Six… “Uh-oh. He spotted me.” His gaze turned oddly…purposeful. No other word fit the lowered brows and tractor-beam stare. The man was clearly on a mission, and the determination in his expression raised the tiny hairs on her arm. Whatever he wanted, it had nothing to do with a noise complaint. Booker’s voice echoed through her mind from a full decade ago. We can revisit the topic in ten years.
Five… “Don’t assume the worst.”
Four… She downed her champagne, and set the glass on an end table while he shouldered his way through her small, packed living room. Her rapid pulse rushed the bubbles straight to her head.
Three… “I better go.”
Two… “Happy New Year. Call me tomorrow, okay?”
One… “I may only get one phone call. Happy New Year’s, Chels.”
Booker took her phone, hit disconnect, and slipped it into his back pocket at the same time confetti went flying and the room erupted into shouts of “Happy New Year!”
“Hey, give me my pho—”
His mouth crashed down on hers. Strong fingers sank into her hair, and…holy hell. However many years she’d had to envision this moment, one thing became startlingly apparent. She’d failed to adequately prepare for it. Waves of excitement and alarm rolled through her at the realization.
Then again, how could she have prepared for Booker’s kiss? How could she prepare for this much intensity, and all this hunger?
His mouth moved on hers, parting her lips wider, then wider still, and just when she’d gotten a grip on his shoulders and started to make a move of her own, he swept in with long, deep strokes she couldn’t resist. Didn’t want to resist. And he was so sure she wouldn’t he didn’t even hurry, simply kept up the slow, commanding slide of his tongue. She didn’t consider herself the kind of woman who obeyed commands, but he was dragging them somewhere she desperately wanted to go. A place she’d fantasized about for too long. Though it wasn’t smart, or particularly sane, she took two fistfuls of his very nice, very expensive sweater, and held on.
From somewhere nearby, a voice yelled, “Take it to the pub, yanks. First round’s on me.” In a vague recess of her mind, she registered people leaving, calling their thanks as they squeezed past, but she didn’t respond. More urgent priorities demanded her attention. Priorities like the scrape of his rough jaw against her skin, and whisper-soft cashmere covering hard muscles. Her hands found a route under his sweater and raced along his warm, smooth, withstand-anything back.
“Aaand we’re out. Cheers to you. Happy New Year.” The door closed, and she sensed without looking they had the apartment to themselves. Apparently he sensed it too, because the next thing she knew, he’d backed her up against the hallway wall. He pulled his mouth away long enough to level a serious look at her. “Ground rules.”
“Uh-uh.” Rules would require negotiation, and negotiation implied they had more at stake here than rampant lust. In other words, negotiation would ruin this. She wrapped her arms around his neck, came up on her toes, and sank her teeth into his upper lip. He groaned, and slammed his hips into hers. The position pinned her to the wall, and gave her a forceful preview of what he had in store for her. Her body responded with a rush of anticipation guaranteed to send her silk shorts to the dry cleaners along with her champagne-splashed top. Against the lip she’d just abused, she murmured, “Booker, don’t confuse me with one of your well-bred, easily-shocked, country-club girls. I’m not well-bred and nothing shocks me. My only rules are fast, hard, and so filthy dirty it leaves a stain on your soul.”
Chapter Two
Her words put to rest ground rule number one. Express mutual consent. Too bad the accord he sought involved a hell of a lot more than fast, hard, and dirty. He pushed her wild mane of blond corkscrew curls back from her forehead, framed her face with his hands—okay, trapped her—and waited until she looked him in the eye. Hers brimmed with impatience, which made him all the more determined to go slow. “Declining a review of the ground rules constitutes your agreement to everything I’ve got in mind.”
The smart-ass gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look. “My goodness, Sheriff. Are you going to whip out your cuffs and restrain me? Push me up against the wall and give me a thorough frisking?” Her smile returned, sly and defiant. “Should I assume the position while you unholster your big, dangerous weapon?”
Graphic images played in his mind, and challenged his commitment to go slow. Some things hadn’t changed in ten years. She still liked to test the boundaries. He held his ground and returned her cagey smile. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you, Lauralie?”
Her eyes narrowed, and her little nose went up a notch. “Don’t call me that—”
“Shhh.” He pressed a firm kiss against her stubborn mouth. “No rules, remember?”
He used his tongue to sweep the next smart-assed comment out of her mouth. The methodology worked, but took a toll on him, too. He’d dreamed about having her pressed against him like this, and those dreams always proved he had a vivid, masochistic imagination, but nothing his subconscious mind had manufactured came anywhere close to reality.
“You smell like vanilla.” The sweet scent clung to skin that was warmer, silkier, and more sensitive than in his darkest fantasies. Her lips were far more giving, and nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to her taste. He promised himself he’d savor every inch of her before the sun rose.
“Occupational hazard.”
“I like it.”
Slim fingers skidded down the front of his trousers. She moaned approvingly—thank Christ, because his cock had reached zipper-straining proportions and there was no camouflaging it—“I see that you do. What else do you like?”
Before he could answer, sh
e reached lower and cupped his balls. Not a polite, gentle cradling, but a hold tight enough to wring a groan out of him. Then she squeezed, and while a paralyzing mix of pain and pleasure shot through his groin, she managed to undo his belt and unfasten his pants.
Blinking the haze from of his vision, he clamped his fingers around her wrist. “I’ve waited a long time. Don’t even think about rushing.” He caught her other wrist, and pinned her arms to the wall over her head.
Her pent-up breath gushed out against his cheek. He breathed it in, absorbing her through every available means, then banded her wrists in one hand and brought the other down in a long, sweeping caress from the bend in her elbow to the swell of her breast. He loitered there, memorizing the tantalizing curve beneath the spangled top. No bra. The discovery sent currents of need scorching through him, followed by an annoying afterburn of jealousy. Irrational jealousy, he silently acknowledged, as he lifted her breast and let it fall. A million shiny, silver disks shimmered. She bit her lip, and arched off the wall for more of his touch—his touch—but the possessive emotion refused to back off.
“Did you plan to torment every guy at the party with the sight of your tits bouncing around under your shirt, or were you aiming to torment one in particular?” He punctuated the question with a quick slap to the side of the lush swell. She rewarded him with a breathy moan, and an involuntary twist of her hips.