Passion on Park Avenue (Central Park Pact #1)(69)

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she said with a nervous laugh. “You can get back to your football game. I can read or maybe figure out how to do this nerdy puzzle thing . . .”

Oliver slid a hand behind her head, tilting her face up to his.

“Wait,” she said a little breathlessly, placing her hands against his chest when he bent his head toward hers. “I just came over to hang out. I thought we weren’t doing this.”

“I don’t know what the hell we’re doing,” he said, his voice a little lower than usual. “Do you?”

Wordlessly she shook her head, and the hands against his chest moved slightly, going from pressing in resistance to tugging slightly at his shirt until . . .

His lips brushed over hers, teasing, testing, wanting.

Her lips softened beneath his, bringing him in, drowning him in her spicy-sweet cinnamon taste, seducing him with every sexy move against his mouth.

He meant to take it slow—to sate them both with a kiss to take the edge off, but his willpower began to fade the second he got his hands on her.

Oliver wanted this—wanted her—in a way that went beyond physical need.

Since the day he’d met her, she’d gotten under his skin, pissed him off, confused the hell out of him, and he was damn grateful for it. Naomi Powell had brought him back to life, made him realize that he hadn’t died with his mom, or with his father’s diagnosis; he’d just been living that way.

He was thirty years old. He was a man.

And right now, he was a man who needed a woman—this woman.

Her hands slipped under his shirt, her nails digging into his back as he kissed her neck. “You like this,” he murmured against the hollow of her throat.

In response she arched into him further, pressing soft feminine curves into everything that was hard and masculine.

“Tell me to stop,” Oliver said, even as his palm found the fullness of her breast. “Remind me . . .”

He lost his train of thought as Naomi stepped back slightly and, holding his gaze, reached down and pulled the hem of her shirt up and over her head so she stood before him all white skin and plain black bra.

Oliver’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. She was beautiful. Stunning. But that wasn’t what undid him. It was the soft vulnerability in her eyes, the quiet warmth that told him this was more than just about the physical for her, too.

He stayed still too long, because her cheeks began to flush and she started to reach for her discarded shirt.

Oliver’s hand shot out to her waist. “Don’t.”

Slowly, deliberately, he bent his head, bringing his mouth once more to hers as he tugged her closer. Naomi sighed against his lips as his hand glided up her slim back. Her breath caught when his fingers unhooked her bra. She cried out when his hands found her bare flesh.

He was lost. Utterly and entirely gone for this woman.

Oliver bent slightly, scooping her into his arms, the old-fashioned gesture feeling exactly like the right one with this thoroughly modern woman.

He carried her to the bedroom and set her on the bed. He saw something flicker in her eyes, something almost familiar that told him he was missing something crucial.

Then Naomi reached for him, warm and willing, feeling very much like his future.





SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 4

Naomi woke up slowly, registering first that the window had moved. She was lying on her right side, as she usually did, but the window wasn’t where it was supposed to be. She was looking at a bare wall.

And the pillow was different, too. It was warm, and . . . moving.

She froze as Oliver shifted beneath her.

Oliver.

She’d slept with Oliver Cunningham.

Naomi squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the wave of self-loathing, bracing for the onslaught of guilt. What would her mother think?

But . . . nothing came.

For the first time in a long time, Naomi’s primary thoughts weren’t of the past, but of the present. Present Oliver. And Present Oliver, or at least, Last Night Oliver had been . . .

Perfect.

She tilted her head up slightly, wanting to run a finger along the scruff on that sharp jawline but not wanting to wake him up. She liked him with a little bit of facial hair. Liked him without it, too. Liked him in sweats, liked him in suits. Just . . . liked him.

He spoke without opening his eyes. “Why are you watching me?”

She laughed. “That obvious?”

Oliver glanced down, blue eyes soft and a little sleepy. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she said softly.

His arm came more fully around her, and she burrowed closer. She’d never been much of a cuddler, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to get close enough. Maybe because she knew this was likely to be short-lived, because once he found out who she was . . . that she’d been lying.

Claire was right. She had to tell him.

“Hey,” she said softly, dragging her finger in lazy patterns on his chest. “So—”

Oliver groaned just slightly. “Naomi, something you should know about me—I’m no good for talking before coffee.”

A reprieve.

She didn’t know if she was relieved or disappointed.

“Noted,” she said, lifting up slightly so he could slide out of bed. “Never stand between a caffeine addict and his coffee.”