I Brake For Bad Boys (19 page)

He was surprised to find himself in a huge, lavishly decorated lounge with a couch, chairs, and a fancy gold-framed vanity. That's where Jill stood, and seeing his reflection behind her in the mirror, she whirled around, her eyes wide in incredulity and her mouth gaped open in astonishment. He'd obviously rendered her speechless by his bold, shameless intrusion.

Taking advantage of her shock, he twisted the lock on the main entrance door and strolled into the adjoining room, doing a quick check of the stalls to make sure they didn't have company. Satisfied that they were alone, he returned to the lounge area and slowly, purposely, approached her.

Jill stared at the confident, sexual man heading her way, his eyes dark and hot with intent, and forcibly shook herself from her stunned state of disbelief. A heady, undeniable excitement quickened her pulse, her stomach fluttered in acute awareness, and a liquid heat pooled between her legs.

And he hadn't even touched her yet . . .

She'd escaped to the rest room when she'd seen him coming her way in the banquet room, because she couldn't bear to make small talk with him when she still wanted him so badly. But what made her think she'd be safe from him here in the women's lounge? He was a rebel, a bad boy who made up his own rules to suit himself, consequences be damned. He didn't seem concerned about getting caught, and at the moment, she was too overwhelmed by his presence to worry about that, either.

He stopped inches away, and her entire body responded to the familiar, masculine scent of him. “Just in case you didn't notice, this is the ladies' room,” she managed to say in a normal tone of voice, even while her insides trembled. “I think you made a wrong turn somewhere.”

One of those devastating smiles of his made an appearance. “Sweetheart, I'm right where I want to be,” he drawled in a low, husky timbre.

His softly spoken declaration made her knees buckle, and she curled her fingers around the edge of the counter by her hips for support. “Eric . . . what are you doing in here?”

Leisurely, he stroked the shorter strand of pearls where they rested on the full swells of her breasts. “I'm fulfilling one last fantasy.” His finger caught on the top button securing her silk blouse, and he unfastened the first one, then the second, his gaze never leaving hers. “I'm going to make love to you.”

Make love.
In all their shared fantasies, neither of them had ever used those profound words, and she was both entranced and terrified by what was happening between them. “You can't . . . we can't do that in here.”

“Sure we can.” His expression turned gentle, reassuring, that aggression and dominance she was so used to tempered by a softness she didn't fully understand yet. “And I promise it'll be an experience you'll never forget.”

When he pushed open the sides of her blouse and touched her, she couldn't bring herself to object, not when her heart ached for him and her body was already his. Dipping his fingers into her stretch lace bra, he lifted and cupped both of her breasts in his big hands, then bent his head, his warm, damp breath wafting across her nipples before he suckled one tight crest deep into his mouth, and then did the same to the other.

A soft, purring sound rose from the back of her throat, and she pushed her fingers through his hair to hold him close and gave herself over to the sweetest sensations she'd ever known.

His movements were slow and unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. Slowly, he bunched the hem of her skirt to her waist, then lifted her up so she was sitting on the vanity counter. Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of the white panties she wore, he dragged them down her legs, and tucked them into his suit jacket pocket. Pushing her knees apart, he skimmed his fingers along the creamy flesh just above the lacy band of her stockings, then grazed his knuckles through the thatch of curls between her thighs. He delved deeper, stroked along the swollen folds of her sex, and found her already wet and ready for him.

With unsteady hands, he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly, and sheathed his straining shaft with a condom. Moving back between her spread thighs and lifting her legs high around his waist, he slid into her in one long, sleek, heavy glide. His big body shuddered against hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as she struggled to catch her own breath.

“God, I've missed you,” he groaned against her cheek, and she heard the honest need in his voice.

All thought ceased as he buried a hand in her hair, brought her lips to his, and kissed her long and slow and deep. His hips picked up the same seductive rhythm, and there was no denying that this time between them was different. Their lovemaking was erotic yet tender, and there was no struggle for Eric to maintain control of the act or her response. He was giving all of the control to her, like a man who trusted her with his heart. Like a man who wanted everything a relationship between a man and a woman offered.

In that moment, his generosity and selflessness outdistanced all her misgivings and uncertainties. All she felt was this man and the emotions he evoked in her. Need and desire. Tenderness and hope. And yes, the sweet beginnings of love.

Clinging to him, she clenched her thighs tight around his waist and tilted her hips. The position brought their bodies into a more intimate contact that built the slow, simmering heat between them into a burst of flame that tumbled them both over the edge of a stunning climax.

With his mouth still on hers, he swallowed her soft cries, and his own low growl vibrated against her lips. He brought her back down with soft, lush kisses, and it seemed an eternity had passed before either of them could breathe normally again.

Untangling his fingers from her hair, he met her heavy-lidded gaze. His eyes were a subdued shade of blue, his features just as serious. “Thank you for sharing my fantasy world with me. It was more than I ever anticipated, and making love to you was the best of all,” he said, feathering his thumb along her jaw. “But reality is yours if you're willing to take a chance on us.”

His words swirled through the passion-induced fog still consuming her mind, and her heart pounded hard in her chest. But before she could form a response, the door behind them rattled, causing her to jump in startled surprise, which also brought her surroundings immediately back into focus. Her cheeks burned with mortification at being caught
making love
in the rest room. No doubt within minutes the rest of the Massey employees would know what had transpired between her and Eric, too.

One of her greatest fears had just been realized.

“Is someone in there?” a feminine voice asked.

“We'll be done in a minute,” Eric replied, and adjusted his clothes, then Jill's, though he didn't give back her panties.

Once they were both decent again, he headed for the entrance, unlocked and opened the door, then stopped and glanced back at her. His eyes were gentle as they met hers, his voice soft when he spoke. “By the way, I want you to know that I'm falling in love with you, but I won't settle for a temporary affair or keeping our relationship a secret. I want you to be a part of my life, in all ways.”

All or nothing. The choice was hers to make. She reeled from his candid declaration, paralyzed where she stood and unable to say a word because she was so afraid to
believe.

Eric apologized to their coworker, Carol, for keeping the bathroom occupied, then he stepped around her and was gone.

Carol strolled into the lounge, her expression bemused. “I had no idea that you and Eric were, well,
you know.
”

Sleeping together. Having an affair. Fulfilling erotic fantasies.
All applied, yet Eric had just elevated their relationship by
making love
to her and expressing his feelings for her. Privately and publicly.

Carol fluffed her hair and pulled a tube of lipstick from her purse. “What a lucky girl you are. Eric is quite a catch,” she mused, a wistful note to her voice as she applied a slash of pink to her lips. “But it's nice to know that the baddest of boys can fall hard when it's the right woman.”

And he'd fallen for her. In ways she'd never imagined or expected. He wanted her like no man had ever desired her before—heart, body, and soul. Not as a temporary plaything, but a long-term lover. And she was tired of being alone, of fighting herself and what she wanted. So weary of letting fears rule her emotions.

The other woman slanted her an incredulous look. “Good Lord, Jill, what are you still doing standing in here? Are you just going to let him walk away after he just told you he's falling in love with you and he wants a commitment?”

“No, I'm not.” He'd just taken such a huge emotional gamble for her. She trusted Eric, and that meant it was time to take a few risks of her own, as well.

She ran from the lounge and back into the banquet room, her stomach twisting into a knot of nerves as her gaze searched for a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed, sexy bad boy. Her bad boy. She found him shaking hands with the president of Enchanted and saying his farewells for the evening to the Massey partners. Then he headed for the double doors to leave.

Panic welled within her, that she'd possibly hesitated too long to go after him. “Eric, wait!” she called as she hurried toward him.

He turned to look at her, as did at least two dozen nearby guests—including a good portion of the employees and partners she'd worked with at Massey. She felt their curious eyes on her as she closed the distance between her and Eric, no doubt speculating what was between the two of them.

She realized she didn't care. If her relationship with Eric meant never getting another freelance project with Massey, then so be it. He was all that mattered.

Lifting her chin high, she welcomed the liberating feeling setting her free and giving her the courage to be herself, to let this man bring out the very best in her. Including the love filling her heart.

Everything that needed to be said between them had already been spoken. With words and with their bodies. There was only one thing left to tell him. “I'm taking a chance on us.”

He tipped his head, but there was no mistaking the relief and satisfaction etching his features. “You're taking a lot of chances tonight.”

The pride in his voice warmed her. He knew how difficult this moment would be for her, and understood what it had taken for her to be so bold in front of so many witnesses. “You're worth it.”

His sensual lips curved into a teasing grin. “You sure about that?”

“Absolutely.” Then she proved it. Circling her arms around his neck, she pulled his mouth to hers and kissed him in front of everyone. Much to her surprise, the crowd broke out into applause, whistles, and cheers.

She laughed, welcoming the happiness that bubbled through her, and knew everything would work out just fine. “Take me home, Eric,” she whispered in his ear, needing to be alone with him. “I'm in the mood for something Wilde.”

He grinned at her play on words, and swept her up into his strong arms. “Now that's a request I'd be more than happy to accommodate.”

Shannon McKenna

Tomorrow at four, tomorrow at four. Jonah's appointment was tomorrow at four. The thought looped through Tess Langley's mind with the annoying persistence of a commercial jingle, the only difference being the jangling, feverish edge to the tune.

Mrs. Vailstock had canceled, leaving her a blessed free hour, so there was no need to rush as she ticked off the points on her checklist: heating pad, fresh sheets, adjust the massage table for her next client, blankets, towels. She rummaged through the tape box until she found the whale songs, and lit a pink Love Dreams candle. Irene's favorites.

The busier she kept herself, the less liable she was to start mooning over Jonah Markham's storm gray eyes, his sensual lips, his unimaginably perfect body. Or writhing over the effect he had upon her. He left her tongue-tied, practically blithering. Thank God the service she provided for him didn't require her to speak much.

It wasn't just that he was gorgeous and built. Sports massage was one of her specialties, and she had many pro athlete clients with incredible bodies. Kneading their muscles was interesting from an aesthetic point of view, but had never thrown her into a tizzy of speechless lust before. No, Jonah Markham was special. Whenever she touched him, something magical happened. A tingling rush of enhanced sensory awareness, as if someone had slipped an aphrodisiac into her mug of organic green tea. For heaven's sake, he wasn't even due in today. It was stupid and unprofessional to fixate on a client. Particularly not a guy who ought to have “trouble” tattooed on his forehead. It had taken all her courage to get where she was right now, and would take another quantum leap to get where she wanted to go. What she did
not
need in her life was an arrogant, brooding, drop-dead gorgeous sex god who probably went through women the way he went through socks.

Concentrate, she told herself. She was so tired, and Irene Huppert was coming in at six, the compulsive talker with sciatica. Yay, hurray. She squirted grape seed oil into a bottle and personalized it with lemongrass and lavender essential oils, her mind racing. A guy like him could never be interested in her, at least not for long, and really, it was just as well, she told herself desperately. She didn't even have the energy to keep a cat, let alone invest in the care and feeding of a hungry male ego. And Jonah Markham was bound to have . . . a big one. So to speak.

So why couldn't she stop thinking about him?

Because he asked you out last week, airhead,
whispered the little devil on her shoulder. Wonder of wonders. And the week before, and the week before that. At the beginning of his session, he'd turned his close-cropped dark head, and fixed his gaze upon her face like a hot gray tractor beam. “You married?”

Her mouth flapped uselessly for a moment. “Uh, no.”

He didn't even blink. “Boyfriend?”

She fully intended to roll out her well-rehearsed, friendly-but-not-too-friendly “I'm not available” routine. It jammed, and all that escaped her was a strangled little “No.” He gave a short, satisfied nod, and laid his head down, closing his eyes. At which point, she had seen the claw marks on his shoulders. Long and red and angry looking.

She'd stared in horrified fascination for almost a minute before she'd finally worked up the nerve to begin, very carefully. Those gouges had to hurt. Finally, she'd just shut her eyes to block them out.

As always, she'd been swept away by the spell of touching him, which left her woefully unprepared when she lifted her hands off his body, still soaring on a thunderous rush of unfamiliar endorphins, and heard, “Will you have dinner with me?”

She had to be dreaming. Hallucinating. She was speechless, rattled, blushing . . . and so incredibly tempted. Even if she ended up getting used and tossed away, she was willing to bet that being used by Jonah Markham would be one hell of a memorable experience.

So would the tossing away part, unfortunately.

She let out the trapped air in her lungs. “No,” she said quietly.

His dark brows snapped together. “Why not?”

She fished around for a good brush-off, polite and yet forceful. Nothing floated to the surface of her brain but the raw, uncensored truth.
Because you've obviously just had wild crazy sex with a woman who's way more responsive and uninhibited in bed than I am.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Markham, but we've run overtime, and Mr. Stillman is waiting.” Her words sounded lame and flat. A pitiable evasion.

She was convinced that she would never see him again, but the next week he was back, right on time. And at the end of his massage, he asked the same question. The claw marks had faded away, but her memory of them had not. She refused again. Last week, he was back again, with dogged persistence in his eyes. Same question, same answer, same long, searching look that probed her motives, challenged her fears. She wondered if he would ask again tomorrow.

Which must mean, God help her, that she was actually beginning to consider it. She'd been depressed for days after seeing those claw marks, but she'd also lain awake nights wondering what exactly he'd done to that woman to make her react like that. Which led to a whole host of other fantasies, as uncontrollable as they were inappropriate.

Like, what might happen if she just bent over one day and kissed the supple, velvety skin at the curve of his neck, right where his hair was razored off in a sleek line. His neck was so thick and strong. Tense, badly in need of soothing, stroking.

The neck-kissing impulse was sparked by not just lust, but something that felt almost like tenderness. The alarming thought made her squirm. Tenderness? She didn't even know the guy. How pathetic and absurd to project her lonesome, love-starved fancies onto him. But the back of his neck still called to her. So deliciously. . . kissable.

He had surrendered the rigid armature of his muscles to her with such perfect trust, she had been startled and moved. Such a thing occurred more often with dancers, or practitioners of massage, yoga, or other bodywork. People who were used to exploring other dimensions of sensory awareness, who were accustomed to profound relaxation and trance states. It never happened with men like him. High-powered, cutthroat businessmen without a fanciful bone in their bodies. Men who never let down their guard, or dared to be vulnerable.

Vulnerable, my butt, she told herself. The only vulnerable one around here was Tess Langley, starry-eyed idiot, and the only thing she should allow herself to obsess about was saving up the money to open her studio. She didn't have the looks, the legs, or the wardrobe to be part of that guy's harem. She knew better than to try to be something she was not. Been there, done that, crashed and burned to a blackened hulk. From here on out, it was no-frills, no makeup, sensible shoes, what-you-see-is-what-you-get Tess.

She repeated that sobering resolution to herself, forcing herself to picture the kind of woman Jonah Markham usually dated. Tall and leggy, not like her shrimpy five foot two. Gym-toned, hard-bodied, not round and over-full in the chest and rear. Perfectly dressed and styled, like she'd tried so hard to be for Larry. All that effort. All in vain.

Forget it. Just say no. She knew how this movie would end. He would take what he could get and bore very quickly—but not quickly enough. Not before the damage was done. She'd just barely succeeded in piecing herself back together after the Larry debacle, and here she was, contemplating hurling all that carefully reconstructed self-esteem right through the plate glass window that was Jonah Markham.

Bet he's good in bed
. . . The red-clad devil waggled her pitchfork as she chirped that thought into Tess's ear
. Good like Larry wasn't. Good like you've never imagined. Looks like he's had loads of practice.

She was startled out of that disturbing but highly stimulating line of thought by a commotion up front. Lacey, the receptionist, was yelling. Someone was shouting back. A deep, resonant male voice.

Dear God. It was him. But he was Thursday, not Wednesday. This wasn't possible. She wasn't constitutionally capable of confusing that particular appointment. She hustled out of the back rooms, and sure enough, there he was, glaring down at Lacey over the receptionist's counter. His eyes flicked up to her, like chips of gray ice.

“What's wrong?” Tess demanded. “Did I make a mistake in the scheduling?” They both started to talk at once. Tess clapped. The explosive sound cut them off into a startled silence.

“People are getting massages! Keep your voices down! What is going on?” She jerked her chin at Lacey. “You first.”

Lacey flounced her hair with her usual self-importance. “Mr. Markham wants an emergency appointment! I explained to him that you're booked up, and he can wait till six if he wants Elsa, and he—”

“All I asked was if it would be possible to reschedule another one of your clients today,” Jonah broke in icily. “Offer a free massage to whoever you reschedule, and I'll pay for it. Hell, offer them two.”

“But she's
booked,
I already
told
you, and it's not our
policy
to—”

“Stop, Lacey!” Tess held up her hand and studied his face.

He looked tense and strained, his eyes hollow, his mouth white about the lips. He was hanging on by a thread. She knew that feeling all too well. She wished she knew him well enough to ask what was wrong.

Jonah let out a long, controlled sigh. “At the end of the day?” There was a tight, pleading edge to his voice. “After your last client?”

“No way am I staying late to lock up after you!” Lacey piped up. “And no way would Jeanette let a therapist stay in the center all alone with a client! I'll just call Jeanette right now, and she can deal with—”

“No,” Tess said quietly. “Don't call Jeanette.”

She knew how that would play. Jeanette would come thundering out of the back office. She would throw her weight around until Jonah was completely affronted. He would storm off and never come back.

She couldn't bear the thought of it.

Besides, she wanted to comfort him, soothe him, pet him until he felt better. Until the tension melted out of his face and body, until he purred with bliss. She was a pushover, a softie, a blithering idiot, but she was nudging Lacey out of the way and dialing Irene's number.

Lacey's painted eyes grew wide with outrage. “You're actually going to let him get away with bullying me?”

Tess waved her down. “Hello? Irene? It's Tess, at the Multnomah Massage Center, and I . . . yes, I'm so glad I caught you at home. I just wanted to . . .” It took two minutes of false tries to trample on Irene's prattling monologue. “Irene, please let me finish. I've had an emergency . . . nothing terrible, but would you be kind enough to let me reschedule you for tomorrow at four? Oh, thanks . . . no. Chloe isn't the one who's going to be looking at that stenciling every day. You are. Tell me about it tomorrow, OK? Bye.” She hung up, and shot a quick, guilty look at Lacey.

“That is, like, so totally unprofessional,” Lacey hissed. “Jeanette is gonna have kittens when she finds out.”

“Jeanette can fire me if she likes,” Tess said, with forced bravado. She turned to Jonah. “You—” she sternly indicated a seat, “—wait quietly while I prepare the room. And Lacey, please pretend he's not there. No more yelling or rudeness. Is that clear?”

Lacey flipped her hair and pouted. Jonah sat and lifted his big shoulders in a meek little “who, me?” shrug.

The room was ready, but she went down her checklist, just to calm herself. She adjusted the table. Lavender and lemongrass weren't right for Jonah. She filled a bottle with almond oil, and added some sandalwood oil and just a touch of coriander. Her heart had to slow down before she marched out there, all calm and businesslike, and—

“You ready?”

She spun around and dropped the oil. “You scared me!”

“Sorry.” He scooped up the bottle that was rolling toward him. “The receptionist from hell was making personal phone calls, so I—”

“Lacey is not a receptionist from hell.” Tess snatched the oil out of his hand. “She is a very good receptionist. When treated nicely.”

“I was perfectly nice,” he growled. “I even offered her a big tip. What's with the candle?”

She remembered the hot pink, embarrassingly phallic candle, with “Love Dreams” scripted on it in pale, glowing wax. She lunged to blow it out. “Um . . . nothing. It was for Irene. My six o'clock.”

“You could've left it burning.” His deep voice made the fine hairs prickle on her neck. “I like love dreams as much as the next guy.”

The room seemed breathlessly warm. “Go ahead and get ready,” Tess murmured, sidling past him. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

When she stole back into the room a few minutes later, he was laid out between the sheets. No claw marks today, thank goodness.

She put oil on her hands, and smoothed them over his back, tracing ropy knots of tension with her fingers. He hissed in pain, his muscles twitching. “You're very tense,” she said. “Did you get a chance to do those stretching exercises I recommended last week?”

“Too busy. Crazy week.”

“Try to make the time,” she urged. “They really will help.”

“You're always scolding me.” He twisted around, and his gaze swept over her as if that hideous white dress that Jeanette mandated was actually sexy. “But that's OK. I kind of like it.”

She gaped at him. “I do not scold!”

“Next you'll tell me I'm a very bad boy and need to be punished. I'm already laid out on the table, ass-up. Go ahead. Smack me one.”