Let's Do It

by Ann Christopher

  There was no point.

  All the delirious sensation reached a critical mass, and she tipped.

  “Edward!”

  His name was the only coherent thing she could cling to as the pleasure imploded and then mushroomed out, obliterating everything she thought she knew or remembered about what her body was capable of feeling. And there was as much astonishment as ecstasy in her voice because, honest to God, she’d never known it could be like this and he wasn’t even inside her yet.

  But that was coming.

  When the last of the shudders had rippled through her and her heaving lungs had sucked in a breath, Edward rose again and stared at her, a question in his eyes even as he swept his shirt off and worked on his belt.

  “You okay?” he murmured.

  “You know I am.”

  She saw a quick glimmer of satisfaction in his expression before he was in motion again, unzipping and reaching for his back pocket. Then something—his wallet?—hit the floor with a dull thud and he was ripping open a gold foil packet with his teeth.

  He watched her the whole time, his movements quick and efficient.

  She never took her eyes off his steady gaze, anticipation building inside her.

  And then, by unspoken signal, they moved at the same time. She lifted her leg high, hooking it around his waist, and he stroked the broad head of his penis between the slick folds of her engorged sex, readying her for his invasion and getting the angles right. There was a breathless pause—the face-to-face intimacy of this moment with a new man was exquisite and also almost unbearable—before she shifted her hips and he surged inside her.

  Heaven on earth.

  She cried out as long dormant muscles stretched to accommodate him. He made a guttural sound of male appreciation and shuddered. And when the dust settled, her back was against the door, his hands were braced on either side of her head and both her legs were wrapped tight around his waist.

  He didn't move, which drove her, if possible, even wilder.

  “Edward. Please.”

  He rested his forehead against hers, his face twisting with unmistakable ecstasy, as they struggled to catch their breath and get adjusted to each other.

  “You're so tight,” he said shakily. “I wanted to go slower with you. We didn't even make it to the bed.”

  Like she'd noticed or cared.

  “I don't need a bed. I don’t want slow.”

  A hint of a smile curled his lips.

  “Please,” she whispered again, circling her hips to get him started. She nuzzled his mouth again, licking his amazing lips. “Please.”

  That was all it took, and they were off to the races.

  With an unabashed groan, he began to move, and she'd thought she was ready, but she wasn't. He filled her so completely and hit the exact right spot between her legs so relentlessly that every powerful thrust was a new gift of pleasure.

  Gripping his neck as her only anchor to reality on this unprecedented night of dark sensuality, she let her head fall back and did what her body commanded. She pumped her hips and scraped her nails over his hot flesh so he'd know she could take more. Needed more. She kissed and bit his lips. She tensed her thighs to grip him harder.

  And she made noise. Lots of noise. All kinds of noise.

  Coos and mewls...breathy pleas...his name...dry sobs because he was tearing her apart and deconstructing everything she thought she'd learned or knew about herself, her body, and what she needed.

  He drove her mercilessly, his hips acting like pistons as they delivered thrusts that were perfectly placed, exquisitely timed. The only sign of strain he showed was the damp sweat that rubbed from his chest to her jiggling breasts, and the frown of concentration on his face.

  Once again, the pleasure coiled tighter inside her, centering in the tender bud at the apex of her sex until, suddenly, her body couldn't contain it for another millisecond.

  She shattered and came in a white-hot pulse of rapture that went on forever as her hips jackknifed uncontrollably. As she went limp, his answering shout reaching her through a velvety haze of satisfaction so complete she might have passed out for a second.

  Hours later, or maybe it was only a few seconds, the rest of the world crept back to her in slow degrees. They were still joined, slowly sinking to the floor in a mutual collapse as his strong arms and thighs finally seemed to give out. Holding her tight in his warm grip, he slumped to his back with her sprawled on top of him. And she was perfectly content to lie there, with her head on his slick chest and her hair falling over his side, and revel in the lingering aftershocks between her legs.

  Until, with a sudden and awful finality, reality intruded.

  “Oh, my God.” She levered herself up with wobbly arms and looked around his dark house, seeing nothing but a couple of nearby wooden legs that must belong to a coffee table or something. He was still buried to the hilt inside her, his possessive hands clung to her ass, and she had absolutely no freaking idea what'd come over her. Because, while she'd never had a one-night stand before, her nipples and lips still tingled and her sex was still wet and throbbing, and she knew that the very next time Edward crooked his little finger at her, she'd eagerly do the same thing all over again. Wincing, as much with lingering pleasure from the sweet ache as from approaching soreness, she disentangled her body from his, stretched out beside him on the cool floor and rested her arm over her eyes. “I don't know what just happened.”

  “Neither do I,” he said hoarsely.

  A few seconds of awkward silence between them followed, during which the only faint sounds were from their breathing as it normalized and her thumping heartbeat as it slowed. If it was still raining, she couldn't hear it.

  She removed her arm and stared up at a dark ceiling she couldn't see—she didn't dare look directly at him, not after that porn star behavior she'd just displayed—thinking hard.

  What now? Her hair was wet and she was starting to get cold. The floor, meanwhile, was not the most comfortable spot for postcoital glow, not that there could be much glowing when you were horny—and, let's face it, dumb—enough to hook up with a guy you just met that day. What was the protocol here? Why didn't he say anything? Why was he so still and quiet? He wasn't asleep—she'd bet money on it.

  So...That was that, she supposed, her face beginning to heat with shame, if not regret. She should probably get out of here. No need to force the poor man to make up some lie about needing her to leave because he had an early day at the clinic tomorrow.

  “I don't think it's raining anymore,” she said quietly, leaning up on her elbows. “I should probably get out of here.”

  He moved suddenly and without warning, his hand clamping down around her upper arm. She looked around, surprised, and discovered him watching her, his gaze hard and intent.

  “Were you thinking about him?” he demanded.

  She hesitated because she had absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

  “What?”

  “Your husband,” he said urgently. “Were you thinking about him?”

  She stared at him, the realization hitting her in slow degrees. Other than that initial thought that being touched by Edward was nothing like being touched by Adam, she hadn't thought about the boy she'd married. Wouldn't be thinking about him now if Edward hadn't brought him up.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Don't lie to me,” he warned.

  “No.”

  Something in her face must have reassured him, because he eased his grip and his expression softened.

  They stared at each other, the beats ticking by while she discovered new things about him that had escaped her notice before. Lying there like this, he was all latent strength and sensuality, yeah, but there was a healthy dose of the boy he'd been with the man he was now. A vulnerability that hadn't been there before. The ridge of his nose had an interesting bump in it. There was a strip of fine hair that ran between his nipples and tapered down to almost nothing over his belly.


  He was still erect.

  Still watching her.

  She swallowed hard, her throat dry as her body began to heat up again and her pulse thudded in her ears.

  “Stay with me,” he said, reaching up to stroke the hair back from her face. “I want to try again with you.”

  Sudden euphoria made her grin. Even a stern reminder that she was dangerously close to wearing her heart on her sleeve couldn't make her rein in the blushing.

  “Why? When you got it perfect the first time?”

  His gaze, searching and unsmiling, held hers for the longest time. There was no way she could look away. He opened his mouth a couple of times, then shut it again just as quickly.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He blinked, shuttering away some of that emotion. “We need to get to know each other. It's important. Don't you think?”

  That was the moment Adam decided to storm back with a vengeance, bringing The Black with him. All kinds of shadows crossed over her heart, stamping out the last of her euphoria. Adam was dead. Not only was she still alive, she'd just had sex with another man. Not only had she had sex with another man, but it’d been the best sex of her life, bar none.

  And of course she didn't deserve any of it.

  She frowned, looking away from the warmth in Edward's bright eyes. “I don't—” she began.

  “Forget it.” Edward tapped his index finger against her lips, silencing her. “Don't think. I don't like where it's taking you.”

  “But—”

  “All I'm asking is for us to see where this takes us. One day at a time. You know what? Forget that. One minute at a time.”

  She hesitated.

  He stood, holding out a hand for her. “All you have to do right now is say yes the next time I ask you something.”

  She watched him, feeling wary and excited and, beneath all that, more than a little scared. This whole interlude wasn't like her, and in the whole history of her life she'd never been the type of person to jump now and ask questions later.

  What in God's name had she gotten herself into?

  “Okay. I can do that.”

  “Reeve,” he said quietly. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

  The weight of her world was in that question, and yet when she opened her mouth to respond, the answer floated out on a feather.

  “Yes.”

  Taking her hand, he helped her to her feet and immediately pulled her into his arms. As soon as she was there, all her encroaching doubts and memories tiptoed back into the shadows, leaving her alone on this delicious night with Edward.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  Edward woke slowly, the morning sun's orange light penetrating his eyelids in degrees. He was face down on his bed, naked as the day he was born with only the sheet covering his ass, rock hard and deliciously sore in all the right places. All because something in his life had changed, and changed big.

  Reeve, he thought, smiling into the pillow as he checked his watch—eight seventeen, so it was still early—and stretched.

  Man, she was amazing.

  Her smile and laughter, reserved though they both were at times. Her brown eyes. Her humor. Her smoking hot body. Her scent. And, Jesus, the sounds she made when he was inside her. No wonder he'd woken up hard and anxious to go again.

  Last night had been unprecedented. Making love with Reeve had been an experience beyond his wildest dreams, and one he planned to repeat soon and often. She'd given herself to him with a complete abandon that'd made him feel like the emperor of this universe and all universes yet to be discovered, at least until he considered the possibility that she'd used him as a warm body to help her through another lonely night without her husband.

  She'd said she hadn't, though.

  And maybe his ego was way out of whack, but he believed her.

  Hopefully she didn't have any plans for today. He had their whole day together mapped out in his head, starting with sex, of course. A long, leisurely morning in bed. Then breakfast at Java Nectar, or he could whip up something for her here, if she preferred.

  Then he'd take her kayaking.

  Still grinning the shit-eating grin of the happily whipped, he flipped his pillow aside and rolled over, reaching for her. “Reeve?”

  Her side of the big bed was rumpled, cool and empty.

  Frowning and now completely awake, he sat up and looked around.

  “Reeve?” he called.

  No answer.

  Dread stomped all over his heart, but he quickly beat it back as he swung his feet out of the bed, grabbed a pair of boxers from his drawer and slid them on. There was no need to flip out. She wouldn't have left. Women didn't sneak out in the middle of the night. Men did, but women didn't.

  She wasn’t in the shower, though.

  His confidence slipped another couple of notches.

  She must be downstairs, he decided, maybe making some coffee, although he’d be surprised (and impressed) if she knew how to operate his high-end espresso machine.

  “Reeve?” he called again, thundering down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Still no answer, and the house had the familiar echoing feeling that told him he was the only one there. Even so, he didn't believe that she'd gone without a word. Wouldn't let himself believe it because it hurt too much.

  Last night had meant something on both sides.

  Hadn’t it?

  He went so far as to walk out on his deck and check the pool area, just to make sure she hadn't taken her coffee out there to sip in the sunshine, but of course he already knew she hadn't made any coffee—the smell would've woken him up—just like he knew he wouldn't find her out there.

  And so, like a lovesick seventh-grader whose crush didn't meet him by the lockers even though she'd sent him a text saying she would, he headed back inside, head hanging and feelings smashed.

  She'd left.

  Just left, without a word.

  And here he was, yet again, battling that nasty feeling that he had no idea where she was and might never see her again.

  Left! Without a word!

  Ain't that a bitch?

  Slumping against the counter, he sank into a few minutes of self-pity and loneliness, really letting himself wallow in it. This was not cool, he thought, reaching for the box of frosted cherry Pop-Tarts he kept on hand for low moments like this one and sliding a pair into the toaster. Seriously not cool. First, that a woman—any woman—had walked out on him after a spectacular night in bed. Second, that the woman in question was Reeve, who affected him like no previous woman ever had.

  Third, that the sickening empty feeling inside his gut had nothing to do with yesterday’s demise of his longstanding relationship—he hadn’t thought about Amber once in the last, oh, twelve hours—and everything to do with the birth of the new relationship he’d started with Reeve.

  He could still feel her hands on his body, for God’s sake. Still smell her scent all over his skin. Feeling like a complete idiot, he raised his arm and sniffed it experimentally.

  Roses. Pure Reeve. Purely delicious.

  The pull he felt toward her was disturbing, if not faintly alarming. He hadn’t been looking for this, whatever it was. If anything, he’d had vague ideas about getting back in the saddle and reentering the dating scene, a prospect that neither thrilled nor repulsed him.

  He had not expected to lose his freaking head over a woman he met yesterday.

  The toaster ejected his treats, and he used his thumb and forefinger to quickly yank the nicely browned Pop-Tarts out and onto a paper plate. Then he poured himself a glass of chocolate milk—wall-to-wall sugar; nothing but the breakfast of champions for him, boy—sat on the counter and moodily tried to figure out what the hell to do now, because chalking it up to a one-night stand could never be an option.

  She wants you, man, said a little voice inside his head as he took his first bite. Don’t give up.

  Did she, though?

  The moments they’d spent t
ogether flipped through his mind like a notebook with hand-drawn cartoons. The way she’d looked at him. Smiled at him. Melted for him when he touched her. Come for him. He thought about all the things they had in common. They were both medical professionals, and had the same taste in reading material, music and alcohol. That was significant, right? Or was he just stretching the facts to soothe his wounded ego?

  That was a definite possibility, one that soured the taste of Pop-Tarts in his mouth.

  But then he remembered the sadness that flickered across her face when she didn’t know he was looking. The loss of her husband, which was the sort of thing some women never got over.

  Maybe her heart wasn’t ready yet.

  Hold up.

  Had he seriously just thought that sappy shit? Maybe her heart wasn’t ready yet?

  What the hell had gotten into him?

  He disgusted himself, he thought, swiping his crumby fingers on his boxers and heading back up the stairs to his bedroom, where he fished his cell phone out of his shorts pocket. Why was he overthinking things?

  They’d enjoyed each other last night. A lot. They had things in common. A lot of things. In the cold light of the morning after, she’d also overthought things, gotten scared and scurried off rather than risk him giving her the brush-off.

  Simple.

  This was going to be a delicate operation, no question. If he came on too strong, he’d scare her off and blow it, and all his male instincts were clamoring for him to do something à la Cro-Magnon man, like storm her house, demand to know why she’d left without a word and drag her ass back here. So he needed to dial it way back.

  No problem, right? He was a cool cat.

  He took a deep breath and dialed her number, thanking God for smart phones that kept records of incoming calls.

  The phone rang.

  And rang.

  And rang.

  By the fourth ring, he could feel the damp onset of clammy sweat in his armpits. Shit! Here was one more thing to worry about: what if she screened his call? What if he left a message and she never returned it? He still didn’t know where she lived, and there was no way—