entry, fussing with the drape of her off-the-shoulder sweater and smoothing a hand over her slit-hemmed capris before glancing down at her darling new ribboned slides. Lifting her chin and giving her reflection one of her coolest smiles, she took a deep breath and pulled open her door.
And melted into a mess of fluttering goo when she saw the huge bunch of soft blue irises in Quinn’s hand.
“I would have brought you roses,” he said, thrusting the flowers at her with a stiffly awkward arm, “but you seemed to like these.”
He’d had his hair trimmed, and there was a reddened nick near the dent on his chin where he must have cut himself shaving. His navy-blue oxford shirt was tucked into a pair of tan trousers, his scuffed dress shoes were freshly polished, and the way he looked at her made her feel as if she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
The flutters intensified, and she swallowed to ease the strange tightness in her throat. “I do. They’re beautiful, Quinn. Thank you.”
She took the fat bouquet and stepped aside as he entered, and then closed the door. “Let me get a-”
He wrapped an arm around her waist, fisted a hand in her hair, shoved her against the wall and took her mouth in a kiss that flashed through her like wildfire. The flowers tumbled to the floor at their feet as she twined her arms around his neck and plastered herself against him, punishing him with her lips and teeth and battling for control as her system rocketed toward arousal at light speed.
“I want you,” he murmured against her throat.
“I can tell,” she said on a gasp as his tongue blazed a moist trail along the base of her throat.
“Now,” he said.
She tugged at the buttons on his shirt, and he yanked at her sweater, tugging the hem above her bra, lifting her arms above her head, imprisoning her wrists in thick manacles of cashmere while his mouth ravished hers. Holding her there, pinned to the wall, he stroked a long, callus-roughened hand down her center to her waistband and fumbled with the zipper closing while those hot blue eyes of his locked on hers.
“Let me go,” she said.
“Not a chance.” But he tore the sweater from her hands and flung it to the floor. She kicked off her shoes and reached again for his shirt buttons, popping one loose as she struggled to slip it through its hole, abandoning her efforts when he slapped her hands aside and ripped the rest of it wide. She slid his belt through its buckle and undid the catch above his zipper while his hands streaked behind her to undo the fastening on her bra. He yanked the straps down her arms, baring her breasts, and then he lowered his head and sucked one nipple deep within his mouth.
She moaned and arched into him, grabbing fistfuls of his hair, fighting to drag breath into her burning lungs. She battled to keep her balance as he ground his hips against hers, lifting her off the floor, her back to the wall and his solid, muscular body at her front.
The scents of aftershave and flowers, roasting meat and salt-tinged skin overwhelmed her. The sounds of labored breathing and desperate whimpers and limbs crashing against the wall beat in counterpoint to her beating heart. And the contrasts of coarse hair and smooth flesh and dizzying panic began to spiral through her.
“Not here,” she said.
“Not enough.”
He bent and scooped her into his arms and strode through the front room toward the darkened hall. When he found her room at the end of it he lowered her to the bed and followed her down, sprawling over her, shoving one leg between hers and clamping his mouth over her breast.
She bowed up, urging him to the side, and rolled with him. Rising over him, she fought with the zipper on his pants as he reached up to take her by the arms and drag her down. Down, down to his ravening mouth, to those dark and delicious kisses, her nipples rubbing over his chest with a tingling, scorching friction as his tongue swept through her mouth and his hands kneaded her hips.
“Pants,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Off,” she said as she struggled to her side and wrestled her waistband down her hips, clumsy with haste. The faint crackle of tinfoil, the list and lurch of the mattress beneath his weight, and then he was on her again, his hands rough and shaking as he slid the last barrier of silk down her legs. His fingers found her, wet and ready for him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and raked her fingers down his broad, quivering back as he stroked her, hard and fast and wild. Too fast, too much, too soon.
She kicked out, and her bedside lamp toppled and crashed as she angled back, squirming beneath him. His big, heavy body shifted and stretched over hers, and he settled between her legs, and those rugged, workman’s hands gathered her close.
“Quinn.”
“Yes.”
He cradled her head in his hands as he plunged inside her, and though she couldn’t see his face in the shadows, she knew he was watching her, staring intently, looking through her with his piercing gaze. She wondered if he could see what she was feeling, what she wanted from him-things she couldn’t understand. And then, as if he knew exactly what they were, he began to move in long, deep strokes, touching her in places she hadn’t realized anyone could.
She arched again, straining for one final, agonizing, glorious moment on the keen edge between anticipation and abandon. And then the world exploded in strobes of sheet lightning and pounding thunder and sensation and Quinn’s hoarse, ragged cry as he tensed and pistoned into her.
QUINN LAY motionless, staring at the shadows rippling across Tess’s ceiling, one arm crooked beneath his head and the other resting across her long, narrow waist. Her hair tickled his chin, but he was afraid to move. Afraid if he did move, she’d stop running her fingernails in teasing circles around one of his nipples, or pull her soft thigh from the top of his, or shift away from his side. Or that she’d climb out of bed and leave him behind in the rumpled spread he’d pulled over them to form an intimate cocoon.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the comforting weight of another body pressed like this against him, the gentle heat of a woman’s skin against his. Right now, he thought it had to be the best feeling in the world.
Well, the second best, anyway.
“I hope you like overcooked meat and cold potatoes,” Tess said.
“My favorites.”
“Good. That’s what I made for dinner.”
He stroked his hand down her spine. A long, elegant sweep. The womanly flare of hip, the incredible curves beyond. “I’m sure it’s great.”
“Mmm.” She leaned up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Like the sex.”
He froze. He hadn’t thought of what they’d shared as sex. He’d been making love to her. Clumsily, perhaps, as eager and impatient as a schoolboy, but with as much affection as he could safely convey.
Anything more would have spelled disaster, for both of them.
He skimmed his fingers up into her hair. “Sex happens to be another of my favorites.”
She sighed and snuggled closer. “I hate to move from this particular spot, but I should be a better hostess and not keep you waiting for your meal.”
“No complaints about the hostess so far.” He moved his hand from her waist to her breast. “I wouldn’t mind skipping dinner and going straight to the dessert course.”
“Tempting.” She rose on one elbow. “I find you very tempting, Quinn.”
“Same goes.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in an affair.”
He should have expected the up-front talk. He should have been grateful she was the one doing the asking-any man in his place would have been thrilled. But her suggestion-and his reaction to it-annoyed him. “I’d be willing to consider it,” he said.
She stilled, and he hoped he hadn’t offended her.
“It’s hard for you, isn’t it?” she asked a few moments later. “With Rosie, I mean.”
Rosie. He hadn’t given her a thought during the past hour. And now that she was suddenly there again, between them, he wanted to share her with Tess.
His daughter had been full of Tess on the drive to the party. Where Tess had taken her shopping, what Tess had said about her hair, how Tess had dropped hints about her wardrobe, why Tess had suggested the charm bracelet for Alana’s gift.
He wanted to ask Tess whether she thought Rosie would like a similar bracelet for a Christmas present. He wanted to know if she liked his daughter. If she thought she might find a way to someday, somehow, care for Rosie.
If there was going to be two women in his life, it would be damn difficult to keep them separate. He didn’t want his daughter to be just another item to consider when discussing the logistics of a love affair. But if they were going to have an affair-and he desperately wanted to-the subject of Rosie was bound to come up.
He sighed with a mix of confusion and guilt. “Single fatherhood does tend to complicate things. Not that I’ve had all that many offers for an affair lately.”
“We can figure something out, I suppose.” Tess stood and righted her lamp on a bedside table. “If you want to.”
“Tess.” He sat up, extended a hand and waited until she placed hers into it. And then he tugged her down on the bed, cupped her chin and pressed a sweet, gentle kiss to her mouth. “I want you. More than ever.”
Her fingers circled his wrist. “Same goes.”
SHORTLY AFTER six the following morning, Quinn awoke in Tess’s bed, his empty stomach complaining loudly. He stole a few minutes to stare at his lover, enjoying the sweep of her dark lashes over her curvy cheeks and the swell of her plump lower lip. In sleep, her features softened and relaxed, she looked younger, nearly delicate.
More beautiful than ever, and he hadn’t thought that was possible.
His stomach rumbled again, and he eased from the bed, stepped into his jeans, slipped from her room and wandered through her house in search of the kitchen.
He’d made it as far as her bathroom last night, where they’d stumbled, laughing, to make love in her deep, cast-iron tub. And she’d escaped from his arms temporarily to tend to the remains of her dinner and carry crackers and cheese back to the bed for a midnight picnic on the sheets. But he’d been focused completely on her, and he hadn’t noticed his surroundings.
Now, in the soft light of an early summer morning, her choices of paint and pattern hammered at his senses. A riot of jewel-bright colors burst from the French impressionist prints on her walls to flood her rooms with light and life. Flowers burst from vases and scented the rooms, and piles of fat pillows beckoned with promises of comfortable seating on curvy sofas and chairs. Sassy, whimsical touches-the orange glass crab crouching on a stack of books, the sad-eyed iron hound guarding a doorway-kept things casual.
Her personality enveloped him, and he stood silently and let it soak in like the sunshine beyond her windows.
He’d missed out on a good dinner, he discovered when he walked into her sunflower-yellow kitchen, saw the scraped pots and pans and caught a whiff of the lingering odors. And it appeared he’d miss out on breakfast, too, he discovered after checking her refrigerator and pantry.
He supposed he could run to the store for some cereal. His turn to do the cooking. He could bring her one of those candy-flavored coffees she drank by the gallon.
And he could detour past Tidewaters, check out the site. Especially since he’d be making a late start on the job this morning.
If he got lucky, he wouldn’t be starting the morning’s chores until the afternoon.
