MISTLETOE OVER MANHATTAN

by Barbara Daly

  She'd better try the robe. She put it on, wrapped it across her breasts, tied it, then watched it begin to part in the front, silk sliding against silk. For a moment she leaned against the dressing room wall.

  "You doin' okay in there?" Maybelle screeched.

  "Yes." She whispered the word.

  "Huh?"

  "I finally know what you mean," she said just loudly enough to carry through the door. "Now I feel sexy."

  "Whatever she's got on," she heard Maybelle hiss to the saleslady, "we'll take it." Then her voice came faintly through the closed door. "Now that you feel it, hon, what're you gonna do about it?"

  It felt a lot like how going to confession must feel. In the anonymity of the dressing room, speaking softly through the door, Mallory told Maybelle exactly what she intended to do.

  When she got home with her treasure, lacy bras and panties, the pink robe and gown and several more equally sheer and arousing sleep outfits, she realized she hadn't asked Maybelle if she'd started reading her mother's book.

  Her mother—and her books—were way down on her list of priorities right now. What was on her mind was that it was only eight-twenty and Carter was at home. She could tell he was at home because his overcoat lay on one chair and his tie on another, his briefcase was open and the contents spread out over the table that held the Christmas tree. A lot of Carter was there to look at, just not Carter himself. He had to be in his bedroom. Alone, she hoped.

  She didn't hear any giggling female voices or see any evidence of a woman, no stiletto heels kicked into a corner, no feminine-looking coat or handbag. Whatever he'd done tonight must have ended in complete disaster. She tried to feel sorry, but it wasn't easy.

  She tiptoed into her own room with her new unmentionables, then tiptoed back out. She couldn't help herself—she had to hang up that overcoat. Once she'd done that, she had to lay the tie out in a neat fold on the little table behind the mistletoe-hung arch, and once she'd done that, she had to put his papers into squared-off stacks.

  Now she could put her own things away. Suddenly starving, she went to her bedroom and ordered from room service. "Shall we deliver your dinner with Mr. Compton's?" said the voice that answered the phone.

  "One dinner or two?" she wanted to ask, but couldn't. She thought about it for a minute. "No, bring his when it's ready."

  It was a little like a French farce. From her bedroom, she heard the bell ring, then heard Carter tiptoe out to receive his room service order. Mallory had her ear glued to the door. It sounded as if the waiter was setting up in his bedroom. So when the bell rang a second time thirty minutes later, she tiptoed out and steered the waiter with his cart into her room. As the waiter left her room, she heard Carter tiptoe out with his empty tray.

  She felt the tension building. When she did what she intended to do, she might actually surprise him into compliance. Her plan was what you might call an ambush, very unsportsman-like, but highly effective.

  The evening wore on. Mallory ate dinner and did another tiptoeing act to deposit the tray outside the door of the suite. From Carter's room came the muted sounds of an action movie—bam! bang! crash! ker-plooey! Next she took a long, soaking bubble bath. She washed her hair, blow-dried it to a smooth, silky fall, redid her makeup. She found herself drawn to the stock market channel and made herself switch to a romantic movie.

  At last she couldn't stand it anymore and tiptoed over to listen at Carter's door. He was asleep. The soft, rumbling snore was a sure sign.

  It was time.

  As if it were a battle campaign, she checked her ammunition one last time. Makeup, not too much, not too little, her hair, the hang of the hot-pink gown and robe, her fingernails and toenails.

  Quit stalling.

  Okay, you can put on one dot of perfume first. The patchouli-based scent the makeup artist had tucked into her bag was heavy and musky, generating images of long, steamy afternoons of sex, which meant she had to keep Carter interested until summertime.

  Maybe she was starting too soon.

  Get yourself across the hall!

  She sneaked across the sitting room floor, positioned herself outside Carter's door—

  She'd forgotten the sheaf of papers she was supposed to wave in his face.

  Back across the sitting room. Grab the papers. Back to Carter's door. No nonsense now. Go for it.

  She threw open his door with a shattering bang. "Carter, I've had a brainstorm!" she announced, scurrying into the room before he could find something to throw at her. "Wake up. I have to talk to you now, while it's fresh on my mind." She'd reached his bed, where he was thrashing, trying to sit up. She plopped herself onto the edge and drew one knee up until it touched him.

  "Is it morning?" he croaked.

  "Not yet. This is too important to wait for morning." The act of parting her legs like that, feeling the robe slide open and the cool air of the room wafting between her thighs, all that while being so close to Carter's overwhelming maleness was having a startling effect on her. It was Carter she was supposed to be seducing, not herself.

  She put the sheaf of papers on the other side of him, which gave her all the excuse she needed to lean over him, brushing his chest with her breasts. He seemed to be trying to pull more cover over himself, but her position made it impossible. "Can you wake up enough to listen?"

  He was as awake as he'd ever been in his entire life. His eyes might not be fully open, but under the covers, everything was stirring. In the light that came through the doorway he could see her clearly enough to react to the silkiness of the robe she was wearing, and how little there was of it. Her knee pushed against his thigh and the robe parted, giving him a glimpse of her breasts, smooth, creamy, mounded like ice cream and just begging to be licked. The robe was pink. Strawberry sauce.

  She wore a gown under the robe, but it concealed nothing. His hands were itching to slide into that opening in the robe, cup her breasts, bring them to his mouth one at a time, discover and explore her nipples. He wanted to make her scream with pleasure and beg him for more.

  His erection, sudden and powerful, ached insistently.

  "There's a thread that runs through all the depositions," she said, but his senses went on the alert when she moved a little closer, bent a little lower, then put her hand on his chest, splaying out the fingers. It was such a small gesture, and undoubtedly an innocent one. She had no idea how her touch branded him with its heat. He mustn't let himself reach out to her. If he touched her, he would have to kiss her, wouldn't be able to help himself.

  Just like he couldn't help shifting under the pressure of her smooth, slim hand, turning the touch into a stroke, feeling her fingernails rasp lightly against his chest hair, making it tickle, making his own nipples harden with pleasure and anticipation.

  The scent of her perfume wafted to his nose, not overpowering but intriguing, something rich, mysterious and suggestive. The gleam of her hair, the flash of her eyes, were casting a spell on him.

  She felt it, too. He could tell by the way her voice slowed, thickened until it sounded like dark honey. "They all want something," she said, but her eyes had fixed on his face, and those long lashes were drooping down to her cheeks.

  Did it mean there was a limit to her self-control? But was she feeling anything important for him, or was it just her excitement at having made a discovery? Or, just as hopeless, was it just a natural but impersonal reaction to the intimacy of being alone in a dark bedroom with someone, nearly naked? And did he even care?

  God, how he wanted to pull her down to him and take her mouth so hard and fast that she'd want him to take the rest of her just as hard and fast. "Everybody wants something," he managed to say, hearing how his voice has hoarsened. He was desperate to tell her what he wanted. No, to show her, with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, his cock that throbbed so painfully with longing to be inside her.

  That was more than he could hope for, no matter what happened.

  "Yes," she said, starting to sound a lit
tle uneven, "and the interesting thing about these witnesses is that they all want the same thing. They want … they want…"

  His heart stood still as her mouth came closer and closer, and suddenly she was there, her lips against his, his arms around her, his hands roaming that long, slim, sweet body. Then, at last, with a moan that vibrated through him, she straightened out her endless, silky legs and he tugged her on top of him, stretching her out over the full length of his body.

  She was already in a state of such ecstasy she didn't know how she could bear anymore. He was all male hardness, the tongue that tangled with hers, the hands that gripped her buttocks and molded her against the hardest, most demanding part of him. In an agony of suspended desire she parted her thighs and their bodies meshed, all heat and wetness, and she instinctively moved against him, relishing the power of him as she sought the release she needed so desperately.

  He kissed her with a passion that needed no words, no explaining. His chest pressed against her breasts.

  Her nipples ached with pleasure, and she moved against him there, too, feeling the crisp hair against her skin, maddened by it, dissolving in a pool of liquid fire.

  "We can't do this." He tried to push her away, but she knew his heart wasn't in it, nor was the rest of his body.

  "Yes, we can," she said, breathing the words into his ear. She felt quite determined about it. "We are doing it."

  "No, no, we shouldn't … oh, God," he said as she darted her tongue between his lips and seized his mouth again.

  She nibbled her way along his jaw. "Why shouldn't we?"

  "You don't really want to is why," he panted as her lips reached his neck. "It's just the moment. It's the night and the Christmas season and the tension of the case…"

  With a soft oof, she found herself stretched out beside him. It was nice, but not where she wanted to be. "What's wrong with any of that?" she asked, her voice so husky with need, she could barely speak.

  "Oh, Mallory," he said. "Nothing, except—you're going to respect me even less in the morning." Before she could organize her mind enough to ask what he meant by that, his arm went swiftly around her and his mouth came down to hers.

  They'd passed the point of no return.

  * * *

  10

  « ^ »

  She was more than he'd imagined she'd be, sweeter, softer, hotter, a crème brûlée straight from the broiler, all cream and sugary crunch. She protested with a delicious little squeak when he broke off the kiss that was carrying them too far too fast, but when he took the small shell of her ear between his teeth and nibbled at it, he heard her breath quicken.

  He wanted to take his time with her. It wouldn't be easy—his mind was telling him slow and careful while his body craved hard and fast. But if he was going to be nothing more to her than a toy, something to relieve the sexual need she was surprising him with, then he was going to be the best sex toy she would ever possess.

  And possess him she had. He didn't know when or how. The one thing he did know was that he wanted nothing but her, wanted to touch every part of her. He loved leaning over her like this, pinning down a willing wanton who shivered when his tongue explored the inside of her ear. Then she moaned as he trailed kisses down her cheek, finally burying his face in her neck, nipping and kissing as his hand went of its own accord to one of those mounded breasts he hadn't been able to get off his mind.

  She arched against him, burying her face in his shoulder, and the breast filled his hand, so firm, the skin so velvety, the nipple a small, hard knot. A surge of animal desire rocked him, and he pulled himself back. He couldn't imagine she was very experienced in lovemaking, but even if she was, even if there were a secret Mallory he'd never dreamt of, he wanted to give her the most, be the best.

  Caressing her breast, he was filled with the need to see the nipple that pressed against his palm, to circle it with his thumb, lick it, fill his mouth with it. His hand went to the shoulder of her robe and tugged it away. His heart leaped when he saw she was helping him, shrugging out of the robe, attempting to slither out of the gown.

  "I have an extrication plan." He heard the harshness of desire in his voice, hoped she recognized it for what it was, the voice of a man who was attempting intelligent speech when he was well beyond it. He trailed his fingers down the center front of the gown, found its hem and began to gather it up in his fingertips, sliding his knuckles between her thighs and pausing to nest in the soft, silky mound of hair he encountered next. She moaned, bent her knees, thrust against his hand.

  "Mmm," he murmured, "I can't wait until morning."

  "Why?" she gasped.

  "To see if your hair is the same color all over."

  "Want … to make … a bet now?" The words were challenging, but not her voice. Everything else about her felt yielding, meltingly soft.

  "Yeah." He pressed a little harder with his knuckles, reveling in the way she wriggled against him. "I'll bet you breakfast in bed that it's not."

  "I'll, umm, bet you breakfast in bed it … is—oh, my God, what are you doing, what…"

  His knuckles had found their mark, the tiny, secret nub he would seek again and again, with his knuckles, his fingertips, his tongue and his throbbing penis before the night was over. She parted her legs, arching her body as if she were craving his touch. He heard another little cry of protest when he moved on, gathering up the gown, pausing for only a second between her breasts, and that was for his own pleasure, to revisit that valley of firm creaminess.

  At last the gown was over her head and tossed into a corner. He gathered that long, slim, silky body into both his arms, stroking down her back to mold her to him, felt her wetness soothing his painful hardness and thought he wouldn't care if he died right now. Nothing could feel better than this, except the sensation of her hands raking his skin from shoulder blades to buttocks, driving him to frenzy and making him fight for control of his male animal body, which wanted only release from the pressure of the tide rising inside him.

  He sank his mouth to her breasts to wait out the wave. Her nipples were small and hard. That would be another thing he'd know in the morning, if they were pink as he imagined them to be, the pink of her lips. The only thing he was certain of now was that they were delicious. With her velvet breast cupped in his hand and her nipple in his mouth, he reveled in the heat of her writhing body. He would torture it, torment it, until she begged him to finish what he'd begun.

  He'd finish, in time, but there was so much more he wanted to explore, touch, stroke. He moved away from her breasts, scattering kisses down her bare flesh to her navel, to what he now knew would be the same silvery-blond of her hair. He sank his face into it, breathing in her woman's scent, powerful and erotic, before his tongue at last found that tiny hidden nub and laved it, devoured it.

  She was liquid beneath his touch, lava that flowed, slow and hot, and that same lava seemed to flow through his own veins. But he could feel the moment when she could think only of her own desire and he eased his fingers inside her where she was wet and slick with desire, massaging the swollen little knot outside with his thumb.

  She screamed when she came, explosively, her head flung back, the quintessential woman in the throes of pleasure.

  Mallory, screaming. It was a concept he couldn't get his mind around, but it didn't matter, because he'd stopped thinking with his mind a long time ago and the only concept he could handle was getting that hard, throbbing part of him inside her and staying there until he screamed, too.

  Just not yet. Hugging her close to him, he groaned.

  So this is buss. Collapsed in his arms, still zinging from the spasms that had rocked her minutes before, she wanted to pinch herself to make sure it wasn't just a dream born of her deepest desires. Nothing like this had ever happened to her. A few brief, unsatisfying affairs that ended by mutual agreement and with equal relief, but not a moment of them had felt like this. She'd vowed to feel this with Carter and at last, at long last, it was happening. She must ha
ve been holding out for him all these years.

  She snuggled a little deeper into his shoulder, touched her mouth to his throat, felt him stir beside her. He'd been nibbling her earlobe, and now his mouth slid to her cheek, strung kisses down to her chin. She tried capturing it on its way, but he had an agenda of his own and she'd just have to wait until he'd kissed her breasts, tickled the nipples with his tongue while the hair on his chest tickled even more sensitive parts of her. She moved against him, surprised to feel the aching heat rise inside her again. There was something else she wanted, something she'd daydreamed about. Surely he wouldn't mind.

  Her sweat-slick body slid over his until she was straddling him, until she could feel that delicious hardness pressing into the most sensitive part of her. With a low sound of surprise he adjusted himself beneath her, cupped her buttocks in his hands and raked them gently, dipping lower with each stroke in a way that would surely drive her mad if she didn't move, hard and fast. She began to rock against him, the ache building higher and stronger. He bucked beneath her, matching her rhythm, urging her on, and when the spasms consumed her again she cried out, "Inside me. I want you inside me now," knowing it was the one more thing she had to have to feel complete.

  "Shh," he whispered back. "In a minute, in a minute…"

  "Oh, oh…" The shudders were traveling through her like earthquake tremors, shattering her with their power. "Now, please, now," she moaned, and somehow he was protected and there where she wanted him to be, above her, taking control, slipping inside her. She gasped at the heat and hardness of him and he took her gently at first. Then overcome by his own need he was driving, thrusting, pounding into her as she arched to meet him, feeling his desperate urgency and begging him to share her pleasure, until at last, with a shout, he drove into her one last time and they collapsed together into the deep, aching quivers of release.

  Hot and wet, he clung to her, easing to her side but not letting go, not letting her feel alone, and she lay there in his arms, panting in the cool air of night.