French Kiss Part 21

Only inches away.

Close enough to touch.

She lifted her hand to reach for him.

"Wait," he said.

"Why?"

"Let's make this last a little longer this time."

"Why?"

He laughed. "You prefer instant gratification?"

"Always."

"Sometimes waiting makes it better."

"Don't tell me about your sometimes," she said, sulkily, as though she had the right.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have said that." Lifting her b.r.e.a.s.t.s so they mounded softly, he rose in an effortless sit-up and bending his head, took one of her nipples into his mouth, gratified to hear her sharp intake of breath as his lips closed over the taut crest. He sucked gently, first one, then the other, exerting the precise degree of pressure that soon had her squirming and wiggling, seesawing back and forth on his hips.

He took his time, as though he were intent on soothing her sulkiness, as though he knew exact l y how to temper her mood and inflame her senses. When she began to pant, he whispered against her taut nipple, "Should I stop?"

Yes, she wanted to say. I want more than this; I want you. But the pressure of his mouth was sending waves of flame-hot bliss downward between her legs and caught between the reality of immediate satisfaction and the unknown, she whispered back, "Don't stop." As adjunct to her order, she slid her fingers through his dark hair and pulled his head closer.

Even if she had been unsure, he would have known better, her hot little c.u.n.t so wet she was slipping on his hips. "Do you want to come now or later?" he teased, lifting his mouth just enough to make himself heard.

"Cute," she said, her grip tightening on his head, her breathing frenzied.

And then as though in answer to his question, she instantly climaxed in a quivering, breathless, remarkably quiet, little o.r.g.a.s.m.

When her eyes opened a few moments later, he was lying back on the pillow, a faint smile on his face. "You should slow down and smell the roses."

"Speak for yourself," she sweetly replied. "But thank you very much. Again." Leaning over, she touched the engorged head of his erection. "I expect you're thinking it's your turn about now."

"Not really." He was enjoying himself. She was a rare delight. Cheeky and naive at the same time. Independent as they come and small-town polite. "I'm having fun. You're so easy to turn on."

"It's you. It's all you. I'm ravenous, insatiable"-she grinned- "lost to all reason. And let me tell you, it's a d.a.m.ned good feeling."

He chuckled. "So now what?"

Her eyes widened. "You're asking me? How polite do I have to be?"

"Just so long as there's no animals involved, I'm good."

She smiled. "Would we disturb anyone if we sat on the balcony in the moonlight. I don't get to places like this very often."

"The others are sleeping on the pool side. We won't disturb anyone."

She leaned way down and kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss. "Thanks. For everything. I mean it. I'm really enjoying myself."

Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were pressed against his chest, the warmth of her body soft as silk, her sweet good nature overcoming his usual reserve. Sliding his palms down her back, he held her lightly in his arms and whispered, "I should be thanking you. I've never felt this enchantment."

She replied with equal grace. "It must be the moonlight. Come, let's go outside." She didn't want to think of him saying things like that to other women. Call her foolish, but there it was. She'd fallen under his spell.

Like every other woman.

He slid his hands under her arms, swung her off the bed, and followed her to her feet in an effortless flow of muscled strength. He'd had his moment, too; he might have said too much. He didn't as a rule disclose his feelings so baldly.

They were both more careful after that.

Only playing at love.

Or s.e.x. That was safer yet.

But it was unalloyed pleasure whatever you called it.

And their time together at the villa by the sea was bliss, pure and simple.

Twenty-nine.

Johnny's plane returned to nice in two days as expected, and reality could no longer be ignored. Their time together had been an idyllic interlude beyond either of their imaginations, but it was over now. They understood how mature adults were expected to deal with romantic interludes and were scrupulously polite and practical.

After all, they both had very busy lives.

In fact, they worked during part of the flight home.

After landing in San Francisco, Johnny said to Nicky, "Joseph took your car to your place, so if it's okay with you, we'll go to my house first, and then I'll drive you home."

She wasn't about to argue, inclined to play out the dream as long as possible. It wasn't that she was naive enough to have expectations. It was more about savoring every last drop of pleasure. After Jordi and Vernie were settled in with Maria and her mother, after Nicky had said good-bye to all of them, Johnny took her home.

The trip was quiet, neither capable of glib small talk even though they both understood the pertinent rules governing temporary liaisons: Say good-bye politely; don't make any demands; pretend the future doesn't exist; never allude to anything even remotely personal.

One or the other would offer some innocuous comment from time to time in an effort to make conversation-like remarks about the weather, the flight, the weather on the flight... that sort of thing. Fortunately it wasn't a great distance between houses, for the bouts of silence became increasingly lengthy-and awkward.

When Johnny pulled his car up to the curb in front of Nicky's bungalow, they exchanged all the required thank yous and conventional phrases of leave-taking, the promises to see each other again. But no one mentioned anything specific. No actual dates were mentioned.

It reminded Nicky of the "We have to have lunch sometime" fiction. She finally said, "I have to go," because obviously he was too polite to kick her out of his car.

Johnny carried her bag to the curb.

They stood for a moment in another one of those dead silences, then Johnny leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

"You'll be over for the tree house," he said. "I'll see you then."

"First thing tomorrow."

"If I'm not there, Jordi and Vernie will be-should you have any questions."

That sounded very much as though he would make certain not to be there. "Jordi knows what she wants. We're good. And thanks again."

"Thank you. I couldn't have managed the French without you."

Then he turned and walked back to his car.

Nicky picked up her carry-on, and as she moved up her path, she heard the low, throaty purr of his car fire up and drive away.

She didn't look back. What was the point? He was gone. She'd always known the trip to Paris had a finite limit. It was time now to relegate those gratifying memories to that souvenir alb.u.m in the sky and get on with her life.

Dropping her carry-on in the front hall, she walked to her study and checked her e-mail.

Twenty messages since the plane.

With a sigh, she began dealing with them.

She checked her phone messages next. Aaaagh, there were fifteen new ones even after eliminating a couple dozen on the plane. Maybe she should get an unlisted number. Not very sensible when one ran a business, however. She clicked on the first one and began listening to some long, drawn-out question from Dora, her accountant. As the voice droned on, she hit the "save" b.u.t.ton and prayed the next message would be short.

None of them were, of course, including the five from her sister since yesterday asking where the h.e.l.l she was and why didn't she return her calls when she had some really good gossip about Jenny Grogin. Since that conversation looked to be lengthy, Nicky put off returning that call. She'd have to be in a better mood to listen to any gossip about Jenny Grogin anyway.

As for her mother's calls, they could wait, too. Her mom was always wondering if she'd met anyone nice. For her mother that meant someone not like her ex-fiance, Theo, preferably someone who lived in Black Duck. She supposed she could tell her she'd met someone really nice in bed, but she didn't think her mom would care to hear the details. On the rare occasions when her mother even mentioned the word s.e.x, she would say s-e-x, like everyone was under five and couldn't spell.

By message ten, she was thinking of suicide by chocolate and had eaten four-okay, maybe i t was five... at the most six- truffles she'd brought back from Nice. A few truffles more, though, the last message deleted, her mood was definitely on the upswing; life seemed worth living again.

News flash. Chocolate was not a viable agent for suicide.

She was even feeling good enough by then, to deem her life well lived even if she never had s.e.x with Johnny Patrick again. There were lots of other fish in the dating sea. Tons of them.

Like h.e.l.l, the little voice inside her head refuted without a care for pragmatism.

Perish the thought! her selfish, little voice howled in affront.

"Oh, c.r.a.p-let's face it," Nicky muttered under her breath, "there isn't enough chocolate in the world."

Work, work, work-fill your time with work-that's what she'd do. It was an excellent plan. She wouldn't even think about s.e.x, or pleasure or having fun. She'd give Buddy a quick call now, see if he'd survived her absence in good form, plan tomorrow's schedule, and then go to sleep so she'd be bright and alert and ready to face tomorrow.

In Johnny's world, he had the advantage of having Jordi and Vernie for distractions, and the hours following his return home were busy. He played a game of chess with Jordi and Vernie, spent some time playing video games with Jordi, ate dinner, read his daughter a bedtime story-or she read to him, and as he tucked her in, they discussed what they were going to do the next day.

They'd agreed that Vernie would stay long enough to take Jordi school shopping. A task Johnny preferred not doing.

"And then when Nicky comes over to work on my tree house, maybe she'd like to go with us."

"We'll have to see," Johnny replied, not inclined to add Nicky to their family group. "Her project manager's going on vacation, now that she's back. She might be really busy." Christ, he hadn't like seriously considered her being around every day. Could he deal with it? Good question. Seeing the hotter than hot Nicky Lesdaux up close and personal every day could turn out to be a real problem.

"Why don't I call and ask her?" Jordi said.

"Let's wait. Nicky's probably as behind in her work as I am." Avoidance was his current plan, until he could think of something better; his libido wasn't up to any close personal contact with Nicky. "If you could stay for a few days beyond the school shopping, Ve rn ie," he said, "I'd appreciate it. After losing almost a week, I should probably lock myself in my studio and get this alb.u.m edited."

From her chair near the window, Vernie fluttered her hand in a shoo-away gesture. "Go anytime. I'll hold down the fort with Jordi."

"I might get started tonight." He dipped his head. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all."

"How about you, kid. Can you live without me for a day or so?"

Surrounded by a menagerie of stuffed animals in her bed, Jordi gave her father a long-suffering look. "As though I need you around every minute, Dad. I've got a life."

Johnny laughed. "I' m not sure I care to hear that I'm disposable."

"If you gotta work, you gotta work. I know what it's like when I have tons of homework. And Vernie and me are going shopping anyway." She looked over at her nanny. "I want those purple boots, okay?" She gave her dad a mournful look. "Vernie thinks I'm too young, but I'm not. Abby Preston has some."

"Get the boots, Vern ie. We can argue about propriety later."

"Whatever you say, boss."

"And I want that pink s.h.i.+rt with sparkles, too."

"Hey, kid, don't push it," Johnny said with a grin. "I can see from Vernie's scowl that pink sparkles aren't in the picture."

That night while Nicky lay awake a few miles away, Johnny locked himself in his studio and got down to business. He was even able to sustain his focus and motivation through the first four songs on the alb.u.m, barely thinking of Nicky and s.e.x. But it wasn't long before memories of Paris and Nice started undermining his defenses, and he began to f.u.c.k up. When he almost lost a masterful bridge because he was about to hit the wrong switch, he decided to pack it in. The last thing he needed was a major screw-up at this stage of production.

Pouring himself a single malt, he opened the doors to the garden, pulled a chair up to the night air, sat down, slid into a comfortable sprawl, and took a sip of the golden liquor. He was looking to forget and find solace in some prime whiskey, open his mind to the sounds of silence. Funny thing about trying to relax, though. It only worked if you weren't wound up tighter than a spring.

He was way too f.u.c.king tense.

Too res tl ess and agitated.

Although he wasn't about to admit why.

He'd only left her a few hours ago, for Christ's sake. This was crazy.

He had a second drink, then a third, but instead of peace and sola ce, he only ended up hungry at tw o in the morning.

And unfortunately, it wasn't just for burgers and fries.

He and Nicky could have compared appet.i.tes at two in the morning.

Nicky was zapping frozen mac and cheese in her microwave. Johnny was ordering take-out at one of the only places open at that hour. So he ate Mexican. And ate and ate.

Maybe it was compensation for what he couldn't have.