Early to Bed

by Cara Summers

  He slipped his hand beneath thin cotton. She made a throaty sound of pleasure when he cupped her breast, another when he scraped his teeth against the nape of her neck. He'd dreamed before of touching her like this, but the sensations seemed sharper now. Her skin was soft as water, her waist so narrow. Hearing the quick hitch of her breath, he let his hand take the long, slow journey again. He felt his own need grow as he absorbed each separate layer of her response—the pounding of her heart, the warming of her skin when he pressed his palm against it, the tremor that moved through her when he finally slipped his hand beneath the waistband of her sweats. Then he used his mouth on the back of her neck again as he slipped a finger into her heat.

  The orgasm moved through her in one, hot, consuming wave, and Lily thought she just might die from the pleasure. Then before she could catch even one breath or gather up the strength to move, those strong, clever fingers began to move deep inside of her again. This time each sensation was sharper. She inhaled his scent—something darkly male. And the heat of his body—it burned hers like a brand at each and every contact point.

  She'd never dreamed anything this clearly before. His teeth bit the back of her neck as his hand tightened on her breast. She could hear her heart beat, feel each pump of her blood as it accelerated the way a locomotive did when it hurled itself down a hill. His fingers moved relentlessly, and though she hadn't thought it possible, a huge pressure was beginning to build inside of her again.

  Then he withdrew his hand.

  "No." The word came out as a ragged moan and she twisted and rolled, desperate until she lay across him. Visualize. This was a dream, she reminded herself. A wonderful one. If she just pictured everything clearly enough, it wouldn't fade. Her dream lover couldn't leave.

  She conjured up his face in her head again—the strong features, one by one. It was working. She could

  feel his body beneath her, all hard planes and angles, pressing into hers. "I want you," she said. "Touch me."

  Lily wasn't sure who said the words. All she knew was that she had an overwhelming urge to explore him with her hands, to memorize him the way he'd memorized her. With her eyes still closed, she traced her fingers over his brows, down the sides of his face to the hard line of his jaw. Yes, he was just as she'd pictured him. As she brushed just the tips of her fingers over smooth, firm lips, the image in her mind wavered a little. Slowly, she lowered her mouth to his. The urge to taste him was so huge, so consuming. His lips were parted, just slightly, and his flavor seeped into her— dark and tempting. His mouth was so warm, so gentle. When her tongue moved against his, the taste grew richer. Lily felt herself melting, skin, muscle, bones.

  She was on the border between sleep and wakefulness, but as his hands began to move on her again, she couldn't summon up the strength to open her eyes. Lean and firm, his hands weren't gentle this time. They were strong and hard, the fingers callused. Wherever they pressed, flames licked along her skin. Threading her fingers through his hair, she arched against him, urging him on as she poured herself into a kiss.

  Tony felt his reason slipping away. She was so responsive, so giving. So his.

  His hands had taken on a will of their own, racing over her, taking, touching, claiming. His mouth too seemed out of his control. He had to devour her. Even as her taste filled him, he couldn't seem to get enough

  of it. Some part of his mind was telling him that this couldn't be a dream, the sensations were too sharp, too real, but he had no will to listen.

  He'd wanted a woman before—but not with this intensity. He'd needed a woman before, but not with this desperation. Desire hammered at him with sharp, piercing blows as he dragged off her clothes.

  More. He had to have more. In some part of his mind, he knew that his hands weren't gentle as they raced over her. Those soft curves beckoned to him, but he had no patience to linger. Even though her scent enveloped him, even though her taste filled him, he couldn't get enough. He had to have her. His blood was pounding in his head as he rolled her beneath him and thrust himself into her. But as he did, she wrapped herself around him and matched her movements to his so that the two of them were perfectly in synch, driving each other higher and higher. Then as pleasure shattered through him, they merged as one.

  When sanity returned, she was lying beneath him. He was sure he was crushing her, but he couldn't move except to tremble. His breath was coming in ragged gasps. And he couldn't think. A "cold sliver of fear moved through him. The last thing he clearly remembered was asking her to touch him. When she had, his control had begun to stretch thin like a rubber band— until it had finally snapped.

  The one thing he was pretty sure of was that what had just happened was too real to have been merely a dream. Slowly, he raised his head, opened his eyes, and confirmed his worst suspicion.

  The woman lying beneath him was indeed his Gold-

  ilocks, and she was real. Had he hurt her? The thought gave him the strength to lever his weight off of her. "Are you okay?"

  Her eyes opened, and he found himself looking into a deep sea of green. As he watched, they darkened and focused, then shut. "Did I hurt you?" he asked.

  She opened her eyes, raised a hand to his cheek and frowned. "You're real, aren't you?"

  The husky sound of her voice had him hardening all over again. Later, he would find that amazing. Right now, the effect was dimmed by the fact that she was clearly not pleased.

  He tried a smile. The Romano dimples had gotten him over rough ground before. "Last time I checked, I

  was."

  She shut her eyes. "I thought—I thought I was dreaming." Then her eyes snapped open again and her gaze narrowed. "Just what are you doing in my bed?" The haughty accusing tone had him biting back a grin. It wasn't everyone who could pull it off, especially when they were naked and still lying partly under you. He planted a quick kiss on her nose. "My bed," he corrected. "When I came in, you were sleeping on the couch. So I claim squatter's rights."

  "This is my room," she said. "Lucy Romano gave it to me. Therefore, this is my bed."

  "Remind me to thank Lucy," he murmured as he lowered his mouth to hers. He meant to merely drop a quick kiss, but the moment his lips brushed hers, he had to have just one more taste, and then he had to have more. There was such sweetness on the surface— rich, wild honey, and when he nipped on her bottom

  lip, the flavor deepened. He told himself that he would have pulled back if she'd shown any sign of resistance. But she didn't. When he finally did withdraw, he waited until she met his eyes. "This isn't a dream."

  "No," she said.

  "I want you again."

  Her eyes remained steady on his. "I want you too. But..."

  He nibbled kisses along her jawline. "But what?" "We're strangers. We don't even know each other." He met her eyes again. "Do you want me to stop?" She tightened her arms around him. "No." Even as he made a space for himself between her legs, he said, "Are you protected?" "No. I—"

  He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. "Don't worry. I'll take care of it." But he had not taken care of it before. They'd have to talk about that later. Reaching into the drawer of the nightstand, he removed one-of the foil packets that his father had kept there. Once he had sheathed himself, he pushed into her just a little.

  "We're going to take it slow and easy this time, '' he said.

  "Oh? We are?"

  Surprise and delight filled him when he saw the light of challenge come to her eyes. He'd been right in his first assessment of her. She was a fighter, all right. "Slow and easy," he promised. "I'll just have to persuade you."

  "We'll see about that," she said as she tightened her legs around him and drew him in.

  When the battle was over, neither was sure who'd won.

  She slept like a rock, Tony decided as he slipped out of the room. Pausing in the doorway, he glanced back at her. She hadn't moved since he'd awakened at the first light of dawn. Not even the running of the shower had disturbed her. She was still sleeping
on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek, in much the same position that she'd been in when he'd first seen her on the couch last night.

  Goldilocks looked quite at home in his bed, he thought. And just what in the hell was he going to do about that? Turning, he moved toward the kitchen. Perhaps, coffee would defog his brain. The cold shower hadn't. Heaven knew after the night they'd spent, he should be sated with her, but he'd barely made it out of bed without waking her to make love again.

  That was more than enough to give him pause. He couldn't recall another woman who'd ever threatened his control the way she did. As he measured water and scooped coffee into the coffeemaker, he reviewed the problem.

  His father's warning to beware of J. R. McNeil no doubt included his daughter, too.

  So—bottom line and in a nutshell—he'd just spent the night sleeping with the enemy.

  And in spite of the fact that it probably wasn't a very good move on his part, making love to Lily McNeil had felt very right. So right that he wanted to do it again— and soon.

  On the bright side, what he knew about her so far made him believe that she had an honest streak in her that ran bone deep. During the night they'd spent together, she'd delivered on every promise that that

  sexy, throaty voice had made. And then some. Her lovemaking was honest, generous and incredible.

  And he definitely wanted to repeat the experience.

  As he reached for a mug, Tony sighed. Clearly, his judgment on the matter of Lily McNeil was not totally impartial and objective. And dammit, the contrasts that he'd noticed so far about her just plain fascinated him. He shifted his gaze to the living room where her neat, classy clothes hung on the back of a chair. She wore that during the day, then sweats and a tank top to bed. Who was she really? Was she the corporate shark or Goldilocks? Not that those two categories were mutually exclusive.

  As the coffeemaker made its last gasping sputter, Tony reached for the carafe, filled a mug and took one long swallow. He welcomed the heat that burned his tongue and seared his throat. That along with the jolt of caffeine should help him to come up with a plan.

  Another point on the bright side—Dame Vera had predicted that his luck was about to change. Normally, he wouldn't have paid much attention to her reading of his palm. He'd only let her do it to humor her. But he'd been feeling the same thing for the past few days. Ever since Lily had first called him, he'd had a feeling that something was about to happen—and it would be good, for a change.

  He took a second swallow of his coffee, then grabbed the carafe and refilled his mug to the brim. What had Dame Vera's exact words been? He recalled that she'd been gazing at his hand, tracing a line that started between his thumb and forefinger and ran crookedly to his wrist. He took another sip of his coffee and concentrated hard.

  "Luck is coming your way. If you have the courage to grab it, everything will change."

  Or something to that effect. He'd had a lot on his mind and he'd been late for the poker game at Sam's when she'd waylaid him.

  But right now, his gut instinct was telling him that Lily McNeil was connected to whatever bit of good fortune fate was offering him. And he'd grabbed her. Now all he had to do was hang on.

  At the same time, the little voice of reason was trying to make itself heard at the back of his mind. "What if the change is a bad one? What if you end up losing

  Henry's Place?"

  He was still frowning when he'd finished his second mug. Then he turned to a time-tested strategy, one that had never failed him when he needed to work through a problem—cooking. He didn't have any porridge, but he could fix his Goldilocks an omelette.

  By the time he'd finished shredding cheese and dicing herbs, he had it pretty well figured out. Point one: If Lily was here to spy on Henry's Place for her father's company, two could play that game. The more inside information he had, the better he'd be able to handle her father when McNeil Enterprises made its next move.

  Point two: On a personal level, he'd be able to find out just what it was about Lily McNeil that had his hormones regressing to his adolescent years. He cracked eggs into a bowl and began to whip them into a froth. Point three: He could pick her brain. He'd had Sam check into her background, and she'd spent the past two years working in a small but exclusive hotel chain in Europe. She could be his key to saving Henry's Place.

  His plan was to keep in very close contact with Lily McNeil. All in all, he could see no downside to the situation.

  Especially when he had it on good authority that his luck had changed.

  Lily came awake slowly. She could feel herself floating up to the surface, but she didn't open her eyes, not yet. She felt too good just where she was. Her muscles were relaxed, loose...and just a little sore? Her first thought was that she was still in Tahiti where she'd run on the sandy beach every day. She burrowed more deeply into her pillow, but in the end, it was her senses that betrayed her—the sunshine pricking at her eyelids, the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and the sound of someone singing. She opened one eye. The song was familiar—an old Beatles song. The voice was decidedly male—and he was singing off key.

  Lily shot straight up in bed and opened the other eye. Any hope that she was still in Tahiti vanished the moment she saw the New York City skyscrapers through the glass wall to her left. Memory came flooding back. She was in Manhattan in Henry's Place, and she'd just spent the night in a bed made for lovers. Correction. She'd just spent the night having crazy, wild and thoroughly incredible sex with a complete stranger in a bed made for lovers.

  Covering her face with her hands, she sank back against the pillows and groaned.

  "I guess you're not a morning person."

  She felt her stomach plummet as she spread her fingers and peered through them. Yep. There was her dream lover in the flesh—just as she'd conjured him up. She narrowed her eyes and spread her fingers a little wider. Only perhaps, she'd had a little assistance with her visualization. Her stomach sank even further as she recognized the man standing at the foot of the bed as the tall man in the photograph she'd picked up in the living room. He was one of the Romanos.

  "Try some of this." He smiled as he set a tray in front of her. She dropped her hands from her face and forced herself to look at the tray. The omelette was fluffy, the toast crisp and the coffee smelled heavenly. But she could smell him above it—that distinctive scent that was his alone. And it was making her melt again. "I'm sorry. I don't eat breakfast." "You don't eat breakfast? It's the most important meal of the day."

  The genuine shock in his tone had her glancing up. "I run first thing in the morning. All that food will slow me down. I might even get a cramp." She reached for the mug of coffee. "Careful. It's hot."

  She sipped cautiously, closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Then she took two more swallows before she opened her eyes and lifted her gaze again to meet his. She cleared her throat. "Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves."

  He smiled and held out his hand. "I'm Tony Romano."

  "No." She set the coffee down so hard that it would have spilled if he hadn't steadied the mug. "You can't be."

  "I could show you my driver's license."

  In her mind, Lily pictured the black cloud she thought she'd escaped from settling over her head like a permanent lid. Dame Vera's words came back to her. Disaster lies ahead. Not that she had to worry about that anymore. The disaster had arrived in the flesh, and he was standing right beside her bed.

  She was just going to have to deal with it. "That won't be necessary. I believe you." She cleared her throat again. "I'm Lily McNeil."

  "I know."

  She stared at him. "You know who I am? How?"

  "When I walked in last night and saw you sleeping on the couch, my first thought was that you were Goldilocks. And then I saw the tag on your suitcase."

  "You snooped?"

  "The tag was out in plain sight. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same."

  He was right. She was being ridiculous. She fold
ed her hands tightly together in front of her. What would her success guru do in a case like this? Focus and visualize. The problem was she was finding it hard to picture anyone in her mind but Tony.

  "Should I apologize?" Tony asked.

  Steeling herself, she met his eyes again. "No."

  "For anything, I mean. I wasn't exactly gentle with you."

  She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she recalled exactly how forceful he'd been. "You don't have anything to apologize for. Do I?"

  She saw surprise in his eyes. "No. But you regret what happened last night, don't you?"

  "I should, but I don't. I—" She raised both hands and then dropped them.' I just wish we hadn't started out that way." He took one of her hands and raised it to his lips.

  "I'll have to work on my technique."

  "No." She read the intent clearly in his eyes and pulled her hand away. "Your technique is fine. It's great."

  "I could try for exquisite."

  She laughed then, and when he sat down on the bed and reached for her, she found it took a great deal of effort to raise a hand to stop him. "No. I can't. This isn't the way we should have started out. And it's not the way I mean to go on." She drew in a deep breath and let it out. "You're telling me this was a one-night stand and it's over?"

  "I don't see the need to put it that way." "What happened to the old rule of three strikes and you're out?"

  Lily stared at him. He was sitting on the other side of the breakfast tray he'd prepared for her—bronze skin, chocolate-colored eyes, and a body that ancient artists had trapped countless time in bronze or marble. And he was trying to convince her to make love with him again. All she had to do was reach out and—it took all her strength to summon up the faces of those who didn't believe that she could handle this job for McNeil Enterprises—her father, her stepbrother, her stepmother. "We're not talking about baseball here."

  "True." He picked up a fork and sliced into the omelette. "Here, try a bite of this. Maybe my cooking will change your mind."

  "No." She noticed that the "no" was easier to say this time. The focusing was working. "I'm on a diet. And you're not going to change my mind."