by Inara Scott
“Now look,” he said, and pointed out the clear plastic windows that surrounded them.
Still dazed from the perfect warmth of his lips, Tori finally looked outside and caught her breath on a gasp. The dark creep of the Hudson River seemed only inches below as they swooped through the clear skies, the buildings laid out like tiny gray pieces in a model train set. It was truly like flying, so close to the ground yet captured and suspended above. Slowly, her fear dissolved and was replaced by a childlike wonder.
Loosening her grip on Brit’s hand, Tori leaned forward to get a better view. As the poignant, evocative sound of Davis’s trumpet washed over her, she became aware of the beauty of the city in a way she never had before. The blue sky met the horizon with its endless line of buildings, their windows catching the late afternoon sun in a sparkle of light. In the harbor, sailboats raced the wind, white-tipped stars in the dark waters. Ahead, she caught the spectacular sight of the Statue of Liberty, radiant in her green glow.
“Oh my,” she gasped, as they approached the statue. The face loomed in front of them, large and solemn, beautiful in her austerity.
“Isn’t she something?” Brit said.
“It’s…incredible,” Tori said, unable to tear her gaze away. “The most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
…
Later that night, Brit’s driver dropped them off outside a tall building with dark gray stone steps leading to a porch surrounded by an elegant balustrade. A doorman appeared as they passed through the pool of light cast by an antique street lamp, and they were ushered into a warm lobby with a thick red carpet over a marble floor.
“Evening, Mr. Bencher,” the doorman said.
“Evening, Seth,” Brit said. “This is Tori Anderson. She’s from Philly.”
Seth, a slender, dark-skinned man with big ears and a wide smile, touched the top of his hat. “Ma’am,” he said gravely, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“What’s wrong with Philly?” Tori asked, trying not to care that Brit had made a point of introducing her to his doorman.
“Nothing six weeks of spring training, a new coach, and dozen or so new players couldn’t cure.” Seth grinned and revealed two gold teeth.
“Oh.” Tori smiled, wishing she had something to offer back in the way of sports banter.
“Weather tomorrow calls for high of eighty-three. Should be perfect for Luke’s game,” Seth offered.
Brit smacked his forehead. “Luke’s game, how could I have forgotten?” He turned to Tori. “I hope you don’t mind catching a Little League game tomorrow. Luke wouldn’t let me live it down if I missed it. I’m sure he’d love to have you there.”
“Little League?” Tori said doubtfully. Brit wanted her to go to his nephew’s baseball game? That seemed out of character for a weekend of no-strings-attached sexual bliss.
“As long as you don’t mind,” Brit said.
Tori flipped through possible explanations for the invitation and settled on one almost immediately: Brit was simply trying to be polite. He could hardly ask her to stay at his place while he went to the game without her. Not after he’d gone out of his way to convince her to stay for the weekend.
She pondered the appropriate response.
Work. That would do the trick. She gave him a bright smile. “I don’t mind staying here. I have some reading I need to do.”
He frowned. “I thought this was a no-work weekend.”
What did that mean? He sounded genuinely irritated by her response. “I thought…” Why would he want her to meet his family? She racked her brain for an explanation for Brit’s response but found none. “Well…I guess I could come. I don’t want to hurt Luke’s feelings.”
“Great.” He pushed her in the direction of the elevators, pausing a moment to wave at the doorman. “Thanks for the reminder, Seth.”
“No problem, Mr. Bencher. Nice to meet you, Miss Anderson.”
Tori waved to Seth as the elevator doors opened. Once inside, the silence had a disturbing intimacy. The whole night had been like this—periods of lighthearted flirtation followed by unexpected closeness, as if they were two people embarking on something very different from her promised one-night stand.
She flipped through her repertoire of conversation topics, determined to get back on track for a weekend of unemotional, physical release. If she wasn’t careful, the next thing to emerge from her lips would be some confession about her mother, or a complaint about the pressures of applying for partnership. Yuck. But what did a fun, sexy, not-obsessed-with-her-job woman talk about? Her typical conversation gambits were suitable for conferences, law firm dinners, and client lunches. None seemed to fit the “fun and sexy” profile.
She thought about Betsy and her talk of the Phillies, and then Harold’s comment in the lobby. That was it! Sports. Cute women always knew something about sports. That was why guys fell for them—they could actually speak the same language.
“So, what position does Luke play?” Immediately, she panicked. They had positions in baseball, right?
“Right field.”
“Oh, he must be very good then. Right field, wow.” She put a hand on her hip and tried to look cool and knowledgeable.
“Tori,” Brit said, “right field is a terrible position. The only kids who hit to right field are left-handed batters.”
“And there aren’t many of those, I gather?” Cool and knowledgeable slipped through her fingers.
“Not very.” His lips twitched. “You’re a big sports fan, I take it?”
Tori waved an airy hand. “Oh yeah, sports. Love ’em. Can’t get enough of football, that’s for sure.” She thought again of Betsy. “And the Phillies. Die-hard Phillies fan, that’s me.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her against him. When he was looking down into her eyes, he chuckled and stole a quick kiss. “Do you even know what sport the Phillies play?”
Tori considered the options. It was almost summer. Wasn’t baseball a summery sport? “Baseball, of course,” she said confidently.
Never let them see you sweat. Tori’s Rules of Negotiation Number Five.
He slid his hand across her cheek. “Lucky guess.”
They reached the top floor and the elevator doors opened to a quiet hallway with an oriental runner in shades of burgundy and gold. The door at the end of the hall had a stained glass insert and a curved bronze handle. Brit opened the lock and pulled her inside.
“Are you a golf fan?” she asked. “I can talk about golf.”
“What is it with lawyers and golf?” Brit mused. He hung up his coat and then spun her around. The back of her suit still had an assortment of stains and spots of mud. “You should have sat on my jacket.”
“I have others. But about your golf game—where do you like to play?”
“I don’t play golf.” He took her hand and led her through an expansive entryway, past a dining area with an enormous table that had seats for twelve and a gleaming kitchen with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, and then down another hall to a large room at the end. He hit a switch and the lights turned on, revealing a mahogany king-size bed, abstract images on the walls in shades of orange, brown, and red, and heavy, masculine furniture. A bank of windows looked out over a city of blinking lights.
The room smelled of Brit. It turned her insides cold, then hot. He dropped his coat on a chair, then began methodically unbuttoning his shirt.
“Really?” she asked, unable to move or tear her eyes away from his strongly muscled torso. “I thought every executive played golf.”
“Golf,” he said slowly, dropping the shirt on top of the jacket, “is for wimps. And lawyers.”
“Oh. I see.”
He pulled off his belt, and added it to the pile. Kicked off his shoes. Her mouth went dry.
“I don’t play golf,” she said, her jacket falling from her shoulders onto the ground. She leaned over and pulled off her heels, and set them by a dresser. Her body moved mechanically, her eyes
pinned on the man in front of her who was rapidly becoming nude. “Never learned. It’s not as easy as it looks. Men definitely have an advantage.”
“How so?” He moved behind her and tugged on the zipper of her skirt. It fell to the floor in a soft rustle. Brit offered one hand and Tori took it as she stepped out of the garment.
“Breasts,” she said huskily, her voice catching as soon as she caught sight of his naked form. Lord, he was like a statue, dark hair in a fine mat on his chest, sinewy muscles, and hard lines.
“What’s wrong with breasts?” He cupped hers, following the lacy edges of bra to a front clasp that he opened with a flick of his fingers. “I like breasts. Yours in particular. They’re the perfect size,” he said as he pushed the bra to the ground and captured their weight in his hands, “and the perfect shape.” He leaned forward to kiss each nipple.
Tori’s head fell back as soon as his lips touched her. She paused by the side of the bed, unable to move or think as he replaced his lips with his tongue.
“They get in the way,” she finally managed to say.
“These breasts?” He looked at them, incredulous. “These breasts could never be in the way. Shame on you for suggesting such a thing. Now this thong, on the other hand…” He motioned toward it with a mocking grin. “This thong is absolutely unnecessary.”
Tori looked down. He was right. She slid off the thong.
She started to lower herself to the bed, but Brit caught her around the waist.
“Hold on,” he said. Jumping onto the bed in front of her, he arranged himself carefully in the middle of the comforter. With a wicked smile, he patted the space next to him. “You do have a forfeit to pay, you recall. My hand definitely got squeezed.”
Tori looked down at the beautiful male animal in front of her and smiled. “That’s not the only thing that’s going to get squeezed.”
“Oh.” he closed his eyes. “Be gentle. That’s all I ask.”
She lowered herself to the bed by his side. “Gentle, nothing. I’m the one paying the forfeit. Sometimes when I lose a bet I get a little,” she kissed the side of his knee, “frustrated.”
He made a strangled noise. “Frustrated?”
She brushed her mouth against his thigh. With firm hands, she pushed his legs apart to give herself more room. Straddling one leg, she slid her hands up, teasing herself with the touch of his wiry hair between her thighs, lingering at the edges of his sex with the barest scratch of her fingernails.
“I have a lot of energy. I need to release that energy somehow.”
He sucked in a breath. “No argument here.”
“I didn’t think so.” Her lips followed the path of her hands and she reveled in his quick, indrawn breath. This man made her feel so gloriously wanton, sexier than she’d ever been before. And she was going to enjoy every minute. She explored him slowly, refusing to hurry. The soft skin of his scrotum yielded easily to her touch, his penis leaping the moment she brushed against it with her hair.
“Mmmm,” she sighed, cupping his balls in one hand as she ran her fingers over the length of him.
He touched her head with one hand, the gentle motion affirming his appreciation for her efforts. His soft skin pulsed under her fingers. Reveling in the desire already throbbing between her legs, Tori flicked her tongue around the head of his cock, lingering at the tiny scar at the base where he had been circumcised. Then, letting her teeth bump gently against him, she finally took him into her mouth, stopping for a moment to let him throb and harden even more. When he buried his other hand in her hair and urged her on, she let him slide the rest of the way into her mouth, until he reached the back of her throat.
Glorying in the feel of him, she sucked hard and moved her mouth up and down his length. When he moaned she felt an answering tug of desire and rode his thigh hard, grinding against him as she pulled and sucked deep, then retreated to run her tongue up and down the dark, throbbing vein.
She tasted a sweet, salty flavor as he bucked against her and retreated, took one of her breasts in her hand, and rubbed the nipple against him instead. That, apparently, was all he could take, because his strong hands suddenly found their way to her waist.
“No more,” he groaned, lifting her away from him.
Tori rolled onto her back. She realized that Brit was sheathing himself in a condom, and she whimpered as an unexpected wave of desire hit her. He touched her gently, his long fingers probing her as if to make sure she was ready. She spread her thighs and moved her hips, suddenly desperate to feel him deep inside.
Brit drove into Tori with hard, powerful thrusts that seemed to reach her very core. The tension in her built to a second, equally powerful crescendo, and she pulled back her legs to welcome him as deeply as possible. Brit took one of her knees in his hand and pushed it higher, toward her shoulder, leaning into her as he thrust. Feeling vulnerable and powerful at the same time, Tori moved against him, rising to meet his thrusts. When the moment of surrender came she let it overwhelm her body and mind, and screamed at the pleasure, dizzy with the force of her release. Seconds later, Brit uttered a hoarse cry, buried his face in her neck, and shuddered to stillness.
Chapter Eleven
Tori awoke to the sound of Brit’s heavy breathing, the warmth of an arm flung over her shoulder, and the urgent press of her bladder. With cautious fingers, she peeled Brit’s arm off her body and squirmed her way out of the covers. Tori smothered a groan as she pushed herself to standing, and then looked around the room for something to wear. She had intended to be back home last night, and hadn’t brought anything with her other than her briefcase and the clothes on her back.
“You aren’t running away, are you?” came a gravelly voice. Brit had opened one eye, and was considering her in a hazy, unfocused sort of way.
“No. I need a bathroom.”
“First door on the left. You better be here when I wake up.”
He closed the eye and resumed snoring a moment later. Hopping around the house naked didn’t sound appealing, so Tori examined her clothes. Strewn about the room were her silk shirt, skirt, and thong. Not exactly the sort of outfit she was looking for.
Feeling a bit like a thief, she padded quietly over to the imposing, dark mahogany unit across from the bed. She pulled the top drawer open and found neatly folded boxer briefs and carefully matched socks. The next two drawers held perfectly arranged white undershirts. The fourth drawer had colored T-shirts, sorted by shade, and the fifth, a collection of wrinkleless gym shorts. Unless he was obsessive-compulsive, Brit neither did his own laundry nor put it away.
She looked back over to the man stretched out at an angle on the bed, mouth open as he snored, hair a tousled mess. No, she smiled, definitely not obsessive-compulsive. Rich, but not compulsive.
She pulled out a blue T-shirt and slipped it over her head, and then found a pair of cotton shorts that hung low on her hips, but didn’t fall off. The scent of sandalwood tickled her nose, and she buried her face in the shirt for a moment. Though she no longer had any excuse, she continued her stealthy examination. An open door to the left revealed a walk-in closet, with rows of suits, shirts, and pants, all hung on identical hangers approximately an inch apart. Neat birch shelves held a collection of sweaters and polos.
Was it wrong to envy a man for his closet? Or perhaps simply for the maid and laundry service that kept it so well organized?
She backed out of the closet and headed out the door to find the bathroom. After relieving her very full bladder—and examining another impeccably cleaned and organized room—she continued down the hall toward the kitchen. Along the way she stopped at the open door of what appeared to be Brit’s office. Looking around guiltily, she stepped across the threshold, clasping her arms around her like a cloak.
Once inside, she took in the appearance of the room with wide-eyed approval. The rest of the house smacked of some vaguely pretentious, wealthy yuppie who didn’t like kids, messes, or clutter. But this room was different. This room wa
s Brit.
She slid her index finger along the edge of a 1950s-style walnut desk and was enormously relieved to find a trail of dust. The desk held an assortment of papers, reports, open books, and even a few half-empty coffee cups. A laptop sat on a table opposite the desk, surrounded by more papers. On one wall hung a framed poster of Sean Connery in Goldfinger. Another wall held a picture of the New York skyline that Tori guessed had been taken from a helicopter. A series of black and white photographs of children decorated the space by the door—nieces and nephews, perhaps. Under a tall window sat a glass box with a baseball inside. A close examination revealed the name Roger something—Earis? Waris?—scrawled across the ball.
Tori nibbled her lip as she stared at the ball. Maris! Roger Maris. That was it. She congratulated herself for coming up with the name. She wasn’t entirely sure where she’d heard it, but she suspected, based on the programs sitting on top of the case, that he played for the Yankees. She’d have to Google him when she got home. Brit would be impressed when she—
In the middle of the thought, she smacked herself on the forehead and backed away from the case as if it were radioactive. Once she got home, she was never going to have anything to do with Brit Bencher ever again. How could she have forgotten?
She hurried out of the study and made a beeline for the kitchen.
This is a one-night—no, make that two-night—stand. He’s out of your league, dates women for nanoseconds, enjoys the company of supermodels, and is absolutely not interested in a relationship, and neither are you.
And she was okay with that.
She found the kitchen, which even Martha Stewart couldn’t complain about, and started rifling through glass-doored cabinets. She needed coffee. Now. This very instant. Dark, strong, bitter coffee that would restore the mental faculties that had apparently been melted away by Brit’s smoldering kisses.
Remember Fritzy? The damn cat who abandoned you? You can’t even keep an animal happy, let alone another human being. Brit is heartache in a pretty wrapper. Enjoy this weekend for what it is—rampant sexual pleasure with no emotional ties.
