by Meg Benjamin
Last chance for what, Monica?
Last chance for…snuggling. Or something. She’d been over-thinking everything. Right now she was just going to kick back and enjoy herself for the rest of the evening. And enjoy Paul.
Mostly enjoy Paul. The way he looked. The way he talked. The way he…smelled. She tucked herself more firmly under his arm as they walked up the drive toward the hotel.
Besides, maybe snuggling would be all there was to it. They’d had a good day on the river. They’d had a mostly good time at the Blarney Stone, if you didn’t count Dick the dick. And maybe that would be the extent of it. Which was a good idea, of course. Playing around on hiatus was one thing, but playing around when you were on the job was something else. Once they started working again, they’d both be way too busy to think about stuff like this. Or she would be. She really needed to be. She didn’t stop to think why that particular fact made her heart ache a little.
Of course, there’d been that kiss last night, which had sent her to bed aching—in a very good way.
Kisses are okay. Maybe even more than kisses. But you can’t let it interfere with the job. Can you? The job she’d worked so hard to get. The job that was supposed to be her stepping-stone to bigger and better, although it hadn’t been so far.
The Praeger House loomed ahead, the light at the front door gleaming in the velvet darkness. The night wind whispered through the pines around them, and small feet stuttered through the underbrush. Paul pulled her closer to the warmth of his body. She could feel the slabs of his muscles beneath his shirt, sending a shiver of heat along her spine.
“Thanks for standing up for me tonight,” she murmured. “I know Dick’s one of those jerks who like to argue. But he still managed to hit a nerve.”
Paul shrugged. “You were holding your own with him. I just added a few jabs around the edges.”
They started up the broad front steps, still leaning close together. “Where do we go to sit for a spell?” she asked.
He nodded toward the end of the porch. “There are some wicker couches over there. Just beyond the lobby.”
Dim light still shined from the lobby windows, casting deeper shadows on either side. He led her beyond the light pools, into the darkness at the end.
“Here.” He gestured toward a couch-shaped lump in the dim light. “Sit down and I’ll grab a blanket.”
“There are blankets?”
“Sure.” His grin flashed briefly in the darkness. “They don’t expect you to sit out in fifty-degree temperatures without something to take the chill off.”
Monica reached back to find the seat of the couch. It was so dark that she could hardly see, but after a moment her eyes began to adjust. The wicker creaked faintly beneath her weight as she sat. “You’re sure these will hold two of us?”
“Yeah. Wicker always makes noise. No problem.” He dropped down beside her, ignoring the wicker squeak, and unfolded a blanket across her knees so that the two of them were covered.
Heat spread across her lap that had nothing to do with Pendleton wool. She licked her lips. Time to head back to reality again, at least for a while. “I talked to Glenn this evening.”
“Yeah?” Paul didn’t sound all that interested.
“Yeah. He said they’ll probably start shooting tomorrow afternoon.” She leaned back carefully, trying to avoid more creaking. “They’ll have to clean Ronnie up, but he thinks they can squeeze in a date with one of the guys already at Elkhorn Run.”
“‘Clean Ronnie up’?” He sounded amused. “What do they think she’s been doing—scrubbing the kitchen at the Blarney Stone?”
“I think Glenn thinks she’s been roughing it for a couple of days. Maybe camping or something. So he’s going to let the makeup and hair people go to work.” She sighed. “I wish I could borrow them, but maybe I can make an appointment with a salon once we get there.”
“And do what?” His voice was definitely amused now. “What do you think needs fixing about you?”
“My hair,” she said automatically. “I look like Little Orphan Annie because I couldn’t use the blow dryer this morning. And I probably need a facial after the sunburn. I’m going to get freckles.”
He leaned a little closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “And this would be bad because…?”
“Because…” She paused, trying to remember what she’d meant to say. Her heart was thumping faster suddenly. “Because they’re freckles. Spots. They make me look like I’m twelve.” And not Ms. Associate Producer. Which would be bad, right?
He slid his arm around her, his hand cupping her shoulder. “You don’t look much like a twelve-year-old, Monica. Or at least you don’t look much like the twelve-year-olds I’m familiar with. Maybe they’re different in… Where is it you’re from?”
“Illinois.” She swallowed hard, trying to slow down her galloping pulse. “Carbondale.” Steady, Monica.
He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm, slowly. “I like your hair the way it is. It looks…free.”
She licked her lips again. Her skin felt tight, a little itchy. “Free isn’t exactly in style around Fairstein.” Or anywhere in the business, as far as that went.
“Maybe it should be.” He leaned toward her, and then his lips moved slowly down the side of her throat in a line of whispering kisses. Her breath caught as she rested her palm on his chest, feeling the galloping beat of his heart beneath it.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing along her cheekbone. Her heart thundered against her ribs. And then his fingers moved beneath her chin, turning her face toward him, and his lips fastened on hers.
His mouth was soft and firm at the same time, tasting of salt and something spicy and sweet. Maybe just male. His fingers wrapped tight in her hair, sliding along her scalp, sending tingles of awareness along her skin. He held her head back so he could kiss her more slowly, his tongue delving into her mouth, sweet, hot, masculine to the essence.
Her body seemed to go limp in his grasp. She raised her arms and twined them around his neck, moving herself against him, almost for support, as her bones turned to water. The heat of his mouth pulled her tight; the clean scent of his skin filled her head like perfume. She felt starved suddenly, ravenous for him, sucking his tongue deeper into her mouth.
He slid his hand beneath the edge of her shirt, finding the clasp at the front of her bra and opening it. Then he cupped her breast, his finger and thumb pinching her nipple until it pulled tight, aching.
She pushed her own hands beneath his shirt, feeling warm skin, the crinkle of hair beneath her fingertips. She reached farther, sliding her fingers over the flat circles of his nipples, the banked heat of his body.
Finally he lifted his head, and she heard the rasp of his sigh. He leaned his forehead against hers as if he was trying to catch his breath, angling his body to push her down against the couch. The wicker creaked loudly beneath them, and she felt absurdly like laughing. Except, of course, she might not be able to stop if she started.
His hand closed over her breast again, weighing, kneading, his fingers pinching the nipple tight. Sensation speared through her body, an arrow straight to her core, and she moaned.
“Oh God,” she whispered. “We can’t do this here, can we?”
“Why not?” His voice was warm and golden in the night, pure seduction. Distillation of sex. If he could bottle it, he’d be a billionaire overnight. “Where else could we go? I’m not interested in calling it a night yet, believe me. And neither of us has a room available.”
“But we’re on a couch on the front porch of a hotel,” she whispered, “where anybody could walk up at any time.”
“We’re in the dark. Nobody can see us unless they walk to the end of the veranda. Besides, what’s life without a little risk? Haven’t you ever wanted to do it in a public place?”
Had she? She wasn’t sure—the last time she’d had sex had been a good while ago, thanks to the demands of Fairstein Productions. She moved slightly to the accom
paniment of the wicker’s creak. “We have a soundtrack.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. Provides atmosphere, doesn’t it? Every time I hear creaking wicker from now on, I’ll remember this.”
“Paul…” she murmured.
He pulled back to look at her, his face a dark shape above her. “Don’t. Don’t pull back. I want you, you want me. Stay with me now. Please.”
His breath against her cheek was warm again, his muscles hard against her body. She fit against him perfectly, curves and angles formed for each other. “Yes, okay.”
Her body throbbed from the contact with his, wrapped in the warmth of his skin, the slide of his muscles. Her hips tilted to cradle the swell of his erection and the heat speared through her again.
She moaned, and his mouth moved down her throat, his teeth nipping at the place where her neck and shoulder met, then sucking her skin to soothe the bite. Everywhere he touched a new flame seemed to burn.
His hands moved to the front of her T-shirt, pushing it up to her shoulders. He rubbed his hands across her nipples, teasing them to burning points. One arm reached beneath her waist, bending her back. His mouth dropped to her breast, pressing her nipple tight between tongue and teeth.
She reached a hand behind his head, pushing him tighter against her body as she gasped. Then she was clawing at his shirt, pushing it up so that she could feel his skin against her breasts. Her body ached with the need to go further, to push beyond the limits.
Oh God, we really are going to do this.
His hands dropped to the waistband of her jeans, undoing the button, pulling down the zipper. He pulled down her jeans and panties, and then his hands were cupping her bottom, warm palms burning again. His fingers moved into her folds, wet with desire, opening her, finding her center.
She stifled the sounds she wanted to make, trying to keep quiet in the stillness of the night, holding him hard by the shoulders. He moved his thumb across the sensitive skin, circling, rubbing, and she found she couldn’t stifle everything. Her back arched, her hips thrusting up against him.
“Easy,” he whispered. “Easy, sweetheart.”
“No,” she murmured. “Not easy. Not by a long shot. Don’t you dare take it easy.”
One long finger moved inside her, stretching, filling, setting off a new series of mini-explosions. His thumb still moved across her clit, and she pressed hard against him, pushing up beneath his hand. Her muscles began to tremble, the feeling surging from her core, inflaming, driving her up again.
“Wait,” he breathed against her ear. “Wait for me.”
“Hurry then,” she gasped. “Come with me.”
His hands left her and she moaned in protest. She could hear unzipping, then foil tearing, then the feel of his cock against her folds as he sheathed himself. He took hold of her hips, steadying her as he entered, probing slightly, letting her muscles adjust to him, and then plunging to the hilt.
Briefly, she wished that she could have seen him in the light. He felt thick, heavy, larger than she might have guessed. It stretched her wide, but not painfully. There was nothing remotely painful about it. She brought her knees up on either side, moving her hips to deepen the thrust, and then he touched something deep inside her that seemed to set off a series of explosions along her spine, liquefying her bones, turning her muscles to mush. She moaned once low in her throat, trying to keep from crying out. Then she grasped hold of his shoulders to anchor herself, suddenly feeling she might float away, weightless, boneless. His breath rasped against her cheek as he moved back and forth, and she found herself rising to meet him, her hips slapping against his.
His hands slid to her buttocks, his fingers digging in. She felt the pressure building again deep inside, carrying her up in a wave, up, up, up… She threw back her head, trying to strangle her cry, and then his mouth covered hers, drinking the sound, his moan matching hers. He moved convulsively against her, plunging deep, groaning again, against her ear this time as he finished.
For a moment they lay still, holding each other close, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her heels locked against the small of his back. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “That was…holy shit.” He took another deep breath, pressing his face against her hair. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, her mind suddenly a complete blank. She had no idea what to say after an experience like that. Was it good for you suddenly seemed like a supremely dumb question.
Paul’s lips whispered across her forehead. “Don’t go all silent on me, Monica. I need to know what you’re thinking here.”
She blew out a quick breath. “Um…whoa?”
He chuckled against her hair. “Okay, that pretty much sums it up I guess.” He leaned back against the side of the couch, shifting his weight, pulling her up against his body again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to squash you.”
“You didn’t.” She ran her fingertips along his cheek, staring at his face in the shadows, the angles and hollows made stark in the dim light.
“Talk to me,” he said softly.
“I don’t…” She shook her head. “What do you want me to say?”
“How you feel, what you think.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Are you usually this talkative after sex?”
He frowned slightly, his brows drawing together. “Not that I recall, no. I just…I like to hear your voice.” He brought her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against her fingers. “Particularly now. I can’t really see you here, so I need to hear you.”
Her lips curved into a smile, almost against her will. “I feel lovely, considering that I should be freezing and squashed and I’m not. And I think that was insane.”
His brows came together. “Insane good or insane crazy?”
The smile widened. “Both.”
He laughed softly. “But memorable, right?”
“Very memorable. And very insane.”
He stroked a hand along her side, his fingers drifting across her breast. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we could just stay out here all night.” He sounded halfway serious.
Monica sighed, leaning back against the couch again. “No, there is absolutely no way we could do that. As soon as the sun came up we’d be busted.”
One dark eyebrow arched up. “And I guess that would be a bad thing?”
“That would be a bad thing,” she said flatly. “Trust me.” Considering she’d just had sex with one of Ronnie’s official bachelors that would be a very bad thing. It would probably mean one less associate producer and one less writer.
“Oh well.” He sighed. “There’s always Elkhorn Run.”
“Where you’ll be living in the Bachelor House, and I’ll probably be doubled up in a motel room with someone in the crew.” She hadn’t really felt unhappy about that before. She definitely did now. “The logistics could be very tricky.”
“The Bachelor House?” He stared at her in the darkness. “What the hell is the Bachelor House?”
“It’s the equivalent of the Bachelorette House in Finding Miss Right. You know, the mansion where all the girls live together so they can be filmed being bitchy to each other.” She leaned her head back so that she could see his face more clearly. “Glenn’s putting all the guys together too.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope.” She grinned. “You get to live with five other guys. Of course, you already know two of them, Brendan and Billy Joe.”
“Well, crap,” he muttered. “Not what I was expecting exactly.”
“No.” She ran her fingers across his cheek. “I’m sorry. This night may be all there can be for us.” The ache around her heart was back but she told herself to ignore it.
He caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his mouth again. “The hell it is. I’m telling you now. One way or another, you and I are going to be together at Elkhorn Run, even if I have to rent a room on my own somewhere.” He ran his tongue across her fingertips.
A quick jolt like an electric shock moved down from
her stomach. “We can try, but they’ll be filming you most of the time. You may not have any chance.” Unless they got very, very lucky. Which she suddenly hoped they would.
He shook his head. “They won’t be filming me all of the time. And there will be a chance, lady. There will definitely be a chance.”
“Okay.” Her lips quirked up in spite of herself.
His eyebrow arched again. “Okay, you’ll come with me, or okay you’ll wait and see?”
“Okay…” She paused. Somewhere back toward the drive she heard the sound of crunching gravel. “Someone’s coming.”
“Shit.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “Just be quiet.”
She heard voices now, a woman and a man. A very familiar woman. “It’s Ronnie,” she whispered.
“Shhhh.” He pressed his lips against her cheek.
The sound of feet climbing the front steps echoed down the length of the veranda. Monica couldn’t exactly make out what Ronnie and her escort were saying, but it sounded like Brendan. After a few moments, footsteps sounded on the stairs again. If it was Brendan, he was probably heading back to his B and B.
She lay still in Paul’s arms for a little longer, unsure whether Ronnie had gone inside or not.
After another moment, footsteps clicked down the veranda, heading in their direction. Monica’s heart promptly jumped to her throat. Paul tightened his hold, his lips next to her ear.
“It’s okay, just hang tough,” he whispered.
The footsteps stopped on the other side of the windows. Monica lay as still as she could. She felt an attack of hysterical giggles building in her chest.
“Monica?” Ronnie called softly. “I’m going to bed now. I’ll leave the light in the bathroom on so you can see. Good night.”
Her footsteps headed back down the veranda toward the front door again. They heard the sound of the door opening, then the gentle shush as it swung shut.
Monica fought to keep from whooping with laughter. The couch was already creaking dangerously from their combined snickering.
“Do you think…” Paul gasped. “Do you think maybe she suspects?”
