Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy

by Patricia Burroughs

  And then it hit him.

  Hard.

  He couldn’t have Cecilia without sharing her. These past hours were stolen. They were the rare exception to their everyday routines. Her real life was a horde of children, a dog, a chaotic schedule. Not an oasis from his stress load, but an added load of stress.

  He watched her lick a dollop of raspberry jelly from her knuckle, listened to her chatter about the game, and wanted to silence her with a hard punishing kiss. Not because he was angry with her, but because he was angry with himself. Angry for forgetting who and what she was.

  He was angry too for not caring, even now, when he knew how impossible a lasting relationship between them would be. They had always been an impossible combination, hadn’t they? That was no surprise.

  How much it bothered him, that was the shocker.

  He splashed his coffee into the sink. “I think I’d better go get dressed.”

  “Wear green and blue,” she advised him.

  He shook his head, unable to hold back a chuckle. “Cecil, I don’t have anything even remotely near Mavericks green and blue.” And before she could get any other ideas, he added, “And I’m not painting my face.”

  “Be that way, then.” She pranced into the bathroom and closed the door, but the flash of sexy, jiggling ass sent heat straight where he did not need it at the moment.

  It was a very good thing they were going to share the afternoon with 20,000 other screaming fans. Seriously good thing. And if he kept thinking it, he might actually believe it.

  ~o0o~

  Cecilia peered warily into the bathroom mirror. She fluffed her curls back into their normal state of confusion and washed her face. Her makeup and false eyelashes from the night before were gone, and she was relieved to meet the eyes of the same Cecilia Evans she always saw. She tugged at the neck of Jeff’s shirt, closing it more securely over her cleavage.

  The door, already ajar, swung open. Jeff stood there, hair combed, wearing a navy polo shirt and chinos.

  “Don’t you ever knock?” She opened a drawer and located a small tube of toothpaste. “Excuse me,” she said, and squeezed the blue gel onto her finger, then rubbed it across her teeth.

  “Is that the way you always do it?” Jeff asked.

  “When I don’t have a toothbrush,” she sputtered through the foam.

  “Here.” He slapped a clear plastic toothbrush down on the counter beside her. “If you’re going to do it, do it right.”

  Cecilia took the toothbrush gratefully, though the thought passed through her mind that the fact that he was in the habit of keeping spare toothbrushes around ought to tell her something. Spitting the last of the foam into the sink and rinsing her mouth out, she glared at him in the mirror.

  “You’re making me nervous. Why are you staring at me like that?” she demanded.

  Jeff grinned. “I’m just waiting for you to get through with my toothbrush.”

  “ Your— Oh, gad, I’m going to be sick!” Cecilia stared at the clear plastic in her hand. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” she asked hopefully.

  “What do you think, that I keep spares for overnight guests?”

  “My God, Jeff! How many people have used this thing?”

  Jeff’s hand closed roughly over hers. “Let’s get one thing straight, Cecil. I haven’t got a revolving door into my bedroom. I thought you knew me better than that. I’m a monogamist. I don’t play around. When I have strong feelings for a woman, she’s the only one in my life. And when there’s no one special, I don’t go in for idle flirtations or one-night stands.”

  Cecilia steeled against his words. Don’t listen, she pleaded with herself. Don’t start hoping. She, too, was a monogamist—so much so that there had never been another man in her life but Robert.

  Until last night.

  But Jeff had had other women in his life. He’d had other relationships, though none of them had led to marriage. So however faithful Jeff might be, a relationship with him was unlikely to lead anywhere but pain.

  He released her wrist, and she forced a smile.

  “I think I’d better see what kind of shape my clothes are in.”

  Cecilia climbed the stairs, suddenly deflated. Turning into the spare room, she paused. The dress was wrinkled, of course. The boa was still coiled on the floor. Her wispy underwear lay jumbled with his— What on earth?

  She pressed her fist against her lips, trying to stifle the sudden spurt of laughter. How had she missed them last night? Well, she hadn’t actually been watching. As a matter of fact, she’d deliberately avoided watching.

  “Cecil?”

  She spun to face him through glittering tears, her mouth still covered, her shoulders shaking.

  “What’s wrong?” His hands closed over her shoulders. She shook her head helplessly. She wasn’t going to laugh. She couldn’t laugh. She refused to.

  She exploded with laughter.

  Jeffs hands fell away and concern warred with confusion on his face. “What’s the problem?”

  Cecilia pointed at the red tartan boxer shorts beside her own peacock blue half-slip, then sank to the floor, tears streaming down her face.

  Jeff towered over her, his arms akimbo. “Do you have a problem with my shorts?” he demanded.

  “They’re really yours?” she gasped.

  “Who the hell do you think they belong to?”

  “They—they don’t look like you, Jeff.”

  “Oh?” he drawled. “And who do they look like?”

  “I mean, they just didn’t... they weren’t what... Damn it, Jeff!” She glared up at him.

  “I don’t like people laughing at my boxers,” he reprimanded her sternly, and his eyes gleamed with intent. “I’m going to make you pay for that.” He grabbed her wrists and applied gentle pressure, pulling her with him to the floor. He pressed her shoulders and she allowed him to pin her. “Apologize for laughing.”

  “No. I won’t apologize. They looked funny lying on the floor like that.” She felt her chest rising and falling, the silk sliding subtly against her breasts with each breath, his eyes watching with scarcely disguised longing. “I don’t know if they look funny on,” she continued. “I didn’t notice them last night.”

  One sable eyebrow arched. “Is that a hint?”

  “You might take it that way,” she agreed. “But be forewarned. I might laugh.”

  “Oh, really?” He shook his head and released her. “Then forget it. Hurry up and get dressed, or we’ll miss the tip-off.”

  She rose up on her elbows, her eyes narrowed. “You’re right. It’s not every day you get to see LeBron James.”

  Jeff started to stand, but she reached out and grabbed his arm.

  “Jeff, you don’t want to go to the game, do you?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “You didn’t even know the Mavs were playing the Lakers, the biggest game of the season so far. Jeff, do you know anything about basketball at all?”

  “Of course I do. Two baskets, five players, bounce the ball, no traveling, no tackling, no spitting.”

  “All of which you learned in school. Tell me, who’s the starting guard for the Mavericks?”

  He shot her a dirty look.

  She leaned back against the wall, feeling rather smug. “It was a dead giveaway when you didn’t remind me that LeBron James plays for the Heat, not Lakers, not Mavs. Heat, as in Miami.”

  “What’s the point of all this?” Jeff asked, exasperated. “Is this some further proof that I’m—”

  “I won’t laugh at your boxers.”

  “You won’t— right now? Oh, really. You’re going to miss your game."

  “Not if I play it right.” She giggled again. “At least, not the game I’m thinking of.”

  “Cecilia, you’re crazy.”

  “I know,” she agreed happily. “And I don’t even wear plaid underwear.”

  “You’re not going to let it drop, are you?”

  “What color are you wearing
today? Polka dot? No, white with red hearts.”

  “Cecilia,” he explained patiently, “polka dots and red hearts have no class.”

  “Plaid does,” she remarked neutrally.

  “In my opinion.”

  She measured her words carefully, enjoying the flavor of them on her lips. “Prove it.”

  He drew a deep breath, his eyelids lowering.

  She leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, her chin on her fists.

  “What kind of wanton woman have I allowed into my domain?” he asked accusingly as he rose to his full height.

  “I believe the correct term is 'brazen hussy.’”

  “I stand corrected.” The belt buckle clicked free, then he slid the belt out and dropped it on the floor.

  Cecilia closed her eyes and swallowed. What had gotten into her? She opened them again, and he was sliding his chinos down his thighs. He dropped to the piano stool; it squeaked in protest. He tugged first one leg, then the other, free.

  Red plaid.

  She caught her lower lip with her teeth.

  “Don’t you dare,” he threatened.

  “They’re not... they’re not classy, Jeff.”

  “All right,” he growled. “Go ahead. Get it over with.”

  “They’re…” She almost choked on the word. “They’re sexy as hell.”

  A slow stain crept over his cheeks, and she ducked her head. “Well, you asked!”

  “Cecilia, I feel ridiculous.”

  “They’re your shorts.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean, pulling off my trousers just so you can ogle my boxers.”

  She raised her head and met his gaze. “You mean...you mean, that’s the only reason you took them off?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  IN THREE STRIDES Jeff crossed the room to scoop Cecilia, twisting and giggling, from the floor and into his arms.

  “You’re driving me crazy, woman,” he growled. He nudged the door open wider with his shoulder and carried her through.

  “Put me down!” She kicked her legs as he headed down the hall to the bedroom. “Ow!” she howled, pain shooting through her toes. “I kicked the wall!”

  “Serves you right. You’re going to pay for this.”

  Then his head dipped and his mouth went unerringly to the gaping spot on her—his—shirt. He buried his face in the soft flesh of her stomach and nibbled, tickling her unmercifully.

  Her howl turned into a squeal. “Jeff! Stop! I-I—” She twisted in his arms, but he was relentless, and she laughed and cried and laughed harder, until she was gasping for air.

  “Ticklish?” he drawled, and she felt his shoulders flex, his arms tense, as he held her over his bed and, laughing, let go and watched her fall.

  Her body left her stomach behind a split second before she hit the bed, and it took a good three seconds for her stomach to catch up. “You—you’re a maniac!” Cecilia gasped.

  “I beg your pardon,” Jeff said, tugging his shirt over his head. He grabbed her from behind when she started to squirm off the other side of the bed. “Not so fast.” As effortlessly as if she were a bag of feathers, he draped an arm across her and pinned her down while, with his free hand, he pulled his socks off, one after the other. “Now repeat after me, 'I will never laugh at plaid underwear again.’”

  “Good grief,” she groaned, rolling her eyes, and attempted to wiggle free.

  “No, no,” he chided. “You haven’t learned your lesson. Now repeat after me. 'I will never laugh at plaid underwear again.’”

  “You’re despicable.”

  “No. As a matter of fact, when I consider the hell you put me through all those long years ago, I think you’ve deserved this for a long time.” His fingers skimmed down her side and she flinched and squeaked and arched away from them.

  “Stop it!”

  “’I won’t laugh at plaid underwear ever again.’” This time his tongue found the sensitive spot behind her ear, and she couldn’t help it; she arched with pleasure.

  “Nope. Wrong reaction,” he apologized, and snatched her arm, the better to tickle the inside of her elbow, the soft underside of her upper arm and then higher—

  “I won’t laugh at plaid underwear ev—ever again!” she screeched, then collapsed, limp, when he pulled back and grinned.

  “There. Was that so difficult?”

  “Damn you. Damn you, Jefferson Smith.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid so, Cecil. And you did it.” He bent closer, found her lips clamped shut against him, and teased them to soft compliance.

  “If... if you really must,” she grumbled, straining to keep some semblance of irritation in her voice, “could you please turn on the radio?”

  Giving her a iazy, superior look, he reached for the bedside table and hit at the On button of the radio, missed, but still didn’t trust her enough to release her. The third attempt was the charm, as music filled the room.

  “’They just wanta—they just wanta—.”

  “Cyndi Lauper is not exactly the right mood.”

  Jeff hooted with laughter. “But it’s the sentiment that counts. Let’s let the girl have fun.” He slammed the radio off as his lips captured hers again, and she didn’t try quite so hard to avoid them. “I think...” he whispered into her ear, “I think I left something in my pocket.” Cecilia craned her neck to see what could possibly be so important, and spied the pocketless polo shirt on the floor.

  “Not that one.” Jeff’s fingers delved into the pocket of his silk shirt, the same pocket that now covered her breast, and she gasped. Her nipple’s hard, pebbled surface ricocheted with sensation as his fingers rubbed it. “Found it.”

  “Oh... my.” She sank into the mattress, giving up completely. She didn’t have the strength or the desire to fight. Besides, there were times when surrender was so much more rewarding.

  “Did you say something?” he asked.

  “’Oh... my.’” She glared up at him. “I believe you’ve heard it before.”

  “Eloquently, my dear. Eloquently.” Under his expert tutelage, her other breast learned to quiver at the touch of silk and knowing fingertips, and then of moist warmth as he captured it with his mouth, his tongue, until it pressed against the wet silk.. “Are you... learning your lesson?” he rasped.

  “I don’t know whether to hit you for being a jerk,” she moaned, “or... or…”

  “I definitely prefer the 'or.’” He popped the buttons open one by one and spread the shirt. The cool air hit her, tightening the flesh around her sensitized nipples. The eyes he raised to her were filled with awe, with amazement. “You are so beautiful.”

  “Don’t say—”

  “I will say it.” He moved over her, smoothing her curls away from her face, holding her cheeks between his palms to keep her from turning away. “You have to listen to me, Cecilia. You are so full of something... bubbly. I can’t describe it, except to say it’s you. If someone were to bottle champagne in a woman, it would be in you. In your voice, in your eyes, in your laughter, in the way you wiggle when you walk.” He placed a kiss on her eyelids tenderly, teasingly. “That’s as poetic as I know how to be, and every word of it is God’s honest truth.”

  Something in her blossomed, aching and new, something she didn’t dare name, something she had to deny at all costs. “You’re quite good at this, you know,” she said weakly.

  He took the fingers that twined in his hair and freed them, kissing their tips, taking the smallest one into his mouth and sucking gently with teeth and tongue. “I believe anything worth doing is worth doing well,” he promised ardently. “It’s part of my nature.”

  And she believed him. Oh, my, did she believe him. She believed him from the tingles in her toes to the tightening between her legs. She believed him when his eyes loved her with liquid brown warmth. She believed him when his lips whispered sweet nothings that echoed meaninglessly, yet were fraught with meaning.

  She gasped, arched, trembled when h
is fingers slipped between her thighs and probed, found, stroked. Her legs were leaden; her hands clenched restlessly as he built and nurtured that lovely ache. She heard the whimper escaping her lips, and he kissed her, capturing her desperate whimpers. His tongue stroked, matching the rhythmic assault of his fingers and filling her with languid desire. Erotic tension mounted in her with an urgency demanding release. She slid her trembling hands down his body, found him, felt him throbbing with need for her, and guided him into her, to a tumultuous response that started, for her, almost before he was fully in her

  Her lips trembled, her body convulsed around him, as he drove slowly, deliberately, bringing her off and and driving her over the edge. She was on fire as she writhed beneath him, found his shoulder and bit against it to keep from crying out, to keep from crying. The tears were lodged in her throat, and she swallowed them back, gulping, gasping, until she couldn’t move, and still he filled her, still he held back, patiently, oh, so patiently.

  She lay beneath him, shaken, almost destroyed by the knowledge of what this man could do to her that had never been done before. She’d shared loving experiences, but she’d never been totally and completely loved; she had never had every nuance of her reactions painstakingly responded to by someone more intent on her pleasure than his own. And it was more than that. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so emotionally naked. She was numb. She was terrified.

  His shoulders were rock beneath her kneading hands. She tasted the salt of his skin as she tried to soothe away the marks of her passion. Her thighs wrapped him more tightly, her hands stroked down his taut back, and even when she thought to do so would shatter her, she began to move against him, building his heat with her friction.

  Every nerve ending was jagged sensation pushed beyond endurance, and yet she more than endured, she gloried in the feel of him driving, shaking, shuddering, and then arching, burying himself in her with a cry no effort could stifle.