The Kissing Game (19 page)

“What
I
want has nothing to do with food,” Simon told her with a smile. “But it seems a shame to take off your dress after waiting so long for you to put it
on.”
He pulled her toward the balcony. “Come on. I have a bottle of wine on ice. Why don't we have a glass while we negotiate these terms of yours?”

Frankie was aware of the warmth of Simon's hand, aware of the heat in his eyes. He didn't
seem a bit fazed by the silent message her dress sent forth. “They're nonnegotiable,” she told him.

Out on the balcony, Simon had several candles burning, and their flames twitched and jumped, casting a flickering, romantic light filled with shadows and mystery.

He turned to look at her as he skillfully opened the bottle of wine. He was at home in the softness of the candlelight, with a wine bottle in his hand and a small smile playing about the corners of his lips. She was in his territory now, Frankie realized. This was the scene of a well-thought-out seduction, and he was a master at the game.

She sat down, aware that his eyes followed the movement of her legs as she crossed them.

She murmured her thanks as he handed her a glass of wine and sat down across from her, sideways on the long seat of a chaise longue.

He took a sip of his wine as he gazed at her, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes intense, his attention completely hers.

Frankie cleared her throat. “You remember asking me how long I wanted?”

He nodded.

“Well, I've thought about it, and maybe it's not as stupid as it first seemed. It occurred to me that maybe you'd actually be able to handle a longer-term relationship if you knew for certain that you had an out—if there was a predetermined date that it would end. Do you remember the winter I worked pumping septic tanks, replacing Andy Kraft while he was in Alabama, taking care of his daughter's kids while she was in the hospital? It was an awful job, despite the fact that it paid well. But I got through it, because I knew I wasn't going to be pumping septic tanks for the rest of my life. I knew that Andy would be back on April twenty-ninth, and I'd be free.”

Simon took another sip of wine, unable to hide his smile. “Are you actually comparing yourself to a septic tank that needs pumping?”

“I'd be willing to bet that I smell better, but yes, I am.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You are so
not
a septic tank—symbolically or otherwise.”

“Four months,” Frankie said. “I've thought hard about it, and four months seems fair, don't you think?”

“Francine, this is—”

“This is the way I want to do it, Simon. Four months puts us at the end of August. At that time I'll take a two-week off-island vacation. When I get back, you'll be gone for another two weeks. You can plan whatever you want—a vacation, a buying trip, whatever. You just have to promise to disappear for at least two weeks, okay?”

Simon gazed at Frankie's face in the candlelight. She was dead serious. And she fully expected him to agree. It was weird, setting an end date to a relationship.

He'd been ready to ask her to marry him.

Well, perhaps not exactly
ready.
More like prepared as best as possible, ready in case he had to.

Four months. It seemed so arbitrary. How could he possibly know now what he'd feel in four months?

Frankie was looking away from him, down at her shoes, her confidence fading at his extended silence. When she glanced up at him, her eyes were apologetic. “I know this is crazy,” she said. “Even if you agree to this, there's no way I can hold you to it. But I just thought—”

“It's fine,” Simon interrupted. He would have
said anything to remove that anxious look from her face.

Strains of music drifted up, probably from someone else's room. Simon stood up, holding his hand out to Frankie. “Dance with me.”

Heart in her throat, Frankie went into his waiting arms. This was no fantasy. Simon was hers— at least for the next four months.

She had to stop thinking that way. Four months was a very long time. She could very well be sick of him at the end of four months.

She closed her eyes at the sensation of his hands on her back, his fingers caressing her daringly exposed skin. His touch felt sinfully good and Frankie felt redeemed. She might have given in, but already it was worth it.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, and he leaned down to brush his smooth-shaven cheek against hers as he whispered in her ear, “I'm not sure you're going to want to hear this, but I think we're dancing to the music from a toilet paper commercial playing on someone's tele vision set.”

Frankie had to laugh. And she knew for a solid fact that after four months, four years, or even
four decades, she would
never
be sick of Simon Hunt.

“Years from now we'll meet in a bar in Casa blanca,” she said, smiling up into his eyes, “and you'll say, ‘Play it, Sam. Play that toilet paper commercial …. ‘ “

“From now on Angel Soft will have a special place in my heart,” Simon teased.

For the next four months, at least …. Frankie shook her head. She
had
to stop thinking that way. She put her arms around his neck. “Kiss me, Si.”

“With pleasure,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers, first lightly, then harder but still so sweetly.

Frankie angled her head, deepening the kiss, attempting to exorcise all her pessimistic thoughts through the delicious taste of his mouth, through the erotic sensation of his tongue against hers.

He kissed her slowly, languorously, taking his sweet time to thoroughly possess her mouth, and she felt herself melting as time dragged way out and slowed way down.

At this rate, four months could last a lifetime.

His fingers found the bow that held her dress
on, and the zipper right below it. He deftly unfastened both, and Frankie felt her dress fall off her, pooling in a puddle of silk at her feet.

Hers was a vulnerable position to be in. While Simon was still fully dressed, she was half naked. She wore only her shoes and thigh-high stockings, and the black lace panties Leila had purchased when she'd bought this dress. But the breeze coming in from the gulf was warm, and the look in Simon's eyes was positively hot. She didn't feel at all exposed.

“I have this fantasy,” he whispered, his hands skimming the length of her body, “that involves us actually making love in a bed.”

“Slowly?” Frankie felt herself tremble as his mouth replaced his hands on her breasts.

“Incredibly slowly,” he murmured, hooking his fingers in her panties and dragging them down her legs.

“I may die. Because, see, I like it fast …. “ She reached for his belt buckle, but he stopped her hands.

“Nuh-uh. Not this time. First we get over to the bed. I'm not taking any chances here.” He
picked up a candle and led her slowly, step by step, across the hotel suite and into the bedroom.

It was perfect. He was standing, looking at her, so much desire and need on his face. His tie was askew, his shirt rumpled, and his blond hair fell across his forehead into his eyes. But it didn't matter what he was wearing or not wearing. It didn't matter if they made love on this enormous bed or swinging from the chandeliers. What mattered was his quicksilver smile, the gleam of excitement and amusement sparkling in his eyes, the fact that he could find something to laugh about no matter the situation.

Frankie knew that in all of her fantasies, romantic or otherwise, there had always been one constant—Simon.

He set the candle down on a table next to the bed and crossed toward her. He kissed her, slowly again, deliberately.

Frankie stepped out of her shoes and pulled him back with her, down onto the bed.

He kissed her again, filling her, surrounding her, covering her with his familiar scent, his warmth, his need.

His love.

It was easy to pretend that he loved her totally and completely as he touched and caressed— worshiped—every inch of her body with his hands and his mouth. He took his sweet time, moving excruciatingly slowly, pulling away when she tried to unbutton his shirt or unfasten his belt.

It took forever, a long, sensuous, exquisite forever, but Frankie finally got his shirt off. Near delirious with the sensation, she ran her hands across the smooth muscles of his back and pressed her bare breasts against his chest.

He groaned as he covered her face with kisses, and together they rid him of his pants and shorts. It took him several seconds to cover himself and protect them both, and then he was back beside her.

He pulled her on top of him, entwining their legs and arms, and she closed her eyes, delighting in the sensation of flesh against flesh, soft against hard. He rolled her back around so that she was once more beneath him. She could feel the hard length of his arousal pressed against her belly, and she marveled at his restraint.

She looked up to find his eyes open, a smile on his beautifully shaped lips as he watched her.

“What other fantasies do you have?” she asked breathlessly. “Because we seem to be handling this making-love-in-bed-and-taking-it-really-slowly fantasy pretty damn well.”

His smile widened. “I've got a real good one that involves you and me and the hotel elevator.”

“I've got a major thing for the butcher-block counter in your kitchen,” Frankie admitted.

“Just the butcher block?” Simon asked, his eyes dancing. “Or do I play a part in it too?”

“You've got the starring role,” she told him. She reached up to touch the side of his face with her hand and felt her heart soften as she gazed into the amazing blue eyes of this man who had been her friend for so many years, this man who was now her lover. “It's always been you, Si.”

She could see wonder in his eyes, wonder and a joy she'd never seen before. “Say it,” he breathed. “I want to hear you say it.”

He could read her mind. Frankie knew he could, knew exactly what he wanted to hear. And she knew that by giving him that, she would be giving him everything. There'd be nothing left to hide behind, nothing left to pretend.

“I knew it was what you were telling me when
you wore that dress,” he whispered, “but I want to hear the words. Please, Francine …. “

Frankie moistened her lips. “I love you.”

She could have sworn she saw tears appear in Simon's eyes. But then he pulled her close, capturing her mouth in the sweetest of kisses as he slowly and completely filled her.

He moved excruciatingly slowly, and when she would have quickened the pace, he stopped her. Her blood was pounding crazily through her veins as each stroke seemed to take a century to complete.

“Simon—” She opened her eyes to find him watching her again. His face was a picture of intensity, his hair damp and curling with perspiration. “Please …. “

“Don't fight it, Frankie,” he murmured. “Savor

it, go with it The same way you let yourself

love me, let me love you.”

Frankie's dark eyes flashed as she met Simon's steady gaze, but he knew that she decided not to question him as she closed her eyes and lifted her lips for a kiss.

She opened her mouth to him, allowing him to invade her completely, and he felt his own control
start to slip. But then he felt her sigh at his caress, felt her begin to relax, moving with him at the pace he set, giving in to his control.

She trusted him. Simon felt a flash of joy nearly as intense as the pleasure he was getting from making love to her.

She trusted him and loved him enough to risk
everything
—her pride, her self-respect, her heart. He knew Frankie well enough to know that these were not things she'd give up easily.

She moaned a long-drawn-out sigh of pleasure at each of his movements, and he felt his body respond eagerly to the knowledge that she was close to her release.

“Simon …. “ He felt the beginning of her climax as she breathed his name, felt her body clench and tighten around him as she was pushed over the edge. It was all he'd been waiting for. He felt his own release in slow motion, somersaulting through him, bursting through his veins, exploding in his brain.

And it was then, right there and then, in the aftermath of the explosion, even before Simon could remember something so simple as his name, that he knew.

He didn't
need
to marry Frankie. He didn't
have
to marry Frankie. He
wanted
to marry her.

As she clung to him, still rocked by the intensity of their lovemaking, Simon realized that his most perfect fantasy of all was well within his reach.

A wife—a lover and friend—to laugh with by day and burn with at night. Children—daughters and sons. A sense of peace and belonging he'd never had before ….

“Si, would you mind if we extend our little agreement for another four months?” Frankie's voice sounded sleepy in his ear. “Because I want to spend at
least
that long making love to you just like this—nice and slow.”

Simon had to laugh as he rolled over, pulling her into his arms. “I wouldn't dream of doing that to you,” he said. “It'd be torture. You've made it more than clear that you like making love only hard and fast.”

Frankie leaned her head against his shoulder, using one hand to outline the muscles on his chest. “That's just like you to prove your point,” she said lightly, “and then make sure you really rub it in.”

“I love you.”

Frankie froze, her palm resting over Simon's heart. She lifted her head and met his warm blue gaze.

“I do,” he added.

She shook her head. “Simon, don't mess things up that way. Just because
I
said it doesn't mean you have to—”

“Marry me, Frankie.”

It took several seconds for her heart to start beating again, several more before she could speak. Even then, her voice shook. “Bad joke, Hunt.”

“It's not—”

“Don't.” She pulled away from him. “Please. Don't ruin this by saying something I know you couldn't possibly mean.”

“But I
do
mean it. Francine, I've never been more serious in my entire—”

“Shhh.” She covered his mouth with her hand. “We made our agreement. Four months. If you still feel the same way in four months, well, we'll talk. But I'm not going to spend the next four months with you feeling nervous and trapped by something you said without thinking it through.