Strokes of Midnight

by Tarr, Hope

  His arms went around her, anchoring her to his chest. “Christ, Becka, what are you doing to me?”

  Mouth hovering over his, she said, “I’m not sure. I just really need you to kiss me. You can consider this a sign if you want to.”

  He let out a groan. “Oh, I want to all right, I more than want to.”

  His mouth covered hers, and he slid his gloved hands into her hair, knocking off her knitted hat and pulling her even harder against him. She opened for him and he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing the sensitive seam on the roof of her mouth before joining with hers.

  He stopped to run his leather-sheathed thumb over her bottom lip, drawing a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not.”

  To show how very not-sorry she was, she pressed closer, rubbing her breasts against him through the layers, finding a warmed patch of exposed skin on his neck with her lips and tongue, losing herself in the wonder of him, drowning not only in his eyes but in all of him. It was like being back at the Serena Lounge when they’d first come together like magnets, without conscious thought, words or even real names. Only, despite cold noses and bundled clothing, this was even better because it wasn’t a stranger she was kissing. It was Max.

  Breathless, Becky broke off the kiss and settled her flat-soled feet back onto the porch planks, second-guessing herself. She always felt so much taller, stronger and braver—so much more Angelina-like—wearing her heels.

  “Max, this is crazy. What are we doing? What is this?”

  He shook his head, his blue eyes melting her with their warmth and tenderness. “Damned if I know. If you figure it out, be sure and tell me. On second thought, don’t, not now anyway. For now, let’s just go with it. It worked pretty well back in New York.”

  “That was different. We didn’t know each other then, not even our names.”

  He lifted one dark blond eyebrow and stared at her, looking sexier than any man had a right to look. “Are you saying only strangers can have good sex?”

  She shook her head. “No, of course not, but coauthoring a book together changes everything. We’re writing partners. Adding a sexual component to the mix is adding yet another unknown. We don’t know how it will affect the work. It might be disastrous.”

  “It might be pretty damned wonderful, too. We’ll never know unless we give it a shot.” He slid his gloved hand beneath her chin, lifting her face to his. “Come to bed with me, Becka. Come to bed with me and let me make love to you.”

  In the midst of feeling more turned-on than ever before in her life, Becky felt purely, powerfully afraid, and not only because of the potential impact sex might have on their writing. Before, in New York, they’d been strangers. Beyond the pleasure of the moment, a one-night stand wasn’t supposed to mean anything. If she made love to Max now, though, it would mean something, to her at least. For his part, it was obvious he was still crazy about his dead wife. Regardless, if she slept with him again, leaving at the end of the two months wouldn’t just be hard—it would be brutal. It had taken her a full year to get over Elliot, and he was no Max. Could she really risk pain on that par again?

  Max’s seductive whisper interrupted her agonizing debate. “Come to bed with me, Becka. Before we write any more lovemaking scenes for Drake and Angelina, we need to create some for you and I.”

  * * *

  Max sat on the side of his maple four-poster bed, Becky standing in the space between his thighs, his hands resting on her slender hips, hers anchored to his shoulders. They’d scripted nearly the same posture for Drake and Angelina’s first time together in the outback hotel room, only Becky’s petite, tightly packaged body was a thousand times sexier than Max could imagine her fictional heroine’s ever being.

  He reached up and started on the row of dainty pearl buttons fronting her angora sweater. Unlike Angelina, who frequently sported unisex designer biker gear, Becky was all woman right down to the pretty, feminine things she wore. Even her winter sweaters were soft and warm and delicate.

  “So beautiful…”

  He slid the sweater off her slender shoulders and reached for the zipper of her jeans. A glimpse of peach-colored silk greeted him, bringing him back to their first meeting on the New York sidewalk, the image of her spread white thighs burned into his brain for all time.

  He felt a trickle of come slide down his penis and swallowed hard, determined to hold back for as long as he possibly could. “I need to get these damned jeans off you.”

  Feeling as though he was unwrapping a week-old Christmas present just discovered beneath the tree, he tugged her jeans down over her tight little behind and shapely legs. Becky stepped out of the pants and then lifted one slender foot to slide the pile aside.

  She turned back to him and Max caught his breath. She was even prettier than he remembered, and he remembered her as being very pretty indeed. Wearing only her silky peach-colored bra and panties, she reminded him of a pocket-size Venus, all soft curls, warm brown eyes and alabaster skin.

  Before Becky, petite women weren’t what he’d thought of as his type. Elaina had been built much like Becky’s fictional heroine, almost six feet tall and, before she’d gotten sick, generously curved. In comparison, Becky was tiny, and yet her body was perfectly proportioned, tight and toned; her breasts small but lovely, the areolas dusky pink, the nipples pronounced and, if his memory served him, ultrasensitive.

  Determined to take his time, he reached up and traced the outline of her bra with a single finger, drawing a shiver. He buried his face in her cleavage and inhaled her rosemary-mint fragrance in one intoxicating breath. “God, I’d almost forgotten how good you smell, how beautiful you are.”

  She skimmed her soft fingers over his jaw. “You make me feel beautiful. You have ever since I met you.”

  He lifted his head and met her shining eyes and knew she was remembering their sexy night in New York, as he was. That night was many things in his mind, one of them a hell of a lot to live up to. His hands, warm a minute ago though they’d only just come inside, suddenly chilled to ice.

  Becky must have noticed because she reached down and took his hand between her two tiny ones. “We don’t have to do this, you know. If you’re having second thoughts, if you don’t want me—”

  He cut her off with a shake of his head. “Not want you? Are you crazy? I can’t stop wanting you—and don’t act like that comes as some kind of big surprise, either.”

  Since she’d pushed her way inside his front door and back into his life, he hadn’t been able to concentrate on much beyond wanting her. Coauthoring the sexy book day in and day out without being able to touch her was nothing short of torture. If he had to write one more bedroom scene for their fictional protagonists while being denied the very real pleasure of Becky’s body, he’d implode.

  And yet he was nervous, which at first didn’t make sense. They’d had sex before, in New York, not once but several times. Between the dim lights and the drinks and the overall anonymity, the experience hadn’t felt entirely real, which had made it easier for him to give himself up to the sexy, surreal moment. This time was different. This time he knew her name, the way her mind worked, and something of her heart. She wasn’t a stranger anymore or an empty fantasy, either. His sexy Cinderella had become much more to him than a one-night stand and going to bed with her was going to mean something.

  As if reading his mind, she said, “Things were a lot simpler when we were strangers.”

  “Simpler doesn’t always mean better.”

  Rather than say more and risk breaking the mood, he unhooked the clasp at the front of her bra. Her breasts swung free, her dusky-rose-colored nipples already hard for him, which was only fair. God knew he was hard for her. He bent his head and drew one firm bud into his mouth, loving the trusting way she leaned in to him, how readily she peaked against his tongue.

  She let out a low moan, one hand leaving his shoulder to slide into his hair. “Oh, God, Max, you’re torturing me but do
n’t stop. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry, baby. Stopping isn’t anywhere on my mind. I’m just getting started.” To prove it, he bent and tongued her other breast while his thumb played with the nipple that was already warm and wet and hard from the ministrations of his mouth.

  Becky gasped and ran frantic fingers through his hair. “God, Max, it feels so good. You feel so good.”

  He looked up at her. “Not as good as you feel. Sometimes I catch myself staring at you and remembering how wet and tight you felt around me, and I think I’m going to explode.”

  “I know,” she said, her pretty face flushing. “Writing those love scenes, there were times I could hardly keep myself from mounting you there in the office.” She bit her lip. “I can hardly wait to take you inside me now.”

  They’d been stupid, stubborn fools to waste these past weeks. Determined not to waste a moment more, he slid two fingers between her parted thighs and stroked her slit through the moist silk, then bent his head and laved kisses over her mound. Inhaling her musk and heat, remembering the salty taste of her, his mouth watered and his swelling cock thrummed.

  He angled his face to look up at her and slid his fingers inside her panties. “You’re going to have to, for a while at least.”

  She was very wet and very warm, almost scalding. His digits glided inside her, her tight channel closing around him like a fist.

  She gasped and ground her hips into his hand, her curls streaming over her pretty face. “Oh, God, that feels so good, so amazing.”

  “It’s supposed to.”

  Buried deep inside her, he worked his fingers scissors-style, slowly at first and then increasing the tempo. Becky rocked against him, her hips matching his rhythm, her other hand cuffing the back of his neck and urging his greedy mouth to make love to her breasts.

  Like a bowstring drawn tight to the point of breaking, suddenly she snapped back, her body going rigid. “Oh, Max!” She shuddered, her release rolling through her, her tender inner flesh quivering against his cream-coated fingers.

  She pulled back to look at him from beneath heavy lids. “That was so good. I can’t tell you how good.”

  He tucked a silky brown curl behind her ear. “You don’t have to tell me, baby. This isn’t a scene we’re writing. It’s real life. And the best part is I’m nowhere near finished with you.”

  “You’re not?” Her mocha eyes scoured his face.

  “Not by a long shot. Think of this as a really fancy banquet, and we’re still on the appetizer course.”

  Laying his hands on her slender waist, he stood and swung her around, changing places to seat her on the side of the bed. She was such a little thing, so small and light. He’d noticed that the night in New York when he’d lifted her and carried her over to the piano. Sometimes it was hard to fathom that such a tiny woman could have such force of will, such unyieldingly opinions, but over the past weeks he’d come to appreciate that about her, too.

  “Oh, Max.” She rested her forearms on the mattress, slipped off her panties and opened her legs for him.

  Standing over her, he took a moment to appreciate the view. She was drenched, her labia rosy-pink and glistening, wetness leaking from her slit from where she’d come moments before.

  He shucked off his sweater and the T-shirt beneath and then dragged over a pillow and slid it beneath her head. “You can watch me if you like. I want you to watch me.” The thought of her watching while he tongued her brought on a sharp tug of desire.

  Holding her gaze, he went down on his knees on the side of the bed. He buried his head in the sweet spot between her slender white thighs and lapped the cream from her labia, then used his fingers to spread it over her clit.

  Becky moaned. She lifted her head from the mattress. “Max, please, don’t make me wait any longer.” She sat up, then reached for his jeans’ zipper and rolled it down.

  He wasn’t wearing briefs and his swollen cock sprang free, harder and thicker than he’d ever known it to be. When she took him in her hand, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. He reached over to pull open the night table’s bottom drawer and brought out the box of condoms, one of several “supplies” he’d picked up on his last trip into town. At the time, he hadn’t been sure he’d get the opportunity to break the seal on the box, but he was very glad he would.

  He rolled on the prophylactic and positioned himself over her slit, sliding the sheathed tip up and down, a slow, salacious tease. She moaned, “Please,” and arched up to meet him, her hands anchoring her to his hips, her nails grazing him in her eagerness.

  Max didn’t mind. “What do you want, baby?”

  She shifted her head on the pillow and looked up at him with feral eyes. “You know what I want.”

  “Say it, then.” His voice came out as a hoarse command.

  She hesitated. “I want you…I want you inside me. I can’t wait. I don’t want to wait. Oh, please…”

  Max didn’t need to be asked again. He entered her in one smooth, clean thrust, burying himself to the root. Becky cinched her strong runner’s legs around his waist and the pressure of her straining to meet him almost pushed him over the edge.

  Almost. Keeping his distance, keeping his control, he pulled out of her and entered her again, slightly harder this time. She wriggled on her bottom and begged for more, and he got a dark pleasure in going still and making her wait, making them both wait, until they were so crazy for it they wouldn’t be able to get enough.

  “Please, Max.” Her seeking hands slipped from his hips to his backside, her soft fingers kneading his buttocks and then trailing the seam between.

  He arched back and hooked her slender ankles over his shoulders, increasing the angle, the pressure, the pleasure that was almost pain. “Is this what you want, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, God, yes, yes!”

  He pulled out of her and sank hard fingers deeply inside her, searching out the spot he knew would drive her wild. Her sudden soft shriek told him he’d found it. Moisture slid over his fingers and rolled to the inside of his wrist. Taking away his hand, he sank his cock into her once more, her inner flesh so searing he felt sure it would melt the condom.

  “Oh, God, Max!”

  He knew the instant the orgasm hit her, her inner muscles milking him like a small, silk-gloved fist. Max couldn’t take it anymore. He reared back and drove into her, hard and fast, full and deep, her spasms shooting them both over the edge and beyond.

  “Becka!”

  * * *

  “You have some crazy ideas, you know that?” Max said sometime later. They were lying in bed, and Becky had just whispered her next salacious suggestion into his ear.

  It was dark outside and, book deadline or not, they’d been too lazy to get up and switch on a light. She couldn’t make out his face in the shadows beyond the whites of his eyes and the gleam of his grin, but the husky timbre of his voice assured her that in this case crazy constituted a good thing—a very good thing.

  She stroked a hand down the side of his lean jaw and wished to God she didn’t want him quite so much. Never before had she lost such complete control of her body in bed. Could her heart be far behind? “You bring it out in me. No one ever has before.”

  As much as she’d steeled herself to be like Angelina and have sex like a man, with no thought for the future, no emotional investment beyond the moment, putting that plan into play was proving to be a lot harder than she’d expected. The more time she spent with Max, the more she found herself feeling.

  And yet the wound from Elliot’s betrayal was still more scab than fully healed scar. When she entered her next real relationship with a man, she wanted to do so as a whole, healthy, totally together person. She just wasn’t there yet and, until she was, “friends with benefits” was about all she could handle. On second thought, better make that “colleagues” with benefits.

  Determined to switch her busy brain back off and savor the moment as Angelina would, she turned her head to the side and laid h
er cheek against his broad breastbone, the taut skin at once very warm and amazingly smooth. “You’re six foot three and I’m five foot one. That’s more than a full foot’s difference and yet we fit together, don’t we?” From the photograph, his wife had looked to be a tall woman, close to Max’s height.

  He lifted his head from the pillow and looked down at her. “I hadn’t thought much about it, but you’re right. We do fit. I’d say we fit damn near perfectly. We’re good together. Not just this but…well, everything.”

  Uh-oh. Becky held back from answering. She knew Max liked her, certainly he lusted after her, but friendship and sexual attraction didn’t add up to love. And how could he love her or anyone else when he was so obviously still passionately in love with his dead wife? Not only did he keep Elaina’s photograph out on his desk but he kept her snow boots in his hall closet. Who knew how many other mementos were lying about? Even if she were in the market for a committed relationship, she didn’t want to settle for being somebody’s rebound. She’d already spent one afternoon walking in Elaina’s shoes. She didn’t want a future living in the dead woman’s shadow.

  Her dark thoughts must have found their way to her face because he lifted his head from the pillow and asked, “Becky, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  So much for shutting down my mind and living in the moment. She studied the sheet in her hand, avoiding meeting his eyes. “I just don’t want either of us to get too used to this, that’s all.”

  The mattress shifted as Max sat up in bed. “So what are you saying?”

  She edged her eyes up to his. Why the hell did being a grown-up have to be so hard? “Whatever this is, whatever we are right now, it’s a plot twist, and a wonderful one, but the basic outline stays the same.”

  “Casual lovers like we were in New York, you mean? No strings, no…feelings.”