It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(84)

It was thrilling. Deliciously sweet to do such a thing to this man.

Sweat broke out on his forehead as he felt the gentle tug of her mouth. He was abandoning all his principles, all his resolutions, and at that moment, he didn’t care. The only commitment he’d made was to himself, and he could work that out later.

Through his raging excitement, he observed the tender, vulnerable curve of her neck. Many women had served him in this way, so why did this time seem so different? And it was different. There was a sweet ineptitude about that soft, warm suction that thrilled him even as it mystified him.

He caressed her hips, clenched her cheeks as his passion drove him higher. A dim internal voice pointed out to him that she wasn’t doing it exactly right. Logic said she should be a pro at this, but the sweet awkwardness of that soft mouth defeated logic.

He stroked her hair, and a fierce wave of tenderness swept through him. Without planning it, he found himself drawing her up. Regardless of how she looked, how she dressed, how she behaved—regardless of his own raging need and every single damning thing he knew about her, he couldn’t take her like this. She deserved something better from him than a mile-high pop in an airplane john.

“No,” she whispered, and he saw something both bereft and bewildered in her amber eyes that tore his gut apart.

He kissed her lips and lost himself in that swollen mouth. She sobbed his name, shuddered, and he understood she had slipped past reason. Setting aside the violent demand of his own body, he stroked her with a deep and gentle movement of his hand. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, and the sound of those short, frenzied pants nearly drove him over the edge.

“Phoebe, darlin’, you’re killing me.” With a hoarse exclamation, he plunged his tongue into the moist recesses of her mouth. When she shattered, he swallowed her cries.

She fell against him, her body limp and vulnerable, the nape of her neck moist with soft blond tendrils clinging to it. He felt her chest heave as she tried to draw breath. She attempted to slide her thighs together. At the same time, she shuddered, and he knew she wasn’t done. He couldn’t leave her like this, and he stroked her again.

She climaxed almost instantly. She gasped for breath and then began to tremble, signaling that her need still wasn’t satisfied. He resumed his stroking.

“No. . . . Not without you.”

At the sound of her soft, whispered wail, he ached to drive himself deep inside her. Nothing was holding him back. At that moment he couldn’t even picture Sharon’s face. And Phoebe was a curvy, buxom, good-time girl, custom-designed by God for just this kind of romp. Of all the women he’d ever been with, this one should have been the last to give him scruples. Instead, she seemed to be giving him the most.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to accept the fact that he couldn’t finish this. Phoebe was too lost in passion to think straight, so he would have to do it for her.

“I don’t have anything with me,” he lied.

She slid her hand up his thigh, touched him. “Could I . . .” She tilted her head, looked at him, and the uncertainty in her eyes cut through him. “Maybe I could do the same thing to you.”

Her throat spasmed as she swallowed, and those eyes, as uncertain as a fawn’s, undid him. He simply couldn’t let this go any farther. Painfully, he fastened his slacks.

“It’s all right. I’m fine.”

“But . . .”

He looked away from her wounded eyes. His hands weren’t altogether steady as he slipped her sweater back down over her breasts. “Everybody in the front of the plane should be asleep by now, but maybe you’d better slip out first, as soon as you finish putting yourself back together.”

She struggled with her slacks, rubbing against him with every movement. When all her clothing was back in place, she looked up at him. “How do you do it?” she asked quietly.

“Do what?”

“Act so hot, and then turn so cold.”

She believed she’d been rejected. Even though he’d tried not to, he knew he’d hurt her. “Right now I’m about ready to explode,” he said.

“I don’t believe you. What is it Tully calls you? ‘Ice’?”

He couldn’t fight with her, not after he’d seen how vulnerable she was, and he could only think of one way to heal the hurt. He gave an elaborate sigh and managed to sound annoyed. “It’s starting again, isn’t it? The only time the two of us aren’t arguing is when we’re kissing. I don’t know why I even try to be a good guy with you because it always backfires.”

Her lips were still swollen from his mouth. “Is that what you were doing? Being a good guy.”

“About as good as I’ve ever been. It doesn’t come naturally, either. And you know what? You owe me for it.”

“I what?” Those amber eyes weren’t defenseless any longer. Just as he’d intended, they had begun to flash sparks.

“You owe me, Phoebe. I was trying to show a little respect for you.”

“Respect? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it called that.”

The sarcasm in her voice didn’t quite hide her hurt, so he kept pressing. “That’s exactly what it is. And as far as I’m concerned, you just now threw that respect right back in my face. Which means you owe me what I didn’t get in here, and I plan to collect.”