by Linda Howard
There weren't any dirty dishes in the sink. The counter surface held a block of knives, a microwave, and a coffeemaker, but that was it. The breakfast nook at the other end of the kitchen held a white table with a ceramic tile top in a yellow-and-blue pattern, and the four chairs grouped around the table were painted the same shade of yellow, while the rug underneath was blue.
“Are you sure you weren't in the Navy?” she asked, looking around at the spotless kitchen. Navy people learned to put everything in its assigned place, because there wasn't any spare room aboard a ship.
He grinned. “What did you expect, a pigsty? The laundry may pile up, but I'm fairly neat. I do have someone who comes in every other week and does the basic cleaning, because I don't think of things like dusting. C'mon, I'll show you the rest of the house.”
The rest of the house was a half-bath next to the kitchen, two good-sized bedrooms at the front of the house, separated by a nice large bathroom, and the master bedroom and bathroom suite at the back. His bed was king-sized, but then she would have put money on that. And it was made up. The room was neat, but it wasn't spotless; one of his shirts hung over the back of a chair, and a coffee cup with an inch of cold coffee in it sat on the dresser. “So that's where I left it,” he said, picking up the cup. “I looked all over for the damn thing this morning.”
She liked it that he hadn't straightened up the place, not that it needed much. He didn't have to have things perfect, and he wasn't trying to impress her. Perversely, she was impressed anyway, with his confidence and sense of self.
“I don't know about you,” he said, “but I'm hungry. Let's fire up the grill and get those steaks on.”
The steaks were filets, two inches thick and so tender she almost didn't need a knife. While the steaks were cooking, she microwaved two potatoes, tossed the salad, and heated the rolls. Instead of wine, he produced a jug of iced tea.
If he had put on some soft, gauzy, romantic music, she might have had a chance, but instead he turned on the television to Fox News Channel and had the news playing in the background. Maybe he wasn't trying to seduce her—at least not actively trying—but he was succeeding anyway.
After they had cleaned up the few dishes and put the kitchen to rights, working quickly and easily together, he said, “I want to show you the basement. I think you'll like it.”
He led the way down the stairs and turned on the bright overhead lights.
The first thing she noticed was that the walls were very utilitarian, with bare pipes against the brick. The second was that he did some serious workouts down here.
To her left was an impressive set of free weights, and a punching bag hung motionless from a beam. There was a weight machine, the type that converted to accommodate all types of exercises, and a treadmill.
He stayed by the door while she wandered over to the free weights and ran her fingers over the cold metal of the dumbbells, then examined the weight machine and the computerized treadmill. He put a good deal of effort and money into staying in shape, though she bet the treadmill was used only during really nasty weather. A little rain wouldn't keep this man indoors; it probably took a downpour with a lot of lightning to do the trick. Idly she wondered how many miles a day he ran, but what interested her the most was the large exercise mat that covered a full half of the basement floor. There was only one use for a mat like that.
She knew he'd studied karate from the way he had leveled the robber with a kick, but he'd never mentioned it again, and with everything that had happened since then, she'd forgotten about it. She wondered why he hadn't brought up the subject, since he knew she studied karate. His silence couldn't be because he was at a lower level than she; Tom Cahill didn't have a fragile ego. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“You do your karate workouts here?”
He was leaning against the doorframe, one ankle hooked over the other, his arms crossed; his eyes were lazy and hooded as he watched her. He lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “It isn't karate so much as a mixture of a lot of stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“I've studied karate, judo, dim mak, silat. What works best in the real world, though, is a combination of wrestling and good old dirty street fighting.”
He was probably very good at fighting dirty, she thought, her heart kicking into a slightly faster beat. Why on earth would she find that sexy? But, damn it, everything about him was sexy, from the sleek, muscled power of his body to that unnerving stillness he was using to such good effect. It was like being watched by a great cat; his motionlessness only served to underline the sense of tension, as if he was preparing to pounce.
The mood between them while they ate had been light, teasing, but now she could feel that molten attraction throbbing between them. The air was thick and heavy, as if a storm were building—not outside, but in here. She wasn't naive; she knew exactly what kind of storm it was, and if she intended to escape, she needed to move now. “Well,” she said briskly, swinging toward the door and, unfortunately, toward him, “it's getting late, and I should be—”
“Stay,” he said.
Stay. His voice was low, the single word slow and dark, like velvet rubbing against her skin. She froze, held motionless by the promise of his tone, the temptation contained in that single word. There was no teasing now, no lightness.
Sex with him would be good. Better than good—better even than ice cream. It would be mind-emptying. She was very much afraid it would be shattering.
She swung around yet again, facing away from him. She stared at the punching bag, feeling her heart thumping against her breastbone, sending her blood racing and making her feel hot, jittery . . . excited. Involuntarily her loins clenched as if she already held him inside her. She wanted that, wanted it with an intensity that almost swamped her common sense. Desperately she tried to think of all the reasons why he wasn't a good bet for any kind of relationship except a sexual one, but, my God, the sex . . . The physical chemistry between them had grown even stronger, stronger than she had ever imagined it could be, like an electrical field she could sense through every pore of her skin.
She didn't dare turn around, didn't dare look at him or let him look at her. He would know at a glance, if he didn't already, how close to the edge she was. And she didn't want to see the open sexual hunger that was certain to be in his gaze, didn't want to read the signs of arousal in his face and body.
Stay . . . not just for coffee, or for more talk. He meant stay the night, in his bed.
“No,” she said, and almost wept at the effort it took to say that one word.
His hand closed lightly, gently over the nape of her neck, his fingers sliding under the thick fall of her hair. She hadn't heard him move, hadn't known he was so close, and her nerves skittered wildly. He wasn't trying to hold her; his touch was more of a caress than a grip. She could move away if she really wanted to. And that was the problem, because what she really wanted was him. Her skin tingled from his warm, hard hand, the slight rasp of his roughened fingers on the sensitive cords of her neck. Involuntarily she imagined how those rough hands would feel on the rest of her body, and a shiver ran down her spine.
He was big, dwarfing her with his size, her head tucked neatly under his chin. His furnacelike heat wrapped around her. He would be heavy, and probably dominating, but she could also imagine him lying back and letting her set the pace—
“Stay,” he said again, as if she hadn't refused.
She hung on to her sanity, barely. “That wouldn't be smart.”
“Fuck smart.” His hot breath stirred over the fine hairs on the back of her neck, making her shiver again. His low voice made the word a weapon to be used, a deeper level of intimacy between them. “It would sure as hell be good.” He stroked her neck where his breath had warmed her skin. “If you like it slow, I'll be slow. If you like it hard and fast, then that's the way you'll get it.” His mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue slowly licking, and the shiver became a fine tremor that shook he
r entire body.
“Which is it?” he murmured. “Slow . . . or fast? Slow . . .” He licked the tendons in the curve of her neck and shoulder, then gently bit down. The sensation was electric; she jolted, a moan escaping her as her head, like a daisy too heavy for its stem, fell back to rest against his shoulder. “. . . or fast?”
His hands closed over her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over her nipples. His erection was a rock-hard bulk in his jeans, pushing against her bottom. Her legs threatened to give way beneath her, and she heard her own breathing, shallow and rapid, almost panting.
“Easy?” he whispered in her ear. “Or hard?”
Hard. Dear God, hard.
She pushed away from him and turned, bracing her hands against the wall behind her. He watched her like a patient tiger: hungry, but certain the prey was his. And she was. He knew it; she knew it. The only thing left to negotiate was the degree of difficulty, and pride demanded she make his victory as difficult as possible.
“I have a rule,” she said.
Wariness entered his eyes. “Do I want to know?”
She managed a shrug. “Probably not.”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, five o'clock shadow rasping his rough palm. “Tell me anyway.”
She smiled, slow and sure. “I don't sleep with anyone I can beat in a fight.”
The wariness slowly edged into disbelief. He stared at her. “Shit! You want me to fight you for it?”
She shrugged again and strolled toward the mat. “I wouldn't put it quite so crudely, but . . . yeah.”
He took a deep breath. “Sarah, this isn't a good idea. I don't want to hurt you.”
“You won't,” she said confidently.
His eyes began to narrow. “You really think you're that good?”
She angled a smile at him over her shoulder, and the smile was almost a smirk. She might be defeated, but she was going to enjoy the process. “I think you'll bend over backward to keep from hurting me.”
He got it now, and he didn't like it. “You're that sure I'll pull my punches and let you turn me into a punching bag? Let you win?”
She heaved a sigh. “If you break my jaw or knock me out, I'll be in too much pain—not to mention a really bad mood—for what you have in mind.”
“Yeah, well, if I let you kick the shit out of me, I won't be in any shape to do anything anyway.”
She lifted one shoulder in a delicate movement. “What a dilemma.”
He scrubbed his hand over his face again. “Fuck.”
“Maybe.” She paused, and couldn't resist taunting him. “If you're good enough.”
He studied her for a moment, then came to a decision, his expression hardening. “Okay, here's how we'll do it: strip wrestling.”
Strip wrestling? He was diabolical, she thought. “No fair. I've never studied wrestling, and you outweigh me by seventy-five pounds.”
“Closer to a hundred,” he said, and she secretly gulped. That meant he was even more muscled than she'd thought. “C'mon, this was your idea. You know we aren't going to stand toe-to-toe and slug it out, so this is the alternative. At least you aren't likely to get hurt. I'll take a handicap, too.”
With a handicap, she could probably make it interesting. She had no delusions that she could win, but she could make him put out the effort. “It's a deal.”
He put his hands on his hips and studied her. “Here's what we'll do: I have to pin you, but all you have to do is knock me down, and you can use whatever method you like. The first one completely naked loses.”
Her heart was definitely going to jump out of her chest. The thought of wrestling naked with him was almost enough to make her dizzy with sexual hunger.
“And,” he continued, “we decide now what counts as wearing apparel, and we both start out with the same number of items.”
She nodded. “That's fair.”
He studied her. “The earrings have to go. The posts will dig into your head.”
Silently she removed the gold studs and laid them aside.
“Your bracelet and my wristwatch balance each other out.” He glanced at her sandaled feet. “No socks, so I'm two up on you there.”
“Let's both start out barefooted,” she said, slipping out of her sandals.
He removed his boots and socks. “Okay, how many pieces of clothing do you have left?”
“Four, not counting the bracelet.” Pants, shirt, bra, panties.
“I'm only wearing three.”
“Put your socks back on and they'll count as one.”
He put his socks on again and stepped onto the mat. “That makes us even at five. Five throws won't take long.”
He was that certain of victory, the smug bastard. Well, she was also certain he'd win—she was counting on it—but if he thought he'd win in five straight throws, he was seriously underestimating his woman. Speed was her strength, and she moved like lightning, whipping her leg behind his and dumping him on his ass before he could counter the move. She smiled down at him and moved out of reach. “The socks,” she said.
Silently he stripped them off and tossed them aside, then climbed to his feet. “You're fast.” He was much more alert now.
She smiled. “That's what my sensei always said.”
Fifteen minutes later he said, “Pin.” Breathing raggedly, he crawled off her. His hard gaze swept over her bare breasts, lingered on the tightly puckered nipples. “We're tied again. Take off your panties.”
Her stomach tightened with anticipation. Panting, trying to control the rapid gasps, she held up her wrist. “What about my bracelet?”
“I'm saving it for last.”
Sarah climbed shakily to her feet. She had been putting every ounce of effort she could into resisting him, and he'd probably been holding back to make certain she wasn't hurt. This match was going on longer than she'd imagined it would, and she didn't know how much longer she could stand the rub of his mostly naked body against hers. But then, looking at him, she didn't know how much longer he could stand it either. His erection bulged against the front of his shorts, and his skin was covered with sweat. There was a set to his jaw that made her stomach tighten in delight.
She took a few deep breaths, then hooked her fingers in the elastic of her bikini panties and shimmied them down to drop around her ankles. He made a raw, smothered sound, his gaze locked on the triangle of dark pubic curls between her legs. Without looking away, he pushed his shorts down and stepped out of them.
Now it was her turn to smother the sound that rose in her throat. His penis thrust out, thick and pulsing, so big she couldn't decide whether to worry or celebrate. Wow. She wavered, then caught herself.
“Wait,” she said, her voice sounding thick to her own ears. “I haven't won your shorts yet.”
“Just pretend they're still on,” he said, and pounced.
She was on the mat before she could blink, but at the last second she managed to twist just enough to avoid being pinned. His heavy weight bore her down, overwhelming her, the way it had all the previous times he'd pinned her. While she appreciated his efforts not to hurt her, she was as helpless now against him as she had been the first time he'd pinned her. Her only hope had been to remain on her feet, evade him and look for her chance, but he'd already taken her down.
Desperately she braced one foot on the mat and pushed, seeking leverage. He shifted to counter her move, and his hips slid between the open V of her legs, the smooth heat of his penis pressing into her labia. He froze, a sound almost like a growl rumbling in his throat. As if he couldn't help himself he pushed, and the thick bulbous head began to enter her.
For just a split second she forgot everything but the burning need in her body to lift, to take. She waited almost too long, but at the last possible moment she twisted frantically, dislodging him, and managed to roll closer to the wall. He gave another growl, this one more like a snarl, and was on her again before she could get to her feet.
That overwhelming weight hit her, smothered her, took
her down. His hands were on her shoulders, pushing them down. “Pin,” he said hoarsely, and the match was over.
Panting, he lifted his weight off her and climbed to his feet. “Stay there.”
She stayed. She was too exhausted to do otherwise, and too turned on to move even if she'd been able. She closed her eyes, gulping in air as she listened to the rustle of his clothing. He was getting a condom, she thought, and opened her mouth to tell him he didn't need one, but he was already back, lifting her arms over her head. Cool, smooth metal clamped around her wrists. There was a snick, and she was caught.
Bemused, she stared at him. Handcuffs? She angled her head back to look. He'd looped the cuffs around a pipe before fastening them to her wrists. Experimentally she moved her hands. He hadn't closed them tightly, but they were tight enough that she couldn't pull her hands out. “Are these necessary?”
“Yeah.” His chest heaved as he reached out and slowly rubbed his hand over her breasts. “Just in case you decide to go for two out of three matches.”
“I don't renege, Cahill.” She arched her torso into that hand, loving the feel of it on her nipples.
“And I don't take chances.” He bent his dark head and kissed her. It was a marauding kiss, deep and hard, but she had known when she taunted him into a fight it would arouse all those male, conquering-warrior instincts. She softened beneath him, giving him what he demanded, which was nothing short of unconditional surrender.
He spread her legs and moved over her, and she braced herself for his immediate penetration. She caught her breath, waiting, trembling with need, her hips automatically lifting.
“Not yet,” he growled. “I'm too close. I wouldn't last ten seconds.”
Neither will I, she thought, but didn't say anything. She wasn't a fool; if he wanted to dawdle, then let him.
Not that there was any letting to it; he was in control, and all she could do was lie there and enjoy the dawdling.
God, he was heavy. His body was rock hard, sweaty from exertion. She opened her legs wider to give him a more comfortable cradle, sliding her thighs up his hips and tilting her pelvis, seeking. His erection nudged her again, and instinctively she wiggled, trying to take it in.
