Passion and Scandal (18 page)

He took her lips in a powerful, punishing kiss, pushed beyond gentleness by two days of more frustration than man should ever have to endure. Willow answered him with a power of her own, wrapping her arms around his waist as his went around her back, rising up on her knees on the table to get even closer, opening her mouth to his ravaging tongue as her head fell back under the passionate onslaught of his lips.

The kiss went on forever, their lips sliding wetly against each other's, their heads turning and tilting to find the best, the most satisfying angle. Teeth nibbling and nipping. Tongues tasting and dueling. Hot, intemperate, desperate, endless kisses with his hands sliding through her hair to hold her head, and her fingers gripping the back of his soft cotton T-shirt to keep him from moving even one tiny centimeter away.

Willow could feel something soft, squishing beneath her knee, and realized, vaguely, that it was the remains of his cheese sandwich. Steve could feel the warmth of spilled soup, soaking into the leg of his jeans as it trickled off the edge of the table. Neither of them cared for such mundane considerations.

All that mattered was satisfying the need that had started building between them from almost the minute they first looked at each other. The need that had been growing voraciously, second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, until it seemed to be the only thing in the world that mattered. After two days of mental foreplay and their own fevered imaginings, there was, finally, only one way to relieve the terrible tension inside them. They had to get closer... ever closer... closer still. Without conscious thought they began to undress each other.

She released her death grip on his T-shirt and slid her hands around to his front, reaching down to fumble with his belt buckle and the metal buttons on the strained fly of his jeans.

He moved his hands down her back, sliding them down the curve of her spine, slipping under the waistband of the loose navy sweatpants she wore. Cupping his hands, gliding them over the firm, fleshy curves of her bare bottom, he skimmed the backs of her thighs as he pushed the soft fleece fabric down. With his mouth still fastened to hers, he curled his fingers around the backs of her knees, lifting slightly, pulling them forward so that she ended up sitting on the edge of the table with her bare legs dangling over the side, sweatpants and smashed cheese sandwich on the floor between his feet.

She freed the last button on his jeans and slipped her hands, palms flat against his narrow hips, inside both jeans and briefs to push them down.

He gasped into her mouth, a hoarse ragged sound, his big, hard body shuddering with intemperate, overwhelming, mindless need as his erection sprang free.

She wrapped her fingers around him in blatant demand, leaning backward to pull him down on top of her.

He yanked her forward, his hands hard on her thighs.

She flinched.

He stopped.

Willow tore her mouth from his. "I swear to God," she murmured raggedly, her voice shaking with need, "if you stop now, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

He leaned forward, curling an arm around her back for support, and swept the rest of the debris off the table with one arm, sending glasses, crockery and cutlery crashing to the floor. Then, in one smooth motion, he slid her back into position and levered himself up onto the table between her legs.

"To stop me now, you'd
have
to kill me," he replied, and thrust himself into her.

Willow made a wild exultant sound, deep in her throat, and lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist as he began to move in her. She clutched at his shoulders with both hands, her fingers curled tightly in the soft fabric of his T-shirt, holding on for dear life as he tried to get closer to her than was humanly possible with each driving thrust.

She could hear the hoarse sloughing of his breath; feel the wild pounding of his heart; see the trembling in his powerful arms as he struggled to give her what she needed before he took what he so desperately desired for himself.

It was reckless and untamed.

It was fast and furious and frantic.

It was primitive, unrestrained sex at its most basic.

It was glorious.

Willow arched her back in voluptuous, victorious surrender, pressing her head against the table, and let completion take her. A high, keening sound of feminine triumph burst from her throat at the peak, releasing Steve to find his own fierce satisfaction. He took it with a guttural cry of masculine conquest and triumph that matched hers, sinking down to capture her mouth with his for a deep, carnal kiss as the last shudders racked his body.

It was several long, lazy delicious minutes later before they even began to surface. Willow came back to herself first, becoming aware of the puddle of cold tea soaking through her T-shirt between her shoulder blades, and the hardness of the table beneath her, and the various aches and pains that came from indulging in unbridled passion on a surface not intended for the purpose. She smiled, wanton and unrepentant, already relishing the memory of those mad, sweet moments.

She might have a few more bruises tomorrow to add to the scrapes she'd received earlier but it had been worth it. More than worth it. She turned her head, pressing a soft kiss to the warm skin below his ear, and whispered his name.

Steve sighed and lifted his head from the fragrant curve of her neck to look down at her. "Are you all right?"

"Mmm-hmm," she murmured and smiled up at him, her eyes half-closed and slumberous.

She really has the most remarkably expressive eyes,
he thought as he stared down at her. They showed every passing thought and emotion. They were by turns vulnerable and trusting; wide with astonishment; snapping with anger or indignation; brimming with laughter and a sly teasing wit that challenged both his intellect and his manhood; soft and hot and aching with need; glowing with sweet satisfaction as they were now.

He wondered how they would look when she tumbled into love, and how long he would have to wait before he would see that look in her eyes. He would wait however long it took, of course. He'd committed himself to her, here on his dining table. No, that wasn't quite true; he'd committed himself this afternoon when he'd caught sight of her coming out of Christo's Deli and felt his heart stop beating in his chest for one breathless moment. Otherwise, no matter how frustrated he was, or how much she'd teased him, this wouldn't have happened while she was still his client—at least, that's what he tried to tell himself.

It had been more than just the buildup of frustration and desire, more than their brush with death. For him, their wild lovemaking had been the physical confirmation of his feelings. He hadn't meant to do it so soon—or in such a graceless way—but what was done was done and he couldn't find it in himself to be sorry. He wasn't going to beat himself up over it, either. He'd staked his claim. She was his now, to care for and to cherish and to love. Sooner or later, she would realize it for herself. He could wait until she did. If he didn't have to wait too long.

"I hate to break up the party," she said teasingly. "But this table wasn't made for lying on and all this muscle—" she stroked his wide shoulders caressingly, with the flat of both hands "—weighs a ton."

He grinned and lifted himself away from her, reaching down between them as he did so. His grin faded and he swore softly, viciously.

Startled, Willow lifted her head, following his gaze to where their bodies had just been so intimately joined. It took her a minute to realize what the problem was, and then, when she did, she had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

It wasn't anything to laugh about, really. The whole matter could have deadly serious consequences, but she couldn't help it. The soft giggles escaped against her will.

The careful, conscientious, well-prepared Mr. Hart had forgotten to use protection.

* * *

"We should talk about what happened on the table," Steve said, as they lay together in his bed with the moonlight shining down on them through the wide glass doors and the skylight above the bed. They were fresh from another bout of loving, scarcely less frantic and frenzied than first time except that he'd slowed down enough to remember to use the contents of one of the little foil packets stored in the drawer of his bedside table. "You could end up pregnant."

"That's not very likely," Willow assured him. "It's the wrong time of the month."

"But it could happen," he insisted, and laid his hand over her stomach. It covered her entire lower abdomen, from her navel to the dark silky hair below. He imagined placing it in that exact spot, some unspecified number of years or months from now, when her belly was round and ripe with his child. "It could be happening right now," he said, almost wistfully.

Willow shrugged against the pillow, wondering why the thought of being pregnant with his baby wasn't as distressing as it should have been. "Let's not worry about it until there's actually something to worry about," she suggested, trying to keep it light, for both their sakes. "There's no sense borrowing trouble." She touched the back of his hand with the tip of her index finger, tracing a meandering line over the tendons that stood out in bas-relief under his skin. "There are other things we should both be concerned with."

"I'm HIV negative," he said promptly. "I get tested every year, more often if I think I might have had some questionable contact."

"Does that happen often?" Willow asked, startled by the admission of such a free and easy sex life. "Having questionable contacts?"

"In my line of work, you can't be too careful. Sometimes a junkie will bleed on you, or you'll have to give first aid to some kid who's been turning tricks to keep body and soul together."

"Oh," she said, a bit embarrassed at having jumped to the wrong conclusion. "I saw the boxes of condoms in your office and I thought..."

"Why, Willow Ryan," he teased, rising up on his elbow to look down at her, "were you snooping in my desk drawers?"

"I was looking for a pencil sharpener," she said primly, hoping he couldn't see her incriminating blush in the shadowed moonlight.

"Uh-huh," he snorted. "You were snooping."

"Don't you want to hear my sexual history?" she asked, in an effort to change the subject.

"Is there something about it I should know?"

"Not really. My first lover was a virgin," she said, wishing he would lie back down so she could give her report a little more... anonymously. It was disconcerting to be discussing past lovers with him staring at her face. "My second lover was a boy I met at college. We used condoms."

"And?"

"And that's it," she snapped, unaccountably aggrieved. "My sex life hasn't been as vast and varied as yours obviously has."

He couldn't help but smile. Only two lovers. She wasn't a woman who gave herself lightly or casually, which made the fact that she'd given herself to him, and after only two days, all the more special. She was halfway in love and didn't even know it.

"I don't see what's so amusing about one of us being an indiscriminate sex fiend," she pouted, reaching up to push him away.

He grabbed her hand, holding it against his bare chest. "While I'll admit I've had a few more than two previous lovers," he said, "there hasn't been some faceless horde parading through my bedroom, either."

"Hah!" she said succinctly and tried to pull her hand away.

He tightened his fingers on hers, refusing to let her go. "I give away most of the condoms I keep in my office."

She stopped trying to pull her hand out of his. "Give them away? To whom?" she asked suspiciously.

"To street kids, mostly. Runaways. A lot of them turn tricks to survive. They need all the protection they can get."

"Oh," she said in a small voice.

"Now, the ones I keep in the drawer by the bed, though..." he said, waiting until she looked at him. "Those I use myself, and I don't like to let them lie around too long or else they start to deteriorate." He rolled over onto his back, still holding her hand against his chest, and reached out with his other hand, dipping it into the open drawer. "I'd say there are, oh, about a half dozen left." He glanced over at her, his eyes teasing, his dimple flashing in the moonlight. "We've got a busy night ahead of us, sweetheart."

* * *

He took it slowly, agonizingly slowly, the third time they came together, exploring every inch of her body, learning what merely pleased her and what drove her mad with frenzied, unreasoning desire. His intention was to possess her, totally; to create a bond with his body; to brand her so that every time she thought of making love, she thought of him. He went about it with diabolical thoroughness and consummate skill.

He was lavish with his hands, touching her everywhere, gently stroking her face and the insides of her thighs, cupping her breasts with exquisite care, kneading the curve of her waist and her strong, slender calves and the firm, fleshy swell of her hips, preparing her body for the deeper pleasures to come.

He was exacting and precise with his fingers, using them to gently pinch and pluck at her nipples until they were hard and aching, delicately circling the little nub of flesh between her legs until she was taut and panting, penetrating her deeply, over and over, until she was slick and swollen and twisting mindlessly on the sheets.