Memories of Us

by Linda Winfree

  Oh God. The oxygen whooshed from her lungs in a muffled moan.

  He stood on her doorstep, a malevolent smile curling his hard mouth. “Hello, Jessie.”

  She took a step back. The keys bit into her palm and bile pushed into her throat. “You—”

  “Going somewhere?” He stepped inside, and when she caught sight of the two men behind him, her stomach revolted.

  She spun. Her shoes slid on the floor again and a sinewy hand grabbed her arm, shoved her into the wall. The skin split on her cheekbone. Pain shot through her face. Her hand instinctively went to her belly, but he held her too forcefully, keeping her from covering the unborn child.

  He pushed her harder against the wall, his mouth close to her ear. Warm breath washed over her neck, a twisted echo of other times she’d been this close to him. She struggled for air, the baby kicking in protest of the tight compression of her womb. He chuckled and nausea churned in her gut.

  “Did you really think I’d let you screw me over, Jessie?” He coiled her arm up behind her back, darts of agony shooting along her nerves. She whimpered, his hips pressed against her buttocks, the solid wall of his chest preventing her from moving, from fighting, from escaping. He pushed her arm higher. She felt a tearing at her shoulder, and pain flooded her. He shoved harder. “Did you?”

  “P-please,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. Panic sizzled in her, dots dancing at the edges of her vision. Her lungs clawed for oxygen. “The baby—”

  “Oh, don’t you worry your pretty little head about the baby, Jessie,” he murmured, dragging his tongue down her neck in a mockery of former caresses. “What do you think we came for?”

  —

  “Oh, I think this ranks right up there.”

  McMillian’s raspy voice filtered through the rush of blood in Celia’s ears. Maybe he hadn’t been able to tell her legs shook from anxiety, that she’d had to push the outrageous words through trembling lips.

  The burn of his gaze on her set off a different tremor within her body, a vibrating expectancy that bubbled and fizzed along her veins.

  Make them come to you.

  She lifted her arms and spread her hair over his pillows, aware the movement thrust her hardened nipples higher. His harsh indrawn breath tickled her ears, heightened the excitement pulsing low in her belly. Every nerve throbbed with increased sensitivity—the soft sheets an unbearable abrasion along her skin, the air a chilly kiss where her damp suit had been, the sound of his ragged breathing a rough caress over her whole body.

  She ached for him, for his touch, for the hardness of him inside her.

  If she was this aroused already, one touch of those strong hands and she’d come apart.

  He rested a forearm along the doorjamb, his posture relaxed and negligent. “Close your eyes.”

  She levered up on her elbows. Her hair, damp at the ends, danced over her shoulders. “What?”

  “Close your eyes.” He pushed away from the door and tugged the white polo over his head. It hit the floor in a soft rustle. He settled into the chair sitting at an angle to the bed and folded his arms behind his head. Muscles tautened in his upper arms. The shark smile appeared once more. “You asked me what my wildest fantasy was. I want to watch you, Cee.”

  The words kicked her in the abdomen, driving the air from her lungs. A thrill traveled through her, the pulsating ache between her thighs growing stronger. The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. “McMillian—”

  “Close your eyes. Pretend I’m not here. Show me what happened when you were fantasizing about me.”

  Her lids fluttered down, and she drew in a deep breath. She’d never felt like this with anyone before—exposed, vulnerable, titillated.

  Aware of his soft breathing, she rubbed her hands over her arms, smoothing away a rash of chill bumps. Pretend he wasn’t there. Build a fantasy. She smiled, conjuring up images on the back of her eyelids. His office and that big mahogany desk. His tall frame dressed for court, the impeccable dark suit, the blue tie that brightened his gaze to cerulean. She paused in his doorway, watching him.

  God, she wanted him. Wanted his hands and mouth on her. Wanted him filling her emptiness, over and over. Wanted him to take her, to claim her, to make her scream.

  Her palms drifted up her arms to her shoulders, across her clavicle in a feathery caress. Heaviness grew in her breasts, the nipples tightening further, and liquid pressure pooled in her belly.

  He looked up, catching her gaze on him. His eyes darkened and he beckoned her inside. She closed the door.

  Her fingers spread over her throat, stroking the skin, savoring the heavy thud at her pulse point.

  No words passed between them. She slid off her jacket, unbuttoned her blouse as she approached him. He rose, his features rigid with sudden lust. She left the blouse on, merely pushed it open, her breasts pressing against the soft lace bra, straining against the confinement. She rested her ass against the desk; he leaned over her, a hand on either side.

  The excitement pulsed, throbbed, threatened. She smoothed her hands down to her breasts, imagining his palms cupping the sides, hefting, shaping, stroking. Pulling the cups down so he could thumb the hardened tips.

  Sensation arced from her nipples straight to her core as she rolled and pinched the stiff flesh, imagining his mouth, his teeth closing over them. A smothered moan slipped past her lips. She arched, seeking the moist touch of her fantasy lover.

  She let one hand drift lower, over the tremulous muscles of her abdomen, and pictured a large hand stroking up her thigh, edging beneath her skirt. Her legs shook and she spread them wider, air rushing over her aching flesh.

  Her fingers delved through silky curls, anticipation hovering. She smoothed the skin of her thigh, her other hand pressing harder at her breasts, scraping a thumbnail over a nipple, circling an aureole.

  She envisioned leaning back on his desk, neat files hitting the floor, voices passing in the hall, the threat of discovery heightening her passion. Strong fingers burned into her thighs, a hot, wet mouth tugged at her breast.

  Head thrown back on a groan, she cupped the heat between her legs. She was wet, open, ready for him, only him. The first touch shot sensation through her, a minitremor of what was to come.

  With his fingers moving over her, pressing in exactly the right places, circling, stroking, pushing, she reached for his belt, unzipped his fly. He was hard and heavy in her hand, and thrills zinged through her. On the desk, she opened wider for him, leaned back on her hands. He loomed over her, stroked her once more before driving into her. His mouth took her startled moan.

  Rustling cloth, the crinkle of cellophane and a harsh hiss tried to penetrate the buzz of stimulation holding her prisoner. Her fingers pressed harder into her slippery folds, the first contractions setting off in her belly, radiating out in an intense pressure. She moaned, embracing the initial flutter of her orgasm.

  The bed dipped, strong hands circled her wrists and brought them above her head, a knee nudged her thighs wider. Her lashes flew up and she glimpsed his face, flushed with male excitement, eyes glittering. The reality meshed with her fantasy, the orgasm barreling through her body, her chest heaving beneath him.

  “Close them,” he muttered. She complied, unable to resist, and he entered her with a hard thrust. She screamed, the sensation too much as he drove high inside her, pushing her up toward a second climax.

  He filled her, hips pressing hers into the bed, fingers biting into her wrists. She arched, wanting more of the pistoning hardness, breasts rubbing the stone wall of his chest.

  His teeth grazed her throat, his harsh breathing rushing over her ear. The soft slap of their bodies together filled the air and she lifted her hips to meet his pounding thrusts. Electricity arced from the contact, pressure building in her womb.

  “My God,” he groaned, the words tense and gritty. “You’re so fucking tight, Cee.”

  She flexed her wrists within his grasp, pushing into him. Her body stretched
around him, the sensation of fullness exquisite, but not enough. “Harder. I want you harder.”

  He slammed into her, the base of his erection pushing against her sensitized clit. “Is that what you want, Cee?”

  “Yes.” Her head tossed on the pillow, her body seeking release from the incredible weight within her. Their bodies slid together, slick with sweat, his chest rubbing over her breasts. He bit her shoulder and she gasped. “Oh, yes.”

  He drove into her harder, higher, his torso heavy against her. “Open your eyes.”

  Her lashes lifted, and she stared into his face, the skin tight over his high cheekbones. His eyes shone with a predatory triumph and the aching flutters began deep inside her. “McMillian—”

  “Come for me, Cee. Now.”

  She arched into him, the climax slamming through her. Her eyes slid closed, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Above her, he stiffened, thrusting deeper, a guttural groan falling on her ears.

  Slowly, she came back to herself, lying limp and boneless beneath his weight. Aftershocks of continued pleasure thrummed through her body. Collapsed against her, he gasped for breath and finally released her wrists. She lifted a heavy hand and smoothed her palm down his damp back.

  He laughed and buried his face against her throat. “I’m too old to be doing this. Too much of that and you’ll kill me.”

  She smiled, threading her fingers through his crisp hair, tracing the edge of his slightly receded hairline. “What a way to go, huh?”

  Lifting his head, he planted his elbows on either side of her, rubbing a thumb over her cheekbone. “Hot damn, Celia, what the hell was that fantasy about?”

  She laughed and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her body along his, loving the feel of his hot skin. “I’ll show you sometime.”

  Nuzzling her jaw, he blew out a long breath and relaxed. “Sounds good to me.”

  Her hand drifted down his back, following the dimpled line of his spine, lingering at the indention above his buttocks. She sighed and let her eyes drift shut on a wave of lazy contentment. When was the last time she’d felt this attracted to a man? There’d been none of the usual awkwardness between first-time lovers. She fit with him, in a way she hadn’t experienced before.

  He ran his palms down her arms. “I may not ever get enough of this.”

  Some of her well-being dissipated. She stilled beneath him, his weight a burden now rather than a pleasure. Of course, this wasn’t going to last. They’d agreed to explore the attraction. Once it wore off, they’d go their separate ways.

  Shifting, she gently pushed him to one side. He rolled to his back, closing his eyes on a humming exhalation. The picture of pure male satisfaction. A chill washed over her with the rush of cool air on her bare skin.

  She tunneled a hand through her tousled hair. “I should get dressed and head home.”

  His eyes jerked open and his head came off the pillow. “What?”

  Stupidly aware of her nudity now, after the way she’d displayed herself for him earlier, she slid from the bed and gathered her bikini. “You have meetings tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes.” He sat up, seeming unconcerned with his own naked state as he dispensed with the condom. She glanced away and stepped into the skimpy bikini bottoms. Her stomach tightened, a shadow of coldness working its way down her spine. “But it’s early. You don’t have to go yet.”

  She fastened her top and adjusted it over her breasts. “I still have some research to do.”

  “Celia, wait.” Cloth moved behind her. She reached for her shorts and warm hands settled on her waist. With gentle pressure, he turned her to face him. A scowl slashed between his brows. “What’s going on?”

  She shook her hair away from her face. “Nothing. I have a ton of records to finish going through. Is that a problem?”

  “No.” His mouth drew into a taut line. “I just thought…never mind.”

  “Dinner was wonderful.” She forced a smile, hiding the emptiness coiling around her heart. What had she expected? That something special would bloom from what was basically meaningless agreed-upon sex? Please. That was the furthest thing from either of their minds and she had no reason to feel shortchanged. “And dessert was fantastic.”

  “That it was.” His face relaxed and he leaned in, brushing his mouth over hers. Her traitorous body insisted on leaning into him too. Her nose prickled; she could smell her scent on his skin, mingled with his male sweat and lingering chlorine. She blinked and shot a look at the bed. This was the first kiss they’d shared since the passionate interlude in his pool. What had taken place in his bed had involved only their bodies. She shivered.

  He ran a hand down her arm. “When can I see you again?”

  She stepped away. “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Funny. That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  Make them come to you. She needed to keep this on her terms. If he held too much control, she’d end up hurting—badly. She reached up and patted his jaw. “You made the first move, McMillian. Second one’s mine.”

  —

  Tom poured a couple fingers of Scotch and carried it to the glass wall at the back of the house. Lights from other homes glimmered on the lake and a boat trawled a lazy route through the water. The view defined peace and contentment.

  Exactly what he should be feeling after that mind-blowing interlude with Celia.

  Instead, a vague dissatisfaction skulked in his gut and he really wanted to punch something. He lifted the glass, the alcohol burning a trail to his stomach. The sex had been incredible.

  And that’s all it had been: sex. All he’d expected, a fulfillment of the attraction between them. Watching her, feeling her close about him at the height of her climax, had been a living fantasy.

  Why wasn’t it enough? He wanted more from her, but he wasn’t sure what.

  Maybe not being in such a hurry to get dressed and leave his bed? He hadn’t expected her to stay the night, wasn’t sure he’d have wanted that, but she’d certainly hit the floor running. She’d left him with the distinct impression it had been a case of wham-bam-thank-you-Tom.

  He felt used, probably like Cook’s one-night stands did the morning after. She’d been every guy’s dream, and instead of being suffused with male satisfaction, he was pissed as hell.

  So she thought the next move was hers? Eyes narrowed, he tossed off the remainder of his Scotch.

  Hardly.

  Celia St. John had a lot to learn about him.

  Chapter Six

  Pain filled Tom’s senses, the metallic tang of blood hanging heavy around him. Darkness closed in, his lungs clawing for oxygen. Stabbing agony tore through his abdomen.

  He wakened, a harsh groan strangling in his throat. He sat up and tossed the twisted sheets aside. A lingering trace of Celia’s scent drifted up and he dragged in a deep breath, letting the lush memory of her body’s pleasures soothe away the remnants of his nightmare. Rubbing a hand over his hair, he pushed up from the bed. A couple of miles on the treadmill would erase the persistent anxiety from his mind.

  Maybe it would help him lose the memory of Celia rushing from his bed.

  He tugged on shorts and a T-shirt, added his running shoes and grabbed the cordless phone on his way to the spare bedroom. Setting the treadmill for a brisk pace, he punched in the code to access his voice mail. He deleted the first message, a telemarketing pitch from his credit-card company. The second was a hang-up. Unease traveled over his spine, images from his dream flashing in his mind. Shaking his head, he tucked the phone into a nook on the treadmill display. Nightmares, shivers over a damn wrong number. Obviously, he’d been working too hard. Maybe he should arrange for some time off, take a minivacation.

  Maybe he could convince Celia to tag along.

  One of those three-day cruises out of Mobile to Mexico could be nice. Warm sand, blue ocean, Celia in that black bikini.

  Celia in his stateroom, naked, sunlight spilling over her smooth skin and
shining hair.

  A different shiver moved over him, arousal firing to life low in his gut. He smiled. Somehow he needed to persuade her to go ahead and make that second move she was so determined to have.

  —

  “So how was it?”

  Celia groaned and buried her head under her arms. “Cis, it’s too early.”

  “It’s after six.” The bed dipped under her sister’s weight. Celia curled into a tighter ball. Maybe if she just ignored Cicely, she’d take a hint. Cicely patted her shoulder. “Come on. I brought coffee.”

  Aware she couldn’t avoid the interrogation, Celia flopped over and stared at her ceiling. A pleasurable lethargy gripped her body and a feminine ache lingered between her thighs. She closed her eyes and rubbed a hand over them. All the symptoms of a woman who’d been well-made-love-to.

  No. That hadn’t been lovemaking. Everything that had happened between her and McMillian could be defined as pure sex.

  “Cee?” Cicely nudged her knee. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  With a heavy exhalation, Celia pushed up against the pillows and reached for the coffee mug. “It was fantastic.”

  Her face troubled, Cicely pleated the comforter between her fingers. “You don’t sound happy about that.”

  “What’s not to be happy about?” Celia buried her nose in the mug, inhaling the strong aroma and taking a long sip. Her stomach compressed into a quivering knot of anxiety. Was she making a mistake, indulging in this affair?

  “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you really?” Sadness flickered in Cicely’s pale green eyes. “Don’t you think Mama told herself that every time?”

  Anger churned in Celia and she set the mug aside. “I’m not Mama.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “This isn’t the same thing. I’m not looking for promises of love or forever. McMillian’s not that kind of guy.” How could he be? She’d seen the way he’d looked at Kathleen. He still had issues there. Expecting anything from him was a sure ticket to heartbreak. Expecting anything from any man was. She’d learned that priceless little tidbit the hard way. “And I’m not that kind of girl.”