Lucien (27 page)

He would ease up behind her and make his presence known with the sweet caress of his hot breath on the nape of her neck. Her eyes would drift shut and her body would sway back towards him. His breath would catch and she'd feel him drawing in her scent as if to memorize it and imprint it into his soul. The heat radiating from his front to her back…
ohmiword
, yes, she felt the heat of him pinning her to the wall of mailboxes. His hand and those long, tapered fingers with calluses in just the right places would brush against her and tease their way down the slide of her shoulder across her spine to the flare of her hip.

Oh God, she needed him to touch her.
Badly
. To knead her skin and continue his slow exploration of her backside. She wanted him to cup her rear with his other hand and slowly work his way up the slope of her back to the curve of her neck. Where he'd thread his fingers through her shoulder length blonde hair and nudge it out of his way. With one hand nestled on her hip and the other teasing the nape of her neck, his fingers would bring her to a slow, simmering boil.

His lips would brush the shell of her ear as he leaned in to whisper his intentions of taking her right there against the wall. He'd order her to touch herself and pleasure herself for him. He would watch and whisper suggestions that drove them both of out their minds. And when she was a flicker of a touch away from tumbling over the edge, he'd yank up the hem of her short skirt and, holding her by one shoulder, would shove her panties aside and drive into her with one… long… thick… powerful…
thrust
.

Lee shivered and groaned to herself. It had to be a sin to have an imagination like hers where with every step she could feel the hard, slick slide of his thrusts… timed to perfection with the single intent of showing her who was in control of this rodeo.

Oh, how she longed to top that man from the bottom. In front. Behind. Under. Over. Any and every way she could.

And she could do it, too. If she wanted to, because if there was one thing any business
man
in the greater Washington DC area who'd done business with Lee-The-Barracuda-Stafford knew was that she was a master at making a man do whatever she wanted.

And she wanted this man.

Her neighbor.

Now.

Right here, in the mailroom of her condominium complex.

Oh yeah, it was good to be her. Because she knew exactly how she'd do it. Lee would let him take the lead and savor each and every hard stroke. She'd let the tension build until she sensed he would be as lost in the act as he wanted her to be. Then Lee would slowly—ever so slowly—turn her head and peek at him from the corner of her eye and then—

Oh. My. God.

He was there. In the flesh. In the mailroom. Behind her.

Jake Grayden managed—barely—to refrain from doing a small, but obligatory celebration dance. After two months of near misses, passing glimpses, and measly 'hello, beautiful's, the first phase of his campaign was a go.
All the sleepless nights he'd spent constructing his plan were about to pay off.
His strategy to engage in his first serious foray into the realms of sober dating was on track and—he glanced at his watch—right on schedule.

He and the newest tenant in the small condominium complex were about to
accidentally
meet at the mailboxes.

Jake slowed his approach to the mailroom and initiated a leisurely perusal of his target.

She wasn't tall, but that was fine. He wasn't particular about height. Although those three-inch heels she wore did wonderful—no, incredible—things to her legs. And those legs, he groaned to himself. They were tone and firm, moving like a well-oiled machine under stockings that begged to be peeled off her.

Jake hoped she wore a garter belt. She looked the type to wear a garter. She had to be. So that's where he would start. He'd slip his hand under her short, ass hugging skirt and tease the bare insides of her creamy thighs. His fingers would skirt the fringe of her panties, which he assumed to be cotton. Her back would arch and she would moan his name, then she'd dig her long, red polished nails into his shoulders. He would—while she panted for him, of course—unhook the garter and pretend to ponder the question of the century.

Leave the stockings on or peel them off her quivering body?

Peel 'em
.

Jake walked around the polished table in the fancy, hotel lobby-ish, mail area and decided that the table would be as good a place as any to set her on and begin his exploration.

After peeling the stockings, he would—while kissing her senseless and wrapping her legs around his waist—carry her over to the table and let her rest that perfectly molded derriere. Next, he would need to hold her breasts in his hands. He needed that badly. She wasn't what he would consider well endowed, but she was definitely not flat as a board. Jake flexed his hand and imagined she would fit perfectly in his palm.

Yes, she would fit him perfectly.

Slowly, he would unbutton the silk blouse tucked into her skirt which was—at this particular moment in his overheated imagination—bunched around her slender waist. He'd caress her ample bosom through the sheer fabric of her bra and watch her go insane with passion in his arms. Her eyes would darken. Her breathing would increase. Her hips would grind against his erection that was, at this very moment, straining at his button fly to get a glimpse of its tormentor.

Down boy
, he ordered silently.

A button threatened to give way. Lucky for Jake, there was more than one button holding ol' Johnny back.

To divert his musings, he glanced at her left hand. Jake smiled to himself, no ring. Each time he saw this mysterious new tenant, he checked her ring finger. After two-long-cold-shower-filled-months, he'd learned two things. She rarely wore jewelry and the effectiveness of cold showers was a myth.

Ol' Johnny demanded the return of the mental seduction and Jake gave in with good grace.

After removing her shirt during the exploration on the table, Jake would take a second or two to study the curve and slope of her throat. Anything that would allow him to taste the satiny skin of her neck. Man o' man, the lady had a great neck and the way she arched it when she flipped her long, blonde hair over her shoulder… s
weet Heaven
, have mercy on his poor, unworthy soul. The simple act stirred more hormones in his body than staring at a
Playboy
centerfold had when he was sixteen.

Jake was not ashamed of his reaction to this one woman. Not now. Not after two months of observing, planning, and wanting. At first, he'd been puzzled and slightly concerned. There was something about her that called to him on a primal level that he'd never imagined. She possessed an air of innocence and vulnerability that had him craving to play protective warrior to her image of sexy, confident princess. The bizarre part was that the protective instinct she invoked did not set off warning bells in his head.

In fact, he liked it.

He liked it so much that he was
almost
too damned aroused to care if the lady wanted a one night stand that would take a lifetime to recover from. It would, of course, be too bad for her if that was all she wanted. Because Jake was prepared. He had a contingency plan and he wasn't afraid to use it. After all, he'd gone without intimate female companionship for as long as he'd gone without drinking and, if he could handle almost five years of that, then he could handle playing the slow seduction game a little longer.

Bottom line was that this was his campaign and he intended to see it through to completion. Night after night after
night
.

Jake slowed his pace and ran his eyes up, then down the backside of his quarry, who was standing right where he wanted her. At her mailbox. He counted to himself: three, two,…
one
.
.She glanced over her shoulder at him and—Jake groaned inwardly—her eyes, a deep blue color, rolled suggestively from the top of his damp hair to the tips of his boots and back up. A half smile hovered around her come-and-kiss-me-now-big-boy lips. She turned her back to him and pushed her key into the mailbox.

Jake halted behind her and, since she was in front of his mailbox, slid his hand around in front of her. "Pardon me." His voice was rough to his own ears.

Her head tilted to the side and she regarded him from the corner of her eyes. "Are you always this… eager to get your mail," she asked in a soft, husky voice. She made no move to slide out of his way.

Jake stepped in closer until her back nearly touched his straining front. He bent his head close to her neck and whispered, "Only for the last two months." He shoved the key into the mailbox, turned it, then pulled the small metal door open.

She did precisely what he expected, and wanted, her to do. She backed her tight body up and into him, then glanced down at the envelopes in his box. "Pretty postcard. Jacob."

"Jake." He brought his other hand around to help pull mail out of the box and touched the mail in her hands. He moved an envelope to get a better look at her name. "You smell like peaches. Emily."

"Lee." She shifted her weight between her legs and just about destroyed his sanity. Her bottom rubbed—make that massaged—his throbbing ego. "And… thank you. Jake."

"No, sweetheart, thank you," he nearly groaned out loud. When he opened his eyes, she was looking up at him.

"Did you… get what you came for?"

His gaze dropped to her mouth. "Not by a long shot."

"Then you'll just have to keep trying." The smile she gave him would have melted Antarctica. "Excuse me. Jake."

He removed his mail and raised his arms to allow her to slip past him. "Certainly. Emily."

She turned on one heel and gazed up at him with that sultry look which made his blood hot and thick. "Have a nice evening. Jake." She slid away from him. Her heels tapped quietly against the marble floor.

Jake turned and watched her sway towards the stairs. Man o' man, the lady could move. "It can't get much nicer."

She didn't look back. Not once. She walked with the confidence of a woman who knew what she wanted and always got what she wanted. If at that particular moment she had crooked her finger at him and sent him a come-hither look, he would have been helpless to deny her.

Emily disappeared behind the stairwell door and Jake released the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He had to get his mind off the damned idea that had popped into his head. To run up to his place, grab a measuring cup, and knock on her door with the stupid line, "Can I borrow a cup of sugar?"

If life and Emily—he couldn't call her Lee, it was a boy's name—did things the way his mind imagined, then Emily would grab him by his shirt and drag him into her place, throw him down on the floor, then jump him.

Some things in life were unjustly cruel.

Possessing an overactive and intensely vivid imagination was one of them.

Jake took a deep breath and turned his attention to his mail. A postcard from his mother. He flipped it over and scanned the cryptic thanks for the vacation, having a great time, and don't worry got you the loudest Hawaiian shirt ever made.

His attention wavered from the postcard and drifted back to the stairwell.

Then you'll just have to keep trying
, she'd said.

Jake tapped the mail thoughtfully against his palm. He probably wouldn't see her again until next Friday.

He grinned and pushed off from the wall.

Friday. Same time. Same place.