Mr. Personality (17 page)

But thoughts of kissing her possessed his brain to the exclusion of the work he needed to do. How could he work when he longed to lose himself in her sleek, warm body. To feel her silken hair brush his skin, her breath warm on his cheek, her naked weight taut and hungry as she took him into her body.

He wanted all that or to throw her out of the apartment altogether. How could he tolerate her intrusion into his tightly guarded world? It wasn’t acceptable! A civil war raged within him. All this mucky emotion she roused in him was wrong! Never would she accept him, if she knew the man he truly was. That was the bottom line. He stunk at relationships, romantic ones, sexual ones and otherwise. The only people he managed to hold on to in his life were Ruth and Cynthia, but friends were different from lovers…and brothers. They expected less.

This fever possessing him now was no more reliable than his even greater moments of insanity with Alexa. Was he bent on a self-destructive course? First, Alexa, then the situation with Pete and now this madness with Nicole.

Better than anyone, he knew that for him sex could only be an option with women who were completely separate from his life. Disentangled and disinterested. Women with whom he formed transient connections based purely on mutual physical need. Hadn’t he learned that?

How long would Nicole stay here, typing his words and, in some bizarre way, turning on the switch in his head, if she really
knew him?
With all her warm-hearted energy, she’d run screaming once she discovered the man he was inside. Hell, she devoted her life to teaching the inner-city kids of Chicago. How much more optimistic could a person get?

His life, his world was too damned different. If she could even comprehend the sum total of the things he was capable, she’d walk out and never come back. And then where would he be? No typist, no book.

He’d ruined everything by taking his muse to bed—as witnessed in screaming clarity from the damned white blankness of the writing pad on his knee—but all he wanted was to make love to her again. Soon.

He was undoubtedly suffering from some bizarre, undiagnosed mental illness.

The sound of a creaking stair behind him brought Max’s head up. Tensed, he stared unseeing out the window. She’d crossed the distance between them, but he couldn’t make himself turn around and greet her. Words—the particular medium of his genius—refused to form in his brain.

Unable to turn to look at her, he heard her cross the landing. Then her hand coasted, gentle and warm, onto his shoulder.

“Are you okay?” In contrast to her earlier bitchiness, her question now was warm and concerned. “You haven’t said a word for hours, not even to snap at me about anything. I’m worried about you. Was I that lousy in bed last night or do you have a fever now or…something.”

He heard the half-playful self-doubt in her words and knew an immediate, crushing sense of responsibility, followed swiftly by anger. Hell, the woman had practically thrown herself at him! Why was he then responsible for the aftermath? He’d never promised her to be anything other that what he was! He wasn’t any damn good at all with the touchy-feely shit. Everything in his life made that clear, he thought bitterly. Why couldn’t women accept what a man had to offer? What did Nicole expect from him after one night of fucking? A thank you note? A written recommendation? Or more unlikely, a complete transformation?

Angry words jostling in his head, he turned his head to stare at her.

She stood on the landing so close behind him he could reach up and touch her. Soft and curvaceous and sexy as hell. Blond hair ruffling around her face, she looked at him with her clear blue eyes. Clear and sane, her gaze seemed to pierce the murky depths of his inchoate thoughts. Why couldn’t life be as simple for him as it was for her? She had nothing to regret, no self-recrimination. The path seemed always clear and defined to her. If he would smile at her, she’d be fine.

In the moment, baffled and frustrated, he yearned for the simplicity she possessed. Needed it so badly his throat constricted at the temptation of her nearness.

Fastening his mouth over hers, Max silenced her. If none of the chaos in his head could be answered, at least he could still the ravaging hunger in his body. If this was a madness in his mind, his surrendering to it couldn’t be helped.

Kisses, hot and dark, blotted out everything but her. The weight of her on his lap, pressing erotically against his instant erection, beguiled and blinded him. Small and crushable, she made no resistance, captured in his grip, a pleasure to be devoured. And he did, his hands hard and tight on her arms, he trapped her against his chest, held her there while he kissed the breath out of them both. Every fiber straining, every muscle taut, the blood funneled through his veins fast and pounding.

She took over him, robbed him of his precarious peace of mind as surely as she’d helped him regain it. Why wouldn’t the damned woman do her part in this process and leave him the hell alone? But no, she had to nag at him, had to lure him into the heat of her touch.

Shifting off the window sill, he took her with him to the floor, blindly pinning her there against the patterned carpet, his groin pressed needily into the vee of her legs. Held beneath his greater size, she lay victim to his plundering tongue, his questing, roving hands. His only goal drove him. His only thought to bury himself in her, to feel her silken heat tight around him, riding him, rippling over and around him. He had to get into her body, had no thought beyond feeling himself swell within her. For once no rational conscious existed for him.

His skin hot and tight, he lay over her, his weight braced by the arms that held her captive. Her smell, the silk of her skin, even the whimpers coming from her throat drove him mad. Sprawled over her, he felt himself thicken. With her, he felt huge, aching to bury himself in her tight, wet heat. Driven to find that encompassing madness, he pulled at her clothes. Her blouse yielding to his greedy, questing hands, her lace-covered breasts swelled full in his hands as he pushed her bra aside. Finding her firm thighs under the short skirt rucked up around her waist, he wasted no time in peeling down her underpants. Driven to impale her, to
own
the source of his helplessness, he yanked his belt loose, his mouth drawing and licking at her breast.

“Wait!” Her voice came breathless and rushed as he poised, probing her entrance. “Wait a minute. I need…just a minute.”

Halted in the act of preparing to thrust home, Max lifted his head, his vision clouded by the hunger clawing at him.

“Just kiss me,” she pleaded, her hands clutching at him, her body soft and yielding beneath his. “Kiss me a little longer and—and touch me. Just a few minutes more.”

His muscles burning, his entire body screaming to sink into her, he made himself pause. Dropping his head to her chest, his lips brushed the tender valley between her breasts. Hearing his own breath harsh in his ears, Max pushed his hand along her sleek flank before thrusting it between their bodies. She was hot and damp but he needed her crevice wet and flowing for him. They both needed to join in the sweet, writhing ecstasy for him to find his satisfaction. She had to be with him, had to be a part of him.

Drawing a finger over the delicately furred apex of her thighs, he somehow found the strength to hold his own hunger at bay. Gently, he licked her nipples, kissing and toying with the hard buds while his fingers discovered her. With all the self-control he could manage, he delved into her, rousing her flesh to the same gasping urgency ringing in his own ears.

The blood shushing through his veins seemed to thicken, slamming hard against his eardrums. He soon felt her velvet response, the flowering of her body beneath his hands. Moaning, she arched into the palm he pressed against her, his fingers toying with the nubbin he’d found as he spread her labia.

“Kiss me, Max,” she begged huskily. “Kiss me while we make love.”

Lifting his head, he stared down into her wanton face, her blond hair spread over the blood red carpet, her eyes half closed as her green gaze called him like a siren. Soft, red lips parted for him and he placed his mouth on hers as he pushed forward, sliding home, sinking deep. So deep he went till there was nothing between them but the dampness of their bodies. The madness, the insanity of it. No thought. Only the consciousness of burning, tingling, completely urgent arousal. She surrounded him, engulfed him, took him in and rose to meet him, her body hot and slick. Hearing her gasping, ragged breath meld with his own, he drove into her, deep and hard. Over and over, he slowly, steadily pumped into her.

But having slowed for her, his member now cleaving her body, he no longer rushed to his completion. Binding her hard against his body, Max rolled on to the carpet. Not breaking their joining, he lie now on the floor with her astride him, his cock deep within her welcoming body. Above him, her face hovered, dazed and blurred with passion. Rocking over him, her breasts moving with each thrust, she pleasured them both. Greedy for the feel of her, Max reached to cup her breasts in his hands, plucking and drawing at her nipples.

Her hands braced on his shoulders, she rode him, her breath coming faster and faster, their moans and gasps filling the air. Closing his eyes, one hand tugging at her nipple, Max felt himself centered at their joining. The part of him that
lived
was the part sliding in and out of her body. Reaching down between their bodies as she thrust herself madly against him, he found the small hard bud between her legs.

Her gasping shriek joined his grunts of pleasure. Hilt-deep she took him in, her body yielding, grasping him with an ecstasy he’d never before known. At that moment, he felt her tighten and ripple around him as she peaked. She thrust herself hard against him, going rigid, her back arching, her nipple pressing into his palm as she cried out, the muscles of her vagina milking him with a pleasure that threatened his consciousness.

Fingers still on the sweet, responsive kernel beneath her pubic hair, he arched up into her body, allowing the cresting waves to overtake him. Swelling larger inside of her, he heard her rising cries of satisfaction. Blinded and mute but for his groans, Max felt himself erupt, spilling into her.

* * *

An hour later, Nicole bit her lip and tried to keep from laughing. Across the small office where she’d typed Max’s words day in and day out, he sat at a desk muttering to himself, the very image of creative genius. Wearing only boxer shorts, his short dark hair tousled, he bent over the writing pad on the desk.

She watched him, conscious of the warmth glowing around her heart. There was still no knowing what the hell they were doing, but he was at least with her now. She didn’t know if she wanted to turn her world upside down to be with Max long-term, but she reveled in this moment with him by her side.

How things could change in the matter of a few hours? Her head felt as dizzy as a ping pong ball, but she kept wanting to break out in joyous chuckles. She still didn’t know what all was going on in Max’s head, but after they’d made love on the landing, he’d changed drastically for the better.

Not completely an idiot, she knew there were still obstacles ahead, but with him here with just across from her, she couldn’t keep the smile off her face.

He was actually sitting just across the room from her, writing. This was a first, him actually working in the same room with her. Always before, he’d seemed to need his space to write, preferring the window sill on the landing.

With his head bent again over the scribbled pad under his hand, she tried to make herself go back to work as well. There was no way to know where the relationship between them was going, but she’d fallen down the rabbit hole into his world and, right now, she couldn’t regret it. Maybe later, but not now.

Ring!

Nicole glanced over at the phone on the desk next to her. In the weeks she’d been here, the only time the phone rang was when Ruth, Max’s accountant or Cynthia called…other than Claire’s early morning awakening.

God. She still felt bad about that even though she’d called her friend and apologized profusely this morning. She hated worrying her.

Ring!

“Um….” Not sure what to say, Nicole looked over at Max who still wasn’t attending. Did telemarketers call him? Maybe the guy was a reporter since he hadn’t identified himself as working with the publishing house.

“May I ask who’s calling?” she said hesitantly.

“This is Peter Tucker,” the man on the other end of the connection bit out, obviously irritated.

“Oh! Just a minute.” Holding the phone gingerly as if to avoid annoying Max’s brother any further, Nicole said, “Max, he says he’s Peter Tucker.”

Anxiously watching him, she marveled at how well the man blocked his emotions from showing. Did he even care that his brother was making another move toward him? And this despite the less than satisfactory banquet experience just last night!