How to Trap a Tycoon (45 page)

"
New England
?"

She nodded. "Some of the positions even come with tenure."

"
New
England
?"

"And good pay."

"
New England
?"

"But they're all positions teaching popular culture or media studies," she finally revealed with a grin of her own, putting him out of his misery. His answering smile was tinged with more than a little relief. "And I don't want to teach those things," she added unnecessarily. She snuggled close to him again. "Frankly, I've had it with popular culture. Not to mention the media. I want to teach, yes, but I want to teach sociology. Nobody seems to think I'll be able to do that with any sort of academic effectiveness. They really can't seem to separate me from Lauren. I don't know what I'm going to do for a job."

"Why don't you write?" he asked.

She groaned. "Oh, please, Adam, that's what got me into trouble in the first place."

"Yeah, but that's because you were trying to keep Lauren separate from Dorsey and you had to use deceptive practices to do it. Now that everybody knows Lauren Grable-Monroe is really Dorsey MacGuinness, you could write as yourself."

"But write what?"

He pulled back again, and she tipped her head back to meet his gaze. "How about publishing your dissertation?" he said.

She laughed. "Yeah, right. Nobody wants to read a scholarly, sociological treatise on stuffy old-boy men's clubs as microcosms for a male-dominated society."

"They would if you rewrote it and threw in some pot-boiling sensationalism and gave it a catchy title like
Bottoms Up: My Secret Life as a High Society Serving Wench
."

"Oh, no you don't," she said. "I don't want Lindy Aubrey hiring those guys from the South Side, no way."

"As long as you don't identify anybody by name…"

"No," she said adamantly.

"You can still write about sociology," Adam said. "Just dress it up as popular nonfiction the way you did with
How to Trap a Tycoon
."

"But—"

"And you could still teach, too," he added enthusiastically, "in a manner of speaking. You could make public appearances the same way Lauren did."

"That wasn't teaching," she pointed out.

"The hell it wasn't," Adam countered. "I saw you in action as Lauren, remember. If she wasn't up there on that stage at Northwestern giving a sociology lecture, then I don't know what she
was
doing."

"Yeah, but, Adam—"

"And you'll never convince me that a part of you didn't like being Lauren," he barreled on. "Because you were too good at it, too convincing. And that could only be because you tapped into something inside you that had been there all along."

"Maybe," she conceded. "But still—"

"And there was something of Mack in all this Lauren business, too," he added further. "There was more than a little bartender advice and wisdom in that book and those talks."

She eyed him suspiciously. "How do you know it was in the book?'

He grinned crookedly. "I read it," he confessed with a shrug. "I thought it was really good, too. You have an interesting way of looking at the world, Dorsey, not to mention a very sharp wit. Oh, and I intend for us to get around to that crème de menthe thing very soon."

Dorsey had never thought of Lauren the way Adam had just presented her, but a lot of what he had just said made a strange sort of sense. As often as she had complained about Lauren, there had been times when she had genuinely enjoyed herself in that guise. Lauren was saucy and sassy in a way that Dorsey had never felt she should be for fear of not being taken seriously. And Mack, too, had been different from Dorsey—more social, more outgoing, more comfortable with strangers. She'd never allowed that side of herself to emerge fully, because it hadn't seemed scholarly. But mix it all up and stir it together, and what resulted was, well … Dorsey, she supposed.

Her head was starting to hurt with all the self-analysis and self-discovery, and she really didn't want to think about all this right now. Not when she had Adam back in her arms. Not when she could make plans—real plans—for the first time where he was concerned. Not when something seemed to be going right after so much had gone wrong.

"Over the last several weeks," Adam continued, oblivious to her focus on
them
instead of
her
, "you've only seen the media as some vicious, hungry beast. But I think maybe what you need to do, career-wise, is approach the media from a different angle. Or maybe," he said further, with a cryptic little smile, "the media needs to approach you."

She eyed him curiously. "What do you mean?"

He studied her with much interest for a moment, as if he was mulling over something of grave importance. Then, very thoughtfully, he said, "Dorsey MacGuinness, I'm going to make you—all of you—an offer that none of you can refuse."

She arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Later. Right now, I have a much more important question to ask."

"What's that?"

He grinned
very
suggestively. "Is it true that these study carrels are soundproof?"

She grinned back. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Mm," he replied, clearly unhappy with her response.

"Why do you ask?" she said, already knowing the answer.

"Well, I couldn't help but notice that you're not wearing any shoes."

Okay, so maybe she didn't know the answer, after all. "My, uh … my boots were soaked by the time I got here. I set them over by the radiator to dry out." Then, because she couldn't stand it, she asked further, "Why do you ask?"

Instead of answering, though, Adam continued to look thoughtful and posed another question of his own. "Well, if the study carrels aren't soundproof, do they at least have locks on the doors?"

"Noooo," she told him, still not quite certain where he was going with this line of questioning.

"Will that counter hold both our weight?"

Oooh
. Okay. Now she knew where he was going. Boy, 'bout time, too. But she replied, with much regret, "Probably not."

Clearly undeterred, Adam asked, point-blank, "Ever made love in one of these things?"

"Um … not yet."

"Feel like conducting an experiment?"

"Only if it's for the furthering of my education."

He chuckled. "Oh, Dorsey, the things we can teach each other."

Her laughter joined his. "So what are you waiting for?"

Nothing, as became evident immediately. Because before Dorsey had even completed the question, Adam was tucking her right back into his embrace and lowering his head to hers. This time his kisses were less leisurely than before. This time there
was
hunger, demand and intensity. This time, there would be no retreat for conversation. This time, they would brand each other for life.

Life
, Dorsey echoed faintly to herself as she got more and more lost in his kiss. She could hardly wait for that life to begin. Then Adam deepened his kiss even more, tasted her to the very depths of her soul, and she thought
, Um, yeah, okay, I guess I can wait just a little while…

Then that thought, too, faded easily away, because, quite frankly, her brain was the last body part she wanted to be using at the moment. Lifting her hands to his hair, she threaded her fingers through the silky tresses, recalling quickly how much she loved doing this, how good it felt to pull him closer, how very possessive she could be where he was concerned. Adam seemed to sense her thoughts, because he looped his arms around her waist and splayed his hands open over her back to push her body flush with his own. It was an exquisite feeling, touching every inch of his body with every inch of hers, and she reveled in the realization that she would be able to do this forever.

But forever could wait a bit, too, because Dorsey couldn't. Neither could Adam, evidently, because as he pressed upon her—into her—one particularly soulful kiss, he moved a hand forward to curve his fingers unapologetically over her breast. A keen heat shot through her at the contact, and she gasped as she tightened her own fingers in his hair. In response, he, too, clenched his hand tighter, more resolutely, over her, and she was helpless to halt the moan that arose from some deep, dark place inside her.

"Again," she managed to murmur, and immediately Adam obeyed. Several times, in fact.

Without even thinking about what she was doing, relying on simple reaction now, Dorsey dropped a hand to the button of his blue jeans and punched it through its mooning. Hastily, she tugged down the zipper and dipped her hand inside the stiff fabric, until she held him, pulsing and hard, in her palm. He was already slick with his desire for her, and she rejoiced in the knowledge of the power she held over him. Then he caught the fastening of her own jeans in two deft fingers and loosed it, thrusting his own hand inside to easily—and quickly—find the damp, heated heart of her. And when Dorsey's knees buckled beneath her, she understood that that power ran both ways.

Adam roped his other arm around her waist, catching her capably before she would have melted to the ground. But as he held her, he continued the intimate onslaught he'd started with the other hand. Back and forth his fingers furrowed her delicate flesh, drawing erotic patterns and scandalous designs. Over and over he penetrated her, first with one finger, then two, until she was nearly insensate with wanting him.

As his actions intensified, her own exploration of him ebbed, but not so far that he remained in control of himself. As she slowly ran her fingers along the solid length of him, as she methodically rolled her palm over the tip of his shaft, his respiration accelerated and his own ministrations grew more haphazard.

And just when she grew certain that she wouldn't be able to respond in any way other than bursting into flame, somehow, Dorsey found the focus, the energy, to murmur, "Adam."

For a moment, he didn't reply, only stilled his hand and relaxed—a little—his body. Finally, though, weakly, he whispered, "What?"

"I really, really, really want you," she told him.

"That's good," he replied breathlessly. "That's real good. Because I really, really, really, want you, too."

With much reluctance, she pointed out, "But there's no place to… I mean, we can't… There isn't room here to—"

Before she could even complete the sentence—and in one swift, fluid gesture—Adam withdrew his hand from her jeans, tugged them, and her panties, down over her hips, tossed his leather jacket up onto the counter and deposited Dorsey, bare-bottomed, atop it. The feel of soft leather beneath her naked flesh was an erogenous adventure she wasn't likely to forget anytime soon. She held her breath for a moment, to see if the counter would come crashing down with her upon it, but it held firm.

And so did Adam.

Without compunction or care, he finished removing her jeans and panties and tossed them to the floor, unheeded. Then, without scruple or ceremony, he began to shed his own. Dorsey's eyes widened in wonder at what he clearly meant to do, then a thrill of anticipation shot through her like a lightning bolt.

"Are you sure you want to try this?" she asked. But already she was scooting closer to the edge—to Adam.

"Oh, yes," he readily assured her. "I've been thinking about this for a loooong time. Well, this and about a million other varieties of joining my body to yours. But we can get to them next week," he hastily assured her. "In fact, I've been anticipating this so much lately that—" He reached into his back pocket and withdrew a condom, smiling hugely. "I didn't even bother to put it in my wallet."

Dorsey smiled back. "Gosh, I hope you brought more than one."

He tipped his head back and tented his hands before himself in silent benediction. "Thank you for this woman," he said to some unknown deity. Then he returned his gaze to her face. "Because she is, without question, the answer to every prayer, every wish, every dream I've ever had."

Oh, well, since he put it like that…

"I love you, Adam."

His gaze never left hers as he vowed, "I love you, too."

And that was the last thing either of them needed to say. Adam shoved his own jeans down and sheathed himself, and Dorsey opened to receive him. As he stepped between her legs, she settled her arms over his shoulders, curving one hand over his nape. He was warm and alive beneath her fingertips, and he was strong and powerful and sure. Most of all, though, he was hers. He was hers forever.

And she would always be his, she knew, a fact that was only reinforced as he entered her, claimed her, branded her as his own. That first fierce stroke went straight to her heart, to her core, to her soul, filling her so completely that she cried out her response. For one long moment, he stayed buried inside her, as if he couldn't tolerate the thought of parting from her, even that little bit. But then, very slowly, he withdrew, only to thrust himself even deeper still.

Dorsey crowded her body against his, wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, held him as close as she possibly could. Again and again their bodies joined, building friction and passion and need. And with each stroke of that intimate union, their souls merged, too. Together, they formed a unity of spirit as old as time, a spirit that was neither male nor female, but generated by the simple presence of love. And when all was said and done, it was that, and nothing more, that truly mattered.