Can't Buy Me Love (22 page)

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes.” A hundred times she sighed against him, an incantation to pleasure. Her hips jerked as he found a rhythm, and the pleasure was so sharp it hurt and it had been so long.

So long.

She twitched, trying to get closer and get away at the same time.

Nerves all along her feet and up her legs, across her hips, circling her breasts, heated and the sensation was too much. Too much to take, and she grabbed his hand.

“I …” She looked up at him through sweaty bangs and forgot what she was going to say. Stop? Was she nuts?

“Too much?” he breathed.

She nodded, feeling foolish and so turned on she couldn’t think. His lip curled.

“Let’s try this.” He picked her up from the island and set her on her feet. Slowly he turned her so her back was braced against his chest and her hands were spread wide against the colorful Mexican tiles of the island that was still warm from the heat of her body.

His hands slid over her hips, pushing her jeans and her silky pink underwear down to her knees. His hands ran back up to her thighs, the curves of her butt. The pleasure returned, a great wave of it, but without the jagged edges. It just lifted her up and when he pressed against
her back with the heat of his chest, she leaned forward, her head hanging in surrender.

Her hair slipped over her cheeks, a curtain shielding her from the night, the kitchen, the mistakes she was undoubtedly making.

But his breath was a hot wind at the back of her neck.

Again, she felt his fingers between her legs, but he slipped right past the knot of nerves that were too sensitive, to the deep well of her body. His finger slid in and she sagged, caught between him and the countertop, so supported she didn’t even need her legs.

Couldn’t even feel them, really.

“You’re so wet, Tara Jean. So hot. I can’t wait to taste you.”

She cried out at his words, and he put teeth to her neck and she writhed against him.

Another finger joined the first.

Retreated. Surged forward. He lifted her up, holding her tummy in his giant hand so his fingers could get deeper. His thumb grazed her clitoris and she shattered, exploded against his body, and still he kept at her, working her, his fingers finding darker spots, secret places where pleasure was just waiting for someone to find it.

She exploded again, feeling as if her body wasn’t even hers. Wouldn’t be hers ever again. Not the way she knew it. Her skin evaporated and her body flew apart and he didn’t give her a chance to pull herself together, to keep herself in line. There had to be restrictions … limits to this pleasure, to what she’d let him do to her.

But he didn’t seem to understand that. His hand slipped up from her stomach to her breasts, his touch so soft it barely registered in the explosion of pleasure. As if he knew that, as if he were inside her body, he squeezed, he found her nipple and pulled. Sharp and hot, the pleasure started again, a steep incline she had no control over.

“Luc.” She heard the tangled trepidation in her own voice and hated it.

“Shhhh,” he breathed against her hair. “Let me make you feel good. Like you wanted. One more time, Tara.”

He spun her, shifted her, and then, before she could stop him, before she could close her eyes and block out the sight, this big, beautiful man was on his knees in front of her.

His tongue, his fingers, the soft suction of his lips.

She shook her head, the edge coming, the bright expanse on the horizon rushing closer. She lifted her legs, shifted her back, trying to keep a hold of herself, to dull the pleasure to a level she knew, one she was comfortable with. But he controlled her every string like a puppet master.

“I got you, Tara,” he whispered against the electric pulsing center of her body. “I got you. You’re safe.”

Safe? Was he nuts? She opened her mouth to tell him he couldn’t keep her safe. Not really. For her there was no such thing as safe. But he sucked on the hard edge of her clitoris and she shattered.

“Oh!” she yelled and he stood, lifted his hand to cover her mouth. “Oh my God!” The words were muffled against his palm and she tasted the salt of his skin, felt the rough calluses against her tongue, and the sensations grounded her, helped her find the long way back to herself.

In the silence of the kitchen the refrigerator kicked on and she jumped as if a gun had gone off. Despite the languor that floated along her bloodstream, induced by his fingers, his touch and kiss, she turned herself away from him.

His fingers slipped out of her body, and she twitched at their exit. They left a damp trail across her hips and she shook at the earthy reminder.

“You all right?” His breath ruffled the hair at her temple.

He stood behind her, a solid wall to rest against, not that she did. Instead she held herself stiff in the cage of his arms, keeping her distance, too late of course, but she tried.

All right?
she thought and the answer from every part of her body was no. Absolutely not.

Finally, she stepped sideways, her chest heaving, her skin twitching. His fingertips danced over her shoulder, the skin of her neck where her T-shirt had been pulled aside.

She wanted to go home. That was the result of all that pleasure. She wanted to leave him, without a word. Without turning around to see his face.

She was raw. Far too raw to turn and flirt and take off her clothes. Tara Jean Sweet couldn’t keep up the pretense. Wasn’t even sure in this moment what was real and what was part of the act.

Hilarious how adult she’d felt just minutes ago. Reasonable. As though she could handle whatever he was going to do to her because she said so. She was tough. She’d seen every side of the sex coin.

Another one of my stupid theories
, she thought.

Because she’d never seen this coming.

Time stretched on and she couldn’t find the courage to face him. To face what they’d done. As if he could read her regrets and misgivings written on the bones of her shoulder, just under the thin skin he touched, he took his hand away.

She closed her eyes.

Gently, he pulled up her underwear and then her pants, and the gesture was so tender, tears clogged the back of her throat.

She was lying to him. About Dennis. About who she was.

And right now, picking herself up from the shattered remains of her act, of the game she played, raw and
twitching in the sunlight of all that pleasure, she wasn’t even sure who she was.

She heard him shift, felt the air between them cool as he stepped away on bare feet.

“Go.” His voice rough and deep and full of reproach and worry and a thousand other things she didn’t want to turn and see on his face.

She slid past him and ran out of the kitchen.

Sweat burned Luc’s eyes, and cold air froze his lungs. His legs were putty on his skates, his ankles wobbly. Stars sparkled in the corner of his eyes, obliterating the boards in his periphery. But still he worked. He worked. Leg over leg, skating in a line, he shifted backwards. The puck was on a string and the net went by in a blur; still backwards he skated toward center ice. At the crease he spun, lifted the stick, an extension of his arm, his hips—his goddamned dick.

The puck was a rocket, snagged by the high left corner of the net.

He retrieved it. Leg over leg, backwards again.

The sparkles gathered force in the corners of his vision, grew teeth, grew ugly. His head swam, distanced, suddenly from the rest of him. And his legs slowed, his heart lurched.

The boards covered with ads for a local used-car dealership were close and then unexpectedly closer. And then he was in them, hips first. And his stomach was in his throat.

He dropped his stick, shook off his gloves, and pawed at his chin strap—God, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even see past the blinding wall of shine in front of his face.

His head hurt so bad he felt it in his knees. He braced himself against the boards.

“You all right?” The voice belonged to a kid, probably
the same kid Luc had noticed sitting up in the bleachers, watching his workouts. He had a fairly good idea the kid was Randy’s, and since he never got in the way, only watched, Luc didn’t bother to say anything.

“Luc?”

“Fine,” he said, though he knew that he wasn’t, not really.

“You—”

Luc pushed off the boards, skating away from the kid.

Twenty minutes later, exhausted, his blood still pumping hard in his veins, he stepped into the private shower the manager let him use and cranked on the hot water.

Tara Jean was still taking up center ice in his head and that workout hadn’t done anything to take the edge off his hunger for her. The all-consuming, totally humbling desire he had for a woman who had walked away from him.

“Get it together, Luc,” he muttered and grabbed the soap from the ledge. Hot water hit the tiles and erupted in steam, and soon the shower was more like a steam bath and he couldn’t see his feet. His legs.

He turned to face the water, letting the jets hit the sorest of the muscles in his chest, the tops of his shoulders. It ran down his back, over his ass and legs. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and let the water pour over his face. In the dark and the heat, his body hungry, he thought of Tara. The silk of her skin, the perfect weight of her breasts. He thought about the slow suction of her body, the tangy sweet taste of her.

His hand … no, he’d go with
her
hand, soapy and wet, sliding down his stomach, the muscles of his abs, top of his thigh. Part of him felt ridiculous, like a sick sixteen-year-old kid who didn’t have any other outlet. But the rest of him just wanted some relief.

Just wanted Tara.

Giving into the fantasy, he cupped the heavy weight
of his sac, the thick stalk of his dick, and found his rhythm. Gathering speed and steam, imagining Tara Jean’s hands, her breasts. Imagining her on her knees in front of him. Imagining the sensation of driving into her, her mouth, her body.

It was good. So good.

He bit his lip, stroked harder, held himself out, made himself work. But all good things had to end, and he groaned into his bicep where he’d rested it against the wall and ejaculated into the mist. Panting, he rinsed off his hand and wrestled with how hollow he felt. How sometimes masturbation turned the dial way up on his loneliness.

He turned off the water and opened the glass door, letting the cold air smother the steam and raise goose bumps across his skin.

If Tara had her way, this was the closest he’d ever get to her again.

And he couldn’t let that happen.

Monday morning, things weren’t going well for Tara. She hadn’t slept well for the past two nights, her body too aware that the source of all that pleasure was under the same roof. Like some kind of divining rod, she vibrated all night.

Finally at dawn, she couldn’t take it anymore and she dragged herself, exhausted and stressed, out of bed. She stood in front of her closet in a state of total apathy. Too hot for leather. Or jeans. She wasn’t in the mood for anything tight. Or boobylicious. Finally, from the back, she pulled a knee-length pale blue linen skirt with a sleeveless white wrap top.

Are you a nun?
the demon asked, and Tara thought the idea had merit.

She passed Eli in front of the coffeemaker. He poured her a cup of coffee and pushed the sugar bowl her way. “You all right?”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “You seem … edgy.”

Edgy like a Ginsu knife; she could chew through a tin can without a problem.

“I’m fine,” she grunted, and added three heaping teaspoons of sugar to her coffee. Eli chuckled and like a smart man, went on his way.

Outside, the humidity slapped her like a damp washcloth and her mood sunk even lower; the walk to the greenhouse felt like slogging through mud.

The message light on her phone flashed and for some reason, the nature of its blinking seemed foreboding. Malevolent.

That’s just your mood
, she told herself, but she wasted no time dialing her service.

“Hi, Tara Jean, this is Claire Hughes.” Tara’s stomach tied itself into a dozen little knots. Claire Hughes was the buyer for Nordstrom. “I just heard about Lyle’s death, I’m so sorry. Please give me a call to discuss what this means for our meeting.”

What this means?
she thought, staring down into the little holes on the receiver as if they might be able to translate the vaguely discouraging nature of that message.
What this means?

It wasn’t possible that the Nordstrom deal was going to go south. There was no way. She thought of Dennis, of his hand around her throat.

Victoria.

Christ, Jacob.

The blood roared in her ears as she quickly dialed Claire’s number.

“Come on,” she breathed as the phone rang. It clicked,
and she smiled broadly, as if Claire were standing right in front of her.

“Hi, this is Tara—”

“You’ve reached the voice mail box of Claire Hughes. I will be out of the office until Friday, June twelfth. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

“Fuck!” she cried, just before the beep.

“Hi there, Claire,” she said after the beep. For some reason she let her accent have full rein when talking to Claire. She sounded as Southern as catfish when dealing with the woman. Actually, she sounded like her own momma.

That’s right
, the demon purred.
Everyone loves a little sugar
.

“This is Tara Jean Sweet. I just got your message and I wanted to reassure you that Lyle’s death in no way changes our plans for working with you and Nordstrom. I am very much looking forward to meeting you at the end of July.”

Tara Jean hung up and took a big breath. “Nothing you can do about it, Tara,” she whispered, a sad little pep talk. “Not one goddamned thing.”

Tired already, she picked up her coffee and sat down in her chair.

Which erupted in wild, juicy fart noises.

She jerked upright and her coffee, hot and staining, splashed all over her white top.

“What the hell!” she cried, turning to see the plastic bladder on the seat. “A whoopee cushion?”