More Than a Hero

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Following your directions. Taking a look around.” His voice was hoarse, as well, but he’d lied. He wasn’t looking around. The only thing he was looking at was her.

  That quickly, the last of her chill evaporated and heat flooded her skin. Suddenly the jeans folded over her arm felt too coarse, the sweater too warm. As her hand fell limply to her side, the garments slid to the floor, landing with a whoosh on the rug.

  She could pick them up. Ask him to leave. Get dressed. Meet him in the living room and take him on the promised tour next door. She could pretend she wasn’t standing there half-naked, that he wasn’t looking at her as if he wished she was completely naked. She could be smart, sensible, the way she’d been for twenty-seven years, and walk away from him.

  And how did walking away from him constitute smart? No man had ever intrigued her the way Jake did. No man had ever made her lust the way he did. So what if he wasn’t staying and she wasn’t leaving? Not all good things had to be permanent. They could have a lovely, luscious affair that ended when he returned home. It didn’t have to be accompanied by regrets.

  But not having an affair with him was something she would regret. Not exploring this sizzle, this need. She would always wonder what she’d missed.

  So she did the smart, sensible thing—and walked to him.

  “There’s not much to see,” she said, erotically aware of how much he wore and how little she wore. Her nipples were tight beneath the lace of her bra, and lower, heat and dampness swirled through her. “The house is comfortable but small.”

  He swallowed hard and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The movement drew her gaze down, over the cotton shirt stretched taut across his chest, to the faded denim of his jeans, past the zipper that was distorted by the swelling beneath it, down long, muscular thighs. “I…I can go…back out if…if you want.”

  She smiled. “Do I look like I want you to go?”

  Something softened in him—certainly not his erection, and not the muscles that practically vibrated with tension. Relief, maybe, that she wanted what he did. That he hadn’t gotten that quite impressive erection for nothing.

  She stopped in front of him, a few feet separating them. The bed was to her left, the sitting area with its fireplace behind him, the bathroom with its oversize whirlpool tub behind her. Choices that she cared nothing about. All she wanted was to touch him, to be touched by him.

  He brushed her hair, lifting its cool, damp weight, twining it around his fingers, then drew her to him. His first kiss was sweet, only the touch of his mouth to hers, and wicked because it promised so much more. His tongue slid between her lips, and she opened to him as her hands sought his shoulders for balance, for support, for pure pleasure. Even through his shirt his skin was hot, the muscles ridged and growing more so as his tongue delved deeper into her mouth.

  Releasing her hair, he pulled her until their bodies were touching, chest to thigh. His hard length rubbed against her belly, making her quiver. It was a delicious sensation, a tingle that heated her blood and made each breath a struggle. When his fingers slid featherlight along her spine, shivers washed over her. When they dipped inside the low-cut band of her panties to cup her bottom and press her hard against him, she gasped.

  He ended the kiss, lifted his head and looked at her, his expression serious, intimate. She felt his gaze slider lower, past her mouth, down her throat, to her breasts, and her nipples tightened again, achy and in need of his mouth. He reached out with one hand and undid the front clasp of her bra without more than a brush of knuckles against her skin. He didn’t push the lace and satin away, though, but left that to her.

  She lifted her left breast, pulled the fabric free, then lifted the other breast and did the same. The thin straps slid down her arms, then the bra landed somewhere behind her. He caught her hands, brought them back to her breasts and stroked her fingers over her nipples. Heat tinged her face and down her throat—a little embarrassment, but mostly arousal. He liked watching her touch herself, and she liked that.

  But she wanted to touch him, as well. Freeing her wrists from his hold, she gathered the hem of his shirt and peeled it over his head. His chest was broad, smooth, brown, so soft and so hard. She drew her tongue across his nipple and it hardened instantly. When she sucked it between her teeth, he grunted, and when she slid her hands to his groin, he shuddered.

  She tried to unfasten his jeans so she could really touch him, but her fingers fumbled over the button. “Oh, damn,” he muttered, grabbing both of her hands in his and holding them away from his body while he undid the jeans. Wriggling loose, she freed his arousal from soft denim, briefs, and drew a low, guttural moan from him.

  Stroking his, hot, heavy, twitchy flesh in her hands, she whispered, pleaded, “I need you inside me.”

  Jake didn’t need a second invitation. He gently pulled her hands away, then toed off his boots, stripped off his jeans and briefs and took his socks with them. When he turned to the bed, she had removed her tiny pink panties and was lying there, hair across the pillow, long, lean body trembling, waiting…for him. Sweet hell, she was beautiful—blond and gold, sleek and muscled, soft and feminine. Her breasts were swollen, her nipples aching little nubs, and the curls between her thighs glistened with need, tempting him. Sea goddess aroused.

  His erection throbbed painfully, but instead of joining her on the bed he bent to retrieve his jeans. “Let me get…” Plastic crinkled as he pulled the strip of three condoms from his pocket. He’d gotten them when he’d changed clothes. After that kiss out at the house and the way she’d gotten all still and aroused when he’d offered to teach her something improper, he’d figured better to be prepared than not.

  When he turned back, she was leaning on one elbow, retrieving a small box of condoms from the night table drawer. He grinned. “A woman after my own heart.”

  Taking the condoms from him, she ripped one open, then rose onto her knees to put it in place. First, though, she took him in her mouth for a long, lazy, intimate kiss that made his skin burn. She drew hard on him for a couple minutes before pulling back and deftly unrolling the condom over the length of his erection.

  “Right now I’m just after this,” she murmured, stroking him, pulling him with her as she lay back. “We’ll talk about your heart later.”

  Right now this was enough. He worked his way inside her, a tight fit that felt incredible. Every move she made, every breath she took, everything she felt, he felt, too. It was snug, hot, wet, and he could stay there forever.

  Though he wasn’t going to last nearly that long.

  He tried to stay still, to endure the sensations until they reached unendurable, but she tempted him with the wiggle of her hips, the tensing of her muscles deep inside where he filled her, her delicate little bites on his nipples, her tongue thrusting inside his mouth. Unendurable came sooner than he’d expected, forcing him to move, to pull out, then push in, long and slow and deep for about two strokes, then long and fast and deep. Pressure built, stimulation so intense that his skin, his body, felt raw. Every touch, every breath, was accompanied by pain, and every pain was filled with pleasure. The harder he pumped, the harder she met him, whimpering, swearing, pleading. He was so close, ears rushing, heart pounding, blood boiling, but he held back, waiting for her, waiting—

  Her body went rigid, bucking up off the bed, and her frantic gasps turned to a low moan. Inside she tightened around him, tiny little spasms of exquisite pain, more than he needed, more than he could bear. His vision going dark, he lifted her hips tighter against his and, with a groan to match hers, he came. Hard. Long.

  He didn’t know how much time passed—enough for the shudders to fade away, for his muscles to protest too much flexion, for his heart and lungs to decide he wasn’t dying after all…though what a hell of a way to go. The sweat was cooling on his skin, and beneath him Kylie was relaxing, too. One delicate hand stroked along his spine from shoulder blade to hip, and a sweetly enticing smile curved her lips.
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br />   “I guess I don’t have to ask if it was good for you, too,” she teased softly.

  He slid to the side, removing most but not all his weight from her, disposed of the condom, then tucked her against him. “It was acceptable.”

  “Uh-huh. Any more acceptable and you’d need CPR.”

  He grinned and nipped her shoulder. “It was incredible. I kneel at your feet, goddess. You are amazing. Outstanding. Fantastic. Super—” He broke off with a grunt when she elbowed him.

  “Don’t overdo it. But keep that kneeling at my feet in mind for later. That sounds fun.”

  His body stirred. Oh, yeah, that sounded like great fun.

  With a soft sigh, she adjusted the pillow they shared, then gazed past him to the windows. Darkness had fallen early, thanks to the rain, and the temperature had dropped with it. Despite daytime highs in the sixties and seventies, it was still fall, with winter on the way.

  He couldn’t think of a better way to stay cozy through a cold winter than making love with Kylie.

  A chill settled over him—because the temperature had dropped, he knew, and not because he wasn’t likely to see Kylie much, if at all, once he left Riverview. Once he uncovered the truth about her father, she would likely never want to see him again.

  He maneuvered the comforter out from beneath them, then covered them both with it. She sighed again as she huddled into its warmth. He stroked her hair, mostly dry now, letting it sift through his fingers, and considered what to say. His first impulse was to make love to her again and say whatever had to be said later. His second was to make love to her again and forget whatever had to be said. His third was to make love to her again and somehow change what had to be said. He went with number four.

  “Regrets?” His gut tightened as he waited for her response. No—that was the only answer he wanted. None at all.

  Another sigh. “Yes…no…some.”

  Well, hell, he’d had to ask.

  “Not about this.” She lifted one hand to indicate the bed and their naked bodies. “I just regret that we are who we are.”

  That she was the senator’s daughter. That he was the author who believed the senator guilty of taking a man’s life. That he had set into play events that could destroy her father’s reputation and the daughter’s illusions she treasured.

  And she had no clue that the man her father had cheated of life was his father.

  Phyllis Colby Riordan would be spinning in her grave to know that her precious daughter had been intimate with a poor trailer-trash convicted killer’s son.

  Even without a grave, Jim Riordan would spin out of control if he found out.

  Not that there was any reason for him to find out. Kylie knew how to keep a secret, and Jake certainly did.

  In the dim light she offered him a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”

  He kissed her forehead, then grinned. “You can’t spoil my mood, darlin’. I just had incredible sex with a goddess. Life doesn’t get much better than that.”

  But it could. If they tried. If she didn’t hold her father’s downfall against him. If she could ever choose him over her father, it could be damn near perfect.

  In the silence that followed, her stomach growled, bringing a flush to her face and a rare giggle to her lips. He laughed, too. “If I feed you, do I get to come back to bed with you?”

  Her amusement faded into seriousness as she laid her palm to his cheek. “As long as you’re in town.”

  He didn’t know how long that would be, but even if it was months, a niggling little fear inside doubted it wouldn’t be enough. The way he was feeling right that instant, nothing less than forever would be enough.

  So he would change the way he was feeling. Remind himself regularly that it was just an affair. Remember who she was, who he was, who he really was. Remember it wasn’t his heart she wanted. Just his body.

  And the truth.

  They dressed, checked the refrigerator, then ordered pizza and hot wings delivered. Kylie hadn’t seen anything wrong with a salad or a frozen dinner, but Jake had overruled her. He wanted real food. Food with lots of calories and fat and sticky, gooey goodness.

  After cleanup—consisting of refrigerating the last two pieces of pizza and throwing everything else in the trash—she dangled her keys from her finger. “Still want that tour?”

  Something passed through his eyes, something…distancing. But it disappeared when he grinned and said, “Sure. Who doesn’t want to see how the better half lives?”

  “Hardly better,” she corrected him as she took a hooded trench coat from the closet. “Just different.”

  “Honey, I’ve been poor. Being rich has to be better. It certainly makes a lot of people think they are.”

  Like her parents. Both Phyllis and the senator had nurtured a sense of entitlement, and they’d tried to instill it in her. How many times had her mother told her You’re a Colby or You’re a Riordan as if that truly mattered? Dozens. Hundreds.

  She belted the coat around her waist as Jake thrust his arms into his slicker. With the hoods pulled up for protection from the rain, they left the coziness of the cottage for the stone path that wound through gardens to the mansion’s rear entrance. “Ordinarily I’d take you in the front door for the full effect,” she said as they removed their coats, followed by their soaking shoes, in the utility room. “It’s impressive.”

  She wasn’t sure Jake would agree. She wanted him to. It was her family home. Colbys had bought the property, earned the fortune, built the house and lived in it for generations. It was a part of who she was, and she wanted him to…to not be turned off by it.

  From the utility room they cut through the kitchen to the hallway that ran front to back, dividing the house in half. Along its length hung photographs not of early Colbys but of the oil wells that had made them rich, each bearing a brass plate with well name, location and date drilled. The furniture beneath the photos—two uncomfortable chairs and three demilune tables—were antiques. Most of the furnishings in the house were old and valuable, too much so for a young child to play on or near.

  Ordinarily when she gave a tour to a friend she did a spiel about the history, the family and the more unusual treasures. Not with Jake. He was smart enough to recognize the rooms for what they were and curious enough to ask any questions that came to mind.

  The front entry was impressive: a huge foyer, the ceiling reaching three stories high, painted with a gold-leaf mural of sky, clouds and angels. The double doors were unusually wide, stained glass in both doors, the sidelights and the arch overhead. The house faced south, and when the sunlight streamed through those windows it was breathtaking.

  They walked quietly through the ladies’ parlor, the gentlemen’s parlor, the library, the music room and a nursery filled with plants, where six of the eight walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. Side by side they climbed the broad, curving staircase that swept to the second floor, where the corridor held the family portraits missing downstairs. On one side was her father’s suite and a guest suite; Jake hardly glanced at either.

  On the other side was her childhood rooms, where she’d lived from the time she was born until she graduated from college. She opened the door into the bedroom and let him enter, then leaned there and watched him. He walked the perimeter of the room, touching mementos, studying photographs, taking in and probably analyzing the first twenty-two years of her life.

  At the window seat he picked up a pink-and-cream-striped pillow. “Until tonight, I would have said pink wasn’t your color. By the way, you look lovely in pink. You look lovelier in nothing but tiny pink panties.”

  Her cheeks heated to match the color under discussion, and she shifted awkwardly. It wasn’t fair that he could make one reference to seeing her in panties and raise her temperature into the red zone.

  Wicked amusement lighting his eyes, he tossed the pillow back onto the bench. “I’m guessing Mama Phyllis decorated this room. It sure doesn’t look like you.�
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  “No,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

  “You did call her Mama, didn’t you? You didn’t have to refer to her as ‘the senator’s wife’?”

  “Actually, I called her Mother. She wasn’t a Mama or Mom sort of person.”

  With a nod, he moved on, scanning the books that filled the shelves. She was too far away to read the titles, but she remembered them. “Histories and political autobiographies,” she said. “My mother’s idea of light reading for a child.”

  There was that nod again—mostly inscrutable but with a bit of disapproval and a bit more of sympathy. This time when he moved on he stopped on the opposite side of the bed. Bending his knees slightly, he brought them in contact with the mattress, sending a tremor across the bed. “You ever have sex in this bed?”

  She laughed. “I doubt I ever even thought about sex in that bed.”

  Hands in his pockets and a bad-boy grin on his mouth, he bounced the mattress again. “Want to rectify that?”

  She strolled across the room to stand across the bed from him. “Let’s see, wild and wicked sex in my childhood bed in my childhood home…I don’t think so.”

  “It would be fun.”

  “I have no doubt.” Just the image of him naked, hard and sweaty on the pink sheets where she’d dreamed childish dreams was enough to warm her to the core.

  Still grinning, he turned away and opened the door behind him. Behind it was a short hall, with a door on the left to the bathroom, one on the right to the closet and one straight ahead leading into another room the size of her bedroom. He glanced into the bathroom, also pink, and the closet, pink and white and obscenely large for a child, then opened the third door. Reaching past him, she switched on the lights, then glanced around.

  “Welcome to the playroom,” he murmured.

  “That was what Mother called it. After I turned ten, I called it my study.”

  “Pretentious little brat, weren’t you?”