by Sarah Morgan
He allowed himself a moment to admire, and then he scooped her up in his arms, the hunger in him so intense he couldn’t think straight.
Her shoes fell with a clatter, but he stepped over them, aiming for the bedroom.
It proved too far, so he compromised and made it to the sofa.
Her hands pushed at his clothes until he was naked, too, with just enough coherent thought left to reach for his wallet.
He fumbled with the foil packet, clumsy as he felt her legs, those long, incredible legs, wrap around his waist and urge him close.
He cursed softly. “Wait a moment, just a moment, shit, Lara—”
She stilled, her eyes huge as she looked up at him.
He sensed that he’d said something, but he had no idea what and his brain couldn’t focus while her breasts were brushing against the hairs on his chest and her legs were wrapped around him, drawing him closer to her soft heat.
With a groan he entered her, trying to be gentle, to take his time, to be careful, but heat overwhelmed everything and he heard her soft moan, her words of encouragement as her hands slid to his shoulders. The kiss they shared grew more erotic, deeper, and he dragged his mouth from hers and dropped his head to her shoulder, trying to breathe, trying to slow things down, but the sweet, honeyed taste of her stayed with him like a drug he was never going to be able to clear from his system.
He felt her arch against him, heard her soft voice urging him on, begging him in soft, whispering breaths not to stop what he was doing as he slid his hands over her, exploring the lush delicacy of her slender curves, absorbing the incredible feel of being inside her. She smelled like summer, like flowers in full bloom, and the heady fragrance combined with her smooth, soft skin nearly drove him crazy.
Pleasure thickened and spread and he drove into her, deeper this time, swallowing the sounds she made, tasting the heat of desire on her lips. It burned both of them, raw and real, and she urged him on, wrapped those legs round him and arched into him, while all the time she whispered how much she wanted him. He felt the ripples of her body tightening along his shaft, her body triggering his own release. He thrust deep and dropped his head onto her shoulder, consumed by his own shuddering pleasure. His last coherent thought was that he had no idea a woman could do this; take a man apart completely, and leave him feeling undone.
MATILDA LAY ON the sofa, her head on his chest.
She never would have thought she could feel this comfortable naked, but over the past few hours Alex had slowly and deliberately familiarized himself with her body, exploring in deliciously intimate detail until no part remained undiscovered.
Shyness was something he hadn’t allowed, and once she’d realized that he seemed to like the length of her legs, she’d ceased to feel self-conscious.
Instead, she’d felt perfect.
He’d made her feel perfect.
All the way through their intense sexual marathon he’d told her how gorgeous she was, how beautiful, how he’d never met a woman who turned him on the way she did until, instead of feeling embarrassed about the length of her legs, she’d wanted to wrap them around him and never let him go.
“I owe you an apology.” His voice was husky, and she lifted her chin to look at him, thinking that he was the most incredibly good-looking man she’d ever laid eyes on.
“Why do you owe me an apology?”
If she could have put him on the cover of her book, she would have hit the bestseller charts from day one.
“I brought you here for champagne. I’m afraid I got a little sidetracked.”
It made her smile. “Just a little.”
“It’s important to drink during physical exercise.” He kissed her gently and then eased away from her. “Don’t move. I’ll be back.” He stood up and she watched, admiring the flat planes of his abdomen and the strong muscle of his thighs.
“You should walk around naked always.”
He turned, his smile so devastatingly sexy that she almost reached out and grabbed him again. “Right back at you, Lara.”
Lara.
The reminder that this wasn’t real was like showering in ice-cold water.
Thank goodness he hadn’t used that name in the heat of passion. She might have said “who?” and blown everything.
At some point she’d lost track of whether she was Matilda or Lara. She hadn’t thought about names at all. She was just a woman, seducing and being seduced.
As he strolled across the room to a door that presumably led to the kitchen, she lifted herself on her elbow and glanced around. They’d been so busy kissing when they’d arrived she’d done little but glimpse at her surroundings. She’d registered huge windows offering spectacular views across the city, polished oak floors and expensive artwork, but she’d been more absorbed by the man who was holding her than she was by his apartment.
Now, though, she saw that the apartment was spectacular.
She didn’t know who he was or what he did, but if he was able to rent a place like this, then he obviously had influence.
No Cup-a-Soups for him.
She should probably tell him who she really was, but did it matter? Just for one night, why couldn’t her life be fairy tale rather than reality? She wanted a night she would never forget, and she wanted to give him a night he’d never forget. She didn’t exactly know how to do that, but she was going to give it her best shot.
As he walked toward her, carrying the champagne and an ice bucket, she leaned down to pick up her dress.
He pushed it away with his foot. “If you dress, I’ll have to undress you again, and I hate wasting time.” He opened the champagne with a smooth skill that suggested he’d performed the task many times before, then poured two glasses and handed her one. “Champagne should only ever be drunk with friends, don’t you think?”
“I do.” Matilda didn’t have an opinion on the subject, but Lara definitely would have thought that. She waited while he put the bottle into the ice bucket and then raised her glass. “To—what should we drink to?”
“To an evening that wasn’t fake.”
Matilda felt a flicker of conscience as she tapped her glass against his and took a sip. The champagne was light and bubbly, and delicious warmth spread through her veins. It made a pleasant change to be drinking it rather than serving it.
“You’re beautiful.” He spoke softly and she shook her head, about to deny it until she remembered she was Lara not Matilda, and there was no way Lara would have put herself down.
“Thank you.” Saying it was easier than she would have imagined, and he leaned forward and kissed her mouth slowly, savoring every moment, as if trying to draw every last drop of champagne from her lips.
Desire rushed through her and she gave a moan and leaned into him, knocking the ice bucket with her elbow. Ice and champagne spilled everywhere, and he gave a soft curse and sprang to his feet, catching the bucket before it could empty itself completely.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry.” Her face suffused by color, Matilda scooped up ice and dropped it back into the bucket and then used her dress to mop the pools of champagne from his sofa. It was the second time in one night she’d showered herself in champagne.
Why was she so clumsy? Why?
But there was no irritation in his face, just laughter as he put the bucket well out of reach and topped up her glass.
“Relax. Fortunately I moved before you could ruin my chances of ever fathering children.”
Children?
She had a mental image of two adorable children with his dark hair, blue eyes and sharp mind.
Blinking rapidly, she deleted the image from her head. There was fantasy, and then there was delusion.
“This time I’ll be in charge of the champagne.” He removed the glass from her hand, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Lie down.”
“But—”
“Just do it, Lara.”
She was fairly sure Lara wouldn’t follow orders quite so passively, but Matilda lay back, decid
ing that as long as she didn’t move at least she wouldn’t cause another accident.
“What are you going to—”
“Shh.” He tipped the glass slightly, showering her body with droplets of champagne.
“I could have done that—”
“Yes, but you couldn’t have done this.” He proceeded to lick his way down her body, until she was moaning and writhing under the skilled touch of his knowing fingers and mouth. She felt the hot, erotic slide of his tongue tracing her intimately, opening her, exploring with shocking precision, and she was relieved she was lying down because she was sure her knees wouldn’t have held her.
She gave a moan and then a gasp of protest as he turned her onto her stomach. She felt the warm slide of his hands on her spine and then felt him close his hands over her hips and lift her, positioning her carefully.
And then there was only the feel of him as he entered her in a series of slow, controlled thrusts that drove him deep. It was hot and agonizingly good, and she lifted her hips higher, hearing him groan as she offered him everything.
She clawed at the sofa and he brought his hand up to cover hers, his fingers tangling with hers while his other hand touched her intimately, sliding over her in sensual possession, leaving no part of her untouched. Electric sensations shot through her and she was aware of the demanding pulse of his release just before she tumbled into a climax so intense it robbed her of the ability to think.
She lost all sense of time but eventually felt him stretch out on the sofa and gather her against him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close in an embrace every bit as intimate as sex.
Matilda closed her eyes, trying to commit the feelings to memory. Never in a million years could she have written this scene. Never could she have found the words to convey the closeness, the trust, the absolute intimacy they’d shared.
She didn’t know herself with this man.
Which was fitting, she thought, as he didn’t really know her, either.
CHAPTER SIX
CHASE ORDERED FOOD and they ate pizza from the box and watched the dawn break over Manhattan. The sun rose, sending a morning blush across the sky as if New York was mildly embarrassed about the wild indulgences of the night before.
Was there anything better? Watching dawn break over the city he loved with a woman he—
He stared across the buildings clustered round the park, framing it like a painting.
A woman he what?
A woman he’d met a few hours before?
He didn’t know her second name. He didn’t know what she did for a living.
But he knew she dreamed of being a writer, he knew she was self-conscious about her height, he knew she never wore white because she had a habit of dropping things down her front—personal, intimate details that were usually only revealed when trust had grown.
He frowned. Did Victoria have a dream? What were her insecurities?
He had no idea. They’d known each other for years and he didn’t know if she was afraid of heights, spiders or the bogeyman. Victoria would never make herself vulnerable by revealing what she regarded as weakness. As a result, his knowledge of her was superficial. Almost all his relationships were superficial. And the one that might not have been—with his brother—had been broken long before.
He remembered rigging the boat with Brett, laughing as the waves capsized them, drinking beers on the sand as they watched the sun set over the water, and he felt a pang of loss, a sense of grief for something he’d once had and let go.
She snuggled closer. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
“You were remembering something and it made you sad.”
He turned his head to look at her and saw gentle warmth in her eyes. “How do you know that?”
“Because one moment you were smiling and the next you weren’t.”
The fact that she’d noticed, paid attention, removed his natural reticence. “I was thinking about my brother.”
She curved her hand over his chest and held him closer. “You should call him.”
He thought about the words that had been spoken and the time that had passed. “It’s too late.”
She shifted onto her elbow and looked at him. “It’s never too late, Alex. I lost my mom five years ago, and I’d give years of my life for a chance to tell her I love her one more time. Don’t let pride get in the way of doing what you want to do.”
Did he want to do it? Uncomfortable with the rush of unfamiliar emotion, he changed the subject. “Tell me about your mom.” It was such a personal question, he wouldn’t have blamed her for refusing, but she snuggled closer, her hair sliding in a silken tangle over his chest.
“She was incredible. Strong. Brave. The most fiercely determined person I ever met. She had me when she was eighteen and her parents—my grandparents—were horrified. They told her that having me would ruin her life. She wanted to be a lawyer, and they’d wanted that for her. When she refused to give me up they cut her off. Mom told me once that they were embarrassed that she was a single mom.”
Superficial, Chase thought. Concerned with appearances and the opinion of others. It was a trait shared by many of the people he knew.
“So they cut her off instead of supporting her.”
“She hated the words single mom. People use that label, don’t they? As if it signifies something, as if it conveys relevant information about character and status. She hated that people made assumptions. She worked three jobs to support us and eventually put herself through college and became a lawyer. That was her dream. She used to say to me, ‘People can make it hard for you, they can discourage and take the heart out of you, but in the end the only person who can kill your dream is you. Don’t ever give up.’“ There was a pause. “I tried so hard to make her proud of me, to be braver and less shy, but I’m sure there were times when she wondered how she could have produced someone like me.” The honest admission tugged at him, and he pushed her hair back from her forehead and kissed her gently.
“She would have been proud of you, moving to New York City, renting an apartment, holding down a job, living your life.”
“It’s more of a room than an apartment and—”
“And?”
“Nothing.” She snuggled closer. “Tell me something else about you.”
“I’m addicted to your body.”
She gave a low laugh and pressed her lips to his chest. “I meant something personal.”
“This is personal.” Chase stroked his hand over her skin. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you like to do when you’re not working?”
“I’m always working.” He spent his days in endless meetings and his evenings working his way through papers produced at those meetings. At some point his work had swallowed up his life.
“But you already told me you like sailing, so why don’t you sail? You love your work more?”
He didn’t love his work. He found it challenging and stimulating, but he didn’t love it. He’d gone into it through a sense of duty and stayed in it for the same reason. His father had needed someone to head up the company, and he’d stepped into that role when his brother wouldn’t. And he’d blamed his brother for his decision. Allowed his anger and disappointment to erode their relationship.
He tightened his hold on her. “When did you start writing?”
“I was very young. It was my way of escaping the hell of the playground. I started inventing characters who were nothing like me. They were always brave and never tall. It grew from there.”
“What sort of stories do you write now?”
“Romance. With plenty of action.”
“Action in the bedroom?”
She laughed. “And in other places. My current heroine L—” she stumbled “—likes to be the one in charge. She’s very strong.”
“Have you sent your work anywhere before?”
“No.” She was sprawled across him. “That’s why I was hoping to
meet Chase Adams, but that’s all blown now.”
Chase paused. “Where’s the book?”
“On my computer.”
“Send it to me.”
She turned to look at him. “No way! You’ll read it and hate it.”
“Send it to me. I’ll get it to Chase’s brother.”
“How? You know Chase well enough to ask?”
He hesitated, wondering how he’d reached this level of intimacy with someone who didn’t even know who he was.
“If you send it, I’ll make sure he sees it.” It would be an excuse to make contact with his brother. When had they last gone out for a drink? When had he made time for that?
Work had swallowed up his life, and that was going to change.
He was going to step over his pride and talk to his brother.
He was going to make time for the things he loved. The things he’d given up since his job had become a big hungry machine.
Sailing, cars, friends—
This woman—
“I want to see you again, Lara.” He hauled her close and lowered his mouth to hers. “This isn’t over.”
IF SHE WERE putting this scenario in a book, this would be a plot twist.
She was falling in love with a man who didn’t know who she was.
No, not love. She frowned at herself. Love only happened fast in stories where reality blurred with fantasy.
She watched as the rising sun sent fingers of light across the city and knew that this was one of those rare moments where real life came so close to a fantasy it was difficult to distinguish the two.
Talking to Alex, being with Alex, was the easiest, most natural thing she’d ever done. She never would have imagined it possible to share such easy intimacy with someone she’d met only the day before.
They’d talked and made love all night. They’d covered every subject. Never in her life had she felt so deeply connected to another human being.
This was intimacy.
Not sex, which could be shared by two people without the exchange of names or confidences, but this closeness. This level of trust.
