She got the groan then. And a moan. And a hike back up onto the countertop, this time with both of his hands spearing through her hair, and his hard body—all of it—pressed against her just where she wanted it to be.
But she wanted it naked.
So she tugged the bottom of his shirt from his pants and ran her palms up the smooth, sleek muscle there, every toned, fit inch of it setting her nerve endings to shiver.
He had the perfect amount of hair on his chest, enough to tease her fingertips—and her nipples—and she combed through it, aching to nuzzle her cheek against it.
She pushed his golf shirt higher, and then suddenly, she didn’t have to worry about it as Sean took over, drawing it over his head from the back and replacing his hands in her hair in one solid, sexy, masculine movement that had her tummy sighing with need.
He nipped her bottom lip.
She licked his top one.
He groaned.
She smiled.
“Proud of yourself?” he growled, hiking her closer to his chest, cradling himself between her thighs where her panties were already useless against the desire he was creating in her.
“Proud? No. Desperate? God, yes.” She wiggled against him. “Touch me, Sean. I need your hands on me.”
“Ah, Livvy. This is such a bad idea.” But he did it anyway.
His hands slid from her face to trace over her shoulders, his thumbs dabbling along her collarbone, every point of contact an ignition switch for her libido.
He slid his palms down her arms and intertwined their fingers, all the while keeping up the seductive sweep of his tongue in her mouth, along her lips, over her jaw, nuzzling into the sensitive area of her neck.
He drew her hands up her body, both of them fitting over her curves, rubbing spirals around her nipples, never actually touching them, but oh so close. She turned slightly, but Sean moved their hands away before she got them where she wanted them to be.
Instead, he did something almost obscenely sexy, bringing their fingertips to where their lips met, the soft brush-by as erotic as any intimate caress, the quick lick to her fingers almost sending her over the edge.
She whimpered, wanting more, but knowing he wouldn’t give it to her. He was teasing her and he was damn good at it.
But she was no slouch in that department either, so she slid her fingers from his and tucked them beneath the waistband of his pants just above his backside, flexing against the amazing muscles beneath his skin.
“God, Livvy, careful.”
“Am I hurting you?”
He took another long, mouthy kiss along her jaw line, ending just below her ear, sending shivers all through her. “Not in the way you mean, but you definitely have me aching.”
She smiled then. She felt the ache he was referring to, and yeah, it was growing by the nanosecond.
“Let’s get naked, Sean.”
She felt the breath leave his body. Felt the shivers that wracked him. Good.
“Livvy, you can’t just say that with your legs wrapped around me and not expect me to act on it. Even if you are on the kitchen countertop.”
She ran her hands over his chest, swirling the hair with her fingertips, then tugging on it ever so gently. “Why do you think I said it?”
He went willingly into her, groaning again, his lips fastening on hers as he once more laid her back against the granite, what was rocking between her legs just as hard. Livvy wanted him. Badly. Or, goodly, actually. Though he could be bad if he wanted. Whatever he wanted, she was as up for it as he was.
And that was quite a lot.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, wanting to absorb him into her, returning each thrust of his tongue with one of hers, answering every grind against her pelvis with a give-and-take of her own.
“I want you, Sean,” she gasped when he let her come up for air—only to steal it by gently biting the curve of her neck.
“I want you, too, Livvy,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin.
Sean was hot against her skin, in all facets of that word.
“I want you, too, Livvy,” came a squawk from above them.
Great. Orwell added something new to his repertoire.
Then he dropped a present on the countertop next to her.
Way to kill the moment.
“Sean.” Livvy didn’t want to end this, but while she was all for being in the moment with hot sweaty sex, she wasn’t up for rolling around in bird presents. “Sean.” She tugged his head back. “Sean, we have to stop.”
STOP? Sean stared down at her, her eyes wide, her skin flushed, with a just-kissed puffiness to her lips that grabbed him by the gut and twisted. Holy hell, she was gorgeous. He didn’t want to stop. And neither did she.
She wanted him. Laid out before him, her nipples let him know just how much she wanted him, her chest fluttering with the shallow breaths she was making no attempt to disguise . . . she didn’t want him to stop. She was as into this moment as he was.
And then Orwell broke into the moment with another inappropriately timed, “I want you, too, Livvy.”
Damn bird.
Sean might have ignored the stupid thing, but he saw what was on the counter next to Livvy’s gorgeous hair, and well, yeah. That was kind of a mood killer.
And then there was a whole bunch of scratching on the back door, which totally wiped out the moment.
And then the howling started.
Howling?
“Ringo!” This time it was Livvy who pulled away, swinging her leg up and around in front of him so that, if he’d been prepared for it, he would have gotten quite the show, but because he wasn’t, it was over before he knew it. Her skirt fluttered around her thighs as she twisted on the counter, did some sort of gymnastic move, and ended up beside him for the space of a heartbeat before flouncing—again with the flounce—over to the door. She flung it open, catching it just before it smashed into that triple-thick granite countertop, then flung her arms open to receive the biggest, wettest kiss outside of the one he’d just given her.
The dogs came barreling in, the rottie practically trampling Livvy to get in her arms. Great. An even more effective buzz kill than Orwell’s little “gift.”
“Hey, Liv. Quite the welcoming committee you’ve got there.” A big guy walked in the back door.
A big, good-looking guy who was familiar enough with Livvy to call her Liv, who carried yet another dog with him. Not that that thing could really be called a dog. It was more of a dust mop with legs. With a bow on its head. A purple one. It looked like it ought to belong to the over-accessorized Cassidy Davenport instead of bohemian Livvy Carolla.
“Sorry about that, Kerry. I’m sure they miss you.” Livvy ruffled the rottie’s steam shovel–like jowls.
The little puff ball in the guy’s arms growled and wriggled around. Sean put on his shirt, taking the opportunity to smile. The puff ball reminded him of Livvy: inappropriately dressed for the situation and too small to make a difference, but going at it full force while packing a growl or two.
Like the ones he’d gotten out of her a few minutes ago.
“Kerry, you forgot Mr. Choo’s booties. I just had his nails done.” Another guy walked in and plucked the puff ball from Kerry’s hold. “Mr. Choo, you settle down this instant or I’ll let John have his way with you.”
The doglet must have understood because it shut up mid-squeak.
But then Orwell decided to join the party. “I want you, too, Livvy.”
Kerry, the other guy, and Livvy just blinked at the bird. Sean wanted to fricassee it.
“I want you—squawk!”
Instead, he settled for scooping the thing up and walking it across to the disaster zone across the hall. He tossed the parrot into the air and the damn thing flew to the highest perch in the room where it’d be impossible to get it down from. Of
course.
“I want you, too, Livvy.”
Great. Now the words reverberated along the high ceiling.
Sean closed the French doors and returned to the kitchen. Damn bird.
The three of them all looked up guiltily from where they’d huddled over the end of the island.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The other guy nudged Kerry. “I think that’s our question.”
Livvy blushed, and the sight dug into Sean’s psyche and started growing roots.
He brushed the parrot feathers off his hands and held one out, walking toward them. “Hi, I’m Sean.”
The other guy took it. “I’m Sherwood. But you can call me Sher.” He said it as if it began with a C instead of an S.
Kerry rolled his eyes and tapped Sher out of the way. “I’m Kerry. We live with Livvy.”
“Live . . . with?” Sean couldn’t stop the words, nor the sinking feeling in his gut.
“He means at the co-op.” Sher swatted Kerry in the stomach. “We’re the next plot over. We were out antiquing today and thought we’d make the drive to see the place.”
Why should it bother him? He didn’t want it to bother him. Then again, he didn’t want her to bother him, but he wasn’t getting what he wanted on that front, either.
“Welcome to the Martinson estate.” He got his head out of the damn clouds and shook Kerry’s hand, even if he did practically choke on those words. Martinson estate. That was going to change the minute the place was his. If the place was his.
“Quite the snazzy set-up here, Livs.” Sher trailed a hand along the countertop and walked around the edge of the bar. “Care to give us the grand tour?”
“I want you, too, Livvy.”
Damn bird was loud.
“Sure!” Livvy said almost as loudly, and way too brightly, keeping her gaze firmly averted from Sean’s while she tucked another strand of hair behind her ears.
She was doing that a lot lately and Sean found it endearing. Of course, the more time he spent with her, the more he found endearing. As Orwell was attesting to like a broken record.
He ought to put some distance between them. Keep it professional. Remember the ultimate goal. Stay far, far away from her.
It worked in theory.
Livvy headed back toward the doorway that led into the foyer, and her pack of dogs jumped to their feet to trail after her like, well, puppies.
Thankfully, she stopped in the doorway, held her hand, and said, “Stay.”
And just like that, they all plunked their furry butts down, tongues lolling out of their mouths, tails thumping on the floor, and didn’t take even one whiney, groveling belly-crawl toward her. Though the looks in their eyes were hopeful.
But Livvy spun around, that ruffled skirt sailing around her legs, and headed into the foyer.
Kerry patted Sean on the shoulder as he passed. “Don’t try to rationalize it. Animals just get her.”
“What is she, the dog whisperer?”
Kerry shrugged. “There’s just something about Livvy that makes animals want to do whatever she tells them to.”
Considering he’d felt like one when she’d been on the countertop, Sean got it, too.
Chapter Nineteen
SO do tell about the treasure hunt, Livs.” Sher hefted Mr. Choo under one arm and tucked his other through hers as they headed up the front staircase. “Kerry mentioned your grandmother is a poet?”
Behind her, Sean snorted.
Livvy smiled. “I don’t know that poet is the right word, but she did seem to have a penchant for rhyming.”
“To what end? I mean, why not just come out and tell you what you’re supposed to know or find or look for or whatever? What does she get with you running around like a pretty little chickie without a head? She’s never going to see it since she’s dead.”
“Sensitive,” muttered Kerry. But Kerry of all people should know that no sensitivity was required when it came to the Martinsons. Livvy had been done with them ages ago.
She ran her hand along the banister she’d slid down the other day. “Who knows? I didn’t understand her while she was alive and her death hasn’t made things any clearer. All I know is that the lawyer said I can’t inherit this place unless I present him with the last clue.”
“So you don’t have to give him all the others? Then we ought to be looking for the last one and be done with this interim nonsense.”
“This interim nonsense,” said Sean, who’d been way too quiet since their kiss earlier, “is leading us to that clue.”
Kiss? Be real. That wasn’t just a kiss. That was an interrupted prelude to something she hadn’t had in a really long time. Like maybe, never. Sure, she’d had sex before—hot sex, too—but losing herself in the act as she’d done with Sean, and they hadn’t even had sex. Um, no. Nothing had ever been like that before. No one had ever been like that for her before.
She tried to stop the blush that blazed across her cheeks, hating that she couldn’t. Blushes didn’t go well with her red hair and pale skin. She always thought she looked like she had a fever when she blushed, and no one looked good when they were sick. And, yes, she did want to look good for Sean because he brought something to life inside of her, something Livvy was afraid to examine. Examining it would make it real. It’d define it. Name it. She didn’t want to do that because the minute she defined something, be it a friendship, acquaintance, roommate, family member . . . it all disappeared. She’d spent way too many holidays alone to not learn that forming bonds with people only led to heartache.
That’s why she adopted animals. That’s why she lived on a co-op. The people she lived with, like Kerry and Sherwood, and Jenny and Sheila and Marci; they were all on the same wavelength. All geared toward a common goal. It wasn’t a goal that had to do with personal relationships, but rather a means of survival. A you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours existence. And that was okay with her. She could depend on that. She could live with that. Everyone working together meant that everyone did what they said they were going to do. They made the commitment and they lived up to it. Because if they didn’t, if they didn’t bring anything to the table—literally and figuratively—they were voted off. It was one big reality show without the cameras. Or the monetary payoff. But some things were more important than money. That place proved it.
“Leading us to the clue?” Sher looked over his shoulder at Sean as they reached the second floor. “Treasure hunting is part of your duties? My, you are a jack of all trades, aren’t you?” He peered into Livvy’s room. “Nice bed you got there, sweetie. A little too big for one, though, isn’t it?”
He raised an eyebrow at Sean.
She knew they cared about her, but Livvy could only take so much innuendo given what he and Kerry had interrupted. She’d reached her quota for the day. Possibly the year. “The dogs sleep with me.”
“Pity.”
No kidding.
“Anyhow, this is my room and Sean’s is over there.” She pointed across the hall two doors down. Not close enough, yet not too far. It epitomized their relationship—well the one they’d had up until the interrupted kiss.
Sher was noncommittal as he crossed the hall to look inside. Even more noncommittal when he walked away. She understood why, too: Sean’s room was just that: a room. It didn’t have any of his personal effects other than two duffel bags, his Manley Maids uniforms, a couple of sets of workout clothes and jeans, some sneakers, his toiletries, and a book on his bedside table. It was an old thriller, but a good one. He must be one of those people who kept favorite books to read over and over again.
And no she hadn’t been snooping through his things; she’d been searching for clues. Just like Merriweather wanted her to do.
That was her story and she was sticking to it.
“The rest of this hall is filled with bedroo
ms if you want to take a look,” she said, wanting to get them all away from Sean’s room—herself especially. Again, quota met. “Or we could go to the nursery on the third floor.”
“Nursery? As in babies?” Sher raised both eyebrows this time.
He got a smile out of her, which she was sure was his intention in the first place. He wouldn’t mind if she started popping out kids. He wanted to be a favorite uncle; he’d told her that every time she’d said she was never having children. Her own childhood hadn’t been a sterling example so what reason did she have to think she could do a better job? Though she certainly couldn’t do worse.
“So where are these clues?”
“If they knew that then it wouldn’t be much of a treasure hunt, now would it?” Kerry ran his hands over the wallpaper. “Nice. Damascene, I believe. Costly but elegant.”
Of course it was. “Merriweather could afford it.”
“The old girl could afford a lot of things.” Sher picked up a piece of crystal from one of the pointless little tables that lined the hallway. Livvy had already checked the drawers for clues, but nope. Not even a match book or stray rubber band. Completely pointless. Just like the other twenty-seven rooms in the place.
Of course, Sher didn’t think so. He was all for claiming one as his own personal boudoir for visits, another for his study, still another for an office . . . The list went on. Livvy actually started to enjoy herself as they walked down the long hallway, playing lady of the manor and almost forgetting her real purpose in being here.
But then she’d see Sean checking a piece of furniture, or running his hands over the lintel, peeking behind the picture frames, and the bittersweet reality would come roaring in. Sure, she could own the place, but she’d have to prove herself yet again. Would she come up lacking once more?
“So how many more do you have to find?” Sher asked as they headed back to the kitchen.
“I don’t know. Merriweather didn’t say. Typical.” She pushed open the door and was immediately bombarded by puppy love. Big puppies, pushy puppies, some not-so-puppies . . . This was why she had the dogs and the other animals. This universal, undemanding, totally accepting love.
What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) Page 15
