Emma Holly (36 page)

"Be sure," he said, cupping her face. "You're usually smarter than you realize."

Her eyes went bright, such beautiful eyes that the old adage about drowning gained new credence.

"Boy," she exclaimed, "am I going to miss you!"

His throat closed on his offer to stay in touch, to never lose touch in the first place. Those words weren't meant to be vocalized. Charity wasn't for him. Maybe no one was. His misjudgment of Sylvia—and Michael—showed how poorly suited he was for any relationship. That being so, he knew he should let Charity go. Perversely, his thumbs seemed bent on tracing the arch of her brows. Finally, once they'd slid down her cheekbones, he was able to let them fall. "Eric will want to see you before you leave."

"Assuming his sister hasn't sent him screaming into the woods."

"Dana does have a gift for assuming the worst."

"She's intimidating," Charity said with a mock shiver. "I think Eric was going to introduce us, but my nerves were totally not up for that."

Then she surprised him by pulling him into a hug.

"Thank you," she said, her cheek pressed tightly to his chest. "For everything."

He brought his hands slowly to her back, flattening them just beneath the planes of her shoulder blades.

He thought how much he loved the curve of her here, the combination of strength and femininity. He stared at the model of chaos hanging over her bed. He wondered if she'd noticed the program had played through to reveal its final form, a pattern chaos theorists called the "strange attractor." However messy and unpredictable the path the light-blip drew seemed in the beginning, because of the rules it followed, it always traveled on the surface of this previously invisible form, etching it out bit by bit until it shone clear. The strange attractor for this computer model resembled a complicated open flower, rotating slowly through the virtual three dimensions of the flat screen.

Charity was the flower, he thought. Maybe she had been all along, not needing to be fixed so much as shown her true image.

"I've transferred the money you'll need for school into your account," he said.

"I'm not worried about that." She looked up at him without releasing her embrace, her crooked half-smile tugging his prematurely aching heart. "I'm worried you're going to forget me way too soon."

Rather than let her guess how close to the edge his emotions were, he cradled her head back against him. "I expect," he said lightly, "that there's precious little chance of that."

"You're
leaving," Eric said.

Charity looked up from zipping her bag. She wasn't ready for this. She'd barely pulled herself together after saying good-bye to B.G. Eric stood in her doorway, his forehead carrying the same pinch of worry it had the day he'd whisked her away from Future-Tech. He'd seemed untouchable then, a privileged golden boy who'd deigned to descend from the heights. He was dearer to her now, less perfect but more real.

His bruises from the fight did funny things to her womanly instincts. She couldn't decide whether to say

"poor baby" or jump his bones.

She wasn't looking forward to missing him.

"Yep," she said, forcing herself to smile. "Time to leave B.G.'s magic kingdom behind."

Eric opened his mouth, closed it, then rubbed the groove on his brow—which did nothing to erase it.

The only communication he managed was a gusty sigh.

"You okay?" she asked.

His shoulders went up and down. "You mean aside from spending the last half-hour with my sister, listening to her lecture me on everything that's wrong with my life?" Clearly not expecting an answer, he came to her bed and flipped the handles of her carryall back and forth. "She wangled her way in here, you know: to prove that whatever
I
was involved with,
she
was on the right side."

"She probably was worried about you a little."

"I know," he said and puffed out the hollows of his cheeks. "Sorry. I didn't come here to complain. I came to make sure you were all right."

"I am." Her hand found its way to the middle button of his shirt. The cloth was blue, a complement to his soft gray eyes—and much safer to focus on. "Did… was your sister able to tell you how Sylvia got involved in trying to steal B.G.'s work?"

"They don't know yet. They'll question her, I'm sure. Dana did say she'd tell me if she heard before I did." He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Those things Sylvia said, about forgetting the little people—we did treat her a bit like a convenience."

"You mean, like an employee?" When he began to object, Charity pressed her fingers to his mouth.

"Look, Eric, I know your mom instilled you full of values. If we were saints, I suppose every one of us would have treated Sylvia like our best friend. If we had, maybe she would have given up her plan, or maybe she would have gotten away with even more. The thing is, you can't take the blame for her choices. You can only decide how you want to act from now on."

"Right," he said and shook himself determinedly.

He was such a hopeless Galahad, bruises and all, that Charity couldn't help teasing. "You so want to be perfect," she said. "I can tell."

"I wouldn't mind," he admitted with a sheepish laugh. He watched his shoe scuff the floor before looking up. "I guess you'll be glad to be home again, after all this disruption."

He was a boy then, as easy to read and as shy. His gaze searched hers, ashamed to admit he was fishing for assurances. In that moment, his silver spoon couldn't have mattered less. He and Charity were more alike than they were different.

It could work between us
, she thought, the knowledge tightening her vocal chords.

She smoothed her hands across the expensive cotton that draped his chest. "I'll remember everything that happened here all my life. Being here was the best time I ever had."

"Me, too," he whispered.

The hushed confession broke whatever hold he had on himself. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, his palms covering her ears, his hunger making him rough. Her pulse began to race in a whole new way. As many times as he'd done this, the magic of having him need her never dulled. This time, that need seemed especially sharp. His teeth bumped hers before his tongue curled inside to taste.

Then he cinched his arms beneath her buttocks and lifted her off her feet. Like her, he must have feared this time would be their last.

"Shower," he said, already moving toward it. "Take off your clothes."

His order called to her recklessness.
What the hell
, she thought.
Why hold back now
? She peeled her shirt over her head even as he carried her inside. She was bare beneath it, her nipples tight. She shuddered with enjoyment when he dragged his face across her breasts. His whiskers were slightly scratchy, his mouth gentle. With her hipbones balanced on his belly, he pulled her in to suckle. Burying her fingers in his hair was sheer heaven. Her head fell back at the combined sensations, her own hair brushing her shoulders.

They both moaned at the same time.

When he set her on the tile, his gaze burned like silver flame. "Do you want me?" he asked, the question gruff. "Do you want me to take you hard?"

"Harder than hard," she said, and his eyelids closed with his attempt to master his reaction.

She couldn't say he succeeded. They tore out of their clothes at record speed, leaving them where they fell. Charity's panties ringed a wall sconce, and Eric's briefs landed in the trash. She ripped off his shirt herself, scattering buttons across the floor. Luckily for their lustful lack of coordination, the shower was a glassies, open design. Eric cranked the multiple spouts to hot, his erection bouncing with eagerness. She wanted to grab it, to worship it with her hands, but instead she stopped to watch.

She shook her head at herself, taking in all that beautiful, flushed muscle. His arms. His chest. His lovely long, strong legs. Surely he was too fine to even think of leaving behind.

"What?" he asked, noting her look.

"I was remembering how yummy I thought you were the first time I saw you at Future-Tech."

The comment might have been the only thing that could make him pause. "Yummy, eh?"

With lifted brows and a suggestive grin, he looked pointedly at his cock, now nearly vertical. Charity knew an invitation when she saw one. She pulled him under the spray, laced their hands together, and sank to her knees. Despite the warm deluge, his shaft stretched longer.

"Watch that," she warned teasingly. "You're more than a mouthful as it is."

"Take what you can," he said. His moan as she did came out an octave lower.

With her fingers gripped bruisingly tight by his, she slipped him in and out between her lips, his thickness pushing across her tongue and palate with hot vitality. She worked his shaft with all the skill she possessed, sucking and licking him all around, stimulating his hottest spots, wanting to give him more pleasure than he'd ever be able to forget. She suspected he tried to hold back, but soon his hips began to roll at her helplessly. With her hands unable to steady him, this was the only way to get more pressure.

She knew he was watching what she did from the way he groaned. Her mouth made him shine as much as the shower.

Hoping to make him crazy, she teased the tip of her tongue into his slit.

"Charity," he gasped. "Wait."

She sat back on her heels and laughed. "Always with the waiting. I thought you wanted to take me hard."

His eyes went dark, taking in her words, taking in the sight of her body kneeling on the floor. "I do," he said. "Always."

He retrieved a condom from a silver canister by the sink, opening the wrapper with his teeth and rolling it on with telling winces of sensitivity. He was ready to roll then, and she was eager to let him, but all he did was reach for the soap and gesture her up.

He lathered her from head to toe—long, slow minutes of loving her with his hands until she thought she'd scream with frustration.

"Me, too," she finally demanded, sticking out her hand and trying to hold her little brain together as his palms squeezed and slipped their way repeatedly up her breasts.

She gasped as he pinched her nipples between his fingers. "I want to soap you."

"Here." He hauled her tight against his front. "Now you can."

Their bodies slid together in the lubrication of the foam: cock to hip, breasts to chest. Eric's hard, cobble-firm abs jerked in and out with his breath. Embraced too tightly to soap his front, she lathered his broad, tapering back. Then, when his hands slid around her buttocks and between her legs, she lost the soap forever to the floor.

It was hard to mind. He was kissing her again, with wonderful whimpering noises, stealing what scraps were left of her power to think. She could barely kiss him back and breathe at the same time. Too desperate to be gentle, he crowded her against the wall with a solid thud.

A shelf built into the corner bumped her side. Eric knew what it was for as well as she did. He shifted her toward it with the two of them still squeezed together. Her sex was so wet, he couldn't miss her readiness against the muscle of his thigh. His erection pulsed as if it knew where it was going. Groaning, he hitched her off the tiles and onto the support.

It was just the right height for the tip of him to nudge her gate.

"Spread your legs," he growled. "Wide."

Evidently, he didn't want her gripping his waist with her thighs. He pushed her knees against the adjoining walls and shoved inside her with her spread open, penetrating as easily as if her pussy had been soaped, too. His size, his thickness didn't matter. In one sumptuous stroke, he filled her to her brim. The effect was beyond good. If he hadn't been holding her in place, it would have been an invitation to go wild. As it was, her head rolled against the tiles, her body tightening greedily on his length.

"God." He drew a long, shaky breath. "Okay, now hold on."

Her fingers gripped his shoulders as his hips drew back.

"Go," she begged, trying to ensure he really would. "Go."

He thrust as strongly as he'd promised—swift, deep strokes of pure, directed force that hit her just hard enough, just fast enough to send her moaning over the edge. He had more control than she did. Though he swelled inside her, he didn't come.

"Again," he said, his every muscle tight with resolve. "Go over for me again."

She grabbed for the nearest shower head and held on. One hand would have to be enough to praise the parts of him she could reach.

It seemed to be. He twitched inspiringly at her caresses, but he was tireless, his skin gone red from the heat pounding over him inside and out. He thrust hard enough that the wetness of her skin squeaked against the tile. He gripped her bottom more securely. She didn't care that she might end up sore. The pressure of him inside her was incredible, and the spray shut them into a private erotic world. Only him.

Only her. Only the rise of sensation and need. She cocked her hips to help him go deeper, an assistance that made him grunt.

"Yes," she moaned, stroking his bunched-up jaw. "All the way."