Now You See Her Linda Howard(46)

Just the thought of him caused a small spurt of warmth deep inside. That's the ticket, she thought. Just think of Richard. She had thought about him incessantly the day before, constantly replaying those remarkably carnal moments in his arms. The fact that they hadn't had sex was a tribute to his self-control, not hers, and she was still astounded at herself, astounded at the heat that had poured through her, the blind physical drive for fulfillment. She had never experienced that before, and now that she had, she was no longer so certain of her ability to keep their relationship platonic.

She snorted into the cup of coffee. Who was she kidding? They hadn't consummated their relationship, but it was far from platonic. All these years she had felt so smug about her imperviousness to sexual temptation, but with one look Richard could get inside her defenses and have her insides jumping around. Face it, she thought. With Richard, she was a pushover.

Shivering, she looked at the clock. How much longer would he be? He should be here any time.

Her shoulders were hunched against the cold, but abruptly she straightened, her eyes going wide. She shot out of the kitchen chair and raced for the bathroom. Hastily she rinsed her mouth with mouthwash, then grabbed a comb and attacked her hair, which stood out from her head like a bush.

Her efforts only made it wilder. She threw down the comb, squirted a dab of something that was supposed to control the frizzies into her hand, and rubbed it over the worst spots. Makeup? Should she put on lipstick? She stared at herself in the mirror, wondering what shade looked best on blue lips.

Perfume, maybe. Damn it, she didn't have any.

"Oh, I've got it bad," she whispered. Here she stood, shivering so hard she was beginning to hurt, worrying about makeup and perfume. In horror, she realized she was prettying up.

The doorbell rang. Hurriedly she wiped her hands and ran to the door. Her teeth were chattering as she jerked it open. "I've lost my mind," she told him grimly, walking into his arms. "I'm freezing to death, and I was worrying about lipstick. Then I opened the door without checking first. This is all your fault."

"I know," he murmured, lifting her off her feet and stepping inside. He hugged her tight, helping her brace against the shudders that wracked her. She buried her face against his neck, seeking to breathe in his warmth, and her nose was so cold he jumped. An exuberant curl tickled his lips as he turned and locked the door.

"It isn't as bad today. I c-c-called you as soon as I got up." Since she'd lost control of her teeth in the middle of the sentence and they'd done their castanet imitation again, her statement wasn't as believable as it could have been.

"Good." He carried her to the couch. "Where's the blanket?"

"On the ch-chair in my bedroom."

He set her down. "I'll get it."

He was back in seconds, guiding her to lie down on the couch and lying down beside her, then gathering her full length against him and covering them both with the blanket. Then he sat up again and shucked his lightweight crewneck off over his head, carelessly dropping it to the floor; then he lay down beside her and tucked her hands between them, warming them on his torso.

His skin felt hot against her cold fingers. He put his hands on her back and pressed them against her spine, and she shuddered with relief as his heat began sinking into her. "It's already easing," she said against his throat, feeling her tight muscles slowly relax as a sense of profound well-being spread through her. She breathed in slowly, deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of him. He smelled warm and musky, undeniably male. The aroma of testosterone, she thought, and smiled to herself.

"Better?" he asked. His voice was low, deeper than usual. The bass notes reverberated under her ear.

"Mmm. This wasn't bad at all."

"Because you didn't wait." His lips brushed her ear, moved over her temple. His hand slowly stroked down her back, urging her even closer. Their legs tangled, and one hard-muscled thigh slid between hers.

Her breath caught as she felt his erection. "I can't keep calling you over to get me warm," she murmured. "This is too tempting."

"You're telling me," he said ruefully. She felt his lips curve against her temple as he smiled, then he pressed another kiss there. He smoothed her curls back, gently traced a fingertip around the sworl of her ear. "I couldn't take a repeat of yesterday. If I'd had to take your clothes off today, I'd be fucking you right now."

His voice was low and intimate, impossibly tender. The graphic promise invoked a breathtaking image, making her loins clench with almost unbearable anticipation. She couldn't protest, not when she wanted nothing more than for him to do exactly what he had said. She slipped her hand around his bare back, feeling the strength of the muscles there and the way they tightened under her touch. "I want you to," she whispered, unable to pretend, as if he didn't know exactly how she reacted to him. He had known from the first, before she was willing to admit it to herself.



His entire body flexed and surged, pressing her hard into the couch. His thigh wedged higher between her legs. A ragged breath shuddered out of him. "I feel like a teenager making out on the living room couch. I'd forgotten how damn frustrating it is."

Sweeney brushed her lips over the underside of his jaw. She was inexperienced, but not naive or ignorant. There were several ways they could satisfy each other, without actually having sex, and the temptation was strong to suggest one or more, or all. She didn't. Not only did she doubt her willpower would stand the test, but to do so seemed like cheating—getting off on a technicality, so to speak. It would be delicious, and wonderfully satisfying, and wrong. Until his divorce was final, it was wrong.