INTIMATE STRANGER

by Donna Sterling

  Anguished love for him burned in her heart. "Because you want her."

  "Yes," he confessed in a drawn-out whisper, pressing her body harder to his. When she couldn't force a reply through her gridlocked throat, he drew back and peered down at her. Never had she seen such a potent mix of agony and desire. "If you're really a professional, you shouldn't have a problem with that."

  But of course, she did. Because she wasn't a professional, and she wasn't the woman he longed for anymore. The pain of all she'd lost, all that could never be, cut her to the quick.

  "Stay with me tonight," he said.

  "I can't."

  He shut his eyes. Buried his face in her hair. Inhaled deeply. Held her tightly. "Why not?"

  "Because I can't … be the wife you lost."

  He went very still. His breathing seemed to stop, as if he struggled to face the truth of that. "If you can't be my wife," he finally replied hoarsely, "then be my whore. And let me pretend whatever the hell I want to."

  * * *

  2

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  The suggestion had been crude. The need behind it, raw. Desperate. Be my whore. Let me pretend whatever the hell I want to.

  Wicked desire fired her blood and incited a riot in her heart. But it was his desperation that pushed her beyond caution. Trev Montgomery had never been the needy kind. He'd always been as solid as a rock—for her, for his parent-less siblings and his elderly grandmother. He'd been their anchor through every storm. And now he needed her … to help him deal with a wound that she herself had inflicted.

  How could she refuse him?

  How could she refuse herself?

  "Only for a little while," Jennifer allowed, surrendering to the heat, ignoring the voice of fear. You shouldn't be with him. "I … I can't stay long."

  He slid his hands down her arms in a warm, lingering way, then tugged her away from the stairwell wall. "Let's go."

  "But we're locked in."

  Releasing her, he descended the stairs to the darkened bottom level, pushed aside huge scaffolds, ladders, a compressor and other heavy equipment, and cleared a path to the inside door. He tried the handle. The door opened. He then glanced up to where she stood on the stairs, watching him.

  Her lips pursed and one brow arched. "You just now thought of that?"

  She looked to Trev like a pretty young schoolteacher demanding an explanation from a student for misbehaving—not like a hooker about to bed a john. She also looked very much like Diana—albeit seven years older, blonder and blue-eyed—about to cuff him in the shoulder for some nonsense he'd pulled on her. He would have smiled if possible. Under the circumstances, it wasn't possible.

  His blood coursed in hot, needful currents, and his head spun. How could a woman look, sound, even taste, so much like Diana, yet not be her?

  Or was he finally losing his mind, giving in to the grief, launching over the edge that had yawned before him for seven long years? That had to be it. He'd lost his mind. Not only was he seeing Diana in this woman, but he refused to believe she was a prostitute. He hadn't expected her to agree to come to his room. Now that she had agreed, he didn't believe she would go through with it. He wouldn't believe it until she actually exchanged sex for money.

  He realized that he'd been silently staring at her for too long. A troubled look had flickered over her face—a face that was technically more beautiful than Diana's, with every endearing imperfection of Diana's smoothed away. This woman had a smaller, straighter nose; a more classically feminine chin; a cleanly chiseled jawline; a fuller bottom lip.

  She descended the stairs and passed by him, treating him to a subtle whiff of a floral, citrus scent. It brought to mind the fragrant steam that had lingered in the bathroom after Diana had bathed. And the hot, sensuous showers he'd taken with her. The scent of her skin, her hair. Diana's soap.

  But it had been seven years. Was his mind suggesting similarities that didn't exist?

  He followed her past darkened storage rooms and into an elevator, where he pressed the fifth-floor button and settled beside her. They didn't speak or touch, but he couldn't stop staring at her, studying her, absorbing her nearness like a freezing man absorbs warmth from a flame. And though she didn't look at him, he sensed her heightened awareness. Hot, intensely sexual awareness.

  Giving in to the need to touch, he brushed back the heavy wave of hair that had drifted over her face. The dark blond silk sifted through his fingers, evoking a hauntingly familiar pleasure. Diana's hair had been short, dark and spiky in places, but the silky thickness had felt the same.

  "What should I call you?" he asked in a voice thick with need.

  Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her gaze to his. "Jen," she whispered. "Call me Jen." An answering need shone in her eyes. Familiarity again stroked him.

  His desire surged. His body hardened. He curled his hand around her nape and drew her closer, luxuriating in the satiny feel of her skin. Would she change her mind and leave him before they reached his room? Did he hope she would, or wouldn't?

  Conflict tore at him. He wanted her—no doubt about that. He wanted to kiss her, feel her, make love to her. He wanted her with the same physical, almost chemical, intensity that he'd wanted Diana, from the very first time he'd met her. But he didn't want her to make love to him for money.

  More proof that he'd lost his mind. Was there any chance in hell that she wasn't a prostitute, but a woman driven beyond her usual ethics by the potent sexual charge between them? Slim chance. Crazy to even hope for. But the hope stubbornly burned along with the desire. If nothing else came from this encounter, he needed at least to know if she was what she'd claimed—a prostitute.

  The elevator stopped. The doors swung open. Trev held his breath, wondering if his mystery lady would accompany him the rest of the way to his room, or if she'd utter some excuse and remain on the elevator. Expecting the latter, he slid his hand to the small of her back and urged her into step beside him.

  She didn't resist. They walked from the elevator and down the long, red-carpeted corridor to his room. Would she find a reason to leave him at his door?

  He hooked his arm around her narrow waist and held her close as he unlocked the door. He felt her stiffen. Sensed her hesitation.

  He turned to her, drew her into the shadows of a dim, lamp-lit room. "It's okay," he murmured. As much as he hoped that she wasn't a prostitute, he couldn't bear the thought of her walking away from him. Sexual anticipation drummed in his head and chest and loins with a savage, driving beat. "Nothing to worry about."

  He closed the door behind them, and his own assurance echoed mockingly in his ears. Nothing to worry about. She had everything to worry about. She was alone in a hotel room with a stranger. A stranger who intended to strip her naked and take utter possession of her body. What woman wouldn't worry?

  A well-seasoned prostitute.

  But he'd felt her hesitation. Did it mean anything?

  He gripped her slender shoulders, the plush cashmere of her dove-gray sweater reminding him of her elegance, her refinement. His muscles tensed from the battle that raged in his chest. God help him, he wanted her, here and now. But if she wasn't a prostitute, he didn't want to hurry her into something she'd regret. Then again, why would she lie? Why should he question her claim?

  Never had he been more confused. "If you've … changed your mind," he forced himself to say, "that's okay. We can just have a drink. Talk. Or go out for coffee—"

  "I haven't changed my mind."

  The ardor in her husky whisper trapped the breath in his lungs. Her gaze stunned him even more. Her smoke-blue eyes blazed with the most arousing desire and tenderness. Tenderness. And, oddly enough, sadness. Why? What was she thinking, what was she feeling, that generated such a gaze?

  Sympathy, because he grieved for his wife? No. Something deeper, he swore.

  Whatever caused it, the look infused him with a profound ache. A profound wanting. He suddenly wasn't sure he could take this any further. Torn in two
and feeling desperate, he caressed her face, her hair. Drank in her intensity. Wished she didn't affect him quite so deeply—

  "Have you changed your mind?" she whispered, searching his gaze, probing ever deeper, closer and closer to the wellspring of pain.

  He couldn't answer. His own conflicting emotions choked him. But then she took his face between her hands and gazed at him with such tender longing that low, gravelly words scraped out of his throat before he even realized he was speaking. "I was … alone … for five years. Five years. And then, in the past two, I … tried. But sometimes having sex was worse than being alone."

  He hated admitting as much. Didn't know why he had, especially to a stranger. He certainly didn't expect her to understand. He himself didn't fully understand. No matter how beautiful the woman or how arousing the activity, he often reached a point before completion when a sense of wrongness dulled the pleasure. A sense of disappointment and loss. He always forced himself to finish, sometimes without climaxing. Even when he had climaxed, the sex had left him feeling empty. More alone. Less able to ward off the grief.

  Why had he thought this time would be any different? His attraction to this woman had to be based on his feelings for Diana. He'd picked her out of a crowd because of their striking similarities. But those similarities would take him only so far. When he ran across the differences—and there were bound to be plenty, even if he didn't consciously recognize them—the disappointment and loss might hit him harder than ever.

  He wasn't sure he was ready for that.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. A surprising sheen slowly filled her eyes, and her whisper sounded strangled. "Then just hold me." She slid her arms around him and melted against him, submerging him in her vibrant warmth, her lush softness. Her achingly familiar scent. "Hold me."

  His arms came around her, pressing her closer. He shut his eyes, buried his face in her hair and gave in to the sweet, overpowering pleasure. The thought flitted through his mind that if she was a prostitute, she was very, very good at her job. But that idea bothered him too much, so he shoved it away. If she intended to charge him, he didn't want to know.

  Because as he held her, savored her softness and scent, desire coursed through him in stronger currents than before, washing away all caution. He wanted her, even if he had to buy her. Wanted to live the fantasy she'd created with her tender, passionate gazes, touches and whispers. He wanted to feel that tenderness and passion for her.

  She turned her face into the curve of his neck, and her lips grazed him. His body throbbed in immediate response. She groaned ever so slightly. Moved ever so slightly—an almost imperceptible thrusting of her breasts, tilting of her hips. He clenched his teeth, gripped her hips and lifted her against his hardness.

  Her groan was louder this time, her movement more pronounced—a definite rocking of her pelvis that sent pleasure shooting through him. "Shut your eyes," she breathed against his ear, "and pretend whatever you want to."

  Yes. Yes, he could do that.

  Better yet… He reached for the lamp. Plunged the room into darkness. A cry of surprise escaped her, and her arms tightened around his shoulders. As if he'd startled her with the darkness. She'd always been afraid of the dark. She'd always held him tighter in the dark. But this wasn't Diana.

  Maybe he'd been the one to tighten their hold, forcing that startled little cry from her. He didn't have time to think about it now. Didn't want to think now. She felt too good in his arms, and the fantasy beckoned with too sweet a promise.

  He pulled her down onto the bed with him and lay beside her, face to face, heart to heart. He ran his hands up and down her slender back, beneath her sweater, savoring the softness of her skin, the shapeliness of her shoulders. His hands flowed lower, over her hips and the soft wool of her skirt, around her tight, neat bottom, pressing her body to his.

  Mmm. A perfect fit.

  His temperature spiked as she answered with slow, sensuous undulations and long, meandering caresses—beneath his shirt, up his back, across his shoulders, down to his hips.

  She made him feel so right. So exactly right.

  With no effort at all, he found her mouth in the darkness, and deeply, hungrily, kissed her. Ah. The taste and textures he'd been craving.

  He let the fantasy flow.

  Not that he deliberately pretended she was Diana. He wouldn't do that to himself. But he didn't try to block thoughts of her, either. When sensations conjured up her face, he didn't try to replace it with another. He allowed himself perfect freedom, without his usual regard for fairness toward the woman he held.

  The experience seemed surreal—a journey beyond reality. Her kisses alone kept him soaring through time and space, closer and closer to the sun, until the heat became a living thing within him, demanding more sustenance.

  He moved to her delicate jaw and throat, delirious with the taste of her. When her sweater got in his way, he lifted it over her head. She liberated him from his shirt. Unbuckled his belt. He unhooked her bra. Tugged it off her. They worked silently, urgently, with unity of purpose, divesting each other of all clothing. No awkwardness, no struggles. Easy, fluid motions … as if they'd danced this dance together a hundred times before…

  When he rolled her panties down her long, long legs, and she kicked the wispy silk away, he ran both hands with reverent pleasure up her calves, her thighs, her endlessly pleasing body—then fiercely pulled her against him. Naked, breathing hard, their hearts thundering, they melded together for wild, delving kisses. Possessive caresses. He couldn't get enough of her to appease his growing hunger.

  He broke away from her mouth and kissed a steamy path to her breasts, cupping them in his palms. Her nipples puckered and beaded between his lips—from blossom-soft to pebble-hard. Each suckling tug drew a moan from her, rousing him into a fever.

  But then a difference intruded on his consciousness. Her breasts felt fuller, he noticed. Heavier in his hands. He realized then that he'd overlooked another difference—her entire body was more voluptuous, every curve rounder. Diana had been leaner. More angular.

  He didn't welcome the realization. Didn't want to compare. But the memories were there, ever-present, reminding him of what he'd lost. Whom he'd lost.

  Her fingers tangled painfully in his hair, distracting him. Her body moved beneath his. Her back arched. Her lush, hard-tipped breasts pushed against his face. A little too rough. Too presumptuous. At least, for a stranger. "Trev," she whispered on a throaty, tormented moan. "Trev."

  The sound of his name whispered just so reached deep inside his gut. Trev.

  A demand. A plea. More … she wanted more … wasn't ready for him to stop. He recognized that plea all the way to the core of his heart. He'd heard it many times—when he'd purposely provoked it. He knew how to answer. Knew how to prod her into uttering it again. A simple matter of teasing—and then slow, deliberate fulfillment … until she trembled beneath him with even greater need.

  He wanted her trembling. Gasping. Flowing like hot silk around him. Oh, how he wanted that.

  Heat rushed through his veins as he set about it. A little rougher than before. A little more demanding. Ah, but she was greedy, taking all he offered and goading him farther with seductive gyrations. He reached between her legs, burrowed through hot, moist curls. Worked his fingers with slow persistence. She bucked and arched with breathy little groans deep in her throat.

  So right. So very right.

  And while he gloried in the heat, adrift on the feel and scents and sounds of her, she stoked his fire with intimate strokes of her hand. Distracted him elsewhere with the heat of her mouth. Turned the tables on him, threatening his control.

  Panting with rapacious need, he reached for his wallet and found a condom. She kept his heart thudding with hot, teasing nips at his ear; lingering kisses down the side of his neck; wicked caresses along his most sensitive areas—and with just the right touch and motion to drive him steadily out of his mind. As if she knew all his "hot buttons" and e
xactly how to press them.

  Hell, yes. She knew.

  She drove every thought from his head but one: to take her, now, with long, hard thrusts, until he lost himself deep within her. He laid her against the pillows, kissed her with desperate hunger, folded her legs around his hips and pushed into her.

  The heat, the tightness, immobilized him. Electrified him. Robbed him of breath. Incredible tightness. Incredible pleasure. Rivers of it, coursing through him. He shut his eyes, gritted his teeth and lunged again. The pleasure intensified. She gasped and moaned his name, and the sounds penetrated his very soul. So damn right. He moved to the rhythm of his coursing blood. She slung her hips to meet every thrust.

  The urgency grew. Though he couldn't read her face in the dark, he sensed that she needed this as much as he. The knowledge enflamed him all the more. He rose to his knees, gripped the underside of her thighs. Drove solidly into her. She angled her legs higher around his waist and propelled him deeper … and deeper still … ah, yes…

  Sweat dripped into his eyes, sizzled down his face. The intensity of sensation awed him. He tried to hold back. Tried to make it last. But her cries were building to a crescendo, and her inner muscles began to pump him in strong, rippling contractions. Her climax launched him into one of his own. A stunning, searing catharsis. An endless explosion of heat and lightning and keen sensation. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Could only feel … and savor … and ride the white-hot spears of pleasure.

  Like an ash floating to the earth after a midair explosion, it took a good long while before his senses filtered back and any semblance of thought formed in his mind. Even then, it was more of a gut-level compulsion than a rational thought, spurring him to lock her tightly in his arms.

  More. He had to have more of her.

  He couldn't let her get away from him.