Against the Odds Page 10

  “Don’t move your hands,” he commanded, having no idea what was driving him now beyond his need to taste more of her. He released her wrists, enormously pleased when she left them as he’d instructed. Dear God he was discovering some things about himself he’d never been aware of…but was too damned intent on having what he wanted to care much at the moment. He drew his hands slowly down her arms, over her shoulders, to her breasts.

  She shuddered hard as he rubbed his fingertips over her protruding nipples. It wasn’t enough. He had to taste them, to feel them between his lips. He plucked open the tiny row of glass beads holding her top together. How quaint and reserved they were. But what he discovered when he parted the soft folds of her top was anything but.

  “Good God have mercy,” he breathed. She wore a demicup bra, with her nipples all but spilling out over the low-cut front. Had she been sitting there next to him at the police lab, across from him at lunch, all demure and proper…with this little piece of sin on underneath? Of course, she hadn’t intended on going to the lab…she’d worn this to come and see him.

  Well, he was seeing it now. Lord, was he seeing.

  “Sir,” she whispered, her voice tight, scratchy. “Please, just the feeling of your breath—”

  Sir. He’d forgotten all about their little game. Would have thought her reminder would have been irritating, unnecessary. It had the exact opposite effect. It only served to jack him up higher, liberated him, in a sense, from analyzing this animalistic response she elicited in him. But there was something even more carnal in combining reality with the fantasy. “You wore this for me.”

  She said nothing.

  So he blew a warm breath across her nipples, making her gasp. “Didn’t you.”

  She nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  “You wanted me to see your nipples grow hard, wanted me to be aware of the effect I have on you.” He dipped his head, drew the very end of his tongue across the engorged tip. She moaned, twitched, but remained still. “Didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she gasped.

  “So soft,” he said, “so sweet. You want me to taste them, don’t you? You know how badly I want to taste them, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes.” The note of pleading should have shamed him. It didn’t. They were both being equally undone by this little scenario that was unfolding between them, and he was well aware she had to know this, too. Just as she knew she could end it at any time. But wasn’t.

  He dipped his head again, drew his tongue more slowly across first one nipple, then the next. He wasn’t even certain who groaned. “Incredibly sweet.”

  “More,” she begged.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I want more. You have no idea the hunger you’ve aroused in me.” He slipped his lips over one pebbled nub, pulled it into his mouth and suckled as she shuddered with pleasure, then helped himself to the other, until her whimpering and moans had his own knees going decidedly weak.

  His fingers twitched with the need to pull her shirt and bra entirely off, get past the bewitching way those soft cups lifted and offered her to him. The rest of him twitched with the need to yank her skirt up and find out if the rest of her was as soft and delicious as her pale white breasts. But in some fogged corner of his mind, her fantasy, her reason for starting this, crept back to the forefront.

  It took considerable willpower, but he edged away from her, took her hands from the wall, and pulled them down in front of her, which served to push her sweet breasts even higher, almost managing to spill them out all together.

  He released her. “Walk up the stairs.”

  She looked honestly confused, her hands lifting to her shirt.

  He shook his head. “Leave your shirt alone. You look beautiful, your breasts are so beautiful, it’s a crime to cover them.” He nodded. “Walk. In front of me.”

  He could see the shiver cross her skin, the thin throb of the vein in her temple. The pulse beat at the base of her throat, which was perfectly pale. She wasn’t nervous then, just as incredibly turned on as he was. It only enhanced the rush he felt, knowing he had her trust.

  She held his gaze a moment longer, then just when he thought she might call a halt to this game after all, she turned and began to climb.

  He stepped right in behind her. “Do you know how hard I am for you?”

  She said nothing, just kept climbing.

  He reached up, traced his fingers lightly down the crease of her buttocks through the seam of her long, slim skirt. She twitched, paused, continued.

  “Are you wet for me?”

  She said nothing, but paused at the next landing when he gripped her hips from behind. He stepped up onto the landing behind her, walked her forward until she was pressed up against the wall, until she gasped when the cool glossy paint on the cement met her bared skin.

  “I said,” he murmured into her ear. “Are you wet for me?” He purposely didn’t press his erection against her, though God knew it took admirable restraint not to.

  “Yes,” she said, quite calmly. “Very wet.”

  “I could take you right here, right now.”

  “Yes,” she said, somewhat less calmly. “You could.”

  “I could push up that skirt of yours, slide right into you, and you’d welcome me. All of me.”

  “Yes,” she said. This time it was almost guttural.

  “Your screams, when I make you come, would echo. Anyone floors above, or floors below, would hear you climax.”

  He felt her breaths began to shorten, her lean body tense. He couldn’t help it, he instinctively shifted his hips forward, pressed every raging inch against her. He barely swallowed his groan.

  He slipped his hands around her waist, slid them up, pulled her back against him, so he could roll her nipples between his fingers, even as their hips were pressed tight against the landing wall. “Is that what you want?” he breathed in her ear. It wasn’t what he thought he’d have wanted, taking her in a bare, cold stairwell, when there was a soft bed waiting for them a mere elevator ride away. And yet what was driving him now was not comfort, not even civility. If she said yes, he’d be out of his pants and buried deep before he could take another breath.

  Just then the squeal of a metal door swinging open just above them ripped through air that moments ago had all but pulsed with sex.

  Neither of them jumped, they both froze. Only the sounds of their heavy breaths disturbed the air, now rapidly cooling. Two men, talking. And they were coming down.

  Tucker spun Misty around, immediately began to fumble with her buttons, but he was hopelessly thick fingered, too worried about her imminent embarrassment to be nimble. As the men hit the stairs leading down to their landing, she took matters into her own hands, quite literally, and drew Tucker into her arms and kissed him.

  He distantly heard the chatter between the two men break off, then an uncomfortable silence as they hurriedly jogged down the stairs past the amorous couple.

  Just as Tucker lifted his head, they both heard the light chuckle as the two men let themselves out at the next floor down.

  Tucker locked gazes with Misty, then they both burst out laughing.

  “Well,” she said, smoothing her hair and rebut-toning her shirt, albeit with a slightly shaky hand. “I’d say we’re off to a smashing start.” She glanced up at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Tucker was still trying to collect himself, assimilate just how rapidly the two of them had let things get out of control. Way out of control. Dear God, had he really been about to take her right here in the stairwell? What if he had, and those two men had come through that door five minutes later?

  Misty’s eyes were dancing, her grin downright devilish. “But we didn’t, and they didn’t,” she said, obviously reading his thoughts. She leaned in, her voice taking on a more Cockney slant. “What’s a little stairwell seduction without the risk, eh, govnuh?”

  Tucker had to laugh. “I’m not sure who’s getting the lessons he
re.”

  She looped her arm through his and they started up the stairs together. “You said you wanted to explore, too. It’s more fun when we’re both entering uncharted ground together, don’t you agree?”

  “Yeah,” he said, unsure he agreed with anything of the sort. They popped out the door at the next landing and he steered her directly to the elevators. “It’s a real rush.” Which was exactly what terrified him. Because it had been. And he thought he might easily become addicted. To the rush. And to her.

  8

  MISTY STEPPED into the elevator, clinging to the insouciant bravado that had gotten her through the inglorious finale of their little stairwell scenario. If she thought too much about where they might have been when those men had come through that door a few minutes later… She leaned forward and pressed the button for the penthouse, hiding the naughty smile that caught at the edges of her mouth.

  Okay, so maybe it wasn’t all bravado. And maybe it had been every bit as outrageously titillating as she’d fantasized something like that might be. And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t all that embarrassed, much less mortified, by their close call. A fact that she attributed more to the man she’d been with, than to any real moxie of her own.

  He’d made her feel…safe. Taken care of. And that had little to do with his mastery of his role…and of her. With him the adventure hadn’t been ridiculous. It had been highly erotic. She rubbed at her arms, thinking of what might lie ahead.

  “Cold?”

  She shook her head. The last word she’d use to describe any part of her at the moment was cold. “I’m fine.” Fabulous, amazed, in awe of what we almost just did. A quick glance told her he was thinking similar thoughts. He had quite the wicked twinkle in his eye.

  There were three other people in the car with them, but even with the primal thrill of what they’d just been doing to one another still coursing through her blood, she didn’t dare push him—or herself—to test any other boundaries. Not public ones anyway. She’d pushed that envelope quite far enough for one day. Not that it diminished the tension in any way. He stood so near, she swore she could feel the heat pumping off of him. Or maybe it was just her.

  To have him that close, know what it felt like to have his hands on her, his mouth on her…and not be touching him now…. She surreptitiously rubbed her thighs together to assuage the throb that pulsed there. It only managed to make it worse.

  Just then she felt his fingers brush against her thigh. They crept up, slowly, until they teased the tips of her fingers. She glanced at him, but he was looking straight ahead, expression fixed in the standard elevator stare. They might as well have been complete strangers.

  Except for what he was doing to her hand, slow strokes up and down her fingers, a light brush across her palm with his thumb. He toyed with her, almost, but not quite weaving his fingers between hers, almost but not quite pressing his palm to hers, light little brushes along her thigh all the while. Misty had never really thought about how erogenous hands could be…at least not on the receiving end. If she hadn’t been so caught up wondering how those hands would feel doing similar things to the rest of her body, she might have made some mental notes for future scenes in her book.

  But creating fiction was the last thing on her mind at the moment. Doing. That’s what was on her mind. Experiencing. Submersing. Hell, wallowing. The elevator car paused several floors below the top and all three people got off. As the doors slid shut, Misty felt a spurt of anticipation at what he would do to her now that they were alone. But as the car climbed upward, he did nothing, other than what he had been doing for the past twenty floors.

  It occurred to her then, like some great epiphany, that maybe he was waiting for her to do something.

  I try something, then you try something. Isn’t that how we figure out what we want?

  Well, hadn’t she been the one to drag him into that stairwell? Of course, she had to admit he’d taken it from there. And quite amazingly well, as it so happened. But then the car pulsed to a stop and the doors slid silently open.

  “Well,” she breathed. “We’ve arrived.”

  “So we have.”

  Suddenly flustered and feeling a bit ridiculous about it, she stepped out of the car and away from him, digging in her purse for her room card. She supposed she should be happy to even still have her purse. It could have slid off her shoulder at any time back in that stairwell and she doubted she’d have noticed.

  She finally spotted the card and pulled it out with a sound somewhat like that of a person who’d just hit the jackpot. Catching his amused smile, she had to smile herself. “I know, it’s silly to be so disconcerted…considering. Isn’t it?”

  She stepped over to her door and slid the room key in the slot. Tucker’s hand came around from behind her to cover hers as she pulled the card free.

  “You know, we can just order up a meal, or look at the view,” he said. His breath was warm along her neck, his body so close, so willing. She already knew what it felt like beneath her hands. Strong, hard, a supple flex of muscles. And he was all hers. All she had to do was—

  “We—we just ate,” she said, knowing she was stalling, knowing he’d let her. “Although it feels like it was hours ago we were at that café.”

  “Time doesn’t seem to measure itself by normal standards when I’m with you.”

  She turned a bit, took his hand and turned it over, folded her fingers between his. “The reason I wanted to come straight here earlier, was because of that.”

  He tugged the handle of her door, pushed it open, backwalked her into the marble foyer, not even glancing beyond her to the elegant Italian design. As always, his attentions were focused exclusively on her. She wondered if he had any idea what an aphrodisiac that was, then figured he must. For him this was merely an exciting interlude, and he was certainly going to do everything he could to maximize its potential. After all, she was doing the same thing.

  Except…

  “I didn’t want to go to lunch first, because I didn’t want to get to know you better,” she blurted as he moved her smoothly up against the foyer wall.

  He paused, his hand halfway to her face. She almost whimpered when he lowered it again. Fool, she castigated herself. Why couldn’t she just go with the flow, why did she always feel compelled to open her mouth and let spill forth whatever was in her mind? This wasn’t the sort of lapse in decorum she’d wanted to indulge in.

  “And you didn’t think bringing me here, being intimate with me, was going to do that anyway?” He may have let his hand drop to his side, but he didn’t move out of her personal space. He spoke calmly, that ever-present amusement still threading through his words, but there was an intensity vibrating between them as well.

  Don’t blow this, Misty. He’s your best chance ever, so don’t go ruining it. “There’s a difference between sex, even hot sex, and intimacy.”

  “Ah,” he said, the smile fully surfacing. The intensity didn’t diminish however. If anything, it grew. “The upper crust accent returns.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that. He was entirely too sensitive to her quirks for only having been around her so briefly.

  “So, you wanted anonymous hot sex, then,” he said. “You want me to be your fantasy lover, do all the things you feel are forbidden to you with your regular lovers-who-have-names-and-backgrounds.”

  “I know your name, your—”

  “Rank and serial number.” When she looked confused, he said, “The bare essentials. At most, that’s all you know about me. That,” he moved closer, but didn’t touch her body with his, “and that I can make you want me.”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice tight with that very want, “you can.” She tried not to tremble when he finally lifted his hand, only to toy with the ends of her hair. She wanted more. Much, much more. “Is it so bad, being a fantasy lover? I know I might not fill your bill in that respect—” She broke off when he laughed in her face.

  He braced his hands on eithe
r side of her head, grinning. “I don’t know that I have a fantasy lover…never really wasted time with that.” He moved closer, until he was pressing lightly against her, slid his hands down the wall until his arms were braced beside her head, his own mouth hovering dangerously close to hers. “But I can tell you that you’ve already done things to me that no one else ever has. In fact,” he breathed, dipping in to kiss the corner of her mouth, “I’ll lay awake at night for sure, replaying every second of what we just did in that stairwell.”

  He kissed the other corner of her mouth and dammit, she whimpered when he lifted his head without taking more.

  “So then?” she managed. “Why don’t we live the fantasy, as they say.”

  His mouth curved again, only there was something harder there this time, less gentle than she’d seen in him before. “Leave the real world out of it, you mean? Okay, sure. Why not? Pretend I’m whatever you want me to be. Butcher, baker…Indian chief.” He dipped his head again and she read his intent clearly this time.

  She stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Wait. I didn’t mean to insult—”

  “No insult taken. But enough chitchat, right? Let’s get down to it.” He took her chin with definite intent, and angled his mouth over hers. There was no dancing this time, no teasing. He simply took.

  And damn if he didn’t make her want to take him right back. His tongue forged into her mouth like a hot brand, and there was nothing experimental in the way he went about seducing hers into doing the same. He didn’t grind his hips into hers as she’d expected. Nothing so obvious as that, and yet the mere fact that he wasn’t touching her except where their mouths mated was far more insidious to her self-control. Her hips pushed forward, seeking, her thighs felt molten, barely able to sustain her weight. The deeper he took the kiss, the more she wanted to claw his clothes from his body, pull him to the floor. Or just wrap her legs around his waist and—