by Ann Macela
Somebody groaned as their lips met. Somebody took in a deep breath. He could have sworn a hum floated in the air. Multicolored lights seemed to sparkle on the back of his eyelids.
Clay moved his hand from her hair to her head, threading through the thick blond waves, cradling her skull. He slid his other hand from her hands up her arm and around to her back, coming to rest at her waist. He sipped at her lips, his tongue asked entrance, and when she gave it, he swept inside.
Francie stiffened for the barest part of a second, then softened and reached for him, both arms going around him, one at his neck, the other his chest. Her tongue played with his and caressed his lower lip.
He could feel her full breasts against his chest, her nipples already tight. He could have howled at the pleasure the sensation created.
It wasn’t enough. He had to feel her along his whole body. Not breaking contact anywhere, he lifted her closer and leaned back toward the sofa’s arm. She held tight and followed until he was almost flat on his back and she was on top of him, her legs between his.
His hands roamed over her, from her head to her thighs, kneading, massaging, holding her tight against the granite hard erection straining against his jeans. He deepened the kiss, thrusting his tongue as he rocked their hips together. She responded by fisting one hand in his hair and purring, a vibration he felt resonating down his body to lodge in his now throbbing cock.
When he brought a hand up to her breast, she tensed again, then pressed herself into his palm and took over his mouth with her own tongue. He felt her heartbeat accelerate, beat to the same rhythm as his. He kissed her forever, until both of them were laboring for breath as though they’d run a marathon.
He finally ended it with a series of small kisses, then tucked her head under his chin and held her tight. She lay over him like a blanket, utterly relaxed, while she regained her breath.
Holy hell, the words somehow ran through his bloodless brain. No woman had ever affected him like this. He had practically climaxed in his jeans—how he’d avoided it, he’d never know. And Francie had been right there with him.
If this was what happened with a single kiss between soul mates, what would actual lovemaking be like? It would kill him, for sure.
Eventually—he had no idea how long it took—their breathing returned to normal, and Francie began to stir. He sat up—carefully—and pulled her legs around so she was sitting again, but still between his legs, one of which was braced by the couch back, the other with his foot on the floor.
Her hands on his chest, she raised dazed eyes to his and licked her lips absently. She had been affected as strongly as he. Good. He wasn’t in this by himself. They were, had to be, soul mates. His doubts had been foolish.
Right now, he had to get out of here before he gave in to the compulsion to carry this activity to its natural conclusion. He didn’t want to give her the opportunity to tell him that this was all “business,” or that she was too worried about Tamara to think about any remotely possible relationship with him. He absolutely did not want her to regret their actions or to refuse to come over tomorrow.
One thing this episode had taught him: he had to tell her everything, yes, even about soul mates, and he had to do it tomorrow. He didn’t think he could take another of these sessions without rupturing something.
Her eyebrows drew together in a slight frown, and the smoke began to clear from her eyes. He had to be extra careful as her wits returned to her.
“Clay?” she whispered, “what happened?”
“Shhhh.” He leaned in to kiss her forehead. “It’s all right. We just got a little carried away, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She must have realized her hands were stroking his chest because she snatched them away, back to her lap. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I’m sorry.”
He chuckled at her apology. “Don’t be. I’m not.” He scooted back on the couch and levered himself to a standing position.
Francie rose, pushed her thoroughly mussed hair back from her forehead, and took a deep breath—oh, what that did to her glorious breasts and his now painful cock. She straightened her clothing and looked up at him again. She frowned, but was obviously still disoriented. “Clay, I don’t . . . we can’t . . . this won’t . . .” she began.
He placed a finger on her lips to shush her, then tucked another unruly lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek. “We have a great deal to talk about tomorrow, Francie.” He couldn’t stop himself from kissing her again lightly. “I’ll see you between two and three, okay?”
“Okay.” She sighed, then frowned again.
Taking advantage of her still-confused state of mind, he kissed her again for luck, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door.
He grinned all the way home. The soul-mate imperative was definitely working. He could feel his magic center grinning.
He was totally certain.
Tomorrow she’d be his.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning, Francie opened her eyes before her alarm clock buzzed. Instead of her usual grogginess, she was completely awake, she realized as she stretched. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. It didn’t mean that she had to get up, though. Today was Saturday, after all. She turned the pillow over, rearranged the covers, and wallowed in the luxury of being able to remain in bed.
She closed her eyes and tried going back to sleep, but the evening before persisted in replaying itself in her memory. She had thoroughly enjoyed dinner and conversation with Clay. It had been almost like a real date, not something to keep the fiction of their relationship alive for Tamara and Kevin. She was glad this deception was almost over. She hated Kevin for what he was doing to Tamara and, by extension, to herself. If it hadn’t been for Clay and his computer wizardry, she might have been blamed for Kevin’s chicanery. As for Clay . . .
She pulled her mind away from him and toward the problem of the hacker. Setting up the trap the way he did, Clay was certainly handling Kevin well. Now if everything went as planned, the police would catch Kevin on tape and arrest him and this farce would be finished. He’d be out of Tamara’s life for good.
She made a mental note: after Kevin was gone, both she and Tamara should have their locks changed.
And what about Tamara? Please, she pleaded, let Tamara understand why no one told her what Kevin was up to. Let her remain my friend.
As for Clay . . . Here she was, back to him again. The man walked in and out of her thoughts like he owned them, like he had set up housekeeping in her head, she grumbled to herself. But . . .
What in the world had happened to her last night? They had been sitting there, carrying on a conversation about Kevin, then he invited her over to show her how he programmed his hacker-catching applications. She was feeling really good, with a warm glow in her middle from good Mexican food and the anticipation of learning his methods. Nothing itched or ached.
Then he was touching her, and she could have sworn energy was flowing between them. What a crazy idea!
If that were not enough, and despite her intentions to keep her distance, he’d kissed her, and she’d simply . . . simply disintegrated.
Wow, had he kissed her. This one had been devastating. Overwhelming. Enchanting. Wonderful. Magical. Just as his other kisses had been.
No, more so.
When his lips touched hers, her brain turned into mush, and her body into a willing participant in whatever he wanted to do with it. More than willing. Eager, enthusiastic, enraptured. The man cast a spell, and she was bewitched.
Her body had felt wonderful, warm, happy, right where it wanted to be. Her insides seemed to be singing, her heart was blissful. Colored lights surrounded them, rippling through rainbow hues, intensifying as his kiss had.
Where had her mind been? Off in outer space with the aliens again. She couldn’t have stopped that kiss. She’d have to be paying attention with a conscious mind to do that. Conscious? Phooey! She couldn’t even
remember going to bed, but she must have because here she was, and it was morning.
She moved restlessly on the smooth sheets and rubbed her rib cage, then crossed her arms over her chest, her hands holding her breasts. They tingled. She rubbed herself through her nightgown, but it made the tingling worse, and she quickly let go when she realized what she was doing.
“Oh, God,” she groaned aloud. She was turning into a sex-crazed, blithering idiot. She drew her legs up and hugged her knees.
Why was she so attracted to this one man? She’d never, ever had such a reaction before. Sure, he was tall and good-looking, but so were many others. She especially liked his silver eyes and the way they lit up, then darkened when he looked at her.
He was honest and had loads of integrity, she was certain in her bones about that. What was the rule for when they were alone? “No camouflage, only the truth?”
They got along well together. She was surprised to have so much in common with him—computers, basketball, political opinions, so many of the same likes and dislikes. He came from a stable family, and she liked that because she did also. He was kind; look how he had immediately asked if she wanted to bring Tamara along for dinner last night. Would any other man have made the offer? And meant it?
He was certainly intelligent. And he respected her own smarts. What had he said about her being one of the few people who could understand his programming? A high compliment, indeed.
Her friends liked him. Their acceptance said a lot to her. None of them had ever liked Walt.
Clay was also sympathetic. He understood her anguish over Tamara and the possibility of hurting her best friend. And he soothed her fears and wouldn’t let her take on the blame for Kevin’s actions. He seemed interested in her, for herself, not just because of the excitement of catching Kevin.
Could she be reading the situation wrong, by thinking he would leave after this mess was over? Might he still want to be together?
He wasn’t like Walt, not by a long shot. Was she assuming he would be? Just because he was good-looking? Just because she had been hurt once before? The answers in her head were leaning heavily toward “yes.”
He wasn’t pushing her into bed like Walt had. In fact, he was always the one to halt their kisses, despite his obvious desire. He hadn’t been faking his reaction. Why then was he taking it so slowly, especially when she wouldn’t have done anything to stop him? Last night she had practically crawled all over him.
Practically? Be honest. She had been on top of the man and had almost had an orgasm right there on her couch.
Maybe it was better for both of them he had left when he did. Despite the attraction, despite the . . . oh, she might as well admit it, despite her raging desire, her almost frantic need, she really didn’t know if she was ready to make the leap to bed. Something she couldn’t identify, couldn’t quite get at, was holding her back. What was it?
No voice spoke from above, or even in her head, to give her an answer. No surprise there. She had to laugh at herself for even asking the question. Her stomach gave a little flutter, and she rubbed it slowly. Even her incipient ulcer seemed calm today.
Okay, what did all this mean? What conclusion did she come to after all this thinking? Oh, how she wished she could talk all this over with Tamara. Her friend certainly had more experience with men and might understand more about what was going on.
Everything seemed to come down to the question: What was real here?
She had always prided herself on her ability to see things as they actually were. To base her thinking and her actions on reality, on facts, where the only fantasy was in the games she played and the books she read. Granted, the episode with Walt had taught her how to do that. Painfully. So painfully, in fact, she had cut herself off from men and the possibility of being hurt again.
Maybe she had been wrong to do it. Tamara had certainly fussed at her often enough about her self-imposed “seclusion.” Now, with Clay, she was beginning to feel like she was waking up after a long sleep. Returning to the world of men and women and possibilities. Not of being hurt, but of finding someone just for her. A mate.
A mate? What an old-fashioned word. Where did the thought come from?
What about the other old-fashioned word, love?
Love. Was she falling in love with Clay?
No, certainly not. Not on the basis of a few dates and four kisses. Not a conclusion she even wanted to ponder.
Coward! jeered something inside her. She ignored it.
Rubbing the pesky itch again plaguing her, Francie rose from bed and headed toward the shower. She had to get moving if she was due at the haircutter’s at one and then Clay’s. As she dried off, she let herself wonder about his house. Would it be a typical bachelor place, with little furniture and no decorations, a refrigerator full of beer and leftover pizza? He’d have a killer computer setup, of course. She couldn’t wait to see how he programmed that trap for Kevin.
As she turned on the water, she wondered briefly what he wanted to talk about so much today.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Francie pulled up in front of Clay’s at two thirty. The address had been easy to find in West University Place, south of Bissonnet between Weslayan and Buffalo Speedway. She had always thought the little city surrounded by Houston and Bellaire would be a nice place to live, but she didn’t know anyone who actually resided there. During the morning her curiosity about Clay’s home had grown from a small spark to a good-sized blaze, so after stopping the car, she turned off the ignition and sat a moment studying the house.
Like so many of the older houses in West U, this one was essentially an ordinary two-story box with a lawn and shrubbery beds in front. Two large oak trees with shiny dark green leaves rose from the grass strips between the sidewalk and the street. The siding on the house was a smooth cream color, and the front door and open window shutters echoed the leaves’ dark green. A driveway on the left side led to a solid wooden gate, which appeared from its hardware to be mechanized to swing open.
Though the house presented a conventional, even bland face to the world, Francie liked it immediately. In a funny way she didn’t stop to analyze, the structure seemed to welcome her, call to her, tell her she would be happy living there. “Talk about curb appeal,” she said to herself as she climbed out of her car.
She noticed a curtain twitch as she came up the walk, and Clay opened the door before she could push the bell. She couldn’t help but smile. He just looked so good in a button-down blue plaid shirt, jeans, and running shoes. His silver eyes seemed to light from within as he returned her smile.
“Hi. Come on in.” He stepped back from the door. “Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you.” Francie stepped into the entryway and looked around. “My goodness,” she said as she felt her eyes opening wide. Whatever she had expected his house to be like, it wasn’t what opened up in front of her.
West U box, indeed! Instead of walls defining living, dining, and whatever else, the downstairs seemed to have almost no interior barriers. The staircase rose—or floated—straight from the small entryway with no visible means of support except the posts at either end and the frame holding the individual treads. Under the stairs, an abstract metal sculpture gleamed in the beam of a small spotlight.
A dining area on the left held a glass-and-chrome table surrounded by antique-looking chairs. The chandelier over the table mixed metal and lights to leave the impression of a star-filled galaxy. Against the back wall—yes, there was an interior wall with a door leading into the kitchen—stood a tall, deep-red cabinet in chinoiserie style. The light-colored hardwood floor reflected the light pouring in the front window.
To the right of the entry stretched a room that ran from the front to the back of the house and ended in sliding-glass doors. Topped by a severely plain mantle and flanked by oak bookshelves and cabinets, a fireplace sat in the middle of the long outside wall. A leather couch, again in the smooth cream color, faced the fireplace, flanked by a c
ouple of dark blue wing chairs. A glass slab perched on what looked like a tree stump served as a coffee table and sat in the middle of the grouping. Lamps and side tables were where you would need them. Except for the large Oriental carpet in shades of vivid red and blue covering most of the floor, the colors were neutral, and the walls repeated the cream background.
What really drew her eye, however, was the vibrant artwork—a thorough mix, from impressionistic to surrealistic, from representational to abstract, from oil paintings to three-dimensional collages. No old masters for Clay. The colors leaped off the canvases, but somehow didn’t clash with each other or the furniture. Despite the disparity of styles, the furnishings coalesced into a space infinitely interesting, but pleasing and comfortable at the same time. She could live here easily.
Francie brought her startled eyes back to her host. “My goodness,” she said again.
“That’s what everybody says when they walk in the first time,” he answered with a smile as he closed the front door. “Put your purse on the couch, and let me show you the rest.”
He took her to the sliding-glass doors and out onto a patio stretching across the back of the house. Comfortable-looking furniture and several large pots filled with red geraniums or purple pansies sat on the reddish-brick patio. Steps led down to a small patch of Saint Augustine grass. “I added about five feet onto the back of the house, which reduced the space for the yard by a considerable amount. I spend a lot of time out here in the summer,” he said with an encompassing wave of his hand.
A tall wooden fence surrounded the enclosure and guaranteed privacy. Along the fence was a lush jungle, even in late September, full of azalea, oleander, and forsythia bushes, banana trees, and one large clump of pampas grass. A gigantic oak rose from the right-hand corner, opposite the two-car garage set against the back property line on the left. Under the tree lay a swimming pool of irregular shape. The turquoise waters looked perfect for paddling around in, or just lounging on a float, under the tree’s shade, a tall glass of something cool in one hand and a hot novel in the other, during one of those blistering Houston summer days.
