by Lori Foster
“I can hear it in your voice. You’re still half-naked on my bed. I’m going to have to send you out of here, if you’re not good.”
There, she’d gotten the bra off. Lace went flying through the air, joining her shirt on the floor.
He heard the plop. No doubt about it, because he flinched when it hit. But he still wouldn’t look. She almost had to admire his willpower.
“Do you think Fiona and Sean…?” she asked.
Linc peeked through his fingers. Then his hand dropped to his side.
Lakota preened, cool air from the conditioning unit, along with his suddenly hungry gaze, hardening the tips of her breasts. She loved how he looked at her—as if he’d been on a crash diet and she was a plate of hearty fare.
She scooted back, lying against the pillows, spreading her hair in back of her and allowing her arms to linger overhead. “How long do you think before Sean breaks Fiona’s tender heart?”
Linc’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggled to swallow. “It’ll be the other way around, believe me.”
What was this? She was laid out before him like a feast, and he was just standing there? Was he waiting for something? More encouragement?
She crooked her finger at him, the exclamation mark on her body language. “It’s your professional opinion that the two of them aren’t going to last?”
Whomp. There it was. His penis stirring under the towel, tapping out Morse code to Lincoln Central.
He couldn’t last much longer.
Lakota traced one hand between her breasts—small, but definitely adequate—over her flat stomach, unfastening a button, fingers loitering by her zipper. It buzzed as she opened it, allowing the gape of her shorts to reveal her striped bikini undies.
“I’m right here,” she said, dragging out the words.
Clearly torn, Linc rammed a hand through his combed blond hair, ruining the previous effort at taming it. He puckered his mouth, blew out a breath.
At least she was getting to him. “What can I do, Linc? Should I go to Fiona’s Cowboy Room and borrow a lasso? Or do you want to go down there yourself? Huh?”
He didn’t say anything, just watched her.
“Is that it?” she asked, sitting up, her blood starting to simmer, melting all rational thought. “Maybe you’d like to sleep with your friend instead. Maybe she lied to me and you did put the wood to her all those years ago.”
“Don’t be unreasonable.” He sat on the edge of the mattress, his back to her. “Don’t let one more nonexistent ‘other woman’ ruin this.”
Memories pummeled her. Cringing in her childhood bed, allowing “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago to carry her away, to block out the thumping and moaning, as those “boyfriends” had their way with Mom in the family room. Slamming the door to a run-down L.A. apartment and winding up that music box after yet another audition in which an old-goat producer had tried to stick his hand down her top while promising to further her career. Throwing that music box at Lincoln when he’d stayed out too late one night for no logical reason, chasing him away with accusations of “another woman” as the twisted metal scattered over the floor.
Why had she been so afraid of giving herself to him fully? Was it because she knew he’d dump her as soon as he realized what a nobody she was?
On the bed, she shriveled into herself, drawing her knees to her naked chest, resting her chin on them. “I think I’m jealous of Fiona,” she said softly.
“Why? There’s nothing there.” Linc turned around, placed a hand on her head, owning her.
That’s right. This was the first step back into their rhythm. He’d claim her, body and soul. The thought made her claw for breath.
But right now, she leaned into his possessive touch, wanting it more than anything else. “She makes it seem so easy. Success. The whole je ne sais quoi. I want to be like her. To rule the world.”
Linc laughed, petting her. “You’re a human whirlwind yourself, you know.”
The acknowledgment made her reach out for him, pulling him back to the pillows with her, just to see how much power she did have. “I suppose Sean will take that wind out of her mighty sails.”
She could feel Linc’s pulse beating through his skin, into her breast, into her own heart.
“You keep saying that,” he said. “I’ll bet he sinks first. And it’ll be ugly, believe me. Fi takes no prisoners.”
Lakota caressed his slanted cheekbone. He was so beautiful, with those deep blue eyes, the archer-bow lips. “You’ve got a bet, buddy. What does the winner get?”
He’d grown still, stiff. He was resisting her even now, with half his athletic body pressed into hers, his towel scratching her upper thighs, crinkling the piece of paper she had in her shorts pocket. “Winner gets a kiss.”
Yeesh. “Is that it?”
He seemed crushed, didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “It’s everything.”
Her stomach pretzeled, going all goofy on her. His romantic streak was dangerous.
She shifted her hips, rubbing against his growing erection and nestling him right between her, where she could gain some amount of satisfaction. She was already slipping and sliding down there.
“I adore you,” she whispered, her breath echoing warmth against his ear and back to her own mouth.
He laughed to himself. “I guess that’s good enough. For now.” Then he relaxed a bit, enveloping her in his arms, lowering his chest to hers.
Her nipples, sensitized to the point of delightful discomfort, combed along his chest. She loved that he had no hair there, was still wet from his shower and slick to the touch.
The sensation caused her to grind her hips upward, into his groin. At the same time, she licked the edges of his ear, huffing air against it. He’d always liked that.
And things hadn’t changed. Linc growled, nipping at her jaw, her lips, sweeping her into a dizzying kiss.
As they sipped at each other, prolonging their first sensuous touch in months, Lakota dragged her fingers through his hair, lazily massaged his scalp and neck, moaned into his mouth.
The languid memory of their very first kiss washed through her body: one night on a pier, the salted air tanging his skin, the sweetness of being chosen by the big man on campus, of being accepted.
The surge of that moment revitalized her, causing her to wrap her legs around him and work off his towel with her knees and hands. In response, he soared forward, one hand raking up her spine, the other pressing the back of her head, until their mouths smashed together, devouring.
She came up for air, panting, every pore of skin spinning in circles. “Protection time.”
He groaned, resting his mouth against her neck, breathing roughly against her ear.
She worked her hand into her shorts pocket, came out with a form their managers made them sign before having sex with anyone. Standard biz practice. It proved consent, barred anyone from crying foul in the future.
As she leaned toward the night table and a pen, she said, “Tell me you brought the other coverage.”
“Do you need it?”
He was asking if she’d slept with anyone since him.
She’d already signed the consent form, so she rested the paper on her chest while he applied the pen to it.
“It’d be safer to use a rubber,” she said.
He placed a tender kiss above her top lip. “I haven’t been without one since we were together, Kota.”
“Please, Linc?”
She held his head to her temple, shut her eyes, nudged even closer. So close she could have crawled into him, blanketed in his warmth.
He made a sound of jagged disappointment, drew away from her, went to his half-unpacked suitcase and withdrew the condom. Unwrapped it.
In the meantime, Lakota pocketed the form, stripped off her shorts and undies, eager to feel him again. “Hurry.”
She’d missed true affection, being with someone who cared. And Linc did.
He rested one knee on
the bed, fitting the rubber over himself, then crawled the rest of the way to her, framing her face with his hands.
“I’d do anything for you. Dammit, I love you so much.”
She hesitated. “Me, too.”
Then, fevered, she led him into her, hardly needing any more foreplay.
With his erection prodding her, skidding into her so easily—just as if he’d never left—she believed that she loved him. Had never stopped.
She rocked against him, clinging to his moisture-beaded skin. As he pulsed into her, her muscles embraced him in a welcome-back clench, and he groaned out her name.
Their pace quickened. He braced a hand against the head-board and, faintly, she could hear it pound against the wall with every push of his hips.
The music box of her mind wound up, playing out of control, the tinkling strains of an innocent song racing to catch up with his hammering thrusts.
Mirrors—so many of them—flashed behind her closed eyelids. They blinded her, revolving, spinning until she was lost, confused, grasping for something to hold on to and coming up with nothing but air.
She squeezed her eyes shut, concentrating, moving with him, then…
Open. The room whirred before her, coalescing into crushed-velvet colors, crashing down on her with the reality of Linc, still buffeting her, still seeking.
She helped him, drove him on, sketched her fingers to his corded stomach, his belly button. Linc’s most lethal erogenous zone.
She whirled her thumb inside of it, pressing, demanding.
“Kota…”
With one final strain, he came, quaking to a climax, crumbling to the bed. To her.
They breathed together, held each other for what seemed like hours. She took advantage of every moment, assuaging her neediness, erasing everything she thought was wrong with her by melding into him.
Finally, when their bodies settled into sticky-salty restfulness, Lakota entangled her limbs with his, creating complicated knots.
Never wanting to be untied.
Chapter Eleven
SEAN DIDN’T KNOW what was what anymore.
Last night’s conversation with Lincoln had really thrown him for a loop, so much that he hadn’t known what to talk about with Fiona on their endless drive to Julian. Hadn’t known what to say to her today, either, so he’d avoided her altogether.
She’d been disappointed in the past.
Why was he feeling badly about that? It had nothing to do with him or their present liaison. In fact, if he had any sense at all, he’d be doing the typical Sean McIntyre escape routine and hightailing it back up to L.A., minus one disturbing woman.
Still, he found himself outside her room that night, a bag of oranges in hand, knocking on her door.
While waiting, he leaned closer to the wood, hearing a few “whoops” and the rumble of wagon-wheel thunder over hard-packed ground.
The Cowboy Room, huh? Sure as hell beat a Caveman Room. The Pirate one had more appeal, quite frankly. Who’s idea had it been to…?
The TV chopped to a pause, and he heard her moving around, coming toward the door.
When she opened it, the sight of her dressed in a cute pair of pink shorts with a white top, her dark hair swept into a ponytail, crushed the oxygen from his lungs. A few loose tendrils framed her face, making her dark eyes liquid.
Something shifted in his chest, and he reached up to clutch at the strange tightness, catching himself, recovering.
“Speak of the devil,” she said, frowning at the panicked expression that was probably on his face. “I was thinking of running by your room, seeing if you wanted… Are you okay?”
Sean brusquely pushed the bag at her, a decoy. “I bought too many things at the store. Thought you might want some.”
Fiona’s face lit up, and she took the bag, peeking into it. “Yes! Oranges. God love you. A snack is perfect because I had a big lunch with Linc’s handler.”
He’d seen Lakota’s manager, Carmella Shears, at lunch today, himself, even though he’d been fantasizing about dining off Fiona instead.
They stood there for a moment, all the awkwardness of last night’s drive, where she’d watched him with so many doubts in her gaze, coming back to the forefront.
“Well, then,” he said, breaking the tension, “I’ll leave you alone.”
“Mac.” She grasped his T-shirt, pulled him toward her. “We’ve still got a couple weeks left to whip me into an emotional mess.”
Damned bet. How could she be so giddy and so aloof at the same time? It was almost as if she’d been encouraged in some way. God knew, last night, their humdrum drive hadn’t scored any romantic points.
He remembered the way she’d looked at him that one morning, with her heart beating in her eyes as she stroked his face.
It was pretty close to the way she was watching him now.
Call the bet in, said one part of him.
No, said another. Forget the bet. Run for your life. Give the both of you a way out. Save some pride. Do it before it’s too late.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that maybe this whole wager has gotten to be more than we bargained for.”
Fiona’s lips parted and, along with those pink-tinged, cuddly clothes, she seemed in need of comfort.
But she recovered, taking his arm, guiding him into her room, then shutting the door. “Maybe the hallway’s not the place for this.”
Right. Damned lapse in judgment. “Fiona, come on. Let’s forget about it.”
She shot him a flirty glance, the wounded girl gone. “What’s going on here?”
“Nothing, it’s just taking a lot of energy, and Martie is being a real pisser lately. In case you haven’t heard, my job’s on the line.”
A slight shrug. “All of us feel that way.”
“But you’re still the new guy. You’ll get the benefit of the doubt. Me…” He shrugged. “Martie hasn’t been shy about letting me know that you could be my replacement.”
“Well, isn’t that a great excuse for wimping out?” Fiona swayed away from him, set the orange bag on the bed, keeping the mattress between them. “I have to tell you, I’ve been tempted to back away from the bet, too. Because of work, of course,” she stopped, cleared her throat, “but I’m not going to let Louis run my life.”
She picked up the television remote control, fiddled with it as she plopped onto the bed, pillows fluffed at her back. On the screen, images of black-and-white mayhem had come to a halt: Dust hovering in the air from a wagon chase. Horses galloping, manes streaming in stiff glory. A cowboy’s hat caught flying off his head.
Fiona stared at the frozen moment of action, then at him, grinning. “I’m set on winning this thing.”
Deep down, he’d known she’d shove the offer right back in his face. That’s what he liked about Fiona, though—her moxie.
He only wished she’d show some disappointment.
Again, something twisted behind his rib cage. Too low for his conscience. Too high for his libido.
What the hell…?
If you win the bet, you win Fiona, too.
The thought reverberated, bouncing around his head. He’d never thought of it that way.
Run, boy, run.
But it didn’t happen.
“So.” Fiona patted the bed with her hand. “Take a load off.”
Bed. Mattress. Fiona.
What was he going to do? Walk away?
Or take a chance, sit on that bed, see where the next day would lead them?
Don’t do it, said the little-boy-lost part of him. Remember Dad?
That odd fist of…something…thudding behind the protection of his breastplate told him to take a step forward. Do it, do it, do it…
“Kick off those boots,” said Fiona, acting as if she’d always known he’d stay. “We don’t want those Jolly Green Giants dirtying my comforter.”
He pulled off a sarcastic shrug, took off the boots, smiling to himself. No one got to him like she did.
; When he was settled, she shut off the movie and flipped through the cable channels. They peeled a couple of oranges while watching one of those ubiquitous “inside” entertainment shows.
“Our work rewarded,” she said, pointing a slice toward the screen. She bit into it, and the scent of citrus sprayed the vicinity. “Umm. I sort of feel sorry for the general public.”
He watched Fiona eat, enjoying the sight of her moist, sticky lips. “Why’s that?”
She swallowed. “Because they have no idea how much of these programs are straight-out lies. It’s all image fiddling. Sometimes, just being a part of it, I doubt I’m real.”
“Sure you are. You’re a puppet master. Nobody pulls your strings.”
As she drew a knee closer to her, hugging it, Sean wondered if this was what real life felt like. Did normal couples relax in bed, talking about everyday, average things like mortgages and world news and the weather?
Talking about their days at the office?
He pretended they weren’t who they were for a second. Him, in his white athletic socks, jeans and T-shirt. Her, in shorts and a ponytail.
Sean relaxed, rested his head on a pillow. Not bad.
Had his dad felt the same, once upon a time?
“Oh,” she said, leaning closer, ponytail flopping against his shoulder, “there’s Sissy Baker at the Midwest Celebration Awards.”
Sissy was one of his new clients, a freckled country actress who’d gone through a painful divorce with Cubby Bryson, a Nashville singer.
“Look at her,” said Fiona, sighing. “She brought her sister as a date. She’s been doing that a lot lately. Cubby’s a creep.” She slid a knowing glance at him.
Professional pride took hold of Sean. He’d made certain that Sissy’s sister, mother or brother escorted her to every major event, making her come off as the strong, pull-herself-up-by-the-boot-straps victim in the public’s eye. It’d been working, too.
“I appreciate your vote of confidence.” He ate a slice of orange, and it tasted better than any food he’d ever consumed.
“I wasn’t kissing up to you, Mac. I meant it that first day when I said you were good.”
He didn’t dare glance at her. A woman who respected Sean McIntyre for something more than his skills in bed? Incredible. The realization branded him from the inside.
