Private Relations (18 page)

S
O
, P
ETER HADN’T HAD
company in Cape Cod. Kit made the arrangements Giles had requested, unable to quell her feeling of satisfaction.

She returned to her office, closed the door and called Peter. When he identified himself, she said, “Are you alone?”

“One second.”

She heard a murmur of voices and then the click of a closing door. One thing about Peter: he caught a sexual innuendo the way Barry Bonds caught a pitch. “I’m all yours,” he said, his voice rich and low.

She let herself enjoy the moment, his voice in her ear, the tug of attraction between them. “How’d you like to be all mine tonight? My place? Say seven o’clock?”

“I could work that into my schedule,” he said. “Can I bring anything?”

“A bottle of massage oil. I hope you still give those fantastic back massages.”

“I’ll do my best to melt
all
your tensions away.”

She crossed her legs against a surge of lust that warmed her. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Wait.” His voice stopped her from ending the call.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got other massage clients tonight so I won’t
want to waste any time. I’d like you to be ready for me when I get there.”

Oh, she was all ready now. She swallowed, trying to keep the breathiness out of her voice, but it was hopeless. “What do you want me to do to be ready for you?”

“When I arrive, I’d like you to be naked.”

“Naked?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m to come to the door naked?”

“Yes.”

“What if it’s the super? Or a pizza delivered to the wrong door?”

“That could be…awkward.”

“Awkward? It would be mortifying. It could be my skuzzy neighbor Bernard who would like way too much to see me naked.”

“I see your problem,” he said. “But I really do need you to be ready.” He seemed to be thinking, and the pause lengthened. She recrossed her legs knowing that she was going to be a jittery, aroused mess until seven.

“You can wear a robe,” he finally decreed.

“A robe.”

“But nothing on underneath.”

Her skin prickled all over and she shivered, not with cold but with heat. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Light candles.”

“For a massage?”

“In case the electricity goes out in your building. I won’t have to waste time finding another light source.”

“You’re very efficient,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“I appreciate your cooperation.”

“I’ll be ready,” she said, and clicked off.

By seven o’clock, she was as ready as she’d ever
been. The robe felt scratchy against her skin, rubbing her naked flesh already so aroused it was ridiculous. She lit candles, put fresh sheets on the bed, Loreena McKennitt on the CD player.

She had wine in the fridge, but drank water, preferring to keep all her senses sharp. Maybe they’d have a glass of wine…after. But no sleepovers, she warned herself. This first time would be the most difficult, and she had to be absolutely clear with Peter that their relationship was about nothing but sex. Well, they were friends of a sort, and business acquaintances now that she was putting on an event for his company, but other than that it was all about the sex.

Which seemed like a great way for a fastidious but awfully busy woman like her to enjoy regular sex without it getting in the way of a busy schedule.

Her hair was brushed glossy, and she’d pinned it up in honor of the massage, her teeth were brushed glossy, her skin was shaved and exfoliated glossy. She was ready.

At precisely seven, Peter arrived. The concierge sent him up and she stood waiting by the door.

When he knocked, she opened the door immediately. He wasn’t wearing the suit she’d expected but a gray T-shirt and sweats. In his hand was a brown paper bag.

“Hi,” she said.

“Are you ready?” He was brisk, efficient, a massage therapist with a busy practice.

She nodded and he entered her apartment. He took a moment to look around. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t bring my table. Is your bed okay?”

She had to swallow before she could reply. What
was wrong with her? A little silly role-playing and she was tongue-tied and quaking with lust for this guy.

“Yes.”

“Let’s go.”

She doubted that most massage therapists watched their patients take off their robes, or gazed at their bodies with such naked and flattering lust. But she wasn’t complaining.

“Lie down on the bed on your stomach,” he instructed and she noticed his voice had deepened. He was as turned on as she was.

Without a word, she pulled back the covers, intensely conscious of him watching her every move, and then stretched out on her stomach.

“I give a better massage when I’m also naked. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Uh, no.”

She turned her head to watch him as he peeled out of his sweats. He was already hard, and she took a moment to enjoy the sight of him. The muscular chest, nicely defined arms, not quite a six-pack in the abs now that he was a desk jockey. Maybe a four-pack. Long legs and a good-size cock that had brought her a lot of pleasure in its time. She felt the bed dip as he straddled her, felt the warmth as he settled himself on her butt. His legs took most of his weight, but she felt him, skin to skin, warm and excited.

And then she heard the paper bag rustle as he removed the massage oil.

In a minute, she felt the first trickle of oil between her shoulder blades. She sucked in her breath at how cold it felt.

“I’ll soon warm it to your body temperature,” he said, soothing her.

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes and put herself into his hands.

Those wonderful, capable hands began to move, long, slow strokes spreading the oil over her back and shoulders. He wasn’t trained in any way, but damn, he was good. Under his fingers and palms, the tensions of the day melted out of her shoulders and neck, where she carried her troubles.

Which he already knew.

The oil smelled of rosemary, she thought, and something else. Pine? Total guy stuff, but relaxing, too. He kneaded the muscles of her back and arms, her neck and shoulders until she felt limp and heavy, but always, always, she knew what this was leading up to and her belly grew heavy with anticipation,

“Turn over,” he said softly, and she did, gazing up into his eyes. He picked up the oil and drizzled a little between her breasts and started to rub. Her breasts became slippery and warm under his touch, her belly slick and gleaming, and finally he slipped those nimble fingers between her legs.

The second he touched her there, she cried out, she’d been building up to this for so long, it seemed. He rubbed oil on her clit, which was already slippery with her own juices.

Then he crawled down between her legs and put his mouth on her. Oh, it was so hot. And she was already so close. He licked her, teasing only a little, then tongued her faster, lapping at her, pushing his tongue right up inside her body. She rose, higher, until her hips were airborne, gyrating under his mouth.

“Oh,” she cried. “Wait, I want you inside me,” she almost sobbed. But she couldn’t hold herself back, and
under his magic tongue she sobbed out her release while he held her through the tremors, kissing her intimate places, kissing her thighs and then her belly.

“I wanted to come with you inside me,” she complained weakly when she could finally speak. Every part of her throbbed in tiny orgasmic echoes.

“You will,” he promised. Hah, easy for him. How cocky. She almost never came twice.

And then, he was leaning over her, kissing her mouth, so she tasted her own passion and a hint of rosemary. He entered her slowly, so she felt her body stretch around his hardness. Felt the echoes increase as he started to move. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he rode her, then flipped them so she was riding him. Oh, and when she angled her pelvis just so, he hit her G-spot every time. And when Peter slipped a finger to touch her clit, she knew that he’d been right.

She let the delicious sensation build slowly inside her, controlling the speed and angle, staring down into that strong, sexy face. She watched as his forehead grew damp and his eyes lost their focus, until his breathing grew as ragged as her own.

She gripped his shoulders, then leaned down to kiss his mouth. And when she cried out her release, he swallowed it as she swallowed his.

She slumped, damp and slick with oil, against his chest, still making small thrusting movements because she never wanted the sex to end.

Peter stroked her hair, and then kissed her passion-swollen lips.

“You give a great massage,” she informed him.

“It’s easy with you. You’re a naturally relaxed person.”

“Thanks.”

She thought about offering him a glass of wine, but then realized that she’d only start down a dangerous and slippery path if she did that. Instead, she said brightly, “So, what are you planning to do for the rest of the evening?”

There was only the tiniest of pauses before he said, “I told you, I’ve got a full schedule of massage patients.”

She punched his shoulder. “Really.”

“I’m on my way to the gym.” He turned and gave her a slight grin. “For another workout.”

Not wanting to be churlish and throw him out right away, she said, “Do you want to shower before you leave?”

“Nah. I’ll shower at the club.”

He blinked, then rolled away, disappearing into the bathroom. When he returned, he picked up his clothes off the floor and put them on with close to the same speed he’d stripped them off earlier.

“When will I see you again?” Peter asked.

“I’ll call you,” Kit said.

“Okay.” He sounded fine.

And so Kit started her first relationship based on casual sex.

Peter certainly didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when one sex session ended, he never pressed for a firm date for their next encounter.

Sure, he called her as often as she called him and she’d spend a Saturday afternoon or a passionate evening at his place, but she never slept over. Never let him sleep at her apartment.

Her plan was working great. Better than she’d thought possible. He’d taken a little bit of training, but
now he didn’t even try to take their relationship any deeper.

Sometimes it felt as though he were looking at her with an intensity that was far from casual, but he’d never again done anything as stupid as telling her he loved her.

She still went out on the town and was seen with the who’s who of the Manhattan under-thirty crowd.

Sometimes, she even bumped into Peter. Which is how she ended up dancing with him at Incendiary. The club wasn’t even new. It had been around for a while, but suddenly it had been discovered in that mysterious way of popular night spots. The evening she bumped into Peter, she was escorting Seamus O’Rourke, the
enfant terrible
lad-lit writer from Ireland. Seamus looked just enough like Colin Farrell to get him into as much trouble as he wanted—and he seemed to like a lot of trouble, as did his young bad-boy agent. They were staying at Hush, of course, and when they asked her to go to Incendiary with them, she agreed.

There was a wicked lineup outside the club when the limo drew up, which was normal. She and her guests walked to the front and were ushered in with a friendly greeting, which always made her feel a tiny bit guilty for all the poor souls still standing in line. But, she reminded herself, it was her job to get Hush guests past lineups. And if people like her and Hush VIPs didn’t patronize Incendiary, it would cease to be hot and therefore cease to have lines.

She was wearing a new Carolina Herrera dress in rainbow colors that Piper had bought and then decided made her look too pale. She’d bestowed the expensive designer outfit on Kit. It wasn’t the first time she’d passed down clothes she’d never worn, and Kit had
learned to accept that Piper was never going to have the same respect for money that she did. So, she took the dress, which Piper decreed looked much better on her, and strapped on bright red stilettos that matched the red in the dress. She’d had her highlights retouched earlier in the week and she’d bought a new lip gloss that shimmered. Inside, the club was packed with the young and the trendy.

She knew a lot of people and took the trouble to introduce the Irish duo around. Then the three of them slid into one of the dark red leather booths. Seamus insisted she try his favorite drink, so she found herself sipping thirty-year-old Irish whiskey. Not her favorite, but she didn’t want to hurt Irish-American relations, so she nursed her heavily iced drink.

Seamus tried to explain that his novels were an exploration of his particular brand of religion, which seemed to be Catholic agnosticism, as far as she could tell from his slurred tangle of speech. As she tried to listen intelligently, she became aware of eyes on her.

She glanced up to see Peter gazing at her from across the room. For a second, the noisy club fell eerily silent and she felt her heart bang, once, hard against her ribs before the moment ended and the world righted itself again.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been naked, and kissing her goodbye at the door of his apartment. She’d wanted to stay, but hadn’t let herself suggest it. And Peter hadn’t asked.

After sending him a small wave, and noticing that he was in a group of more females than males, she turned her attention back to the writer.

His agent, who’d drained two whiskeys in no time, mumbled something about “seein’ about the service,”
and ambled off. She returned to listening to the writer, wishing she could contribute something to the discussion, except that she’d only made it through half of one of his novels and found the only thing memorable was his creative use of profanities.

“Oh, my God, it is you,” an excited female voice shrilled from Kit’s left. One of the women she’d seen Peter with, an intellectual-looking but glamorous anorexic all in black, with square black-framed glasses, was staring wide-eyed at Seamus. “I loved
Seven Deadly Sinners.
You are incredibly talented. I can’t believe you’re here in New York.”

Before Kit knew how it had happened, the thin woman had slid in beside Seamus, who was explaining to her, a lot more successfully than he had to Kit, what exactly his belief system was and how it influenced his work.