IN THE DARK

by Pamela Burford

  Tentatively she reached out to touch his face, and encountered his jaw, rough with beard stubble.

  "You're trembling!" he said, closing his warm fingers over her icy hands.

  Well, what did he expect—nerves of steel? He pressed a tender kiss to the backs of her fingers, then to the tips. She was unprepared for the feel of his mouth, like sun-warmed satin.

  The scanty moonlight hinted at bold masculine features and short, dark hair that was a bit unruly on top, as if the waves refused to be tamed. Twenty years ago Greg had worn his hair fairly long, enhancing his boyish good looks. This shorter cut no doubt complemented the rugged maturity the past two decades had carved into his face.

  Sensing his eyes on her, she speculated that perhaps Greg possessed better night vision than she. The mattress dipped as his weight shifted. She felt his inquisitive touch on her face, a whisper of sensation tickling her eyelashes. He traced her nose, her mouth, the shape of her chin. His fingers moved to her throat, and lower, skimming over her breasts without the slightest hesitation. Cat held her breath, knowing Greg felt the frantic drumming of her heart and wishing she could be as blasé as he. Far from sharing her agitation, he seemed sublimely at ease.

  "This is some outfit," he said, toying with the crisscrossed lacing.

  She cleared her throat. "I was hoping you'd like it."

  "I like it. Wish I could see it." His hand glided down her rib cage to her hip and thigh, treating the rest of her to the same unhurried inspection. The feverish imprint of his fingers seemed to linger everywhere he touched.

  Mustering her courage, Cat sat up and moved over, making room for him to stretch out on the bed. She offered a quavery smile, though she knew he couldn't see it. "Don't feel that you have to spend a lot of time on conversation or, um—" she swallowed hard "—foreplay. We can just, you know, get down to it. If you want."

  For the longest time Greg said nothing. She searched his shadowed features, in vain. Finally he said, "I don't think this is such a good idea."

  His words struck her like a fist to the gut. "What? You … you don't want to…?"

  "I'm just not into it. Don't take it personally."

  Humiliation scalded her face and stung her eyes. He'd changed his mind. He'd come all this way, climbed all those stairs, for one purpose only—and now, now that he'd gotten to inspect the woman he was supposed to make a baby with…

  "But it's … it's all arranged." Her voice climbed a couple of octaves. "I mean, if we're not going to have sex, then what am I doing here?" She tugged at the bodice of her negligee in an inane effort to cover herself.

  "We both know this wasn't my idea." His tone was not unkind, which somehow made it all the harder to bear.

  "Yes, well, I'm so sorry to disappoint you. Excuse me." She started to rise, but he stopped her.

  "Hold on. Is that what you think? That I don't find you desirable?"

  "Don't worry," she snapped. "I won't take it personally." She tried to spring off the bed, but he caught both her arms. She turned her head, unable to face him even in the dark.

  "Just so we understand one another," he said, "it's not you. It's the circumstances." She didn't respond, and it soon became clear he wouldn't release her until she did.

  At last she said, "The circumstances?"

  "I'm accustomed to being the … initiator, I guess you'd say. This sort of thing just goes against my grain. Trust me." Slowly he trailed one knuckle down her throat and along her freshly minted cleavage. "I find you very desirable."

  The simple caress stole Cat's breath. She felt her nipples tighten against the silk mesh covering them. Her body's response shamed her. If Greg truly thought she was so damn desirable, he'd do what he'd come here to do, what he'd promised to do, bizarre "circumstances" notwithstanding. Brigit had described her cousin as the most laid-back guy she knew. He'd said nothing on the phone to indicate he had a problem with the circumstances.

  She supposed she should be grateful. At least he wasn't sleeping with her out of pity!

  Cat pushed his hands away. "Look, thanks for the gallant effort, but you don't have to lie to spare my feelings. I know I'm nothing special."

  "Gallant, huh? Never been accused of that one before." Without warning he grabbed her hand and brought it to his crotch. Reflexively she tried to pull away, but he held her palm firmly against the distended fly of his jeans.

  His erection felt enormous under her hand, as rigid as a wooden club. His fingers wrapped around hers, forcing her to measure the length and breadth of his arousal. For a moment she was too stunned to move, to breathe. Even her heartbeat seemed to falter.

  Greg leaned into her, his voice a husky murmur in her ear. "Just so we understand one another." He placed a soft kiss on her temple. "It's not you."

  Shaken, Cat pulled her hand away, and this time he let her.

  Okay. It definitely wasn't her.

  As that knowledge sank in, she began to experience the same intoxicating sensation she'd felt earlier posing in front of the mirror. The power of her feminine appeal.

  This man desired her. His body craved her. It was his mind that was putting up roadblocks. She supposed in his own way he was as uncomfortable with this whole situation as she was. He needed to be made to feel like the—what did he call it? The initiator.

  What would Delilah do?

  Cat shifted into a comfortable cross-legged position, trying to project a nonchalance she didn't feel. "I have to admit, in a way, your decision's a relief," she said, reaching back with both hands to lift her hair off her neck, as she'd practiced in front of the mirror, wishing there was enough light for Greg to appreciate the total effect. "Gosh, is it ever hot in here."

  "Yeah, it is. Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why is it a relief? Us not…" He made some sort of hand motion, which she suspected was just crude enough to make her glad she couldn't see it.

  She shrugged and leaned back on her palms. "You know—all the pressure of an arrangement like this, the lack of spontaneity."

  "I know."

  "I mean, talk about sex by the numbers."

  "Yeah."

  "When we both know you're not into it."

  "Right."

  "And chances are, I wouldn't even get aroused."

  Silence.

  "So it's a big relief," she said. "I think there's a pint of Häagen-Dazs melting in the freezer. You want to split it?"

  "No. That wouldn't be a problem," he said stiffly.

  "What wouldn't be a problem?"

  "My being able to get you aroused. No reason to assume that would be a problem. If we were going to do it."

  "Which we aren't."

  "Right."

  "So we'll never really know for sure, but that's neither here nor there. I think it's mocha chocolate chip and I'm not going to let it go to waste." She scooted around him to the edge of the bed.

  His voice held no trace of a smile. "We do know for sure. I know for sure, all right? It wouldn't be a problem." His hand bumped her as he spread his arms. "Trust me on this."

  "Sure." Rising, she muttered under her breath, "If you say so."

  He grabbed her arm as he came to his feet. He was as tall as she remembered. Taller. "What was that?"

  "What?"

  "What you just said."

  "I said, 'sure.'"

  "You said, 'if you say so.' I heard you."

  "So why are you asking what I said if you heard me? Do you mind?" she said, tugging on her arm.

  He didn't let go. "You don't think I could do it. You don't think I could turn you on."

  She pasted on a patient smile, knowing he'd hear it in her voice. "Listen. Whether you could or whether you couldn't isn't really relevant, is it? We're both relieved to have the pressure off. I'd just like to relax with a bowl of ice cream. If that's all right with you?"

  He dropped her arm. "So that's it, then. You aren't even curious."

  Her prolonged exhalation was as eloquent as the words that followed. "You
know what? Actually, I know you could do it." She patted his arm, inching in the direction of the ice cream. "There's not a doubt in my mind."

  Cat didn't need light to know Greg was gaping in indignation at this blatant attempt to assuage his fragile masculine ego. Outrage rolled off him in waves. But all she heard in his voice was fierce determination as he growled, "Just for the record," and pulled her into his arms.

  His mouth seized hers as his strong fingers splayed over her scalp to hold her still. His other arm banded around her back, crushing her to him. His heat, the scent of his skin, the repressed power in his big, hard body, all went to her head in a dizzying blitz.

  Greg kissed her with an intensity that left her reeling. Coaxing her mouth open, he touched his tongue to her lips, her teeth, laying claim without actually penetrating. He was teasing her, she knew he was, forcing a response. She resisted, whimpering with the effort.

  Even though this was what she'd wanted, to goad him into action, she was overwhelmed; she'd never been kissed like this. There was no question that Greg was in complete control. She felt like Dr. Frankenstein, at the mercy of the beast she'd created.

  His hand slid from her back to her bottom. He caressed her through the silk, testing her shape, lightly squeezing her. The excess of sensation was too much; her self-control vaporized. She clung to him, greedily returning his kiss, drawing his tongue into her mouth.

  Cat heard Greg's little grunt of satisfaction, and she didn't care. She didn't care that he was just trying to prove a point. Her hunger was a rapacious thing, clawing at her from within. She knew only that she needed this—this and more. More of his mouth commanding hers, more of his touch, unapologetically bold as his hands roamed over her in leisurely perusal.

  He ended the kiss but didn't move away, his moist lips a hairbreadth from hers. Their breath mingled in rapid bursts. She looked up, straining her vision, and was rewarded by her first glimpse of his eyes, midnight black and bottomless. Liquid obsidian.

  Cat felt a flicker of unease as she stared into those eyes. In the next heartbeat the reason for her discomfort, if one existed, had slipped away from her, as fleeting as the wingbeat of a moth.

  "Have I proved my point?" he asked, sounding more winded than after he'd climbed the twenty-two flights of stairs.

  "No." Her voice was as shaky as his. "It was a valiant effort, but…" She shrugged.

  "It's not nice to fib. You want to rethink that?" He brushed his knuckles over her aching, erect nipples.

  She grasped his wrists, biting back the moan of pleasure that tried to escape. "Nothing to rethink."

  "I see. Must be the frigid temperature that did this to you," he said, delicately plucking the stiff peaks that pushed against her thin gown. The pleasure of his touch was so acute it was close to pain. He ignored Cat's efforts to dislodge his hands.

  "That's not—that's not definitive proof of anything," she said.

  "Ah. We insist on definitive proof, do we? The scientific method and all that."

  When one large hand slid down her torso, she was ready with an evasive maneuver. He captured both her wrists in one hand and easily held them while he caressed her belly, toying with her sensitive navel until she squirmed.

  "Why can't you just admit I'm right?" he asked.

  When she said nothing, he slid his hand lower, directly between her legs. Cat stopped breathing. The heat and pressure of his hand were maddening.

  "If I touched you here, what would I find?" he murmured, lightly fondling her. "Are you wet?"

  His voice had a wicked edge to it. He was enjoying tormenting her. Arrogant man.

  "You mean you'd take my word for it? Not very scientific." She parted her legs slightly.

  Greg remained motionless for a few heart-stopping seconds, as if considering her wordless invitation. Then his grip tightened on her wrists as his other hand found the hip-high slit in her gown. He drew the material aside.

  Cat gasped at his first probing touch; she was beyond wet, beyond ready. She knew the guttural moan that erupted from Greg had nothing to do with triumph at having proved his point. It was an instinctive response, primitive and purely male.

  As he deepened his exploration, her mouth opened on a silent cry. Never in her life had she been this aroused. One long finger pushed into her, slowly, and her knees threatened to collapse. He released her wrists and wrapped his arm around her back, supporting her. She grabbed handfuls of his black T-shirt and hung on for dear life as her hips mimicked the hypnotic rhythm of his thrusting finger. Within moments her climax beckoned, just out of reach.

  Greg withdrew his hand. Cat failed to restrain a sob of frustration. He trembled slightly as he set her away from him.

  Why did he resist it? she wondered. At this point what did it matter who had initiated what? Could his masculine pride be that frail?

  She heard his labored breathing, sensed his battle to bring himself under control.

  Oh no, you don't, she thought. Tonight I'm Delilah, and you're mine.

  His voice was gruff. "I'm going to sleep on the sofa."

  Cat reached for the bow closing the front of her gown and released it. She loosened the silk cord and let the bodice slip off her shoulders, leaving her bare to the waist. She experienced a moment of dismay as her breasts, freed from the pneumatic enhancement of the tight gown, settled into their natural contours.

  Without giving herself time to reconsider, she closed the distance between them, lifted Greg's hand and placed it on her breast. Her apprehension proved ill founded. As much as he'd admired the outrageous negligee, he obviously appreciated the real her even more. His other hand came up and he caressed her with painstaking thoroughness, as if committing every detail to memory: the weight, the shape, the texture of her. His fingers were slightly callused.

  Emboldened by a sexual confidence she'd never felt before, Cat wriggled out of the negligee, letting it slide off her hips to puddle on the carpet. She reached for his erection and stroked it through his jeans. Greg's breath caught. He was even harder than before, if that was possible.

  "I don't know where you came up with this 'Me Tarzan' nonsense," she said, "but it's getting tiresome. Take off your clothes."

  "No."

  Her hand froze in midfondle.

  He said, "You do it for me."

  Cat smiled in the dark. Greg may have won the battle, but there was no doubt in her mind who won the war.

  As she worked on his belt buckle, Greg's hands glided up her arms to her shoulders. He dropped soft kisses on her forehead, along the hairline. One hand slipped to her nape and traced the curve of her spine all the way down, making her shiver.

  Cat tugged his T-shirt up and he obligingly lifted his arms so she could pull it off. She tossed it aside and placed her palms on his chest, dragging her nails through crisp hair blanketing a wall of solid muscle. Following the narrowing path of hair down his flat belly to the fly of his jeans, she pulled the zipper tab, while nuzzling his corded neck. His hands tangled in her hair as he tipped his head back in mute encouragement.

  She hooked her thumbs in his jeans and briefs and pushed them down his long legs. Impatiently he yanked off his sneakers and socks, and kicked away the last of his clothes.

  Greg wasted no time backing Cat against the bed. He fell with her onto it and hauled her into the middle. Brusquely he parted her legs, lifted her hips—a rampant, phantasmic demon lover looming over her, unseen.

  The strange apprehension she'd felt earlier, when she'd stared into his eyes, returned with a jolt. But there was no time for second thoughts as Greg flexed his hips and pushed into her.

  Cat gasped at the stabbing pressure; her nails gouged his arms. Greg went still, clearly struggling to rein himself in.

  "Slow," she whispered, wondering if he remembered what she'd told him on the phone, that she hadn't made love in years. She reached up and touched his face, felt the frown lines and the tension as he held himself in check. "Just a little slower," she said. "It's been a long tim
e for me."

  Her words seemed to catch him off guard. He started to pull back, started to say something, but the ache had eased and she moved her hips, and whatever he'd wanted to say died on a sharp exhalation.

  "Yes," she breathed, as he sank into her and her body welcomed him, clutched greedily at him. "Oh, yes…"

  They receded, came together, and Cat cried out in pure carnal bliss. Had it ever been like this for her? Had she ever felt this stark, stunning pleasure, the overwhelming wonder of it?

  No. She would have remembered. This, she would have remembered.

  Cat clawed at Greg's hard waist, feeling the muscles bunch with each powerful thrust. She didn't recognize herself; she'd never met this thrashing, panting woman, never heard herself utter the blunt words that escaped her now—entreaties, imprecations.

  Their bodies slid against each other, slippery with sweat. Greg grabbed the headboard for purchase; the fingers of his other hand dug into her hip. Her body wound tighter with each jackhammer thrust until her climax crested like a wave.

  "Greg!" she screamed, and held fast to him as the wave crashed, dragging her tumbling out of herself.

  He gripped her tighter, groaning, plunging hard and deep, lost now in his own sprinting finish. Cat felt his pumping release, the hot jet of life deep within.

  She lay beneath him, spent, stroking his sweat-slick back. Sluggishly he started to lift his weight off her, but she quashed the gentlemanly impulse by pulling him back down—earning his gratitude, if she interpreted his drowsy little grunt correctly.

  It's done, Cat mused. I could be a mother in nine months. The thought of a baby, her baby, in her arms, at her breast, was so breathtaking, so immense, her chest ached with it. Her eyes stung with it.

  With trembling fingers she touched Greg's face, rendered slack and almost innocent by postcoital inertia. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

  * * *

  "Don't yell at me, I know I'm late," Cat said as she scooted into her favorite booth at the Magnolia Coffee Shop.

  The good news was the blackout had ended sometime in the middle of the night. The bad news was she'd woken up alone. Which the rational part of her, the part that dreaded the thought of messy entanglements, recognized as a good thing.