table, and they had to set their glasses on the floor as the table had scarcely sufficient space for two plates.

  Vera dug into her breakfast. “Thank you, Rowan.” She slipped him a smile and took another careful bite of the French toast. His recipe obviously called for dipping the bread in egg and drowning it in butter.

  “My pleasure. I figured breakfast was the least I could do after wearing you out last night. How do you feel?”

  Like heaven. I’m still dancing on clouds. “I’m fine. And you?”

  He did not answer her question. Instead, he studied her through shadowed eyes. “No regrets?”

  “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I have something I need to tell you.”

  “It sounds ominous,” she said as lightly as she could manage.

  “I guess it would depend on your point of view.”

  “If you’re going to apologize, I don’t need it, Rowan. I knew, going in, what you do for a living.”

  He frowned. “And you’re okay with it?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I’m…still working on being okay with it.”

  “Can I make it easier on you?”

  “I don’t see how, unless you intend to tell me that you’re quitting.”

  “Well, not really.”

  Vera sucked in a deep breath. No rights, no expectations, she reminded herself. It was too early for her to make demands of the relationship, not when she had yet to figure out what she wanted out of it. She glanced at her watch. “I…have to get going or I’ll be late.”

  “I’m back in the area next weekend. Can I come by on Saturday?”

  “I…” She frowned. “I can’t. I have an event I promised to attend on Saturday night.” She bit her tongue before she invited him along. She could have, she supposed, but attending the Florida Medical Association award ceremony with him seemed too much like solidifying the relationship. She wasn’t ready for that next step.

  She wasn’t certain she would ever be ready for that next step. The fact that he was an escort was a far larger roadblock than she had anticipated. Sex had already been a huge hurdle for her. A long-term relationship, presumably with a view to marriage, was more than she could contemplate. What kind of influence would he be on Allison?

  Yet, who else could make her feel the way Rowan did? Who could take his place?

  Vera bit down on her lower lip. “Will you call me?” she asked.

  His smile, slow and devastating, promised patience. “Every day.”

  Chapter 10

  The grand ballroom at the Mandarin Oriental, Miami, teemed with color. Women in elegant dresses and gowns every color of the rainbow and every color in between mingled with men in tuxedos and business suits. The lyrical background music from the string quartet could scarcely be heard over the buzz of conversation.

  Vera supposed that the polite thing, now that the award ceremony was over, was to mingle. Besides, she had to find Iris to offer her congratulations; her friend had been recognized by the Florida Medical Association for her work with the Broward health system.

  Vera glanced around the large room. People gathered in clusters of conversation. Romantic partners were easy to pick out; the physical gap between them was smaller than that of colleagues. It seemed to her that many people attended with their partners, and why not? The celebration of the individual was as much a celebration of the people who stood behind them and supported them.

  It also occurred to her that she was one of the few who had chosen to attend the ceremony alone. A month earlier, it would not have bothered her. Now, she felt out of place—obviously and conspicuously alone.

  She smoothed her burgundy gown. Rowan’s voice came back to her. Can you think of that special day? Do you remember how you felt?

  That day, she had held her head high and walked out of YOLO in a T-shirt and jeans. If she could pull off that stunt among the social piranhas of Las Olas Boulevard, she could certainly effect that same level of confidence in a group of her peers, socially dull physicians like her.

  She caught a glimpse of Iris, halfway across the ballroom, standing among other doctors she recognized. With a smile, Vera made her way over, but before she reached Iris, a man in a tuxedo joined the group.

  Vera’s heart stuttered as Iris, with welcome in her eyes and a dazzling smile, turned her face up for a kiss. Rowan leaned down to brush his lips against her cheek. The smile on his face was warm and genuinely affectionate as he offered her a glass of champagne. Iris dimpled her thanks and said something that made him laugh.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  Vera closed her eyes and willed the image away. She had been thinking of Rowan the entire evening; hell, she had been thinking of Rowan the entire week. Her obsessed mind had summoned him. She had to be hallucinating.

  She opened her eyes. Rowan and Iris stood next to each other with the proximity of longtime lovers.

  Shock ripped Vera’s breath away.

  Iris was his client, and he had flown down to spend the weekend with her. He had escorted her to the award ceremony.

  Fury flared into her brain, sizzling through the restraints of polite society. She stalked up to Rowan. “How dare you!”

  He spun around. “Vera?”

  Her anger made her tremble. “You’re here, with her? How could you? After last week, after everything we shared, everything you promised—how could you throw it all away? How could you throw us away?”

  “Vera, I—” He caught her wrist before the hand she flung out connected with his face.

  She yanked her hand out of his grip and glared at him. “No rights, no expectations…that’s what I told myself. But damn it, if you’re going to make me fall in love with you, then I have rights and expectations.”

  He took her arm. With his other hand against the small of her back, he turned her toward the door. “We’ll talk in private.”

  She shoved him away. “We have nothing to say to each other. You can go to hell.”

  “Vera, please, let me explain.”

  Iris placed her hand on Vera’s arm before she could stride away. “I see you’ve fallen for my reprobate brother’s charms. He isn’t an escort—no, nothing so honest—but he is a model and a jackass.” She darted an accusing look up at Rowan. “I’m sure you’re going to make him sorry for his idiotic prank. He deserves it.”

  Vera stared at his face. The guilt-stricken look in Rowan’s eyes screamed his confession. Her jaw dropped. “You’re not an escort?”

  Bystanders tittered with muffled laughter.

  Rowan grimaced. “Can we please talk in private?” He slid an arm around her back and guided her away from the crowd.

  She realized that people were stepping out of their way and clearing a path to the exit, but her entire world zeroed in on Rowan—the man who wasn’t an escort. She glowered at him. “Are you out of your mind? Did you think it was funny?”

  “You assumed I was an escort. I just didn’t bother to correct you.”

  “That was four weeks ago. When were you going to ‘fess up?”

  He shook his head. “I tried, two weeks ago, and again last weekend.”

  “We’ve spoken every day on the phone this week. Couldn’t you have told me?”

  “It didn’t seem like something I could tell you over the phone.” He ushered her through the open door of a waiting elevator. “On the other hand, if you had invited me to the FMA event, we could have avoided this showdown.”

  “So it’
s my fault?”

  “You’d let an escort take you out to dinner, to a restaurant where you’re unlikely to meet anyone you know, but you wouldn’t bring me to an event of your peers? What are you ashamed of? Your taste or the lack of it?” The acid in his tone seared her. The elevator chimed and opened out into a long corridor. Rowan strode down the corridor and stopped in front of a door. He held a cardkey against the security panel, and the lock clicked. He pushed the door open and ushered Vera in.

  The door slammed, locking them in privacy. He turned to her, his amber eyes furious. “You were ashamed of me.”

  “No, you arrogant prick. I wasn’t ashamed of you.” She pulled her wrap off her shoulders and flung it, with her purse, down on the bed. She stalked up to him. “I was ashamed of me for putting what I wanted ahead of the right thing for my daughter. I was ashamed of me for wanting you, for needing you so badly, it hurt.”

  His eyes were wide, as if he could not quite understand what she was saying. His stark vulnerability struck her. Beneath his polished style and confidence was a man yearning to be loved for who he was.

  And she did. God help her, she loved him.

  Vera grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him, pouring all she had into the kiss. Her head spun as he returned her love with equal passion and desperation. She could not get enough of him. She clawed his jacket and shirt off his shoulders. She needed him, all of him. She needed to feel his skin, his heat, his hard desire against her, in her.

  They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of discarded clothes. With her hair wild and loose about her face, she rose above him, straddled his narrow hips, and in a single, smooth motion, lowered herself on him.

  Rowan made a strangled sound and squeezed his eyes shut. His hands fisted into the bed sheets.

  The knowledge that she could drive him to the edge of self-control was a heady rush of power. He wanted her and needed her just as much as she wanted and needed him.