by Sandra Brown
“Cayton’s pretty damn lucky himself. He gets to grant her a sexual favor.”
“But he’s uncomfortable with their position, so he pulls her astride his lap.”
Parker curved his hands around her waist. She came up on her knees and straddled him. “If I’m remembering correctly, Cayton kisses her ears, her throat, her…”
But Parker was way ahead of her. He had, after all, written the scene and knew the sequence. The straps of her nightgown had been lowered before she was completely settled on him. Her breasts lay cupped in his hands, his thumbs brushing her nipples. And now he was taking one into his mouth and sucking it lustily, pressing it hard between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
Shamelessly she folded her arms around his head, holding it fast. Whimpering wordless sounds, she kissed the crown of his head, his temple, anyplace that she could reach without dislodging him, because she didn’t want him to stop.
Her sex softened and swelled, opening like a piece of fruit that had been ripened beyond its ability to contain itself. Parker reached between her thighs and when he touched her, she shuddered involuntarily. Her body closed wetly around his fingers.
“Go ahead,” he urged. “You know what you want to do.”
His name staggered out on an uneven breath.
“Go ahead, Maris.”
She began to move, rocking her hips against his hand, forcing his fingers deeper into her, responding to his subtle stroking until she was in the throes of an orgasm.
Or so she thought.
Until he slid beneath her and simultaneously lifted her up higher, supporting her hips with his strong hands and drawing her to his mouth. She gave a harsh, dry gasp of pure shock, but it was soon expelled as a low, keening sigh of incredible pleasure.
She flattened her palms against the headboard, and when that became insufficient support, she leaned into it, resting her cheek against the cool wood while giving herself over to the mastery of his tongue.
His flexing fingers embedded themselves in her flesh. His hair was soft against her lower belly, the stubble on his cheeks pleasantly scratchy against her inner thighs.
She became lost in the sensations. Utterly lost. Her mind and body were governed by sensual impulses to the exclusion of all else. She surrendered herself to the primal rhythms pulsing through her.
Numerous times she strained toward orgasm, but he would quieten her efforts with the softest of kisses and the sweetest of words before wickedly coaxing her to the brink again. When he did let her come, it was shattering. The last tether on consciousness was clipped and she soared, lost touch, spun in delirium.
Coherence returned gradually. Languorously. A feather drifting down.
Her skin was damp, her chest flushed, her nipples taut and red. Her heart was pounding and each beat echoed inside her head. She rested against the headboard until her breathing had slowed. When she finally opened her eyes, she realized they were wet with tears.
She lowered herself to sprawl on Parker’s torso like a shipwreck victim washed ashore. Her nightgown was wadded around her waist. Her hair clung to her cheeks and neck in damp strands. Parker smoothed his hands down her back, over her hips. They settled on her ass. He squeezed it gently and made her smile.
His heart was beating hard and strong directly into her ear. Each time she inhaled, her nose was tickled by chest hair. She had an up-close view of his nipple, which was flat until she touched it, then it beaded up hard against her fingertip and she felt his quick intake of breath. Between their bellies, she could feel his erection.
“Give me a moment,” she said weakly.
Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Several minutes passed. She soaked up the intimacy, realizing how bloody fabulous it was to be a woman in such intimate contact with a man. No, not a man. She’d had a man. She loved being intimate with this man. Until now, she hadn’t known there could be such a vast difference between two members of the same sex, of the same species.
“You deviated from the book,” she whispered.
“Did I? My memory’s a little foggy.”
“There was nothing like that in the book. Nothing that even comes close. In any book.”
She raised her head and looked at him, inched up and softly kissed his lips, then slipped her tongue into his mouth and rubbed the tip of his. As the kiss intensified, she seductively ground her pelvis against his erection.
He broke from their kiss and angled his head back until it was buried in his pillow. His skin appeared to be stretched tightly over the bones of his face. His hands were gripping her hips hard in an effort to keep her still.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“That’s not in the book, either.”
“Oh, sorry. Let’s see what comes next.” Without changing their position, she awkwardly reached for her glasses and slipped them on, then opened the book and pretended to read silently. “Oh, yes, I remember now. He takes her hand and guides it to…”
“His cock.”
“That’s what it says.”
Coming off him slowly, she resumed her original place beside him. She straightened her nightgown and was about to replace the straps on her shoulders, when Parker gave his head a negative shake. Maris pulled the gown off over her head. For a few seconds she held it against her chest, then tossed it toward the foot of the bed. Parker took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring slightly.
He ran his hand over her breasts, down her rib cage and belly, and combed his fingertips through her damp pubic hair before returning to her breast. He lightly pinched the nipple between his fingers and watched it harden.
She laid her hand on his stomach. The hair grew laterally toward a silky strip that took a downward turn at his navel. Her eyes tracked it; her hand followed it beneath the sheet.
But Parker reached down and stopped it. “This is where the fantasy ends, Maris.”
Her gaze swung up to his. His expression was set and hard. He wasn’t kidding. In a matter of moments, he had physically withdrawn and taken a giant step backward emotionally. “I don’t understand.”
“This isn’t fiction.”
“I’m glad it’s not.”
“This is reality.”
“I know.”
“You don’t have a clue,” he said harshly. “You pull that sheet back and you’ll get a jolt of reality you never bargained for.”
She took a quick glance at his legs beneath the covering of the sheet. Smiling softly, she shook her head. “Do you think I care about your scars?”
“I think you will, yeah.”
“You’re wrong.” She gazed into his face, and, near tears, said, “Parker, you can’t possibly comprehend what you’ve done for me. No, listen, please,” she said when he was about to interrupt. “I may only have the courage to say this once.”
She removed her glasses, rubbed her eyes, moistened her lips, smiled ruefully. “I’ve never played sex games like this before. I’ve only read about this kind of play. I thought it only occurred in books. What you said the other night on the beach, while crude, was correct. With Noah, I never felt free to express myself sexually. What happened between us just now? Would have been unthinkable to me a few weeks ago.
“That was totally out of character with the woman who entered Terry’s Bar and Grill looking for you. I didn’t know until now what I’ve been missing. I’ve been craving that kind of passion. Sensual meltdown. Absolute and unapologetic sexual abandon. You gave me that. But it’s incomplete. It won’t mean anything unless we share it. Let me share it,” she finished huskily. “Please.”
He continued to stare at her, but his expression was no longer tense and set. In fact, he looked more vulnerable than she would have believed possible. “I’m not pretty, Maris.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Tentatively, she leaned toward him. He didn’t stop her. She began at his neck and kissed her way down. Her lips whisked across his skin, her tongue licked it softly. He
r mouth wetly covered his nipple and he hissed a profanity and sank his fingers into her hair.
She pressed another openmouthed kiss just below his navel as she pushed the sheet down below his hips. He groaned her name when she encircled his penis with her hand. It throbbed with life and vitality. She stroked it slowly, varying the tension of her fingers as she worked her way up. She rubbed her thumb across the tip, smearing a pearly bead of semen that had leaked from it.
“Isn’t this how Frenchy got her nickname?” she asked in a voice unintentionally smoky.
“Maris…” Her name vaporized on his lips when she bent over him.
She reveled in the musky taste and scent. She loved feeling the quickening in his belly, hearing his hoarse exclamations of arousal, experiencing the feel of him inside her mouth.
His grip on her hair tightened, not enough to hurt, only enough to let her know it was time to switch positions. She bridged him with her thighs and remained poised above him while he took his penis in his own hand and rubbed the smooth head against her, baiting her desire until she had to have him inside her. Then she sank down, sheathing him slowly, her body stretching to take all of him.
He took several rapid breaths and as he exhaled, he whispered, “Wait.”
So she remained still. He slid his hands up and down her thighs. His thumbs met in the mesh of their public hair and stroked her V until her head fell back against her shoulders and she moaned his name.
Only then did he angle his hips up, encouraging her to ride him. She did, changing tempos and angles, holding still when he indicated that’s what he wished her to do to protract the pleasure. During those pauses, she used the walls of her body to milk him; his eyes would darken, he would swear lavishly, then he would nudge her into motion again.
Leaning down, she guided his head to her breast. He rubbed his rough cheek against it, then his closed lips, before caressing her nipple with his tongue. Lightly and rapidly. Until she called his name and pressed her hips deeply into his belly, securing him inside her.
He pulled her down onto his chest and they came together. As he pulsed inside her, he splayed one hand over her bottom, and cupped the back of her head with the other, and, holding her possessively with both, kissed her mouth. They couldn’t get close enough, deep enough, into each other far enough to satisfy the passion.
When it finally waned, she stretched out on top of him. She could feel the rugged terrain of his scarred legs beneath hers. But she couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about that now. She had scars, too. Less visible than his, but there nonetheless. Later, there would be time and opportunity to ask questions and to listen and to sympathize, and then to return their previous unhappiness to the past where it belonged.
Right now she wanted nothing to intrude on the present. She wanted to bask in the knowledge that she had pleased Parker well. She hated Noah Reed for all the times he had rejected her overtures, making her feel awkward and undesired, and then if he did respond for making her feel somehow insufficient.
But she didn’t waste this precious time thinking about him, either. The thought of him was fleeting, like a twinge in one’s side, that’s painful only for an instant before it disappears.
Instead she concentrated on the wonderful pressure of Parker still nestling inside her. She kept her thighs tightly closed, her belly pressed firmly against his to maximize the closeness.
Moving only her lips, she kissed his throat. “The end?”
Several moments elapsed before he replied. “Not quite, Maris.”
But she had already fallen asleep.
Chapter 29
Daniel stood at the kitchen window, eating a sandwich and staring out at the rainy night. Periodically lightning illuminated the countryside, but it was a friendly storm, unthreatening and nonviolent, a summer thundershower that would dissipate quickly and leave the skies clear by dawn.
His telephone conversation with Maris had thrust his mind into overdrive. It was churning a mile a minute. He wished his body, like his brain, would experience occasional energizing jump starts like this. If it did, he’d be able to bicycle back to New York and then run a marathon. Mentally, he felt that athletic and robust.
After the call, he’d tried for an hour to fall asleep. Finally surrendering to his insomnia he had come downstairs. Midnight snacks were verboten at home, especially when they added up to more fat grams than he was allotted for a week. But Maxine wasn’t guarding the refrigerator tonight, and what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. She would be here soon enough, bossing and monitoring him as if he were a child.
Thank God, he thought with a chuckle. He didn’t know what he would have done without Maxine caring for him and Maris all these years.
He polished off the sandwich. The leftover Reuben had been satisfying—to say nothing of the warmth that two fingers of brandy had spread through him. Rather than making him feel languid and sleepy, however, the alcohol had invigorated him. He was restless and ready to act.
He’d always been a man of action, seldom placing problems on the back burner and letting them simmer. He favored confronting them immediately. Standing still wasn’t his style. He preferred channeling his energy positively and productively rather than squandering it on self-doubt and hand-wringing indecision.
But this situation warranted more consideration than most. He was uncertain about the order in which to take the actions necessary to rectify it. He had his strategy in place, but it required careful orchestration and perfect timing. That’s what had his mind working double-time tonight.
This situation didn’t have a nucleus on which he could focus his problem-solving ability. It didn’t lend itself to a swift and fatal attack. It was mercurial, constantly changing. It was a multilayered and complex conundrum involving both family and business, individuals and money, power and emotions. A complicated mix. Especially when one of the persons involved was his daughter.
He was glad Maris was in Georgia, away from New York. Things were about to get ugly. Bluntly, the shit was about to hit the fan. The more distance between it and Maris, the better. Inevitably she would catch some of the media fallout, but he hoped to buffer her as much as possible, and the geography would help. Sorting through the personal aspects of this mess was going to be painful enough for her. Doing so in the public eye would be hell.
Although, he thought, smiling, she won’t be without consolation.
It had been evident to him for months that she was unhappy with her husband and their marriage. It had become equally evident that the book-in-progress alone hadn’t drawn her back to the sea island, exotic and lush as it might be.
Her duties and responsibilities at Matherly Press were enough to keep an overachiever like her stretched thin. Normally her daily grind would prevent her from becoming personally involved with one author and one book, even if she were so inclined to invest that much of herself, which she never had been before.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude that the allure wasn’t strictly the book, but the author Parker Evans, a.k.a. Mackensie Roone.
Oh, yes. He had discovered the name of Maris’s elusive author, as well as his successful pen name. Years earlier, when the Deck Cayton mystery series had started appearing routinely on the bestseller lists, he had tried to flatter, coax, blackmail, and threaten the author’s real name out of his agent, in the hope of luring the writer to Matherly Press.
She, however, would not be intimidated, even by the venerable Daniel Matherly. “If I told you, Daniel, I’d have to kill you.” She had steadfastly protected her client’s identity against disclosure, and Daniel had grudgingly admired her for it.
But he knew it now.
For several weeks, he’d had a private investigator on retainer. Hoping that his misgivings about Noah were proved wrong, he had hired the investigator to probe into his son-in-law’s past, including his life prior to the publication of The Vanquished.
The whole idea of a covert investigation had been distasteful to him. His appro
ach had always been bold and forthright, and he despised the furtiveness associated with a private investigator. He had envisioned having to consort with a sleazy B-movie type with a stained necktie and a leering yellow grin.
But when William Sutherland arrived for their discreet appointment, he contradicted the stereotype. Sutherland was the founder of an elite and expensive agency, a retired Secret Service agent wearing a well-tailored dark suit. He had a firm handshake, an authoritative bearing, and a distinguished service record.
Within five minutes of that first handshake, Daniel was outlining his requests. The last thing Daniel had expected to learn from Sutherland’s initial report was novelist Mackensie Roone’s true identity. That’s not what he’d been looking for. Unexpectedly, one of publishing’s best-kept secrets had landed in his lap in a sealed manila folder.
But the staggering revelation was yet to come: Parker Evans and Noah Reed had a history.
They had been roommates at a university in Tennessee, and then after graduation they had lived together in Key West. There, they’d had some sort of falling out, the particulars of which were still unknown. Sutherland was presently investigating further, and Daniel was certain that soon all the facts would be disclosed.
In the meantime, he had pieced together the facts he knew, and they would have made an engrossing novel. Maris was presently residing in a plantation house on a remote island belonging to Parker Evans, her estranged husband’s former friend with whom he’d parted antagonistically. The synopsis alone brimmed with the ingredients of a juicy novel—friendship, love, hate, deception, revenge. Envy? Possibly.
The only thing lacking in this scenario was a motive for the main character, Parker Evans.
He had lured Maris with his book for a specific purpose. He hadn’t selected her at random. What had motivated him to become involved with Maris, even professionally, when he must know that she was Noah’s wife?
Daniel wondered if she was aware of their connection. Considering Noah’s unfaithfulness, she would feel justified to play tit for tat with his former fraternity brother. But a childish retaliation wasn’t like her.
