What's Yours is Mine (8 page)

Better not look. She raised her gaze to his face, which didn’t help at all. He was staring at her fixedly, and now she felt the heat of a blush on her face and shoulders, and a flood of sexual heat in her groin. Oh yes. Oh wow.
 

Oh no. No, no, no.
 

She backed up. “Sorry. I’ll wait. Go ahead and brush. I’ll just be out here. Waiting.”

She shut the door, then stood there like an idiot. A trembling, lustful idiot.
 

Sex last night was one thing. She’d been shocked. Beyond exhausted. Overwrought. It wasn’t intentional, wasn’t a seduction or a planned, mutual let’s-act-on-this-attraction thing. It was more like a car crash. A slick, slippery, slam-into-each-other-wow-your-life-just-got-totaled kind of accident. Tonight, if it happened again—
 

But it wouldn’t. He would kick her out of bed in a heartbeat. Not that she’d let him. Because she wouldn’t be there. In his bed, touching that tanned skin, tracing her finger across the pale line of hair running down his abdomen to… Nope. She wouldn’t do that. No way. Absolutely not.
 

The bathroom door opened. Darcy was acutely aware of her still-flushed cheeks, her nipples still tightly aroused under her thin oversized T-shirt. She probably looked like she wanted to attack him.
 

Will nodded, a perfunctory gesture, hardly looking at her. “All yours. Don’t leave hair in the sink. Do you have a hand towel, at least?”

“Uh…”
 

He sighed. “You can borrow one of mine.” He disappeared through the other bathroom door, the one that led into the bedroom, then came back with a neatly folded forest-green towel set. Bath towel, hand towel, facecloth. He thrust them at her, again carefully not looking at her for more than a split second.
 

She took them, likewise trying not to gaze at the bulge in his boxers or the play of muscle along his taut abdomen. “Thanks. I’ll wash them before you move out.”

“Before you move out, you mean. Good night.” But a muscle in his eyelid twitched.

~*~

Will fled the bathroom and shut the door behind him, leaning against the wall as he let his breath out in a whoosh. Why did he have to be so turned on by this woman of all women? Why did she have to look so delectable in her ridiculously thin shirt imprinted with a growling punk-rock poodle, complete with spiked collar?
 

That was her: soft and cuddly looking, curves to die for, astonishing dark eyes, and breasts so high and pert they practically demanded a man’s hands. Especially tonight, as she stood on the other side of the bathroom door with tantalizingly tight, prominent nipples and a bright flush on her cheeks. But it had to stay firmly in the look-don’t-touch realm, because she was pricklier than a cactus and lied more often than a presidential candidate. Self-serving, presumptuous, impossible woman who just happened to have participated in the most mind-blowing sexual encounter of his life.
 

He flopped onto the bed with a groan. The sooner she admitted defeat and left his condo, the better. Another round of sex was out of the question. She’d probably find a way to use it against him.
 

Besides, she wasn’t his type, with her high heels and her high-priced outfits.
 

Not his
usual
type, he hastily amended, looking ruefully down at his recalcitrant cock as he shed his boxers and tossed them in the hamper. It bounded back up, saluting him. Clearly, she was the type he wanted right now.
 

Well, of course she was. She was sexy as hell and full of life and on the other side of that door. Of course his body craved Darcy Jennings. Sometimes he craved chocolate sundaes too. That didn’t make them healthy.
 

An unwilling memory surfaced: that same poodle shirt. Darcy with mussed hair and sleep-lidded eyes, clearly visible through his computer screen even though a bedside lamp flared behind her, setting the edges of her hair glowing in a halo effect and outlining her curves with brushstrokes of light.
 

He’d forgotten the time difference, woken her with his request for a Skype call. But she’d gotten on anyway, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She’d obviously just yanked the shirt over her head when she heard his incoming text, no time for a bra, and the fabric had snagged around her waist, hiking up just enough to show a slice of delectable, toned skin. He’d tried to focus on the conversation but kept glancing down to the tantalizing glimpses of sexy woman.
 

In the middle of a convoluted sentence about the pros and cons of different sample packaging, Darcy clearly figured out that he was distracted. And then why.
 

She flushed, she stuttered, she touched her shirt hem to pull it down—and then stopped herself. Pulled her hand away with a mischievous, outrageously sexy grin, straightened up in her chair, and continued on, talking about whatever the hell they were trying to figure out, but now with a knowing gleam in her eye, looking straight at him like nothing else mattered. And the only thing Will could think was,
I’m going to make love to that woman someday.
 

Now he had. If you could call it that.
 

Somehow she still had this power over him, this pull, even though he knew who she really was.
 

Darcy and her punk poodle tee. On the other side of that door. And he was going to do absolutely nothing about it.

~*~

Midnight. Darcy lay on the couch, wide awake, the green bath towel acting as a makeshift blanket. Surf pounded outside, and moonlight filtered through the wide glass sliding doors, making patterns on the ceiling.
Hello, Insomnia, my old friend.
 

Two a.m. Darcy lay on the area rug, couch pillows laid out under her like some kind of eastern pasha’s bedding, or so she imagined. The towel had slipped off, her neck had a crick, and the sound of the surf was getting on her nerves.

Two thirty a.m. It would be six thirty a.m. in Shanghai. Darcy snagged her phone and paged through her contacts. She found Jianyu, hit
send
, and waited.
 

Jianyu answered on the fourth ring, just before it cycled to voice mail. The phone was probably on his desk. He was probably watching it, counting the rings. Jianyu hated to seem eager. He felt it gave the caller the upper hand.
 

“
Wèi
?” He sounded curt.
 

“It’s Darcy. How have you been?” She spoke in Mandarin, slipping easily into the language, so familiar from all her time in Shanghai and on-site.
 

He responded in English, his way of setting boundaries. “You left only two days ago. I’m the same as then.”

English it was. “Right. I was hoping you could help jog my memory about something. Do you remember the Slippery Elm lotion?”

“Your skin cream that crashed and burned, yes.”
 

Ouch. “Some new information has come to my attention. I was wondering if you knew anything about triclosate in the formula?”
 

“I’d have to look at my records. I can’t remember details from that far back. Is it important? Are you beginning the project again?”

“Thinking about it. Can you send me the protocol and all relevant emails and phone follow-up memos from back then?”

“It’ll take a few days.” He sounded dubious. “I’d simply start again. It was a nice product but not that unusual. I’m sure your scientists can recreate the texture, especially now that you’re willing to dabble in conventional methods.”

That sounded ominous.
 

“Well, sure. I guess I should talk to Stan about the ingredients, huh?”

“Stanley Golden?” He sounded surprised. “Is he involved in this kind of decision? I thought— Never mind. I am sure you are correct.”

“What did you think?”

“It does not matter. You know the hierarchy in your company better than I do. If you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch. Nice talking with you, Darcy.” He hung up, abrupt as ever.
 

Well. That was odd. It was hard to know if it meant anything, though, or Jianyu was simply being his overly cautious self.
 

She set the phone down and yanked her makeshift blanket back over her legs. God, the floor was hard. And boy, was the surf noisy. She got up and settled on the couch once more, burrowing into the seam between back and seat for comfort and warmth, flinging an arm over her face to block out the sound.

Three fifteen a.m. Why was she camped out in the living room, anyway? She was the one with habitual, tormenting insomnia. Last night was the first good night’s sleep she’d had in forever. Will’s bed was amazing. She needed that bed. And it was right through that bedroom door, taunting her with the promise of a good night’s rest.
 

This was her condo, after all. Her bedroom. Why had she let herself get exiled to the couch? That was like admitting defeat. Her father had taught her better. Will had slept fine on the couch last night, hadn’t he? He could do it again tonight. They should at least have a discussion about it. Decide this like adults. Or toss a coin, whatever. But she shouldn’t admit defeat without trying for that amazing bed.
 

She gathered up her towel and her pillow and marched down the short hallway to the bedroom, then flung the door open.
 

Will was sprawled across the bed, tangled in the sheets, sound asleep. So unfair.
 

Going over to the bed, she yanked a corner of the sheet out from under him.
 

He woke up with a start, thrashing and sitting up. “Whu?” He blinked at her in the gloom. “Darcy? What…?”

“Here’s the thing. I need to sleep here. I have the right to my own bedroom. It shouldn’t be yours by default. I shouldn’t have to—”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.”
 

He lay down again, rolled over onto his side, and went back to sleep.
 

She shook him again. “I said I wanted to sleep here. That means you go to the couch.”

Opening his eyes a slit, he lifted a corner of the blanket, gestured between her and it. Then he closed his eyes. In less than five seconds, his breathing changed.
 

He was asleep again.
 

Darcy stood stock-still, her heart beating too fast.
 

More than anything in the world—more than sole ownership of this condo, more than approval by the boss—Darcy craved a good night’s sleep. A solid stretch of sleep two nights in a row would be some kind of record.
 

But in the bed with Will? That was too much.
 

On the other hand…

She eyed him. He’d flung his arm over his eyes and was lightly snoring. He wasn’t thickly built, but he was a full-grown, muscular man. There was no way she was yanking him out of bed without his cooperation.

There was no way she was getting anything like a decent night’s sleep on that couch. Or the floor.
 

She yawned, feeling exhaustion flood her body, weighing her down.
 

The edge of the blanket was still turned down invitingly.
 

She slid under the sheet and willed her body to relax, willed herself to forget the man beside her, his regular exhales almost like the surf beyond the window.
 

The mattress gave at just the right spots, was firm in just the right ways, cradling her and soothing her aches and tension. Fatigue finally overtook her. The bed held her like a loving mother’s arms, and she slept.

~*~

Will was having the most sensual dream of his life. A woman curved against him, facing away, her delicious ass moving in a subtle rhythm against his pelvis, her dark hair falling like water across his face, her slim back sliding against his chest, arousing every inch of skin. His arms encircled her torso. As she undulated, her breasts pushed up, warm under his welcoming palms. He moved in sync with her motion, slid against her slithering body as his painfully-pleasurably engorged cock sought succor in the cleft between her legs. She was so responsive, so in tune with him, this dream woman, moaning and bucking up against him with her lush buttocks, her hair brushing against his mouth—

—And he coughed and woke up.

To find Darcy’s back pressed against his chest, the thin layer of her T-shirt the only barrier between their bodies. His hands had somehow slipped under the fabric, and he was cupping her breasts in the palms of his hands. God help him, she felt so good. As he tried to remove his hands, his palms inadvertently brushed across her tight nipples, and she moaned again, deep and low, dreaming of sex.
 

He froze.
 

He should scoot away. Get up out of bed. Flee. But she wriggled against him, instinctively craving more. Without conscious volition, his erection twitched at just the right angle, and as she arched back against him, his cock slid into place between her legs.
 

She scissored around him, pressure and pleasure that mimicked the tightness he remembered so vividly within her. He closed his eyes, fighting the explosion building inside him at the feel and scent and movement of this dangerously sexy woman in his bed, his whole being pulsating with the intensity of his urge to drive into her wet warmth.

He had to stop this.
 

He couldn’t bear to stop.
 

Pleasure, guilt, throbbing need. He was caught. It had started as one hell of a voluptuous hot flash of a dream. But now he was awake, and he had to halt this treacherous, dangerous—

She moved again, moaned again, and he instinctively drove forward, nearly sliding past the thin cotton barrier of her panties before he forcibly restrained himself.
 

Her breath caught, stuttered, ragged and harsh.
 

Not the sound of a woman asleep and dreaming, not even if she were dreaming of sex. No, that was the sound of a woman awake and aware and very turned on.