Breathe for Me(9)

“He didn’t want it back?”

“No.”

“And you still want to wear it?”

She couldn’t bring herself to take it off. But that truth didn’t work well with the tale she was telling. “It’s useful.”

He took a moment, then leaned closer. “Stops guys trying it on?”

She swallowed, looking down—away from his piercing gaze. She couldn’t maintain the fiction when he looked at her like that.

“You want them to think you’re taken?” He pushed it.

She shrugged, pretending she didn’t care what guys thought.

“You got hurt?” His voice had dropped to a lethal whisper.

Startled, she glanced back up at him. It wasn’t pity in his eyes. It was hotter than that—protective. Like he was about to go beat the crap out of who ever it was who’d thrown her over.

She didn’t want that either. Definitely not.

“No,” she lied. Even though she sensed he knew it was a lie. “Actually, I keep it as a trophy. In fact, I have a drawer full. I like to change the ring depending on what I’m wearing.”

Something sparked in his face, a glimmer of amusement. “But you still want to keep men at bay.”

“Fine.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to get involved with a man at this time in my life.” And that was the truth.

He stepped closer and she instinctively pressed her back against the cool door. It didn’t cool her any.

He smiled at that. “Are you sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“Not wanting to get involved. Seems to me you might want to be a little involved.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The way you look at me.” He let go of her and only to trace the tip of his finger along the strap of her swimsuit—down her shoulder towards her chest.

“I—”

His finger was warm, gentle. The lightest of touches. Yet she felt it branding through her flesh to her bones. Melting them.

“Don’t deny it or I’ll have to prove it.” He angled his head and lowered his gaze, watching the path of his finger and its effect on her body.

Oh my, the man exuded sensuality, confidence, and warmth. And she’d come over all moth to his flame.

“How would you try to do that?” She could barely ask she was so breathless.

His brows did a little flash-dance. “Look at you, your mind whirring overtime, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “You got a good imagination?”

It seemed she did—because right now her mind was coming up with all kinds of options.

His finger traced lower, still gently marking the edge of her swimsuit above her breasts. She shivered as a moment of fantasy was realized. Her nipples were so tight. Needy. She wanted him to go lower—to touch them. She wanted him to bend and put his hot mouth on them. To take that one step closer and press his body against hers. It was insane—to want this stranger so badly.

He noted the heat flooding her cheeks. “You do,” he nodded. “That’s good to know.”

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Couldn’t say no. Or yes. Lust like this hadn’t happened to her before. Sure, she’d had friends tell about meeting a random guy they just had to bang and didn’t really give a damn about otherwise. Where instant chemistry was all it was. And it wasn’t that she was a prude or afraid of sex. It had just never happened to her. Not ‘til now.

And she wasn’t ready. Not when it was this overwhelming.

“Isn’t it a good thing Superman isn’t real,” he murmured, his finger slowly sliding back and forth along the uppermost curves of her breasts.

“Why?” She could hardly concentrate on what he was saying with that gentle, rhythmic, repetitive touch. Each slide grew a little firmer, each slide made her want more. Her internal mercury soared, her muscles softened, yet energy coiled deep and low in her belly. She wanted to move—closer.

“You can get involved with him and not break your rules.”

“Because?”

“He’s not real. Just… fantasy.”

Her lashes lowered, his torso filled her vision. Fantasy?

“You sure you don’t want to take a dip?” he asked. “You’re looking like you’re feeling the temperature.”

“I’m fine.” She swallowed—her throat parched, her limbs heavy, achy, needy.

“It’s a very hot night.”

It certainly was. If he kept up with those little touches she was going to get overexcited. Hell, she might actually come. How was that possible?

“I need to…” she couldn’t finish her sentence. She held her breath, trying to slow the insanely quick build of excitement in her body.

“Need to what, sweetheart?”

She wasn’t a sweetheart. And she wasn’t the kind to do this. “I need to—” she broke off.

“Get wet?” He smiled. “Come swim with me.”

Oh that was so much more than an innocent invitation. And it hit her like a cool breeze—pulling her back from the brink.

“There isn’t room in that pool for the both of us.” Her chin lifted as fear enabled her to regain some control.

“It’s not the biggest pool,” he nodded. “But I think we could make do.”

“I…” She couldn’t. She wanted to but she couldn’t—it wasn’t the offer but the venue. She couldn’t get in that water.

She was so stupid. The guy was sex on a stick. He was offering and if she had any kind of spine she’d be taking. Because maybe this could be exactly what she needed? Some fun? Something meaningless to get her back into the social side of life? Because she wasn’t doing meaningful. Not that this guy would ever offer that anyway. She had the feeling he was all about easy. This ought to be easy.

But her response to him was too intense. The things she was thinking? About letting him do? Wanting him to just go right ahead and—

“What do you want?” he asked.

She stared, watching his pupils widen, darken. Potent. But she couldn’t answer his question. Couldn’t reach out and take. Because that buried part of her knew she shouldn’t. He might only offer casual, but he still had that protective thing going. And she really didn’t want that.

Slowly he leaned forward, still bracing his arm against the door at her back. His marauding finger dipped into her cleavage, the merest inch. Unable to move, breathe, think, she watched him come nearer, until he loomed so large in her vision she was overwhelmed. Her eyelids lowered. His lips caressed her collarbone—the touch setting off sparks under her skin, the flickers zooming along her veins deep inside.

The last time a guy had kissed her it had been filled with love. This was out and out lust and nothing but. Vastly different. But different was good.

And this was so, so good.

Boneless, she sank all her weight back against the door, her head falling to the side, wordlessly allowing him closer. He kissed along her shoulders and then down to the swell of her heavy breasts just above her swimsuit. Both his hands were at her waist now. Big hands. Strong. She shivered as he slid a broad palm over her swimsuit, sweeping around to her butt. A spear of desire shot deep into her womb. She put her hands on his chest to steady herself. To touch. His skin was wet but warm and the muscle beneath so damn hard. Pure strength, power, and masculinity and she could only soften, dampen, heat in instinctive response. Her hand swept—seeking more of that heat, that strength.

Still he kissed—feather-light, fast brushes of hungry lips swept over her skin. Her breasts tightened. She was achingly aware of his hand now at her upper thigh. His fingers stroked gently, teasing, so nearly breaching her swimsuit. Insane as it was, she wanted to feel skin on skin. To have him stroke and slide where she was wet and aching and empty. Her sex clenched. Wanting him.

But she couldn’t rock closer into his hand. Couldn’t moan the way she wanted. Couldn’t beg. It was too fast, too crazy. She shivered as his mouth neared her nipple. She struggled to breathe, panting in fast, quick bursts. But as his mouth reached its target she gasped. His fingers slid beneath the leg of her swimsuit.

Instinctively her hips jerked. She cried out.

More. She needed more.

A loud thumping reverberated through the door she was leaning against. Chelsea nearly jumped out of her skin. She pushed out of his suddenly loose arms. She turned to see someone coming through the door. Terry—the night manager.

Superman was swearing something blue beneath his breath.

“Sorry Xander, it’s closing time,” Terry said with a smile. “Rules are rules.”

Chelsea didn’t linger to listen to the banter. She didn’t stop to grab her towel. She just fled.



Frustrated as hell, Xander watched her go. He glared at Terry, the urge to shove the guy out of the way ripped through him. He held still by sheer force of will.