Now, no one knew better than Emma that Zara Sutcliffe’s dazzling, larger-than-life image didn’t quite mesh with reality. In a way, Zara herself pretended to be Zara—this superconfident, superalluring goddess of publishing—because it worked for her. Zara herself was just a human being with a human being’s foibles and vulnerabilities. But... she’d perfected the Zara Sutcliffe that the world saw, internalizing it to the point where it had become a dyed-in-the-wool part of her. She could negotiate a million-dollar contract in her sleep. And when it came to men, well... Emma couldn’t imagine a situation her twin hadn’t encountered.
So, how would Zara handle this particular situation?
She’d just let it happen, Emma realized. Gage wanted her; she wanted him. They both knew it. There was really nothing to do. Let him be the aggressor; he seemed comfortable with that role, more comfortable than she would be, certainly.
Not that she couldn’t help things along. Just a little. Nothing too goofy, no batting of the eyelashes or dropping of handkerchiefs. What would Zara do?
“Ah...” Arching her back, Emma locked her fingers and stretched her arms high over her head. As her eyes closed, she could almost feel Gage’s gaze caressing her. She could see the yellow leather straining over her breasts, sense his hands tighten involuntarily as he imagined touching her.
This isn’t so hard, she thought, opening her eyes to find him looking exactly where she knew he’d be looking.
She ran her fingers through her hair, enjoying this immensely. “What do I want to do now?” she mused as their gazes met. “I wouldn’t mind combing my hair.” She plucked at a tangle. “It’s a mess.”
“Oh.” He nodded, looking just slightly shell-shocked. This really was fun. “Okay.”
“Do you have a comb I can borrow?”
“Oh. Sure.”
He went into the bathroom and unzipped his dopp kit. Emma quickly poured herself another dose of liquid fortitude. It was going down easier and easier. She could feel its warmth coursing through her. A sense of well-being enveloped her, along with a certain exhilarating fearlessness. Granted, things were just the tiniest bit swimmy around the edges—just the tiniest bit—but she could handle that.
She stood up, and the room surprised her by tilting to the side just for a second before righting itself.
Okay. So she was just a little bit tipsy. It wasn’t too bad. She wasn’t drunk—not really; she wasn’t slurring her speech or anything.
Turning, she knocked over the chair she’d been sitting on, and was hurriedly setting it upright—at considerable expense to her equilibrium—when Gage walked back into the room.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Sure. I’m fine.” She spoke slowly, enunciating every word carefully. “Is that the comb?” He handed her a small black Ace, a man’s comb. “Thank you.”
Her gaze lit on the chaise longue, sitting right in front of the cheval mirror: perfect. She crossed to it and sat in the middle facing her reflection. Behind her, in the mirror, she saw him watching her intently as she began tugging the comb through her hair.
It snagged. She worked through the tangle and combed some more. It snagged again. Emma made a wry face, as if the strain of grooming herself was just too monumental, and met his gaze in the mirror. “Are you any good at combing hair?” she asked, holding up the comb.
He walked toward her until he stood directly behind her. His hand moved as if to reach for the comb, but then he withdrew it and folded his arms.
“Uh, listen,” he said hesitantly. “I think there’s something we should get clear between us. Now, before... well, now. I tried to tell you in the cab earlier, but we got sidetracked. I mean, I just don’t want you harboring any misconceptions.”
He look at her again in the mirror, and he must have seen the confusion on her face, because he said, “Ah, shoot,” and shook his head in evident frustration. “Look, no offense or anything, but I really don’t want you... I mean, I’m not interested in you…”
Emma’s cheeks stung. She bolted to her feet, facing away from him across the chaise longue. “I think I understand.” Boy, did she ever. Idiot! Idiot! How could you make such a fool out of yourself?
“I’m sure you’re very good at it,” he added hastily. “God knows you’re experienced enough.”
Experienced? Emma whirled to face him, felt her blood pressure escalating on her sister’s behalf. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
He looked a little taken aback. “Well, I assumed... I mean, given your reputation and all—”
“Reputation?” Emma seethed with righteous indignation; it boiled within her, fueled by the unaccustomed heat of the alcohol flowing through her veins.
“I mean, you’ve been an agent for a long time,” he said, “and you represent some of the hottest writers in the business. You must know what you’re doing. I’m sure you’re a wonderful agent, it’s just that I don’t think we’re suited to each other—not in terms of an agent-client relationship, anyway.”
“Oh.” Emma sat back down, weak with relief. He wasn’t rejecting her as a woman, he was rejecting her—or rather, her sister—as an agent. That was an altogether different and less mortifying prospect.
After a moment, he sat behind her on the chaise; in the mirror she saw him rubbing his jaw, his expression troubled. “I don’t mean anything personal by it. It’s just business.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“You’re a terrific person, a very attrac— Huh? It’s okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” she said over her shoulder. “You don’t want me for an agent.” She shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”
He studied her as if trying to figure her out. “You’re taking this with a great deal of grace.”
She pushed the winsome lever up to full throttle. “I’m a very graceful person, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
He smoothed his hand from her shoulder down her arm, slowly. “Oh, there’s not a lot about you that’s managed to escape my notice.” When his hand reached hers, he plucked the comb out of her fingers. “I never answered your question.”
“What question?”
“Whether I’m any good at combing hair. As it happens, it’s one of my few real talents.”
“Is it?”
“It is indeed. Care for a demonstration?” He leaned closer, his body pressing against her from behind, the air between them alive with possibilities. “Pretty please?”
Pretty please? She managed to nod. “Yes, that would be...” Her voice caught; she cleared her throat. “Yes.”
Is this foreplay? Emma wondered as Gage drew the comb through her hair, pausing occasionally to work a knot loose and then slide his fingers through the newly smooth strands. It felt good—better than good, she thought, letting her eyes drift shut. It felt... hypnotically luxurious. The gentle tugging of the comb, the stroking of his hands, set up a tingling in her scalp that just made her want to purr. He knew it, too. He was taking his time about it, pampering her, bathing her in luxurious physical attention.
Yep. Foreplay. Definitely.
“Beautiful,” he murmured when he’d combed it all smooth. “Like black silk.” He divided it and draped it over both shoulders. She felt his fingertips rub the row of little vertebrae at the top of her spine, as if their shapes fascinated him. She felt his breath, hot and ticklish on the sensitive skin there. “You smell so good.” Did she hear the words or just feel them, whispered against her nape? “I never thought baby powder could smell so good.”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She waited, strangely immobilized, her senses excruciatingly heightened, her eyes squeezed shut, until she felt what she had been waiting for....
His lips, hot and soft and excruciatingly gentle on the back of her neck. It was the heat that most astonished her. She felt seared, despite the tenderness of the kiss.
Her heart thudded in her chest as he pressed a second, and third, and fourth scalding, whisper-light kiss
to her neck, which she’d never thought of as an erogenous zone, but that just showed what she knew, because every time his lips touched her, she felt it in every cell of her body, every inflamed, quivering inch of her, and this was just the start, there would be more... much more....
He backed off slightly, his hands on her upper arms, and paused. She opened her eyes; things spun, just a little. She focused on his image in the mirror, and everything stood still.
Emma understood the rules, even if she’d never played the game—unless you counted high-school make-out sessions with awkward adolescent boys, which she didn’t. Gage Foster wasn’t awkward, and he was no boy. He’d made his move. Now was her chance to put a halt to things, if she was so inclined. If she didn’t, he would assume she wanted the same thing he did.
Did she? Did she really?
Emma closed her eyes. She saw the birthday cake with the thirty candles, heard her mother’s voice: Virginity’s not a healthy condition... not at your age.
She thought about Gage Foster’s List of Admirable Character Traits, let it scroll through her mind.
Yes, she thought. Yes. He was the perfect candidate for the task at hand. He was good-looking and honorable and brave and sexy....
“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow,” he said.
That, too.
“Zara? Did you hear me?”
Her eyes blinked open; she felt dizzy.
Zara. Right The man she intended to lose her virginity to thought she was her sister. There was no way to feel good about that, even in her present half-inebriated—all right, mostly inebriated—state. Every time she was reminded of her leading role in this tawdry masquerade, she felt deceitful and frankly a little cheap, but what choice did she have? Even assuming she could convince him of her true identity, an unlikely prospect given his unwillingness to believe her, would that really be such a good idea at this point? There were a limited number of reactions with which he might greet this revelation, none of them pleasant, and all virtually guaranteed to ruin whatever, chance she might have of shedding that pesky virginity by the time she had to face down those thirty candles.
“I’m flying back to Arkansas Wednesday,” he said quietly to her reflection in the mirror. “You know how I feel about this town. Nothing could keep me here any longer than that.” He looked as if he were searching for better words; finally, with a resigned expression, he said, “Nothing.”
Emma nodded. “I understand.”
This is a good thing, she told herself, perhaps just a tad too forcefully. A good thing. He’d be gone in two days. She could keep up the disguise that long; any longer, and she didn’t think she’d have the stomach for it.
He was being a gentleman and making sure she knew this would just be a casual tryst, short-lived and meaningless. Good. That’s all she was in the market for, after all. A physical encounter, devoid of troublesome emotions—quick, uncomplicated, tidy.
So, good. Good. This was a good thing.
“I just wanted to make sure,” he said, “that I wasn’t misleading you about... my intentions.”
Emma drew in a deep, steadying breath and forced a smile. “I should think our intentions are pretty much on an even par.”
Gage hesitated just briefly, his expression indecipherable, before returning her smile. “That’s good.” He trailed his hands down her arms, detoured them to her bare thighs. “’Cause I’d hate to have to rein myself in now.”
“Don’t rein yourself in,” she said huskily.
He laughed softly. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Sliding his hand up along her leather-encased hips, he said, “I’m as happy as a boy with a speckled pup and a new red wagon.” He closed his hands lightly around her waist and urged her against him, so that her back rested against his chest; his legs, one updrawn, the other relaxed, more or less flanked her.
Emma saw them in the mirror—her nestled against him as he nuzzled her hair, his arms moving to encircle her. He felt so strong, seemed so sure of himself, so in control.
That’s one of us.
She stuck her legs out in front of her and regarded her gauze-festooned knees with dismay. “I look like a little girl who’s fallen off her tricycle.”
“I don’t know too many little girls who can fill out leather like you do.” Tucking her hair behind her, he lightly trailed the fingertips of both hands down over her breasts and back up.
Emma watched in fascination as he caressed her, his touch so featherlight she could barely feel it; but she could see it—the sensual dance of his hands, the intensity of his gaze as he watched his own actions in the mirror. Her breasts seemed to swell within their confining satin bra and tight little jacket. She watched herself close her hands over his. He squeezed her aching flesh as he pressed himself against her; she felt, against the small of her back, the unmistakable evidence of his desire for her.
This is it, she thought, feeling branded where the rigid column had rubbed against her, through their layers of clothes. This is really happening. Would it hurt? she wondered, biting her lip. Could she pull off the pretense that she’d done it all hundreds of times before?
Gage reached up and stroked her bottom lip. He probably meant it to be soothing, but the caress of his callused fingertip on such sensitive flesh was breathlessly erotic.
“One of these days,” he said, “you’re gonna draw blood from biting this.”
She twisted around to face him, one eyebrow cocked. “Blood?”
He grinned as he tilted her chin up and lowered his mouth to hers. “Just tryin’ to get your attention.”
Their lips met, heat against heat, deliciously sweet and wet and perfect. He took it slow, didn’t push, didn’t force her beyond a leisurely, intoxicating caress of their mouths. It was she—much to her surprise—who lightly prodded the seam of his lips with the tip of her tongue, inciting a low moan from him, a firmer pressure, a deeper, more impassioned kiss.
His hands raked her hair, molded her breasts, pulled her to him, hard. She wrapped her arms around him, wanting him closer, impossibly close.
Things reeled dizzyingly as he swept the pillows and throw from the chaise and shifted them both from vertical to horizontal with a few smooth moves. Emma shut her eyes to help fight off the wave of vertigo this adjustment spawned. When she opened them, she was lying on her back with Gage reclining next to her, his weight resting on an elbow.
“You okay?” he asked, smoothing her hair off her face. “You looked a little peaked for a second there. And from the way you’re talkin’, you’re soundin’ a little... fuzzy around the edges.”
She was slurring; she’d have to watch that. “Just a little delayed stress from the subway, I guess,” she lied, not wanting to let on that she’d been surreptitiously tossing back the ol’ Dr. Daniels as premedication for her imminent deflowering.
“You’ve had a rough day.” Thoughtfully he stroked her cheek, then her throat. “We don’t have to...” He indicated the chaise longue, and them, with a sweep of his hand. “You know. We don’t. I mean, I don’t want to take advantage of you—”
“Is it all right if I take advantage of you?” Curling a hand around his neck, she lowered his head and kissed him, scarcely believing that she, Emma Sutcliffe—dweeb extraordinaire, perennial virgin, Our Lady of the Panic Attacks—was actually grabbing a man, a man she’d met that very day, and kissing him. Like she meant it. And, wonder of wonders, she did.
“I’m yours for the taking,” he murmured against her lips. He kissed her again, with enthusiasm, one hand snaking down to cup a breast while he settled himself on top of her, hips snugged together, his long, denim-clad legs twined with hers. He moved against her in a lazily carnal rhythm, to which her body responded with escalating urgency. Her hips moved in sync with his; her breath quickened; she clutched at his shirt.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered raggedly, “and so sexy.” He kissed her throat; she threw her head back, delirious with pleasure and anticipation.
He rel
eased her breast to scoop a hand under her bottom and lift her toward him. Cradling him between her thighs now, her skirt having ridden up, she felt, against the damp satin of her panties, the unyielding ridge of his erection, impelling her stroke by stroke toward a heart-pounding climax.
Movement in the mirror drew her attention. She saw them locked together, his body straining sinuously—hers, too, as she approached a crisis of pleasure she’d never experienced with a man. “You’re close,” he breathed. “I can feel it. Come for me. Come on, sweetheart… Come on…”
That yanked her abruptly back to earth, just when she’d been about to leave it. How could she go that far—lose herself so completely—in the arms of this man she hardly knew? Suddenly she felt exposed, rawly vulnerable. Losing her virginity to Gage Foster she could handle; coming apart in his arms—writhing and moaning and losing control—she couldn’t. It was too much, too personal. If this was a panic attack, so be it, but she just couldn’t.
“Gage.” She pushed against him, trembling, gathering her wits. “Gage, stop. I can’t... I can’t.”
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I just can’t—you know. I can’t.”
“You can’t come?”
“No. Yes, but..”
“But not with a man.”
She shook her head, looked away.
“Look at me.” Gage gathered her in his arms, compelled her with his steady gaze to meet his eyes. “You’re safe with me. You can let go with me.” He continued rocking against her, the movement languid, mesmerizing, oddly comforting, and still—despite her anxiety—intensely arousing. “You’re so beautiful, so fucking sexy. I just want you to come. I want to make you come. Now, like this....”
Emma closed her eyes, felt the weight of him, the intoxicating pressure of his body against hers.
“And then again later,” he whispered against her lips, “when I’ve got my cock deep inside you and I can feel your body gripping mine...” He kissed her softly. “But first like this. Just you, like this. I want to see your face when you come....”
Good to Be Bad (Double Dare Book 1) Page 9
