by Unknown
But instead, here he was, standing outside Ronnie’s apartment with some sort of sharp, radiating ache in the center of his chest driving him to see her.
Maybe because of the challenge deadline, because he knew there was a good chance that as soon as he succeeded in beating her at her own game—and he still fully intended to win this thing, even if it meant taking time off work and knitting twenty-four hours a day to get the job done—their time together would end.
Whether because she’d be pissed he’d managed to learn how to knit, after all, or because she didn’t want to run the risk of anyone seeing them together in a way that could be even remotely presumed to be intimate, he could feel in his gut that she planned to break things off.
And he was okay with that.
He was a big boy. He’d been involved in affairs that had come to an end before, and it wasn’t like she was the only woman in Cleveland. Give him a day or two and he’d bounce back.
But there was still time left before the ax fell, and he found himself compelled to be with her as much as possible until it did.
How Ronnie would react to his unexpected arrival, however, was left to be seen.
To his surprise, she didn’t start breathing fire the minute she opened the door. If anything, she looked almost pleased to see him.
“Dylan,” she said breathlessly. She was carrying a dish towel and drying her hands, leading him to believe she may have been washing dishes or fixing dinner for herself. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?” he asked, avoiding giving a direct answer to her question.
“Of course.” Stepping back, she opened the door wider, then closed it behind him as he moved into the entryway.
A glimpse into the kitchenette area proved him right on the dishwashing guess. The sink was full of sudsy water, a few mismatched plates and glasses were drying on the folding dish rack, and Maroon 5 played softly from a small radio set up on the countertop.
“I talked to my dad today,” he said, moving farther into the apartment, stuffing his hands distractedly into the front pockets of his well-worn jeans. “He said you called him last night.”
“I did.” Dipping into the kitchen, she hung the damp towel on the handle of the oven door, then returned to the living area, sauntering over to the sofa and folding a leg beneath her before she plopped down on one of the overstuffed cushions.
He watched her, his mouth growing increasingly dry with every swish of her hips, every flick of her bare feet, every flutter of the stray curls that framed her face, falling loose from the twist of hair clipped at the back of her head. His palms itched to touch her, and the monster in his pants reared its head, desperate to get out, go on the hunt, and bring down its prey.
“He was wonderful, thank you for giving me his number.”
This was, without a doubt, the least prickly he’d ever seen her. She looked positively inviting; comfortable, relaxed, claws retracted.
Taking it as a sign he wouldn’t be maimed and dismembered if he moved closer, he slipped between the coffee table and couch and sat down beside her. They touched from knee to hip, and the same heat that was always there when they got within six feet of each other blazed to life, scorching his insides and leaving them a bubbling, molten mess.
“I’m glad. You’re welcome.” Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, twisting his hands together in front of him. “He enjoyed talking with you, too. Said you sounded like a smart and very pleasant young lady.”
His lips tipped at that, and he turned his head just enough to see her smiling in return. “I told him he didn’t know you very well or he wouldn’t have been crazy enough to believe the pleasant part.”
“You did not!” she gasped.
He was surprised the exclamation didn’t come with a hearty slap to his shoulder or the back of his head. “Nah. But I was tempted.”
Not nearly as tempted as he was, though, when she uncrossed her legs and stretched them out across his lap. For a minute, he sat frozen, not sure how to react.
In all the time he’d known her, or even that they’d been sleeping together, she’d never made a move like this. Jumped his bones once or twice, sure. Gone for the jugular . . . that, too. But to touch him voluntarily, without the intention of sliding immediately into raunchy, toes-to-the-ceiling, ass-in-the-air sex, was something entirely new.
Of course, being a guy, the fact that she might not have toes-to-the-ceiling, ass-in-the-air sex in mind didn’t mean it wasn’t swimming around in his overactive, erotically charged brain. And it was quickly making itself known in other parts of his body, as well.
There was no way she couldn’t feel his boner pressing against the back of her knee, but she pretended not to, scootching closer and swinging her feet, drawing his attention to her bare, red-tipped toes. He swallowed hard, picturing those toes wiggling above his shoulders while he made her scream in ecstasy, and tried not to follow suit.
Instead of resting back against the arm of the sofa, she stayed sitting upright, one hand behind his neck, toying with the ends of his hair, the other flicking a button at the front of his shirt.
She might as well have been licking him straight down the center. His balls tightened and his cock gave a wicked twitch behind the fly of his jeans, while she seemed calm as a cucumber, completely oblivious of the lust burning through his system like a brushfire.
“I suppose I should thank you,” she said softly.
“For what?”
He hadn’t done anything to earn her appreciation yet, but the night was still young.
Her brow furrowed as she shot him an odd glance. “For putting me in touch with your dad. And making all those suggestions about how to handle my finances so I don’t have to worry about them anymore. I took your advice on both counts, and I’m feeling less stressed already.”
“So I done good?”
She chuckled. “Very good. Thank you.”
She shifted her hips, bringing the side of her thigh into direct contact with his straining erection.
In a gravelly voice, he said, “I can think of better ways for you to show your appreciation.”
Her eyes went wide, but there was a twinkle in the deep brown pools, and one corner of her mouth twitched. “Is that why you came over tonight? To get lucky?”
At the moment, he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone what had driven him to her door. “You got a problem with that?” he volleyed back.
The fingers at his nape tugged more firmly at his hair. The ones at his shirtfront made quick work of popping the top button, then the next one down, then the next . . .
Blood sped through his veins faster than NASCAR qualifiers. She wasn’t pushing him away and hadn’t knocked him on his ass yet. That had to be a good sign.
Or not. With Ronnie, it was hard to tell.
Her face, with its high cheekbones, lush lashes, and full, bow-shaped mouth, moved in until he could feel her warm breath dancing over his skin.
With her lips hovering just above his, she whispered, “No, I don’t suppose I do.”
And then she was kissing him.
Row 19
Given the steel pipe trying to force its way out of his pants and the pent-up need swirling into tsunami proportions just beneath the surface, he expected the first touch of her mouth to be an explosion of passion. To waste no time in flipping her onto her back, stripping her bare, and sending them both to the naughty side of Heaven.
So it came as a bit of a shock when he found himself enjoying her soft, tender kiss, the feather-light brush of her lips, and the warm flood of sensations washing over him.
If this was their final time together, the last time he would ever stroke her hair, feel her pressed tightly against him, run his fingers over her supple flesh, then he wanted to remember everything. He wanted to take it slow and enjoy every touch, every taste, every breathy sigh.
At that somber realization, the raging inferno of lust beating through his blood banked to a low si
mmer. His grip on her waist loosened. The press of his mouth on hers softened and the pressure in his lungs and chest returned to almost normal.
He brought a hand up to cup her face and deepened the kiss just slightly, running the tip of his tongue along the line of her closed lips until she opened and let him in. Her own arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders, pressing her breasts flat against his chest.
The kiss went on for what seemed like hours, slow and languorous, tender and yielding. So much of the passion that had passed between them had been hot and fast and earth-shattering that the dichotomy of what was taking place now felt almost surreal.
It was nice, though. Different, but nice. He even thought that he might be able to get used to this sort of thing . . . Long, lazy lovemaking sessions on a Sunday afternoon when they had nowhere else to be. Slow, leisurely petting that maybe didn’t even go anywhere but was satisfying all on its own.
Oh, yeah, he could get used to this—as long as she was the one draped across his lap, gently kneading his biceps, squirming like a kitten trying to find the best position for an afternoon nap.
But that wasn’t an option, was it?
Tonight, this very moment, might be all they had left.
The pads of his fingers skimmed her cheek, the line of her jaw, the long column of her throat. And then, never taking his mouth from hers, he scooped her up and carried her to the bedroom.
She didn’t fight him, didn’t even ask what he was doing. Of course, her mouth was otherwise occupied, but he liked to think she’d have been pliant and agreeable even if it hadn’t been.
Laying her down across the neatly made bed, he stretched out atop her and continued kissing her, continued stroking her, continued filling his mind and soul with every memory and sensory perception possible.
A part of him suspected that ten, twenty, fifty years from now, he would still be thinking back to his time with Ronnie with a smile on his face and a chubby in his pants.
Ronnie kept her eyes tightly closed and schooled her breathing as she felt the mattress shift beneath her. Brushing the hair away from her face, Dylan placed a soft kiss on her brow and then climbed out of bed.
Though he made barely a sound, she could hear him padding across the carpeted floor, gathering his clothes, and moving toward the door. Cracking a lid, she watched his deliciously tight backside in the shadowed darkness as he slipped out the door.
Her stomach might have lurched at the sight of those perfect buns of steel, except for the fact that it was currently quite full and weighted down by her heart, which had taken a serious dip when he’d pressed his lips to her forehead.
That wasn’t something casual lovers did. Was it? Or was she reading too much into it?
If she was, though, then she must also be reading too much into their lovemaking last night. Not the urgent, flash fire of passion she’d grown used to with him, but a slow, sweet, tender joining of their bodies that she didn’t think she’d ever experienced before with anyone.
He’d kissed her and held her and touched her forever before beginning to slowly undress her or himself. Even then, he’d seemed in no hurry to be inside her, continuing his calculated exploration.
And while she’d enjoyed every second of his languid attentions, she’d also felt like a pan of water working its way to a hard boil. Bubbles of excitement had popped and rolled through her bloodstream, tickling under her skin.
She’d tried several times to speed things up, to urge him along so he would just take her already, but he’d held his ground. She didn’t think there was a millimeter of flesh he hadn’t caressed, kissed, licked, or suckled. Some parts had been lucky enough to get the full, four-course treatment.
He’d curled her toes, weakened her knees, and all around made her feel like the most beautiful, treasured woman on the face of the earth.
When he’d finally slipped inside her, it had sent her over the brink into immediate orgasm. Not a gasping, writhing, tooth-rattling orgasm, but one that was slow and gentle and rippled through her in one long, ongoing cascade of pleasure.
Though he’d managed to hold himself together rather than following her over into instant satisfaction, she’d been pleased to feel the steel-cable tension in his tall frame and see a muscle tic in his jaw as he’d clenched his teeth against coming too soon.
But even then . . . even after enough foreplay to get him into the Guinness Book of World Records . . . even after making her climax at the first touch of his penis inside her . . . still he seemed in no rush to hurry things along.
He continued to tease her—face, throat, breasts, belly—with his hands and mouth. And when he finally began to move, it was with slow, sure strokes designed to build the excruciating pressure all over again.
He let her come twice more before giving in to his own pleasure, and after regaining his strength he’d done nothing more than roll to the side, yank the bedspread around to cover them both, and then hold her as they both slipped into a safe, comfortable sleep.
She could hear Dylan in the bathroom, and turned her head to glance at the glowing red numbers of the digital clock on the nightstand. No wonder he was leaving . . . they both had to be at work in only a couple more hours, and he likely planned to run home and change clothes before heading for the office.
Since her entire closet of fresh outfits was only a few feet away, she could afford to lie in bed and feign sleep a bit longer—at least until Dylan was gone.
Not that she wanted him to go. Oddly, she found herself wishing he’d come back and climb into bed for another round of pop goes the weasel.
Only a week ago, he’d have done just that. He’d have held her wrists above her head, covered her with his body, and used every seductive skill in his extensive arsenal to convince her to blow off her responsibilities for the day and stay in bed with him doing the nasty.
She’d have probably gone for it, too.
So why wasn’t he doing that today? Why had he sneaked out of bed instead of waking her with kisses and his already rigid erection pressing into her hip? Why had he let her sleep through the night instead of rousing her again and again the way he would have only days ago?
It all felt very peculiar to her, and she couldn’t decide whether to be nervous or relieved by his behavior.
She heard the front door click and let out a sigh. Throwing back the covers, she padded naked across the room.
Her mind was the same maelstrom of confusion it had been before she’d opened the door last evening to find Dylan on the other side—looking sexier than any man had a right to—and lying in bed contemplating the mess her life had become wasn’t going to help her figure things out any sooner.
Grabbing her robe, she went to the bathroom to shower and dry her hair, then started fixing her makeup and getting dressed.
She was no closer to having answers to her problems than she had been yesterday. If anything, she had more questions . . . and more emotions welling up to get in the way.
This wouldn’t have happened a month ago. Before she’d made the colossal mistake of challenging Dylan to learn how to knit, and then compounded that colossal mistake by agreeing to help him learn, her life had been fine.
With the exception of a few minor personal issues, her life had been freaking perfect, and she’d have had no trouble deciding whether or not to take the job in Chicago. In fact, she probably would have had her bags packed before the associate publisher had even finished making his offer.
But now . . .
Now she’d resolved a few of her original personal issues, only to replace them with a big, honking butt-load of new ones. Ones that had her doubting her own desires, questioning her own judgments, and wanting things she had no business wanting.
Grace’s brilliant suggestion that she “sleep on it” and let her subconscious find the right answers for her hadn’t done a whit of good, unfortunately. Probably because she and her subconscious had both spent the night sleeping on Dylan instead of her current pile of moral dilemma
s.
And moping around her apartment, wishing solutions would magically appear before she left for work, wasn’t going to get her anywhere, either. Finishing her last bite of toast, she shrugged into her coat, grabbed her purse, and took off.
Things were getting down to the wire, and if she didn’t figure out what to do soon, about all of it, she was afraid her head would explode. She’d tried talking to her friends, searching her heart, making a list of Pros and Cons . . . next up: a Lucky Eight Ball, Ouija board, and maybe Pin the Tail on the Donkey.
Surely one of them could give her a definitive answer about whether she should turn her back on Dylan and take the job in Chicago or stay in Cleveland and take a chance on a man who made her laugh, made her crazy, kept her on her toes, and could give her a dozen big Os in a single night.
A few days later, on Friday, Ronnie held her breath as the latest issue of the Herald hit her desk. It was late, almost time to head home, and today was the day Dylan’s column came out The day she would discover whether he’d succeeded in his knitting lessons or not.
She almost hoped he had, even though it would mean she’d lose and would have to return his beloved Harrison Award.
Flipping through the pages, she found his column, her eyes immediately locking on the grainy black-and-white photograph of a long, dark, hand-knit scarf above the text.
Well, good for him. It wasn’t good for her reputation or her end of their supposedly bitter rivalry, but she was actually proud of him. He’d accepted her challenge and worked hard to learn how to do something he never would have tried to do on his own. Something other guys would probably rag on him about, if they hadn’t already.
A few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have thought he’d have the balls for it. Now she knew he had the balls for that, and a heck of a lot more.
While this sort of news would have had her frowning before, this time it made her feel warm and content. She didn’t need to read the article to know he’d succeeded, but her gaze scanned the words, anyway.
