Murphy's Law

by Rebecca Sinclair

  Surprised, Garrett glanced up, and saw Moonshine reclining on a yellow satin blouse next to Murphy's hip. Apparently, the cat was voicing his disapproval.

  “Oh, no you don't,” Garrett said as, leaning his weight on one elbow, he reached over Murphy and scooped up the cat with his free hand. Moonshine was much lighter than his overly-furry body suggest, Garrett noticed as he carried the cat to the door and, in way that reminded him of what Murphy had done three weeks ago, deposited Moonshine in the hallway. Glaring down at the cat, he said, “I've waited too long for this, bub. There's no way you're going to stop us. Now, shoo.”

  Moonshine didn't shoo. Instead, the cat sat in the hall and began lazily licking his brown-tipped paw, swabbing behind his ear and purring and looking for all the world as though leaving the bedroom had been his idea all along.

  Sneezing twice, Garrett slammed the bedroom door closed.

  He turned, and his gut kicked when he saw Murphy sprawled over what he only now noticed was a pile of discarded clothes scattered on top of the bed.

  He'd seen enough of her apartment to know she wasn't given to clutter. That there was clutter here, and that it was all of the wearable variety, told him something.

  He grinned. What Murphy had been wearing when she greeted him at the door today was a shocking contrast to what she'd been wearing three weeks ago. In a way that was intrinsically feminine, she'd been trying on, and hastily discarding, clothes for…well, what looked to be a week, but was probably only since Elise had called.

  In short, she'd been trying to look nice.

  For him.

  The realization thrilled Garrett. He crossed the room in a beat, and had joined her on the narrow, twin-sized bed in two. While the mattress was wonderfully soft, it didn't hold a candle to the skin on Murphy's waist, he thought as his hand slipped around her, hauling her close.

  “Have you thought about this as much as I have?” he asked, between the hot, moist, fleeting kisses he lavished on her upturned mouth.

  “More,” she replied breathlessly.

  “Not possible.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  He shook his head, even as his open palm ascended her bare back. “What I want, Murphy McKenna, is you. Now.”

  “Then take me.”

  Moonshine scratched at the bedroom door. Garrett barely heard the sound over the throbbing of his heart in his ears. “You're sure?”

  “Don't I look sure?”

  “You look beautiful.”

  Murphy smiled.

  Garrett's heart beat faster.

  “Good enough,” she said.

  It was all the invitation Garrett needed, all he required. The hand around her waist lifted, his fingertips searching the back of her bra for the hooks. He grappled around clumsily, but didn't find any.

  “The front,” she whispered throatily.

  “Is gorgeous, sweetheart. Your front is absolutely gorgeous.” Damn it, where were the hooks on her bra?!

  “No, Garrett, the front.”

  “Huh?”

  “My bra. It opens in the front.”

  He moaned his embarrassment. “Murphy's Law strikes again,” he grumbled as he skimmed the soft, satin and lace underband of the bra. He found the thin, molded piece of plastic that sealed the front together and unfastened it quickly.

  She arched her back when her breasts spilled free of their confinement.

  He moaned again—this time embarrassment had nothing to do with it.

  Her breasts, once freed, poured directly into his waiting palms. His fingers flexed, testing her shape and size, finding both to be perfect; she was as firm and as warm as he remembered.

  “Garrett?”

  “Murphy?”

  “Garrett!”

  “Murphy!” He was trying to hold on to his restrain, but it was getting harder by the minute. Especially when she arched her hips insistently, grinding them against his until Garrett thought he would go insane.

  She laid down on her back, dragging Garrett with her. He was on top of her, his legs open, straddling her knees. He felt her unsnap his jeans, unzip them. He sucked in a shaky breath when he felt himself freed of restraint. Lord, he was hard! He grew even harder when she tugged the jeans down his thighs, then slipped her fingers under the waistband of his jockey shorts.

  Heaven. Garrett Thayer had just found heaven, and it was richer and more fulfilling than anything he'd ever imagined.

  She fisted him gently but firmly, her hand moving in a slow, rhythmic way that made his blood boil, his restraint snap. He'd supported his weight over her with his hands; he now lowered himself onto the soft bed of her curves. His mouth covered hers for a hungry kiss as, faster than he would have thought possible, he stripped her of her pantyhose and what felt like panties that were equally as lacy and scanty as her bra.

  His right hand drifted down, shimmying between their bodies. He cupped a nest of warm, silky curls, and his finger slipped into her moist, tight heat.

  “I want you, sweetheart,” he rasped in her ear, even as they arched hungrily into each other's touch. “More than I've ever wanted anything in my life.”

  “But…?”

  Garrett hesitated, berating himself inwardly for having no forethought. How, at a time like this, did a man broach the subject that had just crashed into his mind like a brick? After what had happened with Cheryl, he had gone out of his way to make sure he was always careful.

  Yet today he hadn't expected…

  Beneath him, he felt Murphy shift. While the hand that was driving most earthy thoughts from his mind did not falter, her other hand, which had been splayed on his back, did. She reached for the draw on the nightstand, opened it, removed a square packet.

  “My brother's idea of a Christmas ‘stocking stuffer',” she explained, grinning. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

  “Remind me to thank your brother,” Garrett murmured. Easing his upper weight onto his hands, he arched over her and applied his open mouth to the side of her neck. One of them shivered. “I like his sense of humor.”

  Using both hands, Murphy attempted to break open the packet. “Um, Garrett?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “It's stuck.”

  “Define ‘it'.” His chuckle was low and thick and wicked.

  Murphy's blush deepened as she rapped his chest with the back of her knuckles. “Here, you try.”

  Garrett took the packet. The mattress creaked as, supporting his weight on his left elbow, he lifted it to his mouth. Their gazes met, and Murphy's breath caught when he tore the packet open with his teeth, then handed it back to her.

  It was his turn to catch his breath when she, in a way he never thought could be so damn provocative, rolled the condom slowly over the tip of him, down to the hard, throbbing base.

  Garrett's swallowed hard. Twice. Yup, it was that other point fifty-six percent of Murphy McKenna that was probably going to kill him…from sheer pleasure.

  “Now,” Murphy said as she wrapped her arms around Garrett's waist, her legs around his hips, and splayed her hands over the muscles that bunched and played in his back. Her fingers curled inward, her nails digging into his skin. “I want you now.”

  Garrett dipped his head, his mouth closing over one hard, shell-pink nipple even as her hips arched up.

  At the same time, he thrust his forward.

  For once, Murphy's Law was foiled. Their position, the timing…none of it could be better.

  She moaned as he plunged inside of her, filling her. “Yeeeeees.”

  She felt hot and wet and so damn tight! She felt perfect.

  Garrett gritted his teeth. A sheen of sweat beaded his brow, more dampened his upper lip. He had no idea how he was going to last, how he was going to be able to hold back until his body brought Murphy to the same pleasure hers was bringing to him. But he would. Somehow. If it killed him.

  Murphy could have sworn she'd died and gone to heaven. Her experience was limited; she had no idea a climax could build so swiftly, so
strongly! Yet with Garrett moving fast and deep inside her, that was exactly what was happening.

  Her legs tightened around his hips. She arched and met his every thrust, bemoaned his every retreat. She hugged him close, marveling at the way the muscles in his back rippled beneath her open palms. He was still arched over her, his mouth still on her breast. He suckled her, making another, more feminine part of her pull and tingle in response.

  Her breathing was ragged, her heart hammering so hard and rapidly that each beat seemed to melt right into the next. There was a tightness in her stomach, a liquid warmth where their bodies became one.

  She'd never felt so complete, so alive, as she did when Garrett shifted. He licked and kissed the side of her neck, his body blanketing hers as he pulled back, almost left her, then plunged inside her with a force and possession that left her breathless. And wanting more. Much more!

  A tiny spasm starting in the region of her abdomen seeped lower. She tried to contain it, to prolong the glorious sensation, but couldn't. Garrett felt much too good, so hard, filling her completely. And she'd waited for this for so long.

  Her inner muscles tightened, gloving him, and her breath caught as she arched up, again and again, setting a quicker, more sanity-shattering pace.

  Her climax, which started as a succinct spark of perfection, shattered into an explosion of sensation that culminated and rocketed throughout her entire body. Murphy closed her eyes, ground her head against the pillows, cried Garrett's name aloud as the spasms shuttered in her bloodstream like molten fire. The wondrous sensations went on for what seemed like a lifetime…but what was, in retrospect, not nearly long enough.

  It was her long, pulsing, internal contractions that finally toppled Garrett over the edge he'd been precariously balanced on.

  His arms slipped beneath Murphy's back. He held her close, burying his face in her hair, inhaling deeply. Her soapy scent filled him, even as he filled her. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to submit to the chaotic release he'd only barely been able to hold in check.

  Being hit by a bolt of lightning could not have had the same effect as being buried deeply inside Murphy McKenna when he spilled the hot liquid of his soul. His climax went on and on—longer than it should have, not nearly as long as he would have liked for it to.

  With a shuddering sigh, he collapsed on top of her. In the vague, sleepy corner of his mind still able to function, he realized that, in their impatience, he hadn't completely taken off his pants. He wasn't embarrassed, wasn't remorseful. In fact, that they'd wanted each other so badly they'd only half undressed made him feel a fresh rush of excitement.

  His grin, as he snuggled his face against her neck, was one part contentment, two parts raw masculine pride that his lovemaking could have such a devastating effect on a woman who was usually so composed.

  And on himself.

  There was no denying the devastating affect making love to Murphy McKenna had on him.

  Chapter 12

  Murphy's Law #12: If you think you are doing the right thing, chances are it will back-fire in your face.

  THE AFTERNOON dwindled into early evening. Murphy barely noticed the passing time. How could she? Beyond the safe circle of Garrett's arms, where she'd languished for the last two hours, nothing else existed.

  His heart hammered out a steady, familiar cadence beneath her ear. The sandy hair pelting his chest tickled the center of the palm she'd splayed over it. His sleep-rhythmic breaths washed over her head and scalp like a misty summer breeze.

  She felt at peace. Physically and emotionally sated. Were it up to Murphy, she would never leave this bed. Not ever.

  Moonshine, on the other hand, had other plans. For fifteen minutes he'd been scratching insistently at the door. Now, he'd added a loud, indignant yowl to his demands for food. It was only a matter of time before the cat woke up Garrett.

  Grudgingly, Murphy slipped from Garrett's embrace. His arms tightened their hold on her for a brief, sleepy second, but he soon shifted, tossed restlessly, and his hands dropped limply back to the mattress.

  Murphy glanced down at him.

  They'd removed their clothes before making love the second time. Garrett was now lying on his stomach, his face buried in an over-sized, fluffy white pillow. How did he manage to breathe? Even in sleep, the muscles in his shoulders, back, and thighs looked tight, ready for instant action. From this angle, she could see the scar on his upper right thigh from the accident and subsequent surgery. Her heart twisted. The wound was still a painful shade of red, but it looked like it was healing well.

  She grinned when she noticed the way his rugged, unabashedly naked body took up over two thirds of her bed.

  And speaking of naked…

  Bending, she retrieved Garrett's shirt from the floor. The linen felt cool against her skin as she shrugged into it, sighing her pleasure as she worked the buttons closed. The spicy scent of his aftershave still clung to the fabric.

  Garrett's duffel bag had been stored in the very back of her closet. She removed it, then quietly tip-toed across and out of the room.

  Moonshine was sitting in the hallway. He glanced up as she pulled the door closed, his blue eyes regarding her as though to say, “Well, it's about time!”

  Murphy grinned. The cat gave a haughty toss of his head and full swipe of his tail, then turned and pranced arrogantly into the kitchen, obviously expecting her to follow. She did.

  Three quarters of an hour later, Murphy was sitting on the couch in her living room with the duffel bag and the paper bag Garrett had brought with him on the cushion beside her. In the kitchen, Moonshine was happily munching on leftover Bumble Bee tuna—her way of apologizing for his dinner being tardy. The living room had been cleaned up—Murphy wanted no trace of her klutziness in evidence when Garrett woke up.

  Nibbling her lower lip, she frowned indecisively. To open the paper bag or not to open the paper bag? That was the question. She was curious about its contents, yet didn't want Garrett to think she was prying. Still…

  “Go ahead,” a sleepy voice said from the doorway. “It's for you anyway. Well, sort of.”

  She glanced up in time to see him walk past the stereo. Murphy swallowed dryly. His only concession to dressing had been to tug on his jockey shorts. He may as well have stayed naked. Her concentration was distracted by the part of his body that the skimpy white cotton had to strain to conceal.

  Clearing her throat, she averted her gaze to the paper bag. It crackled when she toyed with it. “What's in it?”

  “Open it and find out,” he said as he sat on the opposite end of the couch. Stretching his legs out, so his ankles and heels were crossed and balanced atop the freshly polished glass top of the coffee table, he watched her with sleep-hooded blue eyes.

  “Okay, I will.” Since the bag wasn't sealed, it was only a matter of unrolling the top and parting it. Murphy glanced inside, hesitated, then with a wide smile pulled out the bag's contents. “You remembered!”

  “Uh-huh. They were all out of ugly, over-sized, over-armed turtles,” he explained around the yawn he stifled with the back of his fist. “I hope Dana doesn't mind beasts.”

  The “Beast” in question was the love interest of a certain “Beauty". A set of sheets and a thick comforter, all graphically imprinted with the hero and heroine of a favorite Disney cartoon. Murphy ran her hands over the cellophane-encased offering, and glanced up at Garrett. “I'm sure he'll love them. But you didn't have to—”

  “Yes, I did. It's the least I could do after I bled all over his. Besides,” Garrett added with a grin that made her stomach flip-flop, “you told me that I had to replace them. Ordered me, as I recall.”

  Murphy had the good grace to look chagrinned. “I'd planned to do that myself.”

  “Now you don't have to.” He nodded to the cushion on the other side of her hip. “Hand me the duffel bag?”

  She did, with only a little trepidation. Murphy wasn't sure what kind of reaction Garrett would have when he saw
the bag again. Surprise that she'd kept her word and kept it safe? Relief? Something in between?

  A second later she tossed away that train of thought and simply basked in the smile he cast upon her. A smile that said he hadn't doubted for a second that she would not only keep the bag for him until he could retrieve it, but that, if need be, she would do whatever it took to keep the contents in the exact same condition they'd been in when he'd placed the bag in her care.

  His confidence in her was humbling, especially when Murphy remembered the way Tom had badgered her, trying to convince her there'd be no harm in opening the bag and rifling through “The Loot.”

  “Who'll know?” Tom had prodded—rather, cajoled. “I will,” Murphy had replied firmly. She'd been unwavering in her refusal to even tell her brother where she'd hidden the bag. Eventually, he'd given up. That's not to say, however, that her own curiosity hadn't been nagging at her, or that she hadn't been tempted…

  When Murphy had gone through the duffel bag back in Maine, her motive had been purely to find Garrett some clean, dry clothes and maybe some identification. It seemed an obvious place to look. What she'd discovered instead was the gun, the money, the jewelry, the antihistamines. Her first order of business was to remove the gun from the equation, something she'd done quite promptly. Afterward, she'd immediately zipped the bag shut and never looked in it again.

  Prying was not her style. The contents of the duffel bag didn't belong to her, they belonged to Garrett; they where his to show her if he wanted to, or not if he didn't.

  Of course, deep down she was hoping he'd decide on the former. She was only human, after all. And a woman, to boot. Curiosity being what it was…well, she had to admit the brief glimpse she'd had of the handful or more of antique jewelry in that duffel bag had whetted her desire to see more. But not, she reminded herself, unless Garrett offered to show it to her.

  As she watched, Garrett ran his hands lovingly over the stained, wrinkled nylon. He had big hands; wide-palmed, thick fingers.

  Capable. That was the word that sprang immediately to mind. Yet Murphy also knew how gentle those hands could be; she remembered vividly how they felt—hot, the skin slightly rough—skimming over her naked flesh, setting it on fire.