Hot & Bothered (17 page)

She didn't stir from her own seat and a second later the passenger door opened and John's tan-skinned, clean-nailed hand came into view.

“Come on,” he said gruffly.

It never occurred to her to argue. Blinking rapidly in a weak and not very effective attempt to stem the still falling tears and feeling like an idiot, she wiped her cheeks with her wrists. Then she grasped his hand, which immediately closed warm and strong around hers. Reaching a foot out to the concrete floor, she started to scoot forward to allow him to assist her from the car.

Only to be jerked back in her seat by the seat belt that still held her fast.

“Oh, perfect. Poetry in motion.” Blowing out a disgusted breath, she popped the buckle free and allowed Rocket to pull her to her feet. But as if to crown her demoralized state with a fricking wreath of thorns, her nose began to run. She sniffed—quietly she hoped, but fearing, as she rummaged through her purse in search of a Kleenex, that she sounded like some forlorn three-year-old in need of a hug instead. And just where
was
her freaking pack of Kleenex, anyway? God in heaven, was it too much to ask that she locate one lousy tissue? Giving up stealth for the lost cause it was, she sniffed loudly.

“Poor baby,” John murmured, slipping an arm around her shoulders and guiding her across the echoing cement floor of the garage to the elevators. “Give me your key card and we'll have you settled in your room in no time.” He gave her a squeeze. “Once you've had a few hours sleep, I guarantee things won't look so grim.”

Okay, what's that old saying?
She dug the folder with the room card out of her purse and handed it over as they boarded the elevator.
What doesn't kill you makes you strong?
Probably no one had ever died from mortification. It might even have a plus side—when it came to stopping her tears it was sure more effectual than
blinking. Her weeping was down to a few vagrant trickles by the time John stopped in front of a room a few minutes later. He compared its number to that written in the key folder, then quickly opened and held the door for her with one hand while he reached past her to flip on the entrance light with the other.

She walked straight into the bathroom, where she grabbed a tissue from a built-in dispenser and blew her nose. Only then did she shut the door, flip on the light, and take a look at herself in the mirror.

Hoh, boy.
That was not an attractive sight. She never had been one of those women who cried prettily. Turning on the tap, she splashed cool water on her face in hopes of reducing the red blotches from her skin and the puffiness from around her eyes. Since the knowledge of having to walk out into the bedroom, face Rocket, and pretend she hadn't just fallen to pieces like a big blubbering baby hung over her head, she took her time blotting the moisture from her face with a towel. She couldn't put it off forever, however, and finally she meticulously folded the towel and hung it just so over the bar.

Then she squared her shoulders and, lifting her chin, marched out of the bathroom.

John stood with his hands thrust in his jeans pockets, staring out the window—although she wasn't sure what he hoped to see beyond his own reflection since he'd flipped on one of the lamps over the bed and another on the desk. He immediately turned to look at her as she entered the main room. “You okay?”

“Yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall apart on you.”

“Hey.” He shrugged. “You're entitled. It's been a helluva night and you were a trouper.”

It was somehow immensely comforting to hear him
say that. But it also served to remind her why she'd sneaked out on him before their allotted week was up six years ago. He'd been dangerous to her peace of mind then and apparently he was equally so now—and in ways that had little to do with the physical. Their encounter with the knife-wielding boy had reminded her of something she tended to forget—that Rocket was trained in covert warfare. But that neither bothered nor intimidated her. Quite the contrary, his competence actually gave her a feeling of safety.

It was realizing—again—that he was a man she could easily fall in love with that scared her silly, and she came to a stop by the desk, determined to be smarter this time around by keeping her distance.

“There's a minibar,” John said, indicating the armoire at her back. “You want a glass of wine to help you relax? Or maybe a cup of tea?”

Stop being so damn considerate.
Shoveling her fingers through her hair, she held it off her forehead as she shook her head. “No. Thanks. I'm beat. I think I'll just go to bed.”

“Oh. Sure, okay. I'll get out of here then.”

He started toward her and she stepped back, turning sideways to allow him to pass without touching. Fragile as her control felt at the moment she didn't plan to risk having so much as their clothing brush. But as she walked with him to the door she breathed a little easier. It could be a lot worse. At least the awareness seemed to be all hers.

No doubt from all that slow dancing earlier.

He pulled the door open, but paused with his hand on the knob. “I'll pick you up tomorrow morning and we'll check out some of the daytime places the kids use. What time do you want me here?”

“Whenever you say. Is it better to get an early start?”

“Not necessarily.” He looped a long finger beneath a hank of hair that had fallen over her left eye and gently returned it to the mass she'd finger-combed away from her face. Suddenly he was pumping out a raft of pheromones and all the lust that had hummed through her blood earlier this evening came roaring back in full voice. She inched closer.

Then she caught herself and stepped back. “So—” she cleared her throat “—ten then, you think? Or eleven?”

“Let's compromise and say ten-thirty.” He stared at her mouth, then jerked his gaze back to her eyes. “Okay?”

“Yes. I'll be ready.”

“Excellent.” He, too, cleared his throat. “Well. I'd better get out of here so you can get some sleep.” His gaze drifted back to her mouth. “Good night, Victoria.”

She parted her lips to respond and saw something—a flicker of heat in his dark eyes—that wiped away her control. With a sigh she conceded defeat. Reaching out, she gripped his silky T-shirt in both fists. “Oh, to hell with this,” she whispered.

And rising onto her tiptoes, she kissed him.

J
OHN DIDN'T NEED TO LIST WHY
getting involved again with Tori was a bad idea; he'd been categorizing the reasons daily since fate had dumped him on her doorstep. Even so, he was finding the job of resisting the soft, suctioning temptation of her lips rough going.

The discovery was not a reassuring one. But, hey, how hard could it be to resist one woman's kiss? He was Love-'em-and-Leave-'em Miglionni—with more sexual experience than a port full of sailors on shore leave.

The timely reminder kicked some much needed reinforcement around his determination to display a little control. For about fifteen seconds.

Then he caved like a cheap paper plate. Lust roaring through his veins, he bumped the door closed with his hip, thrust his hands into Victoria's hair, and opened his mouth over hers. Licking his tongue over her lower lip, he plunged it into the sweet, slick depths of her mouth. Tongue slid against tongue, and hearing the sharp catch of her breath, he felt like a conquering invader.

But apparently Tori didn't get that she was supposed to be the sexually enslaved one here, and before he could even begin to feel cocky she sent him sucking for a breath of his own by tangling her tongue with his. She loosened her hold on his shirt and reached up to twine her arms
around his neck. Feeling her sweet curves pressed against his body from chest to knees, John lost the last minuscule shred of self-restraint he'd been clinging to.

Whirling them half a step, he slammed her up against the nearest wall, only his hands gripping the back of her head offering some meager protection against its hard surface, and he opened his mouth wider over her lips as his tongue reached deeper. God, he knew these flavors, had never been able to completely erase them from his mind. He knew
her.
And he wanted more of her—
now.
Had to have more.

He leaned into her, pressing her even harder to the wall, and her small grunt of discomfort went through him like a stake.
Jesus, Ace.
He ripped his mouth free and, breathing raggedly, stared down at her. What was wrong with him? He was Mr. Smooth, Mr. I-don't-get-mine-until-I've-made-damn-sure-you've-gotten-yours—and preferably several times. He wasn't some Junior-high Johnny to act like this was the first pair of panties he'd gotten his hands into. He rolled his forehead against hers. “Damn. How suave is this?” Slowly, his heart pounding with disquiet, confusion and unslaked hunger, he straightened to stare down at her.

Victoria blinked at him until here yes began to clear…only to promptly narrow them at him. “You know what?” she said in a husky voice. “
Bite
suave.” Gripping his ponytail at the band with one hand and wrapping her free palm around the back of his neck, she gave a tug, bringing his face closer to hers. “I like you
real,
” she said fiercely and launched the full force of her weight against him.

Caught by surprise, he staggered backward several steps, and this time it was his back that slapped against a wall. Shaking his head, achingly aware he'd never been
caught off guard like this with anyone else, he was blown away anew when she plastered herself against him, rose up onto her toes and rocked her mouth over his. She kissed him with a wild, I'd-kill-to-climb-your-body lack of control that he never in his lifetime would have associated with Victoria—but which hurled him back into memories of that long-ago, too-short week with Tori.

And he was toast.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back with the same feverish desperation. The more she clung to him the more avid his mouth grew, until he felt like a case of spontaneous combustion waiting to happen. Bending his knees, he brought them closer in height and groaned low in his throat when she promptly stepped between his spread thighs, fitting herself to his erection like a lock to a key…if the keyhole happened to come outfitted with a chastity belt courtesy of Levi Strauss.

Reaching for the waistband of her jeans, he surged away from the wall and backed her several steps toward the bedroom while he wrestled with the button. They bumped off the opposite wall and ricocheted off the desk, sending a lamp rocking.

The room seemed to take on the dimensions of a damn football field before he finally felt the mattress stop Victoria's backward progress. She tumbled backward onto the bed, and breathing heavily, he stared down at her. At her streaky brown hair tumbled wildly around her face. At her cheeks flushed with color, and her lips red and swollen from his kisses.

“God, you're pretty,” he said hoarsely.

“Um-hmm.” Stretching her arms above her head with a carnal voluptuousness that caused her entire body to slither against the comforter, she gave him a lopsided
smile. “It's the cry-puffy eyes. They're all the craze in the beauty industry.”

Since swallowing his tongue was hardly the image he wanted to project, he forced the corner of his mouth to crook up in a sardonic smile. “Yeah, cutting edge would be the
first
thing to come to mind to describe you.”

She let loose a deep belly laugh that made his heart clutch and he yanked off her shoes and tossed them over his shoulder. Tugging down the jeans he'd only managed to unbutton and unzip on their samba across the room, he pulled them over her heels and dropped them to the floor. Then he just stared at the tiny, black-lace-over-blond-silk panties he uncovered.

He tore his gaze away to meet her eyes. “Damn, Tori. I want you so bad I can barely walk.”

“Yeah?” Her eyes flared hotly before lowering to his fly. “Lucky for you, there's no need to be ambulatory.” With a sultry little cat-in-the-creamery smile, she pushed up on one elbow and reached for his waistband. Curling her fingers beneath it, she gave a yank.

He went with the flow, laughing as he tumbled down on top of her. Linking their fingers, he swept her arms up over her head and, bodies touching from head to toe, kissed her again, promptly falling beneath the spell she seemed to weave around his senses whenever he got anywhere near those sweet, sweet lips.

He couldn't get enough of her and soon all he could hear was their ragged, accelerated breathing and the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his eardrums. He stroked his chest against her breasts, loving the feel of them flattening and shifting beneath him. A high-pitched little moan purled out of her throat and it was like an incendiary device to the dry tinder that was his control. He
could feel his need spike at every luxuriant wiggle she gave, every breathy sound she made, and he had to force himself to slap a lid on it before he embarrassed himself.

Then she tugged his shirt from his waistband and the lid threatened to blow clean off. Growling deep in his throat, his kisses grew wilder as he felt her hands slide beneath the fabric, bare skin to bare skin. Her spread fingers stroked up his back and his silk T-shirt followed in their wake, bunching up beneath his armpits and in a band around his chest and back. When Victoria made a soft sound of frustration because the material had gone as far as it could go without a little help on his part, he pushed up on his palms.

She jerked on the shirt, and he ripped his mouth free only long enough to let her pull it off over his head. The moment it cleared, he dropped down atop her again and went back to kissing her. But now the fabric stretching from biceps to biceps was the Great Wall of China, keeping him on one side and her on the other, preventing him from touching her as fully as he needed. So when she gave it a tug, he cooperated by raising his right hand off the mattress and allowing her to strip the shirt down his arm.

She left the garment to dangle from his left arm and he shook it free impatiently, sending it winging toward the nightstand. Tori kneaded his shoulders, scratched her nails down the hollow of his spine and around his ribs, before walking her fingers up his sides to his armpits. He shivered beneath her touch and suddenly desperate to feel her hands on his front, as well, he raised up slightly so she could get her hands between them.

She wasn't shy about obliging, promptly threading her fingers through the hair on his chest, where she found his nipples with her fingertips. She flicked them with her nails.

That wasn't a particularly sensitive spot on his body, but it wasn't long before he started thinking about her nipples. Because he remembered them, hadn't forgotten a thing about them. Not their color nor their shape, aroused or otherwise. Most of all, though, he remembered their hair-trigger sensitivity. Fantasies of her bare breasts with their hard, erect little tips pressed against his chest, caught between his fingers or in his mouth began to crowd out every other consideration. He pushed back to kneel astride her.

“You've got on way too many clothes,” he said, reaching for the buttons on her stretchy little cotton blouse.

“Amazing timing. I was just thinking the same thing about you,” she agreed and got in his way reaching for the tab of his fly.

By the time he got her blouse unfastened and pulled off, her fingers had managed to brush his erection through the worn denim fly several times without actually un-hooking or unzipping anything. Gritting his teeth against the hot urge to just arrange her where his body insisted she belonged—flat on her back with her legs in the air—he grabbed her hands and leaned to pin them to the mattress on either side of her head.

She looked up into his eyes, which his position had placed right above hers, then lifted her head to nip his lower lip. Licking away the slight sting, she dropped her head back to the mattress and raised a brow at him. “Now what, Einstein? You just tied up our hands.”

Gaze locked on her face, he rocked back, lowered his head…and used his teeth.

She inhaled sharply and gave him the supreme pleasure of watching her eyes darken from gray-green to olive. “Okay,” she breathed. “That works.”

He peeled both bra straps from her shoulders, then worked one cup with his teeth until an erect rosy brown nipple popped free. Nearly humming with delight, he lapped his tongue over it, pulled back to study the result, blew on it, then studied it some more. When he could have sworn it had grown another quarter inch, he sucked it into his mouth.

She made a strangled sound and arched her back, shoving her breast closer and working the nipple deeper between his lips. “Oh, please, Rocket, please.”

He let her wrists go and pulled her bra free, staring at the offering she thrust up at him. Her breasts were average in size, neither especially tiny nor particularly large. But those puffy little areolae and long, stiff nipples made him crazy. He licked the one he'd just released and plucked the other between his fingers. “Please what, darlin'? Do this?” He pinched his fingers together.

A high-pitched moan sounded in her throat and John grinned. “Oh, man. I could get so used to this.”

She arched beneath his hands. “What?” she asked with breathy inattention. “What could you get used to?”

“You. All naked and hot and at my mercy.”

She stilled midarch and narrowed her eyes at him. “Excuse me? At your mercy?” She uncurled her arms from above her head, blinking with the realization that her hands were free and then laughed in his face. “I know you're a big, strong former Marine and everything, but you aren't even holding me down anymore. So tell me—in what dreamland does that put me at your mercy?”

“That would be the one where I've got my hands on these.” He gave her left nipple a hard suck and lightly tugged on the one between his fingers. Continuing to manipulate it, he lifted his head and grinned at her. “And
he who's in possession of these pretty babies rules, darlin'.” He gently squeezed both nipples and pulled.

Her eyelids drooped heavily and with a long attenuated moan, she rocked her hips up, contracted them deeply back into the coverlet, then thrust them up again.

The cocky smile dropped from John's face. “Damn,” he whispered and let go of one breast to slide his hand between her legs. The crotch of her tiny black and blond panties was creamy with her arousal and it was all he could do not to grab the fragile material in both hands and rip it in two. Instead he slicked a finger down her damp cleft. She gasped and pushed her hips up, but before he had a chance to make more than a single pass, she rallied.

Scissoring her legs, she knocked his hand away and rolled to her knees. “This is getting a little too one-sided.” Her voice was still breathy but her hands, giving his chest a shove, were steady.

John feared “two-sided” might very well be the death of him, but he flopped over onto his back anyway because his curiosity was stronger than any concern about losing control. What the hell. If he came too soon, he'd simply get it up again and finish the job. It wasn't as if rebuilding a hard-on had ever been a problem around her. Folding his hands behind his head, he crooked an eyebrow at her. “John Miglionni, at your service, ma'am.”

“Ooh.” Straddling his thighs, she settled her butt and wiggled. “I like the sound of that.” Leaning forward, she spread all ten fingers over his pecs, staring down at him. “I love your body.”

“I'm pretty damn wild about yours, too.”

“Mine's got flaws, though. But yours…” Dipping down, she kissed the angle where his neck flowed into his shoulder and he clenched his teeth at the feel of her bare
breasts, warm and diamond-tipped, rubbing against his diaphragm. He didn't have the opportunity to do more than stroke his hands down her back before she pushed back up to perch upon his thighs once again.