Getting It Now!

by Rhonda Nelson

  So much for coming in this morning and giving her tit for tat. Actually, he’d managed to zing her a little before he’d become too befuddled. He’d purposely slid in behind her, bumping her rear with his hip as he walked past her and had enjoyed listening to her breath catch. Unfortunately, when he’d come up with the brilliant plan of pitting her sex appeal versus his, Philip hadn’t factored in what he belatedly realized would be the fly in the ointment.

  Flirting with her—watching her response to his carefully veiled ministrations—only heightened his own arousal.

  In short, he’d stupidly increased his own suffering.

  Though he wouldn’t have thought it was possible, he wanted her even more now than he had before he’d initiated his own form of payback. Irritation and pure sexual need tangled his insides into a knot of futile despair. How the hell was he supposed to resist her? How was he supposed to concentrate when every cell in his body screamed for release? Begged him to end his suffering and slake his endless lust against her soft, welcoming body?

  Philip glared moodily at her—at that plump carnal mouth, specifically—and felt a bead of moisture leak out of his dick. Though he knew he was too vain, he grimly entertained the idea of tearing his hair out.

  This was her fault, he decided.

  It was her fault he wanted her.

  Her fault that he’d been roped into this special.

  Her fault that he’d burned the tenderloin.

  His gaze slid over her mouth once more and a wave of stark need bombarded him, weakening his knees. His stomach fluttered and another bomb of heat detonated in his loins.

  She needed to be punished, Philip thought, sidling in closer to her.

  Carrie’s gaze shot to his own mouth, then bumped up and tangled with his. “Philip?” she asked questioningly.

  “You only have yourself to blame,” he said, as though everything up to and beyond this point were a foregone conclusion. “You win.”

  “Win what?”

  “Me,” he said. He backed her against the counter, enjoyed the commingled flash of trepidation and want light up her gorgeous almost-purple gaze.

  “B-but I don’t want you,” she sputtered, as though finally realizing what he was about.

  Philip chuckled confidently under his breath, and for the first time since this all began, he finally felt himself slip back into control, knew how to wrestle back the upper hand. Granted he’d made many mistakes with her, but this was one area he knew his own expertise.

  And he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she wanted him.

  “Liar,” he said. “Here. I’ll prove it.”

  Then before she could utter another protest, he cupped her face with his hands and swiftly lowered his mouth to hers.

  EXACTLY THIRTY SECONDS before Philip’s lips connected with hers, Carrie had realized that she’d finally pushed him too far.

  She’d watched his face morph from anger to epiphany, then from calculating to determinedly resigned and confident. He’d invaded her personal space, nudged her up against the counter and those liquid silver eyes had darkened with sleepy sexual purpose. If she’d ever seen anything so wonderfully thrilling, she couldn’t recall it.

  “You win,” he’d said and though a small part of her was terrified at what exactly she’d won, another part was secretly thrilled and did a triumphant little happy dance deep within her soul.

  Then he’d kissed her and her soul had shattered.

  The meeting of their mouths exceeded every expectation, surpassed every dream, obliterated every fantasy.

  There was nothing sweet or reverent about the way he kissed her. It was a no-holds-barred full-fledged confident invasion that sucked the air from her lungs, removed every thought from her head and made her heart feel like it was going to pound right out of her chest. Those big hands of his—the very ones she’d found so damned sexy—were currently caressing her face, pushing into her hair.

  Her entire body vibrated with relief, sang with tension, tingled with impossible recognition.

  She’d never kissed him before, and yet the very taste of him was so welcome and comfortable that she mewled with pleasure.

  Philip groaned into her mouth, a heady sound that made her inordinately thankful that the counter was at her back. She greedily ate it up, savored the warm intoxicating taste of him. The hair at the nape of his neck was smooth tangled between her fingers and she could feel a mouthwatering bulge nudge impatiently against her belly.

  Her nipples pearled against the slinky fabric of her bustier, sending little tendrils of fire curling through her all the way down to her weeping sex. Her womb clenched, coating her folds with hot joy juice. Her clit throbbed with each expert touch and her skin suddenly felt too tight for her body.

  His tongue slid against hers, back and forth, a desperate mimicry of what she longed for between her legs. Seemingly sensing her thoughts and blessedly out of his mind—they were in the set kitchen, for pity’s sake—Philip lifted her up and set her on the counter. He settled himself between her legs, the pressure exquisitely perfect against her burning sex.

  She looped her arms more tightly around his neck, clung to him and shamelessly shifted forward in a desperate attempt to align him more firmly against her body. If she could have burrowed beneath his skin, she would have. That’s how much she wanted him. How much she needed him.

  He anchored those wonderful hands on her hips and held her firmly against him, then rocked slightly back and forth, causing a bright sparkler of sensation to ignite deep in her womb. Carrie felt her thighs go rigid, her spine boneless and she melted even closer to him.

  Philip’s talented mouth cut a path to her ear. “God, you taste so good, Carrie.”

  She moaned her approval, unable to summon the wherewithal to speak.

  He trailed kisses down her neck, sucked and licked, tasted and savored until he reached the delicate cut-outs around the tops of her breasts. Then those eyes darkened again and a hint of a smile curled his lips. He lowered his head and slipped his tongue into each opening, lightly tasting her through the satiny fabric. Carrie gasped, kneaded the muscles in his shoulders, silently telegraphing her approval.

  “Ahem.”

  Somewhere in the dimmest recesses of her mind a warning bell sounded, but she was too caught up in the tornadic cocoon of sexual sensation to heed it. Philip was currently loosening the tie between her breasts with his teeth and his hot breath against her skin prevented her from focusing on anything other than the pleasure she knew was to come.

  “A-hem.”

  The tie gave way, causing her breasts to almost tumble from the tiny shelf of fabric concealing them. Philip’s teeth had just latched onto the material when an impatient British voice penetrated their sensual haze.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake. Must I get the hose?”

  Philip went completely still, then closed his eyes tightly shut and swore. Carrie’s gaze darted over his shoulder and connected with that of an amused man she vaguely recognized. The accent belatedly registered and she made the connection.

  Philip’s agent.

  “I’ll meet you in my dressing room, Rupert,” Philip said without turning around, his voice strangled with irritation. That they’d been interrupted, Carrie wondered, or that he’d kissed her to start with?

  Her cheeks caught fire. Mortified, she slowly removed her hands from his shoulders and attempted to repair the laces at the front of her bustier.

  “I’ve been waiting patiently for you in your dressing room, but when you didn’t show up I thought I’d better come and see if anything was amiss.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled with mirth. “Clearly it’s not.”

  “Rupert,” Philip snapped. “Go away.”

  “Oh, fine,” his agent replied unrepentantly. “It was nice to see you, Ms. Robbins,” he said, shooting her another glance that made her wonder just how much of her he’d actually seen. She imagined that Philip’s head had blocked most of her from view, but who knew how long he’d been s
tanding there? They’d certainly done quite a bit of moving around—hell, she’d been slithering all over him. God knows what—

  In a considerately tender gesture, Philip drew back and helped her right her clothes. All she’d managed to do was tie the damned thing in a knot.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, his voice somewhat rusty. His molten gaze tangled with hers. “I forgot that Rupert would be by this afternoon. Are you okay?”

  “Embarrassed,” Carrie admitted, still wishing for a convenient hole to open up beneath her. “But otherwise unharmed.”

  Philip nodded. “Good.” He paused, somewhat nervously. “What are you doing this evening?” he wanted to know. “I, uh…I think we should get together and talk.”

  That could be interpreted several different ways, Carrie thought, wondering which one he intended. “I’ll be at home tonight. I’m catering a small wedding for a friend this weekend and I’ve got to get some of the prep work done.”

  “Would I be in the way if I came over?”

  “No,” Carrie replied cautiously, feeling a curious swooping sensation wing through her abdomen.

  “Sixish, then?”

  She licked her swollen lips. “That sounds fine.”

  Philip smiled, effectively snatching what was left of her breath from her lungs, then helped her down from the counter and pressed another lingering kiss to her still tingling mouth. “See you tonight,” he said, before turning to walk away.

  Miraculously, a thought struck when it didn’t seem possible that she’d even have two to rub together. “Wait! I, uh…I need to give you my address.”

  Philip shot her a look over his shoulder and a sexy chuckle rumbled up his throat. “I know where you live.”

  She frowned, surprised. “But—”

  “Keep your friends close…” he said significantly.

  And your enemies closer, Carrie silently finished. The question was, which one was she now?

  Better still, which one would she be tonight?

  8

  PHILIP BARGED THROUGH his dressing-room door and speared Rupert with a glance. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking with my brain.” His agent grinned and plucked a nonexistent piece of fuzz from his coat. “You, evidently, were thinking with another appendage.”

  “You should have left,” Philip snapped, uncharacteristically annoyed over what his agent had just seen. He shoved his hands through his hair. “You embarrassed the hell out of her.”

  “Really?” Rupert asked. “Considering those outfits she wears, I wouldn’t have thought that was possible.”

  One had absolutely nothing to do with the other, Philip thought, irritated all the more. What a sexist damned thing to say. He told Rupert as much, garnering his agent’s speculative attention.

  “You’re overwrought,” he said, eyeing him closely. “Is it because I interrupted what was obviously the prologue to a sporting sexual encounter and no man enjoys that sort of interruption?” His gaze sharpened. “Or is her lady’s honor the culprit behind your ill humor?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference,” Philip told him, not interested in pursuing the latter idea, which he grimly suspected was the predominant sentiment of the two. “What was so bloody important that you had to hang around, anyway?”

  Rupert stood. “Nothing, in particular. I have plans tonight and didn’t want you calling, demanding that I come over so that you can rant and rail about how abysmal this special is. I’m going to chill with my honey, and like you, I don’t appreciate being interrupted.”

  “Yes, well, I have plans tonight as well, so chill away.” Though frankly he should call him just for the hell of it, the moron. Good grief. He’d been seconds away—a mere nod of his head—from sampling those delectable breasts which had plagued every sleeping and waking dream for the past year. Almost and yet—

  “Who do you have plans with?” Rupert asked slyly. “A date with the Nutcracker, perchance?”

  Yanked from his thoughts, Philip scowled. What? he wondered. Had Rupert hung back in the shadows and watched the show?

  “I got here early and caught a whiff of the fire,” his agent explained, seemingly reading his thoughts.

  “I thought I’d better come and have a look.”

  Philip’s face flushed. “It wasn’t a fire, dammit.”

  “They disabled the smoke alarms. Otherwise the whole set would have been ringing.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I told you to bed her and be done with it. You’re not going to be able to think straight until you do.”

  Though it was a somewhat cold suggestion, Philip knew the truth lay in it. Quite honestly, he didn’t know what had happened a few minutes ago. One instant he’d been seething mad and the next he’d had a mouthful of Carrie, supposedly in punishment for her making him crazy. What sort of bent logic had led him to that plan of action? he wondered, beginning to seriously question his lucidity.

  The problem was, he didn’t think either one of them were feeling chastened. And speaking strictly for himself, he knew that for those few minutes while he’d made a meal of that succulently sweet mouth and soft, curvy body, he hadn’t been feeling much of anything aside from a curiously bizarre sense of recognition—the same one which had plagued him before—and intense urge to plant himself between her thighs, consequences be damned.

  In fact, though he didn’t appreciate Rupert’s insensitive interruption, a small part of him was eternally grateful that he had, otherwise he would have most likely taken her right there.

  Had anyone else walked in on them, he imagined they both would have been a damned sight more embarrassed than what they currently were. Rupert, at least, would keep his mouth shut, which would help keep rumors to a minimum.

  Not that they hadn’t already started, Philip thought with a disgusted snort. He’d heard a couple of little comments this morning when he’d come in—one from a sous chef in the kitchen, another from a camera guy. Already the buzz of their “chemistry” was making the rounds.

  Given the fact that he’d like to keep things as low key as possible to prevent possibly losing his show or doing another special, the gossip certainly wasn’t helping his cause. Honestly, the less said about all of it the better. Philip released a pent-up breath.

  Which was why when he went to Carrie’s tonight he would apologize for his lapse in judgment and promise henceforth to keep things on a strictly professional level.

  Every cell in his body rebelled at this thought—particularly the very hard ones currently straining against his zipper—but, logically, he knew it was for the best. Morals clause or not, he simply didn’t need to let things progress any further. If he were to do what he really wanted—i.e., take her six ways till Sunday, until every last vestige of lust had been wrung from both of their limp bodies—he knew there would be emotional consequences he’d heretofore never had to deal with.

  The kiss to end all kisses had told him that.

  Philip had never been in love. He’d liked women before, certainly been in relationships where he quite fancied a girl, but as far as ever feeling the power less, all-consuming do-or-die sentiment, he’d never felt it. Never experienced anything more than a bit of mild regret over a failed relationship, the inconvenience of having to exert the effort to find a new lover. Shallow? Probably. But that was an honest assessment.

  Carrie, he instinctively knew, would be different.

  The instant he’d touched his lips to hers he’d felt a curious melting sensation around his heart. His skin had prickled, his scalp had tingled and a bone-deep shiver of recognition had quaked him to the core. He’d felt that same sort of coming-home feel ing in her arms as he did every time he walked through the doors of his island villa. Contentment.

  Peace. Affection.

  Factor in that he’d wanted to devour her and he knew he was in trouble.

  Quite frankly, Philip would cite the fear of another Sophie debacle to Rupert—possibly even try to convince h
imself of it—but he knew that it was a convenient excuse. The truth was Carrie Robbins—the level of emotion she’d managed to evoke in such little time—scared the living hell out him. He was so used to being in control, of managing the people around him that the idea of giving anybody the power to possibly hurt him made his gut involuntarily clench with dread.

  He was suddenly eight again with a scraped knee, waiting for the taken-for-granted kiss from his mother that never came. Ten when his dog died and there wasn’t a shoulder to cry on, only a harsh comment from his father to “stop blubbering over a worthless pup.” It was only a dog, he’d said, as if that had somehow lessened Philip’s attachment to it. That dog had been his only source of affection for years and he’d loved it to distraction. He’d never had another one. Too painful to subject himself to the eventual guaranteed loss.

  He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the memories from his mind, wishing that he could permanently erase them. He hated this feeling. Helpless. Wounded. This was precisely why he avoided things like this.

  And so what if he was occasionally lonely? Philip thought. Lonely was preferable to heartbroken, right?

  Right, dammit.

  He couldn’t let her do this to him, Philip thought. Yes she was beautiful—more lovely than any person he’d ever seen—and yes he wanted her more desperately than he’d ever wanted another woman. And yes the idea of spending any time with her made his blood pressure spike with anticipation and joy. For all of his protests over this special, he couldn’t wait to get to work this morning. Couldn’t wait to step on set because he knew she’d be there.