by Shelby Reed
She buried her fingers in his hair, held his lips to her breast. Held him through paroxysms of pleasure too great to silence.
Slowly she slid down his body and found her footing. He kissed her, easy and sweet, and said with a rueful smile, “That could have been more romantic. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She watched with avid eyes as he kicked off his shoes and stripped, leaving his clothes in a pile by the door.
“Take a shower with me,” he said, lacing his fingers through hers, “and this time I’ll show you romantic.”
* * *
In the late, languid morning, they lay entwined, her body fitted just right against his. Her nose found the warm curve of his neck, his hand stroked her back. In return she let her fingers play the hard muscles of his abdomen and marveled at his physique.
“Your body is so hard,” Sydney said. “All over.”
Colm’s cheek brushed hers, and their mouths slid together as naturally as if they had always kissed like this, lay like this, reveled in one another’s company like this.
When his lips found her earlobe, he traced its curve with his tongue and then lightly sucked it between his lips. Sydney sank her fingers into his shoulders and released a shuddering sigh.
“We need to talk,” he murmured.
It sounded serious. She didn’t want serious. “Hmm. Okay. Can I go first?”
“Uh-oh,” he said under his breath, and she laughed.
“Truth or dare, Colm?”
He was quiet, and when she raised her head to look at him, his features seemed dark with an emotion she couldn’t identify.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her brows lowering.
He cupped her cheek in his hand, his thumb sweeping her bottom lip while he searched her eyes, deep, so deep, she thought he would turn her inside out.
And just like that, the darkness lifted. “Dare.”
She smiled. “Oh, you’re brave.”
“Dare me something dirty,” he added, sliding a hand up her thigh and between her legs.
Sydney arched into his touch, but quickly grabbed his fingers and drew them to a safer place. “Truth.”
“I don’t get to choose?”
“No. I want to know more about your life.”
His throat moved when he swallowed, and she wondered at the sudden tension in his body beneath her arm, but she plunged onward.
“How did you meet Azure Elan?”
“At a party.” He responded too quickly, as if it was a question he was used to answering.
“Do you date her sometimes?” She already knew the answer. If he lied, she would call him on it.
He smiled down at her. “Nowadays that would be a solid ‘Hell, no.’”
“But you did before?”
He shrugged. “Once or twice. It didn’t last. You saw what she was like.”
“Yes.” She angled her head to look at him. “You’re too honest for a woman like Azure.”
Beneath her cheek, his chest vibrated with silent laughter.
“Stop laughing.” She lifted her head. “Why did you go out with her?”
“To help my career.”
“And not because she’s incredibly hot?”
“I thought she was at first,” he admitted. “But not now. Not after this. Not after you.”
She laid her cheek on his chest again.
For a moment they lay in silence, hands drifting over each other in languid strokes, then he spoke. “There’s more, isn’t there? I can hear the wheels turning between your ears.”
“Tell me about Jill.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she winced. Maybe Jill was the last person he wanted to discuss.
But he merely smoothed back the mess of her hair and gave her a curious smile. “You remember her name.”
“I remember everything.”
He thought for a long time. “She was a force,” he said finally.
Curiosity mixed with a pang of something like envy jolted through her. “How did you meet?”
“In college. She was studying interior design, I was finishing my masters in architecture. We acted on young idiocy and hormones. We didn’t really consider the reality of marriage and the real world past graduate school.”
Sydney listened, gently stroking the spot over his heart as he spoke, her gaze reading every nuance of expression that crossed his features, from humor to tension to sadness.
“So we got married, and it was rough. Always. We fought like the kids we were. My sister used to say—” He cut himself off.
“Your sister used to say what?”
“That Jill and I were the best and worst thing that had ever happened to each other. I think she was right. But at the end . . .” His jaw flexed, his hands holding her a little too tight. “We were fighting, even seconds before the accident. It was pouring rain. I hydroplaned on a slick bridge and skidded sideways into a concrete barrier. Her side of the car took the brunt.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sydney said softly.
She watched his eyes, but they were shuttered.
“It’s the past,” he said quietly. “Mine. And one of many secrets.”
When she pressed a kiss to the sharp line of his jaw and said, “Tell me another secret,” he stirred and looked down at her.
“You,” he said. “You are my secret.”
Sydney smiled. “From whom?”
“From the ugly world. I want to know more about you, too, Syd.”
As the sun poured through the vast windows and then rose higher over the city, Colm gently drew Sydney’s stories from the dark recesses where she’d tucked them away. They talked about her growing up, her mother, and at last her relationship with Greg Brantley, the man who seduced her so early in her life.
“I still have enormous shame,” she murmured, her fingers drawing swirls on the smooth skin of his chest. “I’ve been through a handful of therapists who tried to help me work through it, but it’s the kid in me, I guess, who won’t let go of it. The one who was hurt.”
“And your mom?” he asked, caressing her hair. “What does she say to you now, after all this time?”
“I haven’t talked to her since I left Nebraska. When I got to Washington, I promised myself I’d never live another lie. Yet I stayed with Max, and it was . . .” Her gaze locked on his. “I shouldn’t bring him up, Colm.”
“Yes, you should, Syd. You loved him once.”
“But I think he stopped letting me, months ago, and the distance between us became insurmountable. Maybe it always was, long before his accident, and I just couldn’t see it.”
She lifted her chin and looked into his eyes. “People might think I was cruel to leave him, but I wouldn’t stay with him just because he’s a paraplegic. I wouldn’t disrespect him by feeling sorry for him. I wanted to marry him once, to have as normal a life with him as we could manage, and for a while, it worked. But then he changed, and I couldn’t abide it anymore.”
“So it really had nothing to do with me?” he asked, sounding relieved.
She shook her head. “Even though you were there, you weren’t the reason I finally left. I just couldn’t be the old me anymore for anyone.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I like the new you.”
She rose up on her elbow again to meet his eyes. “You know what? Two months ago we were strangers.”
“And now,” he said softly, “now . . . my God, Sydney.”
That was all. He lifted his head and kissed her.
* * *
Blue-sky winter sunshine danced off the white walls and rug as Sydney hummed to herself, pouring two glasses of orange juice. The sound of the shower made her feel warm all over, banishing the usual solitude that plagued the loft.
I have a lover, she thought, and for the first time in four days, it felt real.
Colm finally emerged from the bathroom in last night’s jeans and unbuttoned gray shirt, wet hair combed back from his face. “I used the extra toothbrush in your drawer.”
�
��That’s fine. It’s for you.”
“I get my own toothbrush?”
“You get more than that.” She met him in the living room and gave his warm, minty mouth a lingering kiss, ending it by nipping his lower lip.
“Just keep that up and watch what happens.” He drew her back to kiss her again, longer this time, hungrier. His hands found her breasts through her pajama tank top; hers slid down his hard body to his fly. She had become some kind of sex monster, partly because of the months of chastity, but mostly because this was Colm, beautiful, loving Colm.
He was backing her toward the bed again when the doorbell rang.
“No one called to be buzzed up,” she said. “Who could it be?”
“Let me answer it.” Colm crossed the floor and said in a none-too-pleasant voice, “Who is it?” His protectiveness made her warm and shivery at the same time. God, she adored him.
She couldn’t hear who was on the other side, but Colm flipped the locks and opened the door, swung it wide, and stepped back.
Max.
For a moment, no one said a word. The three of them lingered there in the booming silence until Sydney finally spoke. “I guess they fixed the elevator.”
“Hennessy,” Max said. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”
“You could have called first,” Sydney said from behind Colm, folding her arms over her chest.
“I tried. Your cell phone’s been off for the last two days.”
Colm moved to step between her and Max. “What can we do for you?”
“Button your shirt, to start.”
“Max,” Sydney snapped.
He smiled the smile she used to hate. “I came to tell you I have a buyer for the ménage painting from the show.”
Colm glanced over his shoulder at Sydney, his fingers fastening the buttons on his shirt. “I can wait in the other room while you talk about this.”
“No need.” Max’s flinty gaze shifted to Sydney, skimmed her tank top, her braless state, her low-slung pajama bottoms. “I won’t discuss business when you’re so obviously . . . indisposed. I’ll call you later so we can set up a meeting. The buyer wants to meet with you over dinner.”
She didn’t care about the damned business deal. She just wanted Max to leave.
To her relief, he wheeled backward, his face stony. “I’ll be in touch. Will you answer your phone?” It wasn’t a real question. He smirked at Colm. “Always a pleasure, Hennessy.”
“Wish I could say the same, Max.” Colm waited until the man had wheeled himself in the direction of the elevator before he shut the door and flipped the locks. Then he returned to Sydney.
“Pleasant surprise, huh?” He brushed the hair back from her cheek, tucked it behind her ear until her eyelids slid closed and her head listed to the side.
“I would so much rather have dealt with him over the phone this morning,” she sighed. “You know why it was off, don’t you?”
“We were doing it,” he whispered, slipping his arms around her waist.
“Colm.”
“He came here because he can’t forget you.” His lips brushed her forehead. “Go to dinner with the client and sell that painting. Then come home to me, because I can’t forget you, either.”
“You make me cry, Mr. Hennessy,” she said around a lump in her throat.
“I’ll make you cry with pleasure. Come to bed.”
* * *
The first thing Sydney did was staunchly unbutton his shirt in defiance of Max’s contemptuous observations and push it off his broad shoulders. She let her hands skim his bare chest as her lips found the side of his throat and nipped him lightly until an urgent sound vibrated from him. He clutched her hips as her fingers slipped down to unfasten his fly, pushed down his jeans and boxer briefs so that he was naked, naked and shivering, even though his smooth skin was hot all over.
The thought of making love this way, with him bare and her still entirely clothed, sent a surge of searing arousal straight through her. “Do you mind if I don’t undress?” she whispered, bumping against his erection as her hands slid around to cup his buttocks. “I’d like it like this, with you so very naked.”
“Anything you want.” His voice was husky, lower than usual. It shivered through her as he backed her onto the bed and crawled over her. Sliding his hands inside her pajama bottoms, he pushed them down around her hips and then slipped his fingers inside the leg of her panties to find her wet, swollen flesh.
As he stroked, stroked, his kiss was light, almost chaste, leaving her mouth open and hungering for more. His words brushed her lips. “What else do you want, Sydney? This?” He probed her with a single finger and slipped it inside her.
She arched her hips to meet him, but it wasn’t enough. She shook her head. “I want more.”
He kissed her again, her mouth, her chin, her throat, as he inserted another finger. “This?”
“Getting warmer,” she breathed.
“Tell me. Let me hear you say it, no holds barred.”
She paused. He was asking for something she’d never done: dirty talk. She didn’t know if she could manage it. He made her wild, made her want to be everything he craved. But those words had never left her lips.
Her breath quickened.
When Colm shifted up beside her and withdrew his fingers, she groaned. “I want you, Colm. Inside me.”
“There’s another word for that,” he whispered against her ear, “far more to the point.” Then he bit her lobe, hoop and all. The small of her back left the bed as though a sizzling line ran between her ear and the wanting place between her legs. “One phrase, Syd. You know what I want. Say it. For me.”
She swallowed and turned her head to stare into his eyes. Everything good in the world was written in their green depths: pleasure, the desire to give, the need for more, the need for her to answer his one simple request.
Clearing her throat, she gripped his shoulders and said low and shaky, “Fuck me.”
He moved so quickly she barely had time to draw a breath. He grabbed a condom from the bedside drawer, sheathed himself, and, true to his word, didn’t remove a single piece of her pajamas, just pushed aside the leg of her panties, found her and pushed into her, slow, deep, to the hilt. Breathing out, Sydney dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his back and met his slow thrust, feeling the slide of him, deep, ever deeper, until she couldn’t stand it. She needed him pressed tight and unyielding inside her. Then she lifted her hips and rocked up against him, and somehow, without being guided, Colm knew the pace she needed. He gripped the iron spindles of the headboard above her and adjusted his rhythm to short, tight jabs, and covered her mouth with his when she came, swallowing her cry of pleasure as she shuddered once, twice, three times beneath him.
She hadn’t quite recovered when he murmured some intelligible adulation and picked up speed, buried his face in the curve of her neck and pushed in again, again, as wild as though he’d never known control.
Sydney buried her fingers in his damp hair and held him tight, reveling in the delight she brought him as he quaked and muffled his cry against her throat. So many emotions battered her at once. They seemed suddenly foreign to a woman like her, she mused, tears stinging her eyes as she stroked her hands up and down the long line of his spine. And most foreign of all was the sweet, terrifying feeling that for a second time pervaded the silent satisfaction in which they both drifted.
* * *
Love.
The next morning dawned with a gloomy, icy drizzle. It didn’t bother Sydney a bit. She and Colm were holed up in their own little world that turned on waves of pleasure and the growing bond between them. Of course, there lurked the ever-present knowledge that at some point the sweet solitude they shared had to end, and the real world would invade with all its noisy, vexatious reality.
But not today, she thought, as she drew on a long, slim sweater dress and belted it around the hips. Today Colm had just slipped out to buy bagels and coffee. They planned to have
breakfast and then catch a movie in the afternoon. He had no modeling appointments this week, and Sydney had no commissions due any time soon, and her head was so far in the clouds, she barely heard the phone when it gave a muffled ring from the living room. It rang again, then again as she searched under the sofa and finally found it hiding beneath a cushion.
“Is this a convenient time?” Max asked, his tone dry.
The real world, invading her good time. Sydney sighed. “Perfect timing as always.”
“You sound breathless.”
“You sound ornery. What do you want, Max?”
“As I was telling you before, the client wants to meet with you and talk out the details of acquiring the ménage.”
“Why?” she said, sliding into a pair of boots. “Why are we not doing this the regular way, with me paying your percentage and you dealing with the client?”
“I don’t want your money,” he snapped.
Her spine straightened. “Well, you’ll get it. I appreciate you finding the client.”
“Are we doing the dinner or not?”
Sydney’s eyebrows went up. “So you’ll be joining us, then.”
“This man is a stranger to you. Of course I’ll be joining you. How does tonight at Claude’s sound? Seven o’clock?”
A trickle of foreboding slid through Sydney, but she glanced at her studio where portraits sat scattered and shook it off. The sale of this painting was a milestone. The last of her erotic works to go, except for the one version of the ménage, which she was saving for Colm’s birthday in May.
“That will be fine,” she told Max. “See you then.” But when she disconnected the call, she sank to the sofa and stared at the phone, unable to shake the sense that she’d just committed to something too big to grasp.
Chapter Twenty-two
Sydney drove through the streets of Georgetown, looking for a parking space near Claude’s Restaurant. She finally snagged a prime spot less than a block away, slid her Mazda sedan into the space, and sighed. A few deep breaths, a quick glance in the rearview mirror to make sure she didn’t look as uncomfortable as she felt, and she climbed out.
