This is it, she thought, fully expecting him to just, well, do it. Instead he leaned casually on one palm and dragged his fingers up her arm and across her chest, so delicately that she shivered. He continued to stroke her, over the bustier and her bare midsection, with single-minded absorption.
Charli's skin tingled. Gradually she relaxed, even when the languid caress extended to her hips and legs, even when he parted her knees, just slightly, to brush his fingertips over the sensitive insides of her thighs. She hadn't thought she could be any more ready than she was, but the more Grant touched her, the harder it became to lie still. Her pulse quickened along with her breathing.
Now, Grant. I'm ready now. Really. She didn't say it, she just lay there, trying not to squirm too obviously.
"You have no idea how alluring you are." Grant captured her stiff nipple between his thumb and fore-finger and lightly fondled it through the bustier. Charli's breath fled in a rush. "And it's not because of this getup you're wearing, although I must remember to thank Amanda for helping you choose it. It's you, Charli. You exude sensuality."
Charli couldn't help it. Her bark of laughter was instant and spontaneous.
Grant smiled. He released her nipple and let his hands roam once more. "Yours isn't the shallow, in-your-face brand of sensuality. Anyone can put on that kind of show. What you have goes deeper than that. It's … it's in the way you absentmindedly rub your fingers over the chenille pillow on the sofa when you're watching TV. Enjoying the texture, I suppose, but it always makes me fantasize about being that pillow. Or the way you taste something you're cooking. Your eyes kind of flutter shut, just for an instant. I'll bet you're not even aware of it."
She wasn't.
"Now that I got you into this thing—" he flipped her over "—let's see if it's just as much fun getting you out of it."
Charli lay on her stomach and let Grant work his way back down the interminable row of hooks and eyes. He released the last one and the material parted. He tugged on the bustier and she obediently raised herself up a little so he could pull it away.
Abruptly freed from the constricting garment, she felt barer than bare. Grant moved her arms away from her sides. His palms left twin trails of heat as they glided down her back to the top of her panties, and up her sides to where her breasts were flattened against the bedspread. Charli was surprised to discover just how sensitive she was there. He continued the sensual massage, wringing a broken sigh from her.
Okay, Grant, now I'm really, really ready!
He turned her onto her back and leaned over to plant a hard, fast kiss on her softly panting mouth. "I know, sweetheart, I know," he whispered. "But bear with me a little longer. I've waited so long, I just can't get enough of you."
He proved it by kissing her throat and chest, lingering at her breasts, which he nibbled and suckled until she thought she might climax again, just from that. But Grant had other plans. Slowly he worked his way down her torso, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. His tongue flicked into her navel and she gasped.
Grant hooked his fingers over the top edge of her panties, easing them down her hips and legs. He parted her thighs and moved between them. Charli closed her eyes, light-headed with anticipation. At last, oh yes, oh yes, oh—
"Oh!" She jerked in alarm, automatically trying to push him away.
Grant smiled up from where he'd just kissed her, impervious to her efforts to dislodge him. "I told you, Charli, I can't get enough of you."
"We—we don't have to… I mean, it's too soon for this. Isn't it?"
"Since you're asking, no."
"Grant, I…" Charli knew couples sometimes loved each other in this way, and she couldn't deny the idea intrigued her, but she'd always thought of it as something exotic and forbidden, something jaded lovers did to keep sex exciting.
His smile was tender and devilish at once. "Trust me," he said again, and lowered his head. She felt his kiss as a hot buzz of pleasure, right there where she wept for him. It was followed by another, and yet another. Trembling, she collapsed back onto the bed.
"That's right," he murmured into her drenched flesh, "relax … give yourself up to it…"
And she did. He left her no choice. The surfeit of sensation was so great, she could only lie there and let it roll over her, like a tidal wave. His lips were voracious, his tongue strong and supple and unrelenting, giving her no respite from the breathtaking pleasure he was determined to give her. Charli's own hoarse cries rang in her ears. Her fingers threaded through the short, damp strands of Grant's hair, no longer trying to push him away but to hold him to her.
She was close to release when he reared over her and positioned himself. His eyes searched hers. "Hold on to me," he whispered, and she did, wrapping her arms around him, opening herself to him. The blunt pressure between her legs intensified as he slowly, carefully, began to press into her.
Charli failed to stifle a gasp of pain. Somehow, she hadn't expected this piercing burn, the feeling of being invaded, stretched impossibly wide.
Grant placed a tender kiss on her lips. "It'll be better real soon, I promise. Try to relax—I won't rush."
True to his word, he held himself still, and after a few moments Charli managed to will the tension from her body. Somehow he sensed just the right instant to begin moving again, in short, measured thrusts. By the time he was fully within her, she was rising to meet him. She reached up to smooth the lines of tension from his brow.
His deep voice seemed to vibrate all through her. "Are you all right?"
Charli nodded, touched by his concern. "I love you," she whispered, her throat tight with emotion.
Grant didn't say the words she needed to hear, but he said it with his body, with the singular wonder of the act of love. They rocked together, in a slow, sweet cadence, as mounting pleasure eclipsed the initial pain. Many times she'd imagined what lovemaking must be like, but her imagination had fallen far short of reality. The sense of connectedness, of an inviolable bond, was as overwhelming as the astounding physical sensations.
Soon they both were coated with a sheen of sweat. Charli clamped her arms around Grant, and her legs, holding him close, the two of them locked in a frenzy of movement as the tension inside her coiled tighter and tighter. Just as she reached her peak, he uttered a strangled groan, driving into her hard and fast, forcing the very breath from her lungs. In that charmed instant, Charli had no doubt that she and Grant truly were one.
* * *
Chapter 14
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"I know that piece." Eva Farman accepted a stick of batter-fried zucchini from one of the two hired servers circulating with platters of nibble food. "I'm no whiz when it comes to classical music, but it sounds familiar."
"It's the Pachelbel Canon," Grant said. "You don't have a drink. Can I get you another vodka tonic?"
Eva's gaze skittered around Grant's living room before alighting on her husband, Jim, over by the bay window. Jim wasn't looking their way; his attention was on the off-color joke Sam Kauffman was regaling him with.
"Oh, what the hell." Eva's conspiratorial whisper was slightly slurred as she grabbed Grant's arm and leaned into him just a little too closely. She seemed to be having difficulty keeping her balance. "I'd love another."
"You got it," he said, carefully easing out of her grasp and heading for the den, where a full bar had been set up. His uh-oh antenna was quivering. How many drinks had Eva consumed so far? Her furtive glances at her husband told Grant that her alcohol consumption was probably an issue between them.
Just what Grant needed. The wife of one of the firm's founding partners getting smashed and publicly embarrassing her husband. At Grant's home. Yes, that would do wonders for his bid for partner.
The large living room easily accommodated their ten guests, who'd been enjoying pre-dinner cocktails and hors d'oeuvres for the past hour or so. As he made his way to the den, Grant spotted Charli chatting animatedly with Eileen Van Cleave and Sarah Holm, the wives of the two other fou
nding partners. The tension in his shoulders cranked up a notch. What were they talking about? What kind of impression was Charli making?
As he passed them he heard her say with a laugh. "…burnt to cinders! The smoke alarm was screaming, and Grant and I were running around like maniacs, tossing charred bruschetta into the sink—"
"My bride has the gift of exaggeration," Grant interrupted, hoping his smile didn't look as forced as it felt. "To her, a few pieces of overdone garlic bread constitute a major conflagration. It was no big deal. A little concentration on her part and it wouldn't even have happened."
Eileen and Sarah tittered. Charli's smile was strained. He hadn't meant to embarrass her, but what was she thinking, turning that disaster into a topic of conversation? The truth was, she had let the bruschetta burn to cinders. She'd turned her back on the oven for a few moments to prepare the batter for the zucchini, and one of their appetizers had gone up in smoke.
Grant excused himself to fetch Eva's drink. He might have let one of the rent-a-maids get it, if he weren't intent on making it weak enough to keep Eva from making a drunken fool of herself. He could have used a couple of shots himself tonight, to help relieve the strain, but he didn't dare. He had to be "on" with this crowd, sharp and alert, and that meant tossing back ginger ales in the guise of Scotch and soda. He dropped ice into a glass and added an eyedropper worth of vodka. As he was topping it off with tonic water, he heard someone else enter the den, and glanced up to see Charli. She looked incredible in that short, navy silk dress. It's off-the-shoulder styling and formfitting cut were mercilessly distracting. Her hair fell softly around her face, flowing over her silky bare shoulders. He couldn't look at her without thinking about what they'd done that afternoon, in her room. Logically, he knew it had been a mistake. The rational part of him wished it had never happened. What were they supposed to do now? They couldn't turn back the clock. Now that he'd had her, he knew without a doubt he'd have her again; he wasn't capable of living under the same roof with a woman as bewitching as his wife and keeping his hands off her. If they could manage to keep it on the level of pure sexual gratification, they could probably make it work. But it was already too late for that. The passion and tenderness Grant had felt while making love to Charli had overwhelmed him. During the past weeks he'd fantasized about being her first, and by God, he had been! It had been extraordinary, eclipsing his fantasies. The immense physical pleasure had been only part of it. He'd been unprepared for the beauty and wonder of making love with his own wife. His wife. His sensual, alluring bride, who'd saved herself for her husband, for the one true love of her life. Who'd saved herself for him.
No, he hadn't expected that devastating emotional connection; even now, hours later, he struggled to shake off the poignant afterglow, to refocus on his goals. He shoved the question of what the hell to do about his marriage to a back burner, and forced himself to concentrate on the purpose of this dinner party—positioning himself as prime partner material, complete with a stable home life and the ideal "team player" wife.
With every minute that passed, Grant's nervous agitation increased. This evening was critical to his career. He needed every detail to be perfect, and the unforeseen snafus—like Charli ruining the bruschetta and blabbing about it—were making him crazy. And they hadn't yet served the first course!
He kept his eyes on his task as he capped the bottle of tonic and perched a wedge of lemon on Eva's drink. "You didn't buy any horseradish for bloody Marys, Charli. I put it on the list. Along with cocktail onions for Frank's martinis, which you also forgot."
"I can live without onions."
Frank's voice was like a belt to the solar plexus, jerking Grant's head around. He hadn't noticed Frank entering right behind Charli.
"If you have olives, that'll be fine." Frank ambled to the bar.
"Oh, I'll fix it for you," Charli said, scooting past Grant, her movements a little stiff. He could tell she didn't take kindly to being criticized in front of Frank.
Well, hell, Grant wouldn't have said it if he'd known they weren't alone.
"Gin or vodka?" Charli produced a martini glass and shaker.
"Vodka," Frank said. "And dry as a bone—just wave the bottle of vermouth over it."
Charli lifted the small crystal bowl of green olives. It slipped from her fingers and shattered on the parquet floor.
"Charli!" Grant scooted out of the line of fire as glass shards and olives sprayed in all directions. "Great. That's great. Don't tell me—that was the last of the olives."
"I'll—Ill get a broom."
"No," he practically growled. She'd do it, too—start sweeping up the mess herself, right in front of everyone. "That's what we hired people for, Charli."
"I'll go find one of them," Frank said, on his way out the door.
Charli glanced around to ensure their privacy, and hissed, "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what? Trying to have a successful party?"
"Grant, for heaven's sake, it's not the end of the world if there are no cocktail onions. Or—or—" She gestured at the mess on the floor. "You've got me so rattled, I don't know what I'm doing."
"Oh, so it's my fault you dropped it?"
She pressed her fingers to her temples, shook her head. "Just try to calm down, okay? Little glitches always crop up when you're entertaining. It happens."
From the living room came the buzz of chatter, a burst of laughter. Grant stepped close to Charli. He got right in her face, his voice low and rough. "This isn't just any party, Charli. This isn't Nonni's birthday party at the Knights of Columbus hall. This is business. Everything matters. The goddamn onions matter if it's Frank Van Cleave who wants them. That's what all this is about. Business." He gestured widely, encompassing her, him, the house, their guests. "It's what all of it is about. I don't know how to make it any clearer."
She stared at him, motionless. Her eyes were wide and moist, her color high. Her throat worked for a moment. Finally she whispered, "No, you've made it clear enough."
"Damn it, Charli, this is not news to you. Don't do this. Just because we slept together doesn't mean my priorities have changed."
"Of course not." Her chin jerked up. "I'll try not to do anything too gauche for the rest of the evening."
"Charli—"
One of the rent-a-maids bustled in with a broom and a roll of paper towels. Eva Farman appeared in the doorway. "Did you forget about me, Grant? Oh. What happened here?"
"Nothing, just a minor spill." He handed Eva her weak drink. It wouldn't hurt to get something in her stomach to soak up the booze. "Have you tried the stuffed mushrooms?"
After Charli's revelation to Sarah and Eileen about the burned bruschetta, Grant kept a tight rein on her conversations with the partners and their wives. On several occasions he nipped a questionable topic in the bud, studiously ignoring the speaking looks Charli leveled at him, easily deciphered as mind your own business.
This is my business! he wanted to remind her, as his blood pressure ratcheted up another notch.
Charli finally got Frank's martini made, only to toss it right in his face. To be fair, it wasn't her fault Eva threw her arms wide in describing her new cabin cruiser, knocking Charli off balance just as she was handing the glass to Frank.
Frank Van Cleave, drenched in vodka! Frank laughed off this latest martini-related mishap—"Something tells me I should stick to beer"—but by this time, Grant was one giant, throbbing tension headache. He responded with a pithy gibe at his wife's clumsiness, a knee-jerk attempt to defuse the situation. He could tell he'd hurt Charli's feelings, but he couldn't let Eva take the blame. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to Eva's state of inebriation—although if her husband's narrow-eyed gaze was any indication, he was beginning to get the picture.
Dinner was superb, of course, although Grant had to force down every bite, his stomach was so tied in knots from stress. He felt compelled to offer an apologetic comment about the stew, served as the second course after
risotto with asparagus. Not that the spezzatino di vitello alla salvia wasn't absolutely delicious, and elegantly presented, but it was, after all, stew, and Grant couldn't help but feel self-conscious about presenting it to this chateaubriand crowd. His guests laughed off his concern as they gorged themselves on the savory tidbits of tender veal delicately flavored with sage and white wine. Charli's expression remained neutral, even as embarrassed color flooded her face. She avoided eye contact with him for the duration of the meal.
The third course was a Jerusalem artichoke and spinach salad, followed by a combined cheese and fruit course. By the time they retired to the living room for coffee, the replete guests all claimed they had no room for dessert Nevertheless, when Charli unveiled her luscious gelato di caffè con la cioccolata calda—home-made espresso ice cream with hot chocolate sauce—no one had the will to resist.
Their guests lingered for several more hours, enjoying strong Italian coffee and animated conversation. Grant took it as a good sign that no one seemed in a hurry to leave. Eventually, however, the party wound down. Frank and Eileen Van Cleave were the last to depart, just before two in the morning, effusive in their praise and demanding recipes and an invitation to the next get-together.
Grant and Charli helped the rent-a-maids clean up. He tipped them generously and saw them off, as Charli disappeared upstairs. He turned off the lights, set the house alarm and climbed the stairs, snagging a couple of antacids from the bathroom and munching them as he passed the closed door of her bedroom.
"I think it went well," he called to her.
No answer. Could she be asleep already? In his own room, Grant pulled off his clothes and slipped on his black silk robe, mechanically tying it at the waist as he wandered back to Charli's room. Now that the strain of the party was behind him, he felt lighthearted, buoyant He wanted to talk over the evening with Charli, compare notes.
But that wasn't all he wanted. Was she still wearing that sexy cocktail dress? He hoped so. He'd enjoy getting her out of it, and out of that outrageous bustier yet again.
I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH Page 14
