"Long day," she asked, and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
"Yeah. I guess." His tongue had tied itself into knots. "You?"
"Not too bad. The good news has everybody pumped up. I have some wine chilling." She tilted her head, smiling at him. "Unless you'd rather have a beer."
"Whatever," he murmured as she strolled toward the table by the window, which she had set for two. "It looks nice in here. You look nice."
"Well, I thought, since we were celebrating…" She poured two glasses. "I had planned on doing this after the grand opening on Saturday, but it seems appropriate now." With the glasses on the table behind her, she held out a hand. "I have a lot to thank you for."
"No, you don't. I did what I was paid to do…" He trailed off, seeing that her gaze had shifted, softened. With some discomfort, he realized it was riveted on the flowers he'd used to gesture her thanks away.
"You brought me flowers." The simple shock in her voice didn't help his nerves.
"This guy on the corner was selling them, and I just—"
"Daffodils," she said with a sigh. "I love daffodils."
"Yeah?" Miserably awkward, he thrust them at her. "Well, here you go."
Natalie buried her face in the bright trumpets and, for reasons she couldn't fathom, wanted to weep. "They're so pretty, so happy." She lifted her head again, eyes glowing. "So perfect. Thank you."
"It's no big—" But the rest of his words were cut off when her mouth closed over his.
Instant desire. Like a switch flicked on inside him. One touch, he thought as his arms came hard around her, and he wanted her. Her body molded to his, her arms circled. He fought back a desperate need to drag her to the floor and release the helpless passion she stirred up inside him.
"You're tense," she murmured, stroking a hand over his shoulders. "Did something happen with Clarence during the interview that you didn't tell me?"
"No." Clarence Jacoby and his moon-pie face were the last things on Ry's mind. "I'm just wired, I guess." And in need of some basic control. "Something smells good," he said as he eased back. "Besides you."
"Frank's fricassee."
"Frank's?" Taking another step back, Ry reached for his wine. "Guthrie's cook made us dinner?"
"No, it's his recipe." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "I made us dinner."
Ry snorted into his wine. "Yeah. Right. Where'd you get it? The Italian place?"
Torn between amusement and insult, Natalie took her wine. "I made it, Piasecki. I know how to turn on a stove."
"You know how to pick up the phone and order." More relaxed now, Ry took her hand and pulled her toward the kitchen. He walked directly to the skillet and lifted the lid. It certainly looked homemade. Frowning, he sniffed at the thick, bubbling sauce covering the golden pieces of chicken. "You cooked this? Yourself?"
Exasperated, Natalie tugged her hand away and sipped her wine. "I don't see why that should be such a shock. It's just a matter of following directions."
"You cooked this," he said again, shaking his head. "How come?"
"Well, because… I don't know." With a little snap of metal on metal, she covered the skillet again. "I felt like it."
"I just can't picture you puttering around the kitchen."
"There wasn't a lot of puttering." Then she laughed. "And it wasn't a very pretty sight. So, no matter what it tastes like, you're required to praise, lavishly. I need to put the flowers in water."
He waited while she got a vase and arranged the daffodils on the kitchen counter.
She looked softer tonight, he thought. All feminine and cozy. And she handled each individual bloom as though he'd brought her rubies.
Unable to resist, he lifted his hand to stroke it gently down her hair. She looked up, with surprise, her uncertainty at the show of tenderness evident.
"Is something wrong?"
"No." Cursing himself, he dropped his hand to his side. "I like to touch you."
Her eyes cleared, danced. "I know." She turned into his arms, inviting. "The chicken needs to simmer for a while." She nipped lightly, teasingly, at his lip. "An hour, anyway. Why don't we—
"Sit down," he finished, to keep from exploding. He was not, he absolutely was not, going to drag her down and take her on the kitchen floor.
"Okay." Left uneasy by his withdrawal, she nodded and picked up her wine again. "We should enjoy the fire."
In the living room, she curled up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. Obviously, he had something on his mind. She could wait for him to share it with her. It was lovely just sitting here, she thought with a sigh, watching the fire together as dinner cooked and an old Cole Porter tune drifted through the speakers.
It was as if they sat like this every night. Comfortable with each other, knowing there was time, all the time in the world simply to be. After a long, busy day, what better end could there be than to sit beside someone you loved and—
Oh, God. Her thoughts had her jerking straight upright. Loved. She loved him.
"What's wrong?"
. "Nothing." She swallowed hard, fought to keep her voice even. "Just something I… forgot. I can deal with it later."
"No shoptalk, okay?"
"No." She took a hasty sip of wine. "Fine."
She couldn't get a decent night's sleep when he wasn't beside her. She'd had an irresistible urge to cook him a meal. Her heart turned over every time he smiled at her. She'd even been rerouting a business trip with him in mind.
Oh, why hadn't she seen it before? It had been staring her in the face every time she looked in the mirror.
What was she going to do?
Closing her eyes, she ordered her body to relax. Her emotions were her problem, she reminded herself. She was a grown woman who had gone into an affair with the rules plain on both sides. She couldn't—wouldn't—change the terms in midstream.
What was needed was some clear and careful thought. Some time, she added, concentrating on breathing evenly. Then a plan. She was an excellent planner, after all. .
His fingertips brushed lightly over her shoulder. Her pulse scrambled.
"I'd better check on dinner."
"It hasn't been an hour." He liked the way she was curled against him, and wanted to keep her there. Stupid to be worried about where they were heading, he decided, letting himself get drunk on the smell of her hair. Where they were now was exactly the right place to be.
"I was… going to make a salad," she said uncertainly.
"Later."
He slid his fingers under her chin and turned her face toward his. Odd, he thought, it seemed as though his nerves had drained out of him and into her. Experimentally he dipped his head, letting his lips cruise over hers.
She trembled against him.
Intrigued, he drew her lower lip into his mouth, bathing it with his tongue while his eyes watched emotions come and go in hers.
She shuddered.
"Why are we always in a hurry?" he murmured, addressing the question as much to himself as to her.
"I don't know." She had to get away, clear her head, before she made some foolish mistake. "We need more wine."
"I don't think so." Slowly he brushed the hair back from her face so that he could frame it with his hands. He held her there, his eyes on hers. "Do you know what I think, Natalie?"
"No." She moistened her lips, struggling to find her balance. "I think we've missed a step here."
"I don't know what you mean."
He pressed his lips to her brow, drew back, and watched her eyes cloud. "Seduction," he whispered.
Chapter 10
Seduction? She didn't need to be seduced. She wanted him, always wanted him. Before she realized she loved him, she had equated her response to him as a kind of volatile chemical reaction. But now, couldn't he see…
Her thoughts trailed off into smoke as his lips roamed lazily down her temple.
"Ry." She put her hand to his chest, told herself she would keep her voice light, joking… dis
entangle herself long enough to clear her mind and regain her balance. But his fingers were stroking along her collarbone, and his mouth was nipping closer, closer to hers. She only said, "Ry," again.
"We're good at moving straight ahead, you and me, aren't we, Natalie?" But now there was something smooth and easy gliding through him. Fascinated by his own reaction, he traced his tongue over her lips. "Fast, with no detours, that's us. I think it's time we took a little side trip."
"I think…" But she couldn't think. Not after his mouth fit itself to hers. He'd never kissed her like this before, never like this, so slow, so deep, with a lazy kind of possession that shot simmering heat straight to the marrow of her bones.
Her body went lax, as fluid as the wax pooling the wicks of the candles around them. Beneath her palm, his heart beat hard, and not quite steady, and the low, helpless sound that vibrated in her throat quickened it. Yet he continued that slow, deep exploration of her mouth, as if he would be content with that, only that, for hours.
Her head fell back. He cupped it, shifting her slightly to change the angle of the kiss, toying with her lips, her tongue. Her breath caught and released, caught and released, shuddering once when his fingers brushed up over her breast.
Now, she knew, now would come the speed and the power she understood. There would be control again, in the sheer lack of control as they rushed to take each other. But his fingers simply skimmed up her throat and lay with devastating tenderness on her cheek. In defense, she reached for him, pulling him tight against her. "Not this time." He drew back just enough to study her face. Confusion, need, and arousal made a beautiful combination. However much his own blood was pounding, he intended to confuse her more, intended to see to each and every need, and arouse her until her body was limp.
"I want you." She tore hurriedly at the buttons of his shirt. "Now, Ry. I want you now."
He pulled her down on the floor in front of the fire. The light from the flames flickered over her skin, danced in her hair. She was golden. Like some exotic treasure a man might spend his life in search of. And for now, for tonight, Ry thought, she was only his.
He stretched her arms out to the sides, linked his fingers with hers. "You'll have to wait," he told her. "Until I'm finished seducing you."
"I don't need to be seduced." She arched up to him, offering her mouth, her body, herself. "Let's see."
He covered her mouth with his, softly, dipping in when her lips trembled open. Under his hands, hers flexed, and gripped hard. How often had he loved her? It hadn't been long since they'd met, but he couldn't count the number of times he'd let his body take control, go wild with hers.
This time, he'd make love to her with his mind.
"I love your shoulders," he murmured, taking his mouth from hers for a slow exploration of the curve. "Soft, strong, smooth."
With his teeth, he caught the thin strap of her dress, tugged it down until there was nothing between him and flesh. Warmth, her taste, her scent, were all warmth. Absorbing them, he trailed his tongue over her shoulder, along the elegant line of throat, down again until the other strap gave way.
"And this spot here." He rubbed his lips just above the silk that curved over her breast. Teasingly, devastatingly, he dampened the skin under the silk with his tongue until her body moved restlessly beneath his. "You should relax and enjoy, Natalie. I'm going to be a while."
"I can't." The gentle brush of lips, the solid weight of him, were tormenting her. "Kiss me again."
"My pleasure."
There was a flicker of heat this time, bright and hot, before he banked the fires again. She moaned, straining against him, wanting release, craving the torture. He made the choice for her, kissing her with a focused intensity until her fingers went limp and her rushed breathing slowed and thickened.
Smoke. She could all but smell it. She was rising up on clouds of it, weightless, helpless, unable to do more than float and sigh when his mouth left hers to trail down again. A gentle nip at the jaw, and then light, slow kisses down her throat, her shoulders.
His body shifted downward, his hands still covering hers. Inch by inch, he tasted her, nudging the silk down. She felt his hair brush her breast, then his mouth traveling around the curve, nuzzling at the sensitive underside. His tongue slid over her nipple, shooting an ache down to her center. Then he caught the peak between his teeth, making her moan his name, and her body began to throb to a low, primitive beat.
He wanted her to absorb him, and all the pleasure he could give her. Her eyes were closed, her lips just parted. And much too tempting. He needed to taste them again, and when he did, he let himself sink into the texture, the flavor.
Time spun out.
There was power here, in tenderness. He'd never felt it before, not in himself, and certainly not for anyone else. But for her he had a bottomless well of tenderness, of soft, sumptuous kisses, of endless sighs.
He took his hands from hers to shrug out of his shirt, to feel the thrill of his flesh against her flesh. Sliding smooth, building heat. With a murmur of approval, he slipped his hand through the slit of her skirt, lightly caressing, teasing the edge of some frilly something she wore beneath.
He flicked open a button, then two, then the third, fascinated by the way the material slid and parted under his hands. Nuzzling along her bared hip, he fought back a sudden, vicious urge to take when her hands brushed, then pressed, at his shoulders.
More, he promised himself. There was more.
For his own pleasure, he slipped the silk aside. And found more.
Beneath she wore a fancy of silk and lace, the same color as the dress that pooled beside them. Strapless, it hugged her breasts, rode high up her hips. Letting out a long breath, he sat back on his heels and toyed with one lacy garter.
"Natalie."
Weak… she was so gloriously weak she could barely open her eyes. When she did, she saw only him, the firelight teasing the red out of his dark hair, his eyes nearly black. She reached out, her arm heavy, nearly boneless. He merely took her hand, and kissed it.
"I wanted to tell you how happy I am you're in the lingerie business."
Her lips curved. She nearly managed a laugh before, with one quick flick, he detached the first garter. She could only utter a helpless moan.
"And how beautiful you look." Flick went the second garter. "Modeling your own products." With his eyes on hers, he rolled the stocking down thigh and knee and calf.
Her vision hazed. She could feel him. Oh, God, she could feel him—every brush of fingertip and mouth. Surrender had come gliding through her like a shadow, and had left her completely vulnerable.
Whatever he wanted. Anything he wanted, she would give, as long as he never stopped touching her.
There was the low, steady heat from the fire. It was nothing, nothing, compared to the slow bum he had kindled inside her. As if down a long, velvet-lined tunnel, she could hear the music still. A quiet backdrop to her own trembling breathing. The scent of flowers and candle wax, the taste of him and the wine that lingered on her tongue, all melded together into one stunning intoxication.
Then he slipped a finger under the lace-edged hem, sliding it slowly toward, and then into, the heat.
She erupted. Her body quaked and reared. His name burst from her lips, even as the staggering pleasure careened through her system. She was wrapped around him as the power of the climax built in force, then echoed away and left her drained.
She wanted to tell him she was empty, had to be empty. But he was peeling away the silk and lace, exposing her with those clever fingers, swallowing whatever words she might have spoken with that relentlessly patient mouth.
"I want to fill you, Natalie." His hands weren't as steady as they had been, but he laid her gently back on the carpet so that he could tug off his clothes. "All of you. With all of me."
While the blood pounded in his ears, he began a slow journey up her legs, stroking the fires again, waiting, watching, for that moment before she would flash again
.
He felt her body tense, saw the power of what was to come flicker over her face. Even as she cried out, he was inside her.
It was almost painful to hold himself back. And it was very sweet. Seeing her heavy eyes open, seeing the glaze of pleasure cloud them as he fought to keep from racing for the finish.
Swamped by a swirl of sensations, all but suffocating in the layers of them, she groped for his hands. When their fingers locked again, her heart was ready to burst. Her eyes stayed open and looked on his as each thrust rocked them, pushed them closer.
Then she was cartwheeling off the edge, reeling, tumbling free. His mouth came to hers, his lips forming her name as he leapt with her.
Twice on the elevator ride to her office the next morning, Natalie caught herself singing. Both times, she cleared her throat, shifted her briefcase from hand to hand and pretended not to notice the speculative looks of her fellow passengers.
So what? she thought as the elevator climbed. She felt like singing. She felt like dancing. So what? She was in love.
And what was wrong with that? she asked herself as the elevator stopped to let off passengers on the thirty-first floor. Everyone was entitled to be in love, to feel as though their feet would never touch the ground again, to know the air had never smelled sweeter, the sun had never shone brighter.
It was wonderful to be in love. So wonderful, she wondered why she'd never tried it before.
Because there'd never been Ry before, she thought, and grinned.
How foolish she'd been to panic when she realized what she felt for Ry. How cowardly and ridiculous to be afraid, even for a moment, of loving.
If it made a woman vulnerable, comical, if it dazed and baffled her, what was wrong with that? Love should make you feel giddy and strong and soft-headed. She'd just never realized it before.
Humming to herself, she stepped out of the elevator on her floor and all but waltzed toward her office.
"Good morning, Ms. Fletcher." Maureen glanced surreptitiously at her clock. It wasn't up to her to point out that the boss was late. Even three minutes late was a precedent for Natalie Fletcher.
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