Dark Room (22 page)

“I want someone with her at all times.” A sideways look. “Tonight, that someone is you. I don’t know if she told you, but she and Jill went over to my apartment to hang out with Elyse until I get home.”

“She told me. That’s where I’m picking her up.”

“And dropping her off. Unless…” Arthur cleared his throat self-consciously. “Look, Lane, I don’t want you to think I’m one of those overbearing father types who inserts himself where he doesn’t belong. Morgan’s personal life is her own business. It’s just that, under the circumstances, I’m a little concerned. So suffice it to say, if the two of you are together, that’s fine. But if the evening should happen to wind down…”

“I’ll see her safely to your door,” Lane assured him. “And I won’t leave until Morgan is inside with the dead bolt thrown.”

“Thanks.” Arthur’s brows arched in question. “When are you and your father reviewing the photographs you’re enhancing?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll be working exclusively with Monty the rest of this week, except when I’m photographing you at various appearances and, of course, on Friday, when you and I are heading up to the Poconos to go
skydiving.” Lane frowned. “I hope Jonah will be up to joining us. The poor kid’s been living for these chances to contribute to the
Time
photo essay.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” A nostalgic smile. “I really enjoy watching Jonah’s sense of excitement and discovery. Maybe it sounds melodramatic, but it feels like yesterday that I was his age. It’s gratifying to live vicariously through him, and to remember when things were new and unspoiled.”

Lane was surprised by the raw emotion in the congressman’s tone. “Don’t relegate yourself to a rocking chair just yet,” he informed him. “You’re in the best physical shape I’ve ever seen.”

“I wasn’t talking about skiing. I was talking about life.” Abruptly, Arthur slid down, leaned his head back. “Enough philosophizing. Let’s grab a forty-five-minute nap. We both need it. Especially you. Trust me, you won’t earn points by falling asleep in your entrée.”

FALLING ASLEEP WAS
the furthest thing from Lane’s mind as he sat across the table from Morgan.

She looked strained, there was no doubt about it. Her features were drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. Facts were facts. The events of the past week had taken their toll on her.

Still, she looked gorgeous, emanating that sexy combination of soft femininity and cut-to-the-chase dynamo that he’d found a major turn-on from day one. Her body was the kind that made heads turn, and the way her sweater V’d just to the top of her cleavage made it almost impossible for him to tear his eyes off her. On the other hand, she solved the problem for him just by being herself. Because if he didn’t keep his mind on their conversation and off her breasts, he’d never be a worthy sparring partner. Her pointed quips and personal insights were razor sharp and dead on. She kept him on his toes, challenged him at every turn—and he felt as pumped as he had on the ski slopes.

Maybe more.

Besides the excitement, there was an easy banter here, one he found unique and refreshing. And he respected her lack of pretense, the passion
of her conviction, and the heartfelt sensitivity that underscored their more serious discussions.

Plus, he wanted her more than he could ever remember wanting a woman.

“So,” Morgan commented, abandoning her Greek salad and leaning forward, fingers interlaced, to regard Lane with great curiosity and interest. “From the brief overview you gave me, it sounds like you and Arthur blazed new trails in the San Juan Mountains.”

“We did.” Lane put down the cheeseburger he’d been chomping on, his eyes glittering with excitement as he attempted to recount the experience for her. “It’s hard to describe the feeling. The scenery was breathtaking. There wasn’t a mark on the snow, that’s how pristine it was. And the sharp drops, the speed, the skill it took to master the experience—it was awesome.”

Morgan absorbed every nuance of his reaction. “You really love it, don’t you? The adrenaline rush, the risk—all of it.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Don’t you ever get frightened? Feel vulnerable, mortal?”

“I suppose I would, if I let my mind go there. But I don’t. In fact, I don’t think at all. I just live in the moment.”

“It must be amazing to have that ability. I don’t.”

“I know. Then again, you have your reasons.”

“We’ve certainly led very different lives,” she agreed. “Your parents divorced. That’s never easy. But they were still alive, in your life. Plus, you were sixteen, old enough to understand, and to cope. With me, I was a child. I was totally alone. I’ve never really gotten over that feeling. So, yes, in my case, security trumps all.”

“You’re very aware of who you are. That’s a huge plus in life.”

A grimace. “You’d be surprised what seventeen years of therapy will do for you.”

“Now it’s time to learn all you can be.”

Morgan’s brows arched. “Are
you
psychologically assessing
me
?”

Lane gave her a lopsided grin. “Hey, you’re not the only one who’s good at reading people. We just do it in different ways. Mine’s through a camera lens.”

Visibly intrigued, Morgan contemplated that analogy. “I never thought of it that way. But you’re right. A photographer has to be able to read people. And one who’s as sought after as you, a veritable expert in his field, has to have really fine-tuned instincts.”

“See? We’re not so different after all.” A very pointed pause. “Except in the ways that matter—the
good
ways.”

“We’re different in
lots
of ways,” Morgan amended, but the color tingeing her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes told Lane that they were coming from the same place. “Some of those ways are setting off loud warning bells in my head, telling me to run in the opposite direction.”

“And is your head listening?”

“No.” More of that arousing candor. “Those
good
ways you’re talking about have it hands down.”

“I’m glad.” Lane reached across the table, took her hand. “Cards on the table,” he said quietly, his thumb tracing her palm. “You think I’m a player. Maybe by your definition I am. But, Morgan…” He paused, feeling the tiny quiver that ran through her hand and sent white-heat shooting through him. “I’m not playing this time.”

“I know.” Her fingers slid between his, interlacing their hands in a way that was wildly erotic. “
You’re
not playing. And
I’m
not playing it safe. Sounds like a plan.”

Lane’s entire body tensed. Where they were, who they were, what they were talking about—all of it ceased to matter. Now there was just now.

“I’ll have them wrap the food,” he said in a low, urgent tone. “We’ll take it with us.”

She nodded, already reaching for her jacket. “Don’t forget my cheesecake,” she managed.

“I won’t. Or my chocolate layer cake. I have a feeling we’ll both need the energy boost.”

He’d signaled the waiter and was halfway out of the booth, when Morgan stopped him, capturing his forearm. “Lane?”

Turning, he shot her a questioning look. Questioning? More like imploring. He felt like a horny teenager who was praying his date hadn’t gotten cold feet.

Morgan smiled, reading his expression. “Not a chance,” she assured him
softly. “My jacket will be zipped and I’ll be at the door by the time you get our doggy bags. It’s just that…” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, pushing out her next words with an effort. “I realize my place is only four blocks away. It’s close. It’s empty. It’s the logical choice. But…”

“But you don’t want to go back there tonight.”

“No, I don’t. I want to shut out everything. I want to think about only tonight. Better yet, I don’t want to think at all.”

“Then don’t. My place is only seven or eight blocks farther. We’ll make up the time by grabbing a taxi instead of walking.” He snatched up his own jacket, yanking it on as he spoke to the waiter.

In a minute flat, he’d ordered their dessert to go and whipped out the money to pay their check. While the waiter totaled everything up, Lane angled his head in Morgan’s direction, gave her an intimate wink. “Meet you at the door in five.”

“Nope,” she countered, zipping up her jacket and plucking her purse off the seat. “Meet me outside. I’ll have a cab ready and waiting.”

F
ifteen minutes later they were inside Lane’s apartment.

Morgan got a fleeting glimpse of the first floor, bathed in the entranceway light, as Lane threw the dead bolt behind them.

The place was very relaxed, very homey, very male. A living room with caramel leather sofas and chairs, a hearth and fireplace, and, off of that, a media room with a big-screen TV and lots of high-tech audio equipment. Beyond that, she could see a room with a ceramic-tile floor and stainless-steel appliances—obviously the kitchen. In the opposite corner was a dead-bolted door that had to lead to Lane’s digital photo lab. It was probably very impressive, as was the rest of the place, but Morgan didn’t—couldn’t—concentrate on asking for a tour. Not now.

“The second floor’s my home gym,” Lane said in a low, husky voice, pulling off her jacket and his and tossing them aside. “Want to see it?”

“I want to see the whole apartment—later.” Morgan shook a few snowflakes off her hair, her mind and body wired. “Unless you’re dying to show it to me now.”

“Uh-uh.” Lane walked over to her, rubbing his palms up and down the cashmere sleeves of her sweater. “What I’m dying to show you now is my bedroom.”

She tipped back her head, gazed up at him with undisguised desire glittering in her eyes. “My thoughts exactly.”

“The problem is, it’s on the third floor, two flights up.” His fingers glided through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Both bedrooms are.” He lowered his head, his lips grazing the side of her neck.

“So far away,” she whispered, her voice and body trembling.

“I’ve got a perfect solution.” His lips shifted to the hollow at the base of her throat. “I spend hours in my photo lab.” He kissed his way up to her jaw. “I crash in the media room. It’s got a cushioned air mattress—king-size. We could—”

“Yes.”

He lifted her arms around his neck, nibbling at the corner of her mouth as he backed her toward the media room. “I’m being a lousy host,” he murmured. “Can I offer you something—a drink? A glass of wine?”

“A kiss,” she replied, turning her head until her lips brushed his. “I’ve fantasized about that all week.”

“So have I…and a lot more.” He stopped in his tracks, his hand sliding under her hair, anchoring her for what was to come. “Let’s start with this.”

His mouth opened on hers. Hers opened under his. The kiss was hot, penetrating, openly carnal. Their lips fused, parted, then fused again, his tongue pressing deep, rubbing against hers in a blatant overture of what was to come.

Morgan whimpered—an aroused, impatient sound—and pressed closer, molding her body to his. Even through their layers of clothes, the contact was electrifying.

Lifting Morgan’s feet off the floor, Lane half carried her the rest of the way to the media room, covering the remaining distance in long, uncompromising strides.

Together, they dropped down on the air mattress, the fleece blanket that covered it a warm, soft nest beneath them. They tugged at each other’s clothes, pulling sweaters over heads, unsnapping and unzipping jeans, and
struggling with socks and boots. Lane unclasped her bra, and Morgan shrugged out of it, her progress slowed by Lane hooking his arm under her back, arching her up to his mouth to give him free access to her breasts. His lips closed around each taut nipple, tugging with his lips, lashing with his tongue, until Morgan cried out in frustration. She shoved at his shoulders until he released her. Then she wriggled free of the impeding bra, tossed it to the floor.

Lane’s hot gaze burned over her, through her, and he drew a rough breath, reaching down to make quick work of her thong. His fingers lingered for a moment, caressing her thighs, between her thighs, slipping up and inside her.

It was good—too damned good.

Neither of them could stand it another minute.

Lane dragged himself away just long enough to shed his briefs and kick them aside. Then he leaned down, lifted Morgan slightly so he could peel back the blanket, place her on the flannel sheet beneath it.

Then he was on her, covering her, his body pressing hers into the mattress.

The world stopped at the first contact of their naked skin.

Morgan made an inarticulate sound of pleasure, instinctively lifting herself closer, rubbing her breasts against his chest, creating exquisite friction as his crisp hair rasped across her nipples.

Lane went rigid, a hard tremor vibrating through him, and he forced out his words in a rough, unsteady voice. “Keep that up and this is going to be over way too fast.”

Her fingertips traced his spine. “I can’t wait for slow.”

“Morgan.” He caught her head between his hands, his mouth plundering hers in a scalding kiss. He kept kissing her, but his hands shifted, slid over the curves of her body until they reached her thighs. His fingers curled around them, and his fingertips trailed lightly over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, absorbing the tiny quivers he created.

Restlessly, she squirmed, parting her thighs wider, and his erection slid lower, pulsing against her core, finding the opening of her body and probing.

She arched to accommodate him. He hooked his arms under her knees, angling her for the deepest penetration possible. He tore his mouth from hers, and their gazes met, fiery and urgent.

“Now,” she breathed.

“Now’s not soon enough.” He was already pushing into her, stretching her as he did, creating a friction that was so complete, so utterly perfect, that she moaned, her head tossing on the pillow.

Lane paused, the muscles in his arms trembling with the effort of holding back. “Is it too much?”

“No. God…no.” She pushed at the base of his spine.

“You’re tight,” he ground out.

“I’m dying,” she gasped back. “Lane…” Her inner muscles clenching around him.

“Damn.” He gave it up. “I’ve got to get inside you.” In one inexorable push, he was all the way there.

They both sucked in their breath.

Then Lane began to move, ignoring the screaming dictates of his body. He was determined to prolong the experience, to make every sensation last, and he paced himself, thrusting into her in deep, slow strokes.

Morgan understood, and her body met and matched his rhythm. Everything inside her was clamoring for release, but she tamped down on her own urgency, equally intent on sustaining this incredible feeling for as long as possible.

It built, escalated, until restraint was no longer an option.

Lane let it go, giving in to what he needed, what they both needed. He said her name, first in a guttural whisper, then in a shout as he pounded into her, felt the clenching spasms of her climax begin, heightening as he pushed deeper, farther inside her.

She cried out—a wild, shocked cry of completion—and totally unraveled, her inner muscles contracting again and again. Lane poured into her, coming in hard spasms that shook him to the core, drained every drop of him.

Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in shallow
rasps, his body drenched in sweat. He was fairly sure he’d never move again. Beneath him, Morgan went limp, her arms and legs going slack, sliding to the mattress. She was still quivering with tiny aftershocks, and her heart was racing as she dragged air into her lungs.

Lane knew he was too heavy for her, that he should shift his weight, but his body just wouldn’t comply.

“I’m hurting you,” he managed hoarsely, his lips in her hair.

“No.” The word was barely a whisper, but she punctuated it with a slight shake of her head so Lane knew he hadn’t imagined it.

The assurance was good enough.

Giving in to his exhaustion, Lane turned his face against her neck, inhaled her scent, and shut his eyes. His last thought before drifting off was that he couldn’t remember any adrenaline drop being as good as the rush that preceded it—until now.

Morgan lay awake for a long time after Lane’s even breathing told her he was asleep. She was physically spent, her muscles weak and watery, and her entire body cried out for rest. But her mind, her emotions—those were on raging overload.

Something told her she’d just made a huge mistake.

She’d known that getting involved with Lane Montgomery was a risk. Even so, she’d gone into it with her eyes wide open. But what she’d expected was, at worst, a very hot, very satisfying one-night stand, and at best, a torrid affair of some unknown duration that would offer her welcome relief from the turmoil she was going through.

Talk about a miscalculation.

She’d never anticipated the magnitude of what had just happened between them.

It wasn’t just the sex, although that had surpassed even her most erotic fantasies.

It was more. It was deep, it was complex, and it was undeniable.

It was also the last thing she needed right now. Her emotions, her state of mind, her life were on total overdrive. She needed something simple, something uncomplicated, not another emotional avalanche.

God help her, she was in trouble.

THE WIRY MAN
ambled down East Eighty-second Street until he reached the address he was looking for. He climbed the steps of the brownstone, glancing around as he hovered at the front door.

It was 3 a.m., pitch-dark, and deserted. He was dressed in black so he blended in with the night. And he was traveling light.

He opened the leather case containing his picks and started on the top lock. He inserted the tension wrench and applied pressure in a counterclockwise direction. The lock was a Schlage. No problem. He selected the particular pick that experience had taught him would be most effective, expertly working each pin until the wrench turned in his hand and the bolt retracted into the door.

One down, one to go.

He repeated the process on the bottom lock.

Mission accomplished.

The front doorknob turned in his gloved hand. He was in.

WARM LIPS BRUSHED
Morgan’s shoulder, and gentle fingers threaded through her hair, moved it aside so those same lips could find the curve of her neck.

Her lashes fluttered, then lifted, and for a moment she couldn’t get her bearings. It was nighttime. The room was dark, other than a pale, flickering glow. And the bed was low to the ground and unfamiliar.

She twisted around toward the source of the kisses—and abruptly her memory returned.

Lane was propped on one elbow, watching her from beneath hooded lids. There were a couple of lit candles on the nearby end table, which explained the soft glow filtering the room. On the floor beside the air mattress, there was a tray containing two glasses of wine, two slices of cheesecake, and two hunks of chocolate layer cake.

A slow, intimate smile curved Lane’s lips. “Hungry?”

“Starved.” Morgan squirmed into a sitting position, tucking the blanket around her. Candles, dessert, and wine. It might be clichéd, but it still
did the trick. “What a lovely surprise,” she murmured. “Especially since gestures like this are usually part of the seduction dance. And since that dance has already reached a roaring crescendo…” Her eyes twinkled. “I think this could be described as superfluous.”

“Funny, I’d describe it as sustenance.” Lane’s knuckles grazed her cheek, his intimate gaze still enveloping her. “The dessert—
and
the dance.”

Morgan swallowed. There was no denying his effect on her. The scary part was that she was having a hard time convincing herself that it was all part of his standard MO. The words rang too true—assuming she had enough objectivity to assess them. “When did you do all this?” she asked.

“A few minutes ago. After I got my fill of watching you sleep.”

“Now
that
sounds like an enthralling pastime.” She raked a hand through her tousled hair.

“It was.”

“I hope I didn’t snore.”

“You didn’t. In fact, except for an occasional murmur, you were out cold.” Lane’s humor vanished. “I got the feeling it was the first decent sleep you’ve had in weeks.”

“It was.” Morgan saw his concern, recognized its basis, and nipped it in the bud. “Lane, please, let’s not go there—not tonight. For tonight…”

“For tonight, there’s just indulgence, spontaneity, and pleasure.”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s better than okay. It’s essential.” Lane brought a lock of her hair to his lips.

“Speaking of tonight…” Morgan peered around, looking for a clock and not spotting one. “There’s not much of it left, is there?”

“No. But we’ll make the most of what there is.”

“Do you happen to know what time it is?”

“More or less. I glanced at the kitchen clock when I left with our dessert. It was just after three. It must be three-thirty by now. Perfect time for our next indulgence.” Lane rolled to his opposite side, reaching over and plucking the two goblets of wine off the tray. He handed one to Morgan, following it with her plate of cheesecake and a fork. “Dig in.”

She did, savoring the creamy mouthfuls and smiling as she watched
Lane scarf down his first hunk of chocolate cake. “You really
were
hungry.”

“I worked up an appetite.”

“Enough for two hunks of that cake?”

“Nope. Just one.” He used his thumb to wipe a bit of cheesecake off her lower lip. “But I’m hoping for an encore workout session—one that’s just as consuming as the last, but even more creative.”

“Are you now?” Grinning, Morgan licked her fork. “I’m impressed. You either have enormous stamina or a hugely overinflated ego.”

“I’ll let you be the judge. But first, let’s finish our dessert.” He raised his goblet. “Shall I make the toast?”

“Please do.”

He tipped the glass in her direction. “Here’s to similarities and differences. Here’s to exploring every adventure life has to offer. And here’s to being all we can be.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked glasses, and Morgan took a slow, appreciative sip. Sauvignon Blanc—the perfect complement to cheesecake.

She glanced from the half-eaten cake to the rapidly disappearing wine to the heated gleam in Lane’s eyes.

Dessert was nearing an end. The sparks between them were already crackling to life.