Waiting for Nick

by Nora Roberts

  The strain in his voice alerted her. “Am I? Sorry.” But she wasn’t, not a bit. She eased back a little, listening to him work. “I think we’ve got it.” Gently she laid her hands on his shoulders and began to rub. “You’re tight.”

  His fingers fumbled, infuriated him. “You’re still crowding me.”

  “I know.”

  Her hair brushed his cheek, and that damned perfume she wore shot straight to his loins. Intending on snarling at her, he turned his head—his first mistake—and ended up staring into those wide gray eyes.

  “Am I making you nervous, Nicholas?” she murmured, as she slid onto the stool beside him.

  The simple truth came out before he could stop it. “You’re making me crazy.”

  “Good.” She leaned forward, and pressed a soft, lascivious kiss with just a hint of tongue full on his lips before he could evade. “You’ve been making me crazy for years. It’s about time I had a turn.”

  His breath was backing up in his lungs. He thought he understood exactly how a man feels when he goes down for the third time. Choking, floundering. And fighting a losing battle with fate.

  His voice hardened in defense. “This isn’t a game, Fred, and you don’t know the rules.”

  She slid her hands up his forearms, rested them on his shoulders, then moved in slowly, until her mouth was nearly on his. “I imagine you could teach me.”

  He was holding on to control by a thread, a slippery, frayed thread that kept dancing out of his hands. “If you knew what I’d like to teach you, you’d run, and run fast, all the way home to Daddy.”

  That statement had pride kicking in. Her chin shot up, and her eyes dared him. “Try me.”

  It was insane, he knew it was insane, to drag her against him, to plunder that teasing, tormenting mouth with his. He told himself he’d wanted to frighten her, to make her leap up and race for the door, for her own good.

  But it was a lie.

  When her body quivered against his, then strained, then melted, that thin thread snapped and sent him tumbling.

  “Damn it. Damn both of us.” He dragged her off the stool, caught her up in his arms in a gesture every woman dreams of. “You’re not walking away this time.”

  Her breath might have come in shallow gasps, but she met his eyes levelly. “I’m not the one that’s been walking away, Nick. And you’re not going to get me to run, either.”

  “Then God help you. God help us both.”

  His mouth was on hers again, wild and free, as he whirled her into the bedroom.

  The sheets were in tangles on the unmade bed, a testament to his restless night. The late-afternoon sun beat on the windows so that the light was harsh and unforgiving. Another time, he might have given some thought to ambience, to the romantic trappings she might have hoped for.

  But now he simply fell with her onto the bed, and plundered.

  His hands were already dragging at her blouse, and his lips were everywhere. She didn’t protest the speed, or the urgency, but met it, beat for beat. After waiting for him for so long, it seemed right to hurry. Perhaps there was a small seed of panic lodged inside her. The fear that she would fumble when it counted most.

  Would there be pain? she wondered. Humiliation?

  Then his mouth was hot on hers again, and the seed died, withered by the heat, before it had the chance to grow.

  She’d never imagined it could be like this. So violent and intense a need. So exciting. All her fantasies, her long-held dreams and quiet hopes, paled against the brilliance of reality.

  He couldn’t get enough of her. It seemed as if he’d waited all his life for this one moment. She was a banquet of flavors, tart, sweet, tangy, and he a starving man.

  Her skin was ivory-pale, with a fire just underneath that seduced and enraptured. Each small movement she made, as fluid as the dance they’d shared the night before, aroused him beyond belief.

  Part of his brain understood that she was innocent. He knew she was small, delicate. He could feel that fragile skin, those subtle curves, under his hands. So without even realizing it, he slowed his pace. And began to savor.

  There was sweetness in her. The shape of her mouth, the curve of her shoulder. Gently he skimmed his lips down her throat, calling on patience now to allow her to adjust to each new level of pleasure. So he played her with care, with skill. Adding notes and small flourishes, letting them linger, sustain. And as he felt each response shiver through her, saw it mirrored on her face, he found there was no need to hurry after all.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes open. They were too heavy. Odd, how light the rest of her felt. Like thin, fragile glass. And he stroked and cupped her in those wonderful artist’s hands, as if he knew she might break.

  Then his mouth moved down, circling, teasing, then capturing, her breast. The pleasure arrowed into her and quivered there.

  To touch him, she thought hazily. At last to touch him. To feel that wiry strength, those muscles covered by taut skin. Murmuring her approval, she ran her hands over him freely, delighted with each new discovery.

  Those soft, testing caresses had the blood pounding in his head. When his mouth came back to hers again, he demanded just a little more—just a little deeper, a little longer.

  He thought she looked like a princess under glass, with her eyes closed, her skin glowing and her hair like a sunburst over his pillow.

  But she was trembling beneath him, her lips were full and swollen from his patient, relentless assault, and her breath was quickening. Focused on her, only her, he eased her gently toward the next level.

  When he cupped her, she was hot and wet and irresistible.

  Her eyes flew open at the new intimacy. And the pressure, the unbearable pressure that seemed to press outward through her body, threatening to shatter her, promising to overwhelm. Even as she shook her head in denial, she arched against him.

  He took her flying toward the first peak so that she cried out, shocked, staggered by the impact. Her nails bit heedlessly into his back in response to the violence that gripped her, held her helpless. And made her crave.

  Then the tension spurted out of her, leaving her limp. She thought she heard him groan, felt him shudder even as she shuddered. But he was taking her high again, so quickly, so skillfully, that she could only cling and let him lead.

  His hands were balled into fists as he eased himself into her, slowly, so slowly that sweat sprang to his skin and his body seemed to scream out for release.

  He knew he would hurt her. Damage her. Invade her.

  But she opened for him fluidly, as if she’d been waiting all along.

  He would burn in hell for what he’d done. Nick cursed himself over and over, but he couldn’t find the strength to move. He was still sprawled over her, still inside her, trying to recover from the climax of his life.

  He’d had no right to take her. Less to find any pleasure in it.

  He wished she would say something, anything, so that he would have some clue as to how to handle the situation. But she only lay there, limply, with one hand resting lightly on his back.

  His responsibility, he reminded himself. And it was time to face the music.

  As gently as possible, he shifted, rolled off her. She made some sound, vaguely feline, as he moved, then simply curled to him.

  He would certainly burn in hell, he thought, for wanting her all over again.

  “There’s nothing I can do to make up for this.”

  “Nothing,” she said with a sigh, and rested her hand on the old scar above his heart.

  He stared fiercely at a spot on the ceiling. “Can I get you something? Brandy, maybe?”

  “Brandy?” Puzzled, she drummed up enough energy to move her head and look at him. “I haven’t been in an accident or been caught in an avalanche. Why would I need brandy?”

  “For the…shock,” he supposed. “Water, then,” he said, disgusted with himself. “Something.”

  The lovely pink mists were clearing from her brain. Cl
earing enough that she could see the regret and self-condemnation in his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me you’re sorry this happened.”

  “Damned right I’m sorry, for whatever good it does. I should never have touched you. Never have let things get this far. I knew it was your first time.”

  Pride wobbled. “How?”

  He finally shot her a look. “Let’s just say it was obvious.”

  “I see.” Perhaps, after such stunning pleasure, there could be humiliation. “Was I inadequate?”

  “In—” He let out a breath, then a curse. The woman had turned him inside out, now she wanted to know if she was inadequate. “No, you weren’t inadequate. You were amazing.”

  “I was?” Her lips began to curve. “Amazing?”

  He recognized that smug tone and wondered how, at such a time, it could amuse him. “That’s not the point.”

  “I think it’s a good one, though.” Understanding, and sorry for the torment she heard in his voice, she shifted until she could look down at his face. “I always knew you’d be my first, Nicholas. I always wanted you to be.”

  He wondered why the thrill that sent through him didn’t shame him. “I took advantage—”

  She cut him off with a delighted laugh. “No way. Maybe you want to delude yourself that you ravished the virgin, Nicholas, but I seduced you, and I worked damned hard at it.”

  “I’m trying to take responsibility here,” he said patiently. “You’re making it tough.”

  “You made me happy,” she murmured, and lowered her mouth lightly to his. “I hope we made each other happy. Why should knowing that make you sad?”

  It didn’t seem to make much sense, but he found himself smiling at her. “You’re supposed to be weepy and trembling and shocked.”

  “Oh.” She pursed her lips. “Well, maybe if we take it from the top—so to speak—I’ll get it right the next time.”

  Later, he left her in his bed and went down to the bar for his shift. For the first time in years, he caught himself watching the clock. Though he drew drafts and mixed drinks with the ease of experience, he nearly snarled at the few customers who lingered through last call.

  The minute the last one was out the door, he locked up. He gave the bar no more than a cursory cleanup before rushing back upstairs.

  She was sleeping, her head nestled in his pillow, her arm thrown out over the space where he would soon be. He found himself grinning, delighted just to watch her, to listen to the slow, even sound of her breathing, the little catch in it when she shifted in sleep and rustled the sheet.

  Then an idea began to form in his brain that had him grinning and unbuttoning his shirt.

  He left his clothes in a heap on the floor, then eased down at the edge of the bed. He tugged the sheet aside and picked up her foot.

  Freddie drifted awake on a tingle of pleasure. It seemed to creep along her skin, seep into her blood. She heard herself sigh with it, a lovely dream. Then she shot fully awake and into a sitting position when Nick scraped his teeth along her instep.

  “Nick?” Disoriented, pulse pumping, she pushed the hair out of her eyes and blinked at the shadow at the bottom of the bed. “What are you doing?”

  “Waking you up.”

  His eyes, well adjusted to the dark, gleamed like a cat’s. A wolf’s. He found it endearing, arousing, that when she discovered she had no sheet to cover herself, she crossed an arm over her breasts and looked flustered.

  “Too late,” he murmured. “I’ve already seen you naked.”

  Feeling foolish, she lowered her arm. A little.

  “I had this interesting fantasy, about nibbling on your toes and working my way up. I’m indulging myself.”

  “Oh.” The idea had heat rushing through her. “Come to bed.”

  “Eventually.”

  “I want to…” She trailed off, sliding bonelessly back down as his tongue did amazing and wicked things to her ankle.

  “I figured since you seduced me—” he progressed, inch by devastating inch, up her calf “—it was only right that I return the favor.”

  Who would have thought, she wondered, that the back of a knee could be so wonderfully sensitive? “Well…” Her voice was weak. “Fair’s fair.”

  When Freddie let herself into her apartment the next morning, she was singing. Not only was she in love, she thought, but Nick LeBeck was her lover. And she was his.

  She did three quick pirouettes across her living room, buried her face in the tiny white blooms of the violet he’d given her, then spun away again.

  Everything in her life was suddenly and absolutely perfect.

  She would have deserted her beautiful new apartment and moved into the pigsty he lived in in an instant, bag and baggage. But she could easily imagine Nick’s face if she brought up the idea.

  Total shock, she acknowledged. And a good dose of fear.

  Well, there was no need to rush, she reminded herself. Not now.

  But if he didn’t make a move before too much longer, she would have to take the initiative herself. And propose.

  Still, at the moment, she was more than content. All she wanted was a shower—the one she’d taken with Nick that morning didn’t count—and a change of clothes. She was due back at Nick’s in an hour.

  They still had a score to finish.

  She was just stepping, dripping, out of the shower when her buzzer sounded.

  “Coming, coming, coming.” Tugging on a robe as she ran, she rushed to the intercom. “Yes?”

  “Fred, open up.”

  The sound of his voice still had the power to thrill her. “Nick, you’ve got to stop following me.”

  “Ha-ha. Now open up. I wouldn’t have had to run all the way over here if you’d answered your phone.”

  “I was in the shower.” She pressed the buzzer to admit him, then undid her locks before dashing back to the bathroom. She managed to tuck her hair into a towel, and slather on some moisturizer before he walked in.

  “Don’t ever leave your door unlocked like that.”

  Always the sweet-talker, she thought. “You were on your way up.”

  “Ever,” he repeated, then eyed her. “Didn’t you just take a shower an hour ago?”

  She tilted her head, then shoved the towel back into place as it tipped. “I put that more in the class of water games than grooming. What are you, the water police?”

  Distracted, he reached out to toy with her lapel. “What do you call this thing?”

  She glanced down at her short plum-colored silk robe. “A robe. What do you call it?”

  “An invitation, but we haven’t got time. Get packed.”

  Her brows shot up. “I’m leaving?”

  “We’re leaving. Maddy O’Hurley called five minutes after you left. She wants us to come to her house for a few days up at the Hamptons. In the Hamptons. Whatever.”

  Since the towel refused to stay in place, Freddie pulled it off. “Now?”

  “That’s the idea. Her weekend home’s there, and she’s got the family with her.” Idly he reached out and tugged one of her wet curls. “She thought it would be an opportunity for us to work together, and have a little R and R while we’re at it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “So hurry up, will you?” Impatience was shimmering around him now. “I’ve got to get back and do my own packing, rent a car and arrange for someone to take over my shift at the bar.”

  “Okay, go get busy. I’ll be ready when you are.”

  “You wouldn’t want to put any money on it, would you? Holy hell!” He’d backed into the bedroom as he spoke, and now stood gaping. “What is that?”

  “A bed,” she told him, stepping forward to run a loving hand over the curved footboard. “My bed. Fabulous, isn’t it?”

  He grinned. “Arabian Nights or Sleeping Beauty. I can’t decide which.”

  “Something in between.” She arched a brow. “It’s bigger than yours.”

  “It would make three of mine
.” He fingered the lace of the spread. He would have banked on her choosing lace. Slowly, he turned his head, looked back at her with a gleam in his eyes, and lust in his heart. “So, Fred, just how fast can you pack?”

  “Fast enough,” she promised, and leaped onto the bed with him.

  Chapter Nine

  Freddie didn’t see why she couldn’t drive. The snappy convertible Nick had rented for the trip was a pleasure, and she enjoyed having the wind rush through her hair, the blast of the radio. But she’d have preferred being behind the wheel.

  “How come you get to drive?” she demanded.

  “Because I’ve driven with you, Fred. You poke.”

  “I do not poke. I simply obey the law.”

  “Poke.” Enjoying himself, he increased the pressure on the gas pedal. There was nothing like driving full-out with Ray Charles pumping out of the stereo. “If you were driving, we wouldn’t get there until next week.”

  “You’ve already managed to get one ticket,” she reminded him primly.

  Ten miles out of the city, Nick thought in disgust, and he’d been busted. “Traffic cops have no sense of adventure.” But Nick did, and proved it by taking a turn fast. “This baby handles,” he murmured. “Okay, navigator, check when our next turn’s coming. I think we’re almost on it.”

  Freddie glanced down at the directions, snickered. “You passed it, hotshot, about a half a mile back.”

  “No problem.” He zipped the car into a tight U-turn that had Freddie caught between a scream and laughter.

  “The general population can sleep easy, knowing you live in Manhattan and don’t own a car. Make a left,” she instructed. “And slow down. I’d like to get there in one piece.”

  He eased back—a little—and scanned the big, rambling houses they passed. Lots of lawn, he mused, lots of glass. Lots of money.

  Big rooms, he imagined, filled with Oriental rugs and pricey antiques. Or glossy floors and stunning modern furnishings. Swimming pools with sparkling water and cushy lounge chairs set around them.

  Though, of course, those would be sheltered by trimmed shrubbery and grand old trees.