Love Is a Four-Legged Word (18 page)

She swallowed convulsively. “A nightie, I guess.”

“Tell me which one,” he said, his voice deep and husky. “One of the ones you packed to take to Serena’s house?”

His hand now traced the length of her neck and slid over her shoulder. She trembled at his touch. She’d spent six whole days reliving his kisses, missing him, trying to talk herself out of her longing to see him again.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember all the reasons why she shouldn’t be alone with Tom O’Brien in his bedroom. She knew she was the one setting the limits here. Would it be so bad to expand them a little?

She looked up at him to meet his gaze full on. “The black one,” she whispered. “The black lacy one. It’s short and—”

“I’d like to see that,” he growled. He took another step closer and she felt herself stop breathing. He, too, stood very still. She was conscious of the faint hum of the air-conditioning, the muffled sound of a car horn on the road outside. And the rapid beating of her heart.

When Tom spoke, his voice was dangerously husky. “This is beginning to feel like a kissing occasion to me.”

She cleared her throat and filled her lungs again with air. “Uh. Yes. You could say that. A . . . a silly phrase really, isn’t it?” Her gaze was still locked to his.

“You’re the one who defined it.”

“Defined what?”

“The phrase ‘kissing occasion.’ ”

“Yes. I did.” She swallowed again. “I, uh . . . could, of course, redefine it.”

“Redefine it?”

“Well, we could replace the word ‘kissing’ with something else. Another word.”

“So that it wouldn’t become a third kissing occasion. And therefore not out of order.”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Well . . . there’s ‘snogging’ occasion.”

He thought about it for a moment. “Yes. Snogging is an acceptable alternative. Although possibly too English.”

“Or . . . uh . . . ‘smooching’ occasion.”

“Old-fashioned. And less than exciting.”

“Lip smacking?”

“Sounds like fried chicken.”

“Pecking?”

“Unfried chicken.”

“How about . . . face sucking? I’ve heard kissing called that.”

“Gross.”

“I agree. But I . . . I’ve run out of ideas.”

That sexy curl of his upper lip was driving her to distraction. Kiss, snog, smooch—she didn’t care what they called it, she just wanted to do it with him.

“How about looking at it from a different angle? More of a description. Like a . . . a ‘French kissing occasion,’ say,”Tom suggested.

She sighed. “I like that one. Though I’ve heard it called tongue wrestling, and I can’t say I care for that.”

“Shall we settle on French kissing, then?”

“Why not?”

She sighed with pleasure as—at last—his mouth claimed hers in a slow, sensuous kiss that made her whole body tingle with delight. His tongue tangled with hers. She slid her arms around his neck. Mmm. A French kissing occasion had a lot going for it.

He broke away from the kiss, though he held her very close. “What other kinds of kissing occasion can you think about? Or maybe something else all together?”

She didn’t want to talk, she just wanted to lose herself in the kiss. And more kisses. “Uh, a different kind of occasion? I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Leading on from a kissing occasion.You know, a progression.”

Her brain was too fogged by passion and desire to think straight. “Uh, let’s just take it one step at a time.”

“One step at a time? Great idea,” he said. “Step one, the French kissing occasion.” He pulled her to him again and kissed her with such expertise that she could feel the excitement fizzing through her.

He slid his hands down her back and under her top. He pulled her knit top upward, breaking the kiss just for the second it took to pull it over her head. “Step two,” he murmured against her mouth.

Then his hands were where she ached for them to be, cupping her breasts, teasing her nipples into stiff peaks. She couldn’t suppress a low moan of pleasure.

Her knees felt weak and she didn’t resist when Tom gently pushed her back and lowered her onto the bed. Then he was beside her, kissing a trail down her neck, nuzzling in the hollows of her throat, pushing back the lace of her half-cup bra to take her nipple in his mouth, sucking and tonguing first one and then the other until she was squirming with pleasure.

“Step three,” he said, as he undid the back of her bra. He sighed his appreciation as her breasts sprang free from the lacy confines. “They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

Maddy flushed. “Thank you.” Now it was her turn.

“Step four,” she whispered as she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, eager to feel the warmth of his skin.

She tugged the shirt from his pants and helped him shrug it from his shoulders. Then took her turn to admire him—he was magnificent, with broad shoulders, tightly defined muscles, and just the right amount of dark hair on his chest.

“You’re beautiful, too, well, a man kind of beautiful,” she whispered, flustered that she was too overcome to find the right word. “Well, I don’t exactly mean beautiful, I mean handsome or—”

He cut her words off with a kiss. It was a powerful, hungry kiss and she met it with equal hunger. Lying facing him she felt lost in the sensation of his hands on her body, as she kissed and kissed and kissed him as if the rest of the world had faded away and there was only the two of them left. He didn’t speak and neither did she, just responded to his touch with little gasps of delight and rejoiced in his quiet moans when she touched him in return.

She loved the warmth of his body against hers, her soft curves melting into his hard strength, the smoothness of her skin against the tickling, rough hair on his chest.

She uttered little murmurs of pleasure as he found the right spots to touch behind her ears, the top of her arms.

Her arms. Tom O’Brien was great at giving arm. She’d never realized the crook of her elbow could be such an erogenous zone. As he caressed her and kissed her she felt herself melting like chocolate into a puddle of sweet desire.

This was a first for her, to feel this wonderful, heady mix of tenderness and passion. This man was special. Tom, wonderful, sexy, funny Tom. Not pompous at all.

Her attraction to him made it very difficult to focus on her rules for survival as a single, to consider protecting herself from a relationship complication that would damage her career. She wasn’t part of his plan.This wasn’t part of her strategy.

Plan? Strategy? All she could think about was him. Them. And when he was going to move on to step five.

She stilled as his hand stroked over her bottom and onto her bare thigh. She held her breath as he stroked up to her inner thigh, made contact with the lace of her panties and then retreated. She lifted her hips to make it easier for him to undo the zipper of her skirt and slide it off her. She trembled as he stroked her tummy. All that was between them was the triangle of her thong.

“You wear great underwear,” he murmured.

“Mmm,” she breathed, distracted at his finger edging under the elastic. “A chef ’s uniform is so boring that I like to get creative with my undies.”

Her breath was coming in urgent little gasps. Her face flushed with heat. Oh! Step five was unbelievable. He didn’t rush, he didn’t push. He just stroked and caressed her until she was on fire with want. It seemed if she had been waiting all her life to be touched like that. By him.

There shouldn’t be a step six. Not yet. She knew that. It was too soon. Yet deep in a kiss, she started to fumble with his belt. She forgot time, forgot place, forgot five-year plans and career strategies and everything else. She could think only of him and the pleasure they were giving each other.

Her own gasp of impatience as she wrestled with the buckle masked the sudden intrusive sound when it first reached her ears. She stilled.

It couldn’t be.

Please, it couldn’t be.

But it was.

She was hearing the unmistakable sounds of retching. Dog retching.

No! Not now! She pretended she didn’t hear it. But the sounds continued, and she knew she couldn’t ignore them. Reluctantly, she broke away from Tom’s kiss.

“Brutus?” he groaned.

She sat up to see what was going on. It was Brutus all right. Awake and retching miserably in her shopping basket.

 

 

 

Tom couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Boy, did this dog have great timing. Maddy leapt from the bed to Brutus’s rescue, a flurry of slender limbs and gorgeous bottom.

“Serena said he might have a reaction to the sedative. I’ll get him into the bathroom before it’s too late,” she gasped, scooping the wretched, retching dog into her arms and holding him ahead of her as she dashed out of the room.

Tom groaned, flung himself backward on the bed, and cursed the interruption. That damn dog! He felt like throttling the animal. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and followed Maddy.

Maddy stood at the doorway to the bathroom and barred his way in, beautifully unself-conscious that she was naked but for a lacy white thong, her perfect pink-tipped breasts high and firm, her milky skin still flushed with passion. She was gorgeous—even more beautiful than his fantasies of her.

Down, boy, down, boy, he thought—and he wasn’t referring to Brutus.

“You don’t want to go in there,” she said.

“Spare me the details,” he groaned, feeling passion subside at the thought.

“Well, I’ve spared your carpet the details, so be thankful,” she said.

He raked his hand through his hair. “What about Brutus? Do we need to get him to the vet?”

Maddy’s face softened. “The poor little thing seems fine. I’ve given him a drink of water.”

Tom could hear loud slurping noises coming from the bathroom. “He’s not drinking from the toi—?”

“No. I put his bowl in there for him.”

“That’s a relief.” And some.

“I suspect he’ll just go back to sleep until the effects of the sedative wear off completely.”

Tom couldn’t help his appreciative gaze from traveling to Maddy’s breasts. “So if he’s okay, we can, uh—?” he suggested as he lingered there.

Maddy started, looked down at her near-naked body, and squealed. “Ohmigod!”

She whirled around, giving him an eyeful of a slender back and her sexy, curvaceous bottom defined by the sheer strap of her thong. She snatched up a towel from the rack in the bathroom and hastily wrapped it around her. “I . . . I didn’t realize,” she stuttered as she tucked the edge in. “Oh Tom . . . I . . . uh . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, her lack of enthusiasm completing the passion deflation process. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that a dog barfing in the bedroom isn’t exactly a turn-on.”

“Well, he didn’t actually barf until he got into the bathroom,” she corrected him.

“Whatever,” he said, fighting his frustration. “Look, I’ll, uh, just bunk down on the sofa and see you in the morning.”

She was silent for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. “Tom, I’m so sorry it turned out like that.”

“So am I,” he said. He turned toward the living room.

“Tom?” she said in a tentative voice. He turned back. She was leaning against the wall, the towel barely concealing the curves of her breasts and showing most of her slim, shapely legs. “I . . . uh . . . really enjoyed the French kissing occasion.”

“Yes?” he said, thinking he knew what could be coming next.

“And steps one to five were . . . were, well, fantastic.”

“They were.Without a doubt they were fantastic,” he said.

“But . . . but I think we should leave it at that.” She couldn’t meet his gaze, was looking toward her feet. “I . . . uh . . . you . . . me . . . that is, things haven’t changed, have they? Your plan I mean . . . and . . . Well, we got carried away and—” She looked up at him, imploring him for support.

If Brutus—the dog with bad, bad timing—hadn’t puked when he did, would he and Maddy right now be climbing steps six, seven, eight, et cetera, toward destination ultimate pleasure?

This time Tom didn’t stop the groan. “We did get carried away,” he said. “But I don’t regret it for one moment.”

Maddy looked disconcerted but pleased. She started to say something but he stopped her with his hand placed over her mouth. “And being the ‘alpha male’ that I am, I won’t promise that it won’t happen again.”

He removed his hand, kissed her hard, turned, and stomped toward the sofa.

Fourteen

Tom pushed open the door of his apartment the next morning and was immediately greeted by the delicious aroma of bacon cooking and coffee brewing. A man goes for an early morning run along the Embarcadero and comes home to find his new resident chef has breakfast on the table. Not a bad scenario.

Except that said man had spent the night tossing on a sofa, consumed by frustration imagining the resident chef asleep in his bed wearing a skimpy black nightgown and a barely there thong. And in his fantasy, she would not have had her passion extinguished by Brutus puking at just the wrong moment.

As he shut the door behind him, the dog in question came hurtling down the hallway, yapping excitedly, jumping up, and scrabbling against his bare legs. “Down, boy,” Tom ordered, “and be quiet.”

Brutus obeyed immediately. Maybe there was something in this alpha-male thing—the little guy certainly wasn’t as obedient for Maddy. Tom decided to test it out.

He used his most commanding voice. “Sit, Brutus.” Brutus stayed exactly where he was, his head tilted, pink tongue lolling.

“Roll over, Brutus.” Brutus tilted his head to the other side.

“I said roll over, Brutus.” Brutus looked up at him with bright button eyes. He wagged his plumed tail.