by Lori Foster
“I’m sorry about lunch,” she said.
He could hear her real voice and the phone voice at the same time. Still, if he hung up, he was afraid he’d lose her, afraid he’d jinx this run of civil interaction.
“I apologize, too,” he said, opening his gaze again, gulping at the way the moonlight filtered through her pajamas. The material draped over those small, beautiful breasts—breasts that had filled the cup of his hands, sustaining him.
His palms tingled from the want of her.
“You know,” she said, oblivious, “at that restaurant, I was talking extra loudly about your beer belly because I half hoped you’d hear and I’d get a rise out of you.” Lakota shook her head. “Isn’t that stupid?”
“Stupid? That’s something your mother would say. Never me. And you did provoke me into facing off with you, so your grand plan worked.”
“Too well. I didn’t mean any of it.”
“Not the cracks about the extra pounds? Or the bags under my eyes?”
Lakota covered her face with her free hand. “You don’t have either. It’s just that…”
Say something personal, he thought. I don’t want to be the first one to put myself out there. Not this time.
The warm night air hung between them. No words. No chances.
So, she wasn’t going to take a risk, either. That’s the way it was, then. Probably for the best anyway.
Her body angled away from him. “I can’t believe we haven’t talked since that night.”
An opening. That night. The breakup. He’d desperately tried to reach her after she’d left their house, but to no avail. That’d led to him trashing his life, ending up in jail, in rehab, back home with the loving family who’d supported him through thick and thin. They’d healed him, encouraged him to go back to what he loved doing.
Acting. In a soap, on TV. Wherever.
“We can hash it all out now.” Linc craved one more look, one more glance that would tell him they were done fighting. For good. “If we can manage not to tear each other up.”
But, frankly, fighting had been the basis for their passion. His body remembered it all too well: her sweat on his tongue, salty and thirst-inducing. His skin under her fingernails, a piece of him for her to keep.
If they got near each other again, what would happen? Would they make the same mistakes? Was there a chance of having something more?
Just look at me, he thought. Please.
She did, and his heart swelled in his throat.
“You know,” she said, the phone mouthpiece so close to her mouth that he could imagine her lips brushing against his, “the fans are right to love you again. In our scene today, when you found Rita Wilde on your doorstep, her clothes messed up from that bad date with Forrest Rockridge…”
Great. She wanted to talk business. Okay, fine by him. All he wanted was to make up with her. Couldn’t he settle for that?
She continued, watching him. “…God, the way you looked at Rita brought me into the moment. Won me over.”
Me. Her.
A sharp intake of breath signaled that she realized her error. Or was it the truth?
What if she wanted him back as much as he wanted her?
He reached up a hand, beckoning, inviting more than just business. “This storyline’s going to bring you an Emmy.”
“You think so?” She sounded so young, so unsure.
“Come down here.”
Take it slowly, Lincoln.
She backed away from the railing. “I’m not sure this is a good idea. Maybe we’d better keep things…”
His hand fell to his side. “You’re right. Bad idea. But maybe we could just drive around on the bike, like we used to. Go wherever we want.” It didn’t matter where they ended up. He only wanted to be with her again.
“And that’s all?” she asked, suspicious.
“That’s all.”
Moving too fast had been their problem before. They’d shoved a lifetime of need and raging love into two months. There hadn’t been trust, just desire, cooling their hungers with each other’s bodies.
Lakota turned off the phone, stared at him for a moment, then went back inside, shutting the French doors.
Linc did away with his phone, too. Was this a good or bad sign? Had she locked him out? Would Monday at work be a lower circle of hell for him?
A few minutes passed. Then a few more. He’d blown it, pushed too hard, hadn’t he? Damn, he should have apologized and gone. Wiped his hands clean and left well enough alone.
Aching, he righted his Harley, prepared to wheel it out of sight. That’s when she sprinted through the front door, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.
She came to stand next to him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. Her scent made him dizzy with memories, with new opportunities.
“You were leaving without me,” she said. “I hate being left behind.”
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
Gravel crackled under the bike’s wheels as they began to walk it out of the neighborhood, their stride matching each other’s. Why was this so clumsy? Why was it hard to get a sentence out when, once, they’d pillow talked about everything that mattered at the moment?
Away from the houses, he hid the flashlight, took out their helmets, and gave her one. Straddling the bike, he helped her onto the back seat.
“Remember,” she said, “take the ride slow.” She popped her helmet on her head, settled her hands on his waist, grooving into the natural fit.
He would take it slow, because this time, he wanted to get it right with Lakota.
Lincoln started the engine, revving it to life.
This time, he’d make sure it was about more than sex.
SEAN WISHED she’d hurry up and get here already.
Finally, at twenty after eleven, he opened the door to find Fiona. She was dressed in a long trench coat, the buttons firmly done up, black-fantasy hair spilling over her shoulders.
His house was in near-darkness, lit only by a dim lamp in the corner of the TV room. Eclipsed, she shot him that wicked smile, her lips pulsing with deep red lipstick.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m the Sensuous Woman, and I’m here to practice pages 120 through 121 on you.”
The Butterfly Flick? Images of what it might be twisted his veins to the point of popping.
Sean leaned against the door frame, pressing his forehead against a fist. Sheer agony. “You’re late.”
“The better to keep you in the palm of my hand, my dear.”
He ran a rough gaze over her, seeking visual fulfillment from under lowered brows. His nostrils flared, detecting the musk of her own excitement under that coat.
Today, in the perfume shop, Lakota had told him five hundred dollars would buy a consultation. She’d begged him, no joke, to let her get him one. So, he’d thought, why not give Fiona perfume and the nightgown? He’d have the bet cinched.
The perfumer had asked him a lot of questions. What food does your woman like? What spices? Music? Flowers? Era?
Whoa. He knew her complexion and hair color, but when it came to anything else, Sean was sorely lacking.
The realization had jolted him. What did he know about this woman he was screwing?
Did he want to know more?
Fiona sauntered into his home. “I’ve done some math. A little over three weeks to go until I win.”
“Why don’t you just throw in the trench coat now?”
A sassy smile lit her face as she watched him over her shoulder. “Is that the only way you’ll defeat me? By default?”
Maybe. “What do you have under the wrapping there?”
She turned around, slowly undoing the ties. Sean’s stomach constricted, rooting him into place.
She slipped the coat off her burnished shoulders, revealing the lacy straps of that nightgown. His penis thumped, keeping track of every second he couldn’t breathe.
Damn, if she had him beaten at this point, he was in for a long night.
>
Good.
“I washed the gown,” she said, voice low, sinuous as heat floating over a tropical moon. “Who knows where it’s been?”
“More.” Sean’s button-fly strained against his growing arousal.
“Patience.” She laughed, presenting her back again, allowing the coat to trail a few inches down. It whispered against the silk, exposing a delicious back. Tapering down to the swoop of her waist and hips.
She walked toward his room, as if sniffing out where it was.
“Get back here,” he said.
She ignored him, holding a figurative match to his self-control.
“Is this your sanctuary?” she asked, disappearing into the yawning darkness of the hallway.
She was entering a forbidden place. Privacy. His domain.
“Fiona, you strike me as a woman who requires something much more exotic than a bed. Get out here.”
“No,” her voice echoed.
Dammit. Stubborn freakin’ woman.
Sean adjusted a cock that had hardened to one side of his pants, then went after her. “What’s the big deal?” he asked. “It’s where I sleep.”
He entered the room, muttering a curse when he saw what she’d found.
Fiona was inspecting a pair of underwear. Lacy. Red. Belonging to some woman he’d met a month ago at Bailey’s.
“Yours?” she asked.
“Now they are.”
She dropped them into the corner again, where he kept all his souvenirs. Call him an aberration, but there were nights he couldn’t rest unless he had a reminder in his hand. Unless he had himself in the other.
That was the price of being alone and staying that way.
“So,” she said, running a taunting gaze over him, “accoutrements?”
“The safest sex.”
Her eyes went darker, then she walked away from the bras, the magazines, the scarves one woman had used to tie him to the bedposts before she left in the morning, never to return.
Fiona stood in front of him, so close he could feel the heat rolling off her skin, permeating him. Then she eased the coat farther off her body, the material caught by her curves, then traveling down toward the floor.
Imagining her in the nightgown had been one thing, but reality was another. Her nipples puckered against the thin material, and the sleekness rippled down every mound, every valley, kissing her skin, laving her with decadence. As he peered lower, he could discern the hair between her legs as it crinkled the silk, tempting him to reach out, to cup her there, to use his thumb to rub her awake.
“I can’t figure you out, Mac.” The coat finally hit the carpet with a thump.
He felt numb, warm, stimulated. Ready.
She held something in one of her hands.
As he reached out, finally coasting his fingers over her sex, into the silk-covered crevice, he asked, “What do you have there?”
Already slippery. Already his.
Without answering, she nudged one leg against him, spreading, then leaned back her head, bit her lip. After moving with the thrum of his fingers, she wiggled, balanced herself by hooking one set of fingers over his shoulder, clenching until her nails bit into his skin.
Still silent, except for a stray moan here and there, she held up her other hand, presented a tube of lipstick. Using one thumb, she flicked off the cover, bringing it to her other hand to wind it up.
Red. Eve-apple red.
She locked gazes with him as she applied it, the color sliding over her ever-amused lips, leaving a blaze of naughtiness behind. Finished, she pressed them together, then inserted a finger into her mouth, dragging the digit out with deliberate ease.
Sean’s fingers left the warmth of her, and he pressed against her hip, throbbing. “Why are you in my room?”
“I’m not allowed?” She covered the lipstick, then carelessly tossed it in the corner, along with his other souvenirs. “Oh, your fingers felt so good, Mac.”
She reached down between them, touched herself. Touched him.
He tried to hold it together, even with her palm cupped over his erection, enflaming it. Still, he didn’t want to let her in—not here, not inside him. “Like my room, there’re places best kept out of reach.”
With casual indifference, Fiona traced her hands upward, unbuttoned his top. “Especially under our circumstances.”
She shucked off the material, leaving him bare. His ceiling fan whipped air over his sensitized skin while her nails dragged down his chest to rest on his stomach.
When she scratched there, his muscles spasmed, making him grit his teeth.
“There’s one thing about you,” she said. “You always smell so good. Like…I’m not sure what it is, but it flips my skirt.”
As she began undoing his jeans, he held her smooth shoulders, memorizing every move she made. He felt himself getting more turned on with every piece of clothing that hit the ground.
“Maybe it’s the perfume of other women,” he said.
Cruel. But he wanted to see her eyes. If there was any emotion.
She paused, gaze studied, blank. Then she grinned, bent down as she guided his jeans off. He obligingly stepped out of them.
“I’m happy for you,” she said, her face hidden by the fall of her hair.
He glanced away again, not wanting to look at her. Bastard.
“Mac?”
She nestled a kiss behind his knee, and he bucked forward with a grunt.
“That didn’t pain you, did it now?” she asked, innocent as a frosted slice of virgin snow.
She smoothed her hands over the front of his thighs, her breath moist against his cock as she panted. Her little breaths felt like jabs of fire, scorching him, bringing all the blood thundering to his groin.
“Oh, look at that,” she said, low in her throat. “You’ve got some lipstick behind your knee.”
She tickled him there, then tongued the inside of his thigh, and he jerked, the slickness torching him further.
“And there seems to be a strange smudge here.” She grazed her bottom teeth over that last kiss, and Sean rocked her closer, needing her so damned much.
Tease. Her hands were on his ass, kneading the twitching muscles, her chin near his ever-expanding hardness. When he glanced downward, the proximity of her red lips made him sweat even more.
She pressed those lips together, then smiled, running her tongue over her teeth. “I’ve mentioned The Butterfly Flick, haven’t I?”
He couldn’t say a damned word, wanted only to take her head between his hands and wrap her mouth around his penis, wetting him, suctioning him to a climax.
“Okay, not a talker during foreplay. I can handle that.”
“Shut up, Fiona.”
“Quiet yourself, Mac. I’ve got you where I want you.”
She rubbed her cheek against his shaft, and he bunched her hair into his fist.
“Back to The Flick.” She sighed. “J. prattles on about this little trick. I guess you’re supposed to find a real sensitive spot below the base of the penis, wiggle your tongue back and forth and drive a man to the heights.”
Dammit, he wanted to scream.
“But I’ve never tried it before. Where do you think that spot is?”
“I’ll show you.”
“Mmm.” Fiona smoothed the tips of her fingers up the backs of his legs, making the hairs stand on end, making his blood pound and jitter. “I’m feeling kind of shy tonight. I think I’ll wait.”
“Bitch.”
“Bastard.”
He laughed, more out of frustration than anything. Out of patience, he led her back to his erection, needing her to alleviate the buildup.
Instead, she stood, shimmying the front of her silk-encased body against his naked one: breasts smoothing over his thighs, his cock, his belly… Then she stood pushing him backward, right into his closet mirror.
It shivered against his back, its cold facade at odds with her moist warmth.
She fastened her lips to his nip
ple, coating it with slick heat, bringing it to a fevered nub. After she’d sucked it, she leaned her chin on his chest, her nose brushing his jaw.
“Imagine that,” she said. “Another lipstick mark for Mac.”
He could still feel the ring of her mouth around his nipple, where her lipstick had no doubt branded him. He dug his fingers into her upper arms, ruthless as a swordsman pointing a blade at her throat.
“Is that a sign of possession?”
Her eyes widened. What was that in their depths? Fear? The shadow of a woman who’d gone too far?
She offered a so-what laugh, traced an index finger around his nipple, wiping at the lipstick. She doubled her efforts, trying to erase the mark.
Enough. He captured her mouth with his, devouring her, nipping at the corners, pulling her upper lip into him. Stroking his tongue across her teeth, he plunged farther inside, invading her.
He had her by the elbows, and she tried to pull back, mewling, then fading into him. One of her gown straps slumped onto the side of his hand, and he slipped his fingers beneath it, tugging.
He had her.
But the next instant, he didn’t. She pressed against him again, pummeling him against the mirror, the glass quaking in its tracks. He chuckled as the breath left him.
“Stay still,” she commanded.
He couldn’t. Not anymore. Not with his pulse buffeting his veins. Not with her so near. So far.
Fiona made her way down his torso, leaving a trail of delicate kisses. He could imagine all the lipstick marks, growing fainter with each slick bite, taking ownership of his body. Each kiss palpitated in time to the count of his heartbeat, getting louder, time bombs set to explode.
She reached his penis and, finally, oh, yeah, finally, sucked her lips around the tip of it, pulling, taunting. Continuing the torture, she ran her tongue around his head until it was wet with a mixture of his juices and her saliva.
He threaded his fingers through her loose hair, encouraging her. As she took him into her mouth, she swirled her tongue around him, up, down, thoroughly preparing him. Her fingers sought his balls, her knuckles caressing. Seeking farther behind them she caused him to throw back his head until the mirror shuddered again, rattling against his sweat-coated skin, vibrating dangerous heat through his entire body.
