Mine 'Til Monday (11 page)

“I was not jealous of—Tiffany, by the way,” she mumbled, even as she slid a little further into his embrace, dropping her head back under the comforting pressure of his chin.

“Hah. What were you doing with old Pearly Whites, then?”

Dorothy struggled to affect a suitable degree of offense. “Just because another man takes interest in me—”

“Not your type, Dot.”

Irritation flashed briefly, only to be quickly overcome by the sleepy, delicious pleasure of being nestled in his arms.

“Who made you the expert?” Dorothy demanded half-heartedly.

“I am the expert. I’m your type. Come on. You’ve had more fun with me in thirty seconds than you’d ever have with that guy. Think he’d ever let you ride on the handlebars of his dirt bike? Huh? Think he’d play Marco Polo for three straight hours out in the middle of the lake?”

Mud’s hand casually riffled through her hair, then rested there, tracing slow circles down to her nape.

“Think he’d let you borrow his all time best bass lure on the finest fishing day of the entire summer?”

Dorothy let her mind be carried along by Mud’s words, and in the strange, unfamiliar stream-of-conscious turn the evening had taken, the memories he invoked brought others, dozens of them.

Her cheeks suddenly felt flush with the strong afternoon sun of a Wisconsin summer; Mud’s hand in her hair was the same one that had freed her once-long braid of its elastic and then unraveled it. The arms that held her were the same ones that had drawn her to him, and his breath on her neck was the same warm, sweet breath that had heralded that first kiss.

“You should never have kissed me,” she whispered, more in regret than anger.

In seconds she was asleep.

Mud listened to her deep, even breathing and envied her the release of sleep, no matter how terrible she was going to feel tomorrow.

His hand stilled in her hair, then slid down her neck, her shoulder, along her arm, until he circled her and clasped his hands loosely around her. It felt good, holding her like this, her body surprisingly light against him, her curves nestled perfectly into him.

Cherie Walton. That was the girl to whom he’d fled after that first kiss with Dorothy. Cherie with the halter tops and crayon-colored shorts and perfect white tennis shoes. Cherie with the the lips that tasted like cherry lip gloss.

Cherie wrote him notes on pink notebook paper folded into artful origami, every ‘I’ dotted with a heart. Cherie blew him kisses from the top of the cheerleader pyramid. Cherie let his hand graze the front of her blouse the last day of school when he walked her home and they tangled on the couch in her parents’ rec room.

Cherie was on the edge of ripe womanhood, and Dorothy had been only a girl the summer before.

Only that wasn’t it. Not the whole of it.

The truth was, Cherie—and every female he’d romanced since—was easy. Not necessarily easy to bed, though some might have been, but easy to understand, easy to maneuver. Low expectations, high return on investment.

And Dorothy wasn’t. Not now, and not even then. He’d known that the moment his lips closed on hers for the first time and something like fire passed between them, something exotic and spicy and surprising.

When she returned to Galeworth House the next summer, the deep brown of her eyes seemed to have gained even more liquid depth, and the gestures he’d learned so well over the years had been smoothed and shaped into the unconscious ways that she carried into adulthood.

His heart had quickened the moment he saw her, confusing him, terrifying him, and he’d run straight to Cherie, who was simple and pleasant and smelled like Bonne Bell perfume. He avoided Dorothy all summer, suffering pangs of regret every time he spotted her under a tree with a book, or sitting out on the pier tossing pebbles into the lake.

He’d run from Dorothy then in the first blush of adulthood, afraid of the way she made him feel. Now he was a man, but he could no sooner drag himself away from the woman in his arms than he could stop breathing, even though he was less sure than ever what the hell he was doing.

When Mud woke hours later, after a dreamless sleep, faint light trickled through the windows of the little house. He kneaded his sore neck as he sat up, shoving aside the pile of soft pillows and the chenille throw, still warm, though there was no sign of Dorothy.

And then he saw her. Bathed in the dawn glow from the french doors onto the porch, she stood barefoot and still, his tuxedo coat draped around her shoulders, its size making her look slight and delicate. The silk of her dress floated around her legs, and Mud sucked in his breath in an involuntary surge of choked emotion as she did that thing with her hand, twisting the hair at the nape of her neck, and shivered.

He cleared his throat.

“Mornin, Dot,” he murmured, his voice rusty from sleep.

She turned, quickly, almost jumping at the sound. It might have been a trick of the light, but her face was luminous, lovely and pale, her dark eyes wide with surprise and embarrassment.

“Oh. Hello.”

She pulled the lapels of his coat tight to her chest, then let them fall open.

“I hope you don’t mind. I was cold, and I borrowed your coat.”

“It’s warm here.” Mud patted the spot she’d vacated, grabbed a fistful of chenille. “Be a shame to waste this heat.”

Aware too late of the double entendre, Mud held her gaze anyway, searching her eyes for clues to her reaction.

But Dorothy didn’t even blink, just gave her hair a final twist as she crossed the floor on her silent bare feet. Inches away from him, she shrugged her shoulders slightly and the coat slid down her body to puddle on the floor.

“I should hang that up,” Dorothy whispered.

Mud kicked it out of the way; it crumpled into a pile under a chair. “Forget the damn coat,” he said gruffly. “Get back in here, girl.”

Mud had woken with the humming tension of latent desire, but now it was focused all too specifically on whisper-thin black silk, cool expanses of exposed skin, a scent that was sweet and musky and sleepy. He grabbed her slender wrist and tugged, and she folded into his lap in a single, easy motion. Mud tugged the throw back over the two of them, trying to mask the slight trembling of his fingers.

“Having second thoughts about the champagne?” he asked, by way of a diversion.

Dorothy shook her head, the silken strands of her hair grazing his chin. “Not too bad, actually. I was just so thirsty. I got up and drank two glasses of water...and I took some aspirin. And brushed my teeth. And splashed some cold water on my face.”

“Done like a pro,” Mud commended her. “I predict you’ll crash early this afternoon. You’ll nap like a baby and wake up good as new.”

“I could nap right now,” Dorothy said, yawning daintily, “except I feel like such an idiot.”

Napping was the last thing on Mud’s mind. The feel of her bottom tucked against him was more than he could stand, and he awkwardly shifted away from her so she wouldn’t be alarmed by the strength of his desire.

“Aw, give yourself a break,” he said. “How often do you cut loose? Once a decade?”

She didn’t even bristle. “But I did it on the single most important night of my career. I’ve ruined everything. Tell me...” her voice wavered, and she pulled at loose strands of the blanket’s yarn. “How angry was she?”

Mud reflected. It would be easy to downplay it, to smooth out the details, present a picture that would be a little easier to digest. But he wouldn’t do that to Dorothy. She deserved to know.

“Mmm. Spitting nails, I’d say. Called me a ‘washed-up poseur’ if it makes you feel any better.”

“Oh no.” Dorothy moaned and rubbed her temples. “She figured everything out?”

Mud raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Well, you filled in the details, darlin’. You don’t remember?”

Dorothy sighed deeply. “Some...remind me.”

“Well, let’s just say that alcohol seems to loosen up your confessional instincts. You told Miranda how you lured me into your little scheme and planned to conveniently dump me as soon as the deal was inked. You were much too hard on yourself, if I may offer my opinion. Painted yourself to be a regular charlatan.”

“Ugh. Guilt does that to me.”

Her breathing was calm, slow and deep, and for a moment he thought she’d fallen asleep again, until she shifted against him, curling a little tighter and turning so that her cheek rested against his chest, bare where he’d unbuttoned a few buttons of the starched shirt. He could make out her eyes shining below the thick fan of lashes.

“Guilt doesn’t really suit you, Dot,” he murmured. Without thinking, he brought his fingertips to her exposed cheek, exploring its incredible smoothness. He traced up the bridge of her nose and outlined her delicate eyebrow, and she drew in her breath sharply.

He pretended not to notice, but allowed his explorations to continue down her neck, around the contours of her chin.

“Take you and me, for instance,” he went on, emboldened by her lack of resistance. “I’d say there’ve been some...unexpected benefits to our little project, wouldn’t you? I personally don’t plan to waste a single second of my time feeling guilty about that. I don’t know about you, but...”

He slid his finger around the cupid’s bow of her upper lip, then down slowly across the full bloom of her lower one.

And she responded. Gently she brushed her lips against his fingertip. It was almost a chaste kiss, except that in the next moment she took his hand in hers, lacing their fingers together, and kissed his wrist, then moved slowly along his arm, nipping at the sensitive underside.

It took him completely off guard. No woman had explored him so tenderly. He barely had time to consider that this was a trick out of his own repertoire, when she arrived at the crook of his elbow and paused, delving with lips and tongue, and he nearly leapt out of the couch.

“Dot,” he rasped through gritted teeth, “what the hell is going on here?”

She paused, then turned her body slightly so she could look at him. In the process he was sure she brushed against every nerve ending in his body, but he held his breath and focused on her eyes, the wide sable richness that held sadness but no regret.

“You were right,” she said. “I’m uptight and I don’t know how to have fun. I’ve ruined everything with Miranda and—I can’t believe I’m saying this—I’m almost relieved. You know what scared me the most, I think, deep down?”

Not waiting for an answer she burrowed even closer into his arms, into the strength and safety she felt there.

“That I’d get the job, and I’d have everything I thought I wanted, and I still wouldn’t be happy. I’d just go on working around the clock for a few more decades and have nothing to show for it. Nothing that mattered.”

“And what is it, Dot? What does matter to you?”

She could feel his hands, warm but unmoving against her bare skin, and sensed that he was barely breathing.

What mattered?

Dorothy knew the answer. He mattered. Mud, and very little else in the world, at that moment.

But she didn’t say it, not out loud, because she knew all too well what happens when you dare to wish for your heart’s desire. Jobs you could wish for; accolades, material rewards. That was all well and good. But when you trifled with the heart, you were rewarded with the kind of pain that never went away.

She knew. Because she’d lost him once. Lost Mud to a girl who was prettier, funnier, sexier. And another girl, and another.

But...

She was with him now. Here. Her and no other. As if to confirm her thought, Mud brought her fingers to his lips, returning the gesture she’d ventured only moments ago. But where she was tentative, he was bold. He claimed her knuckles in hungry kisses, then opened her palm and kissed her there in a manner that made the hollows of her body quake in delicious anticipation of more.

Yes, she was with him now. Mud let go of her hand to wrap his arms around her and maneuvered her astride him, no longer shielding her from his urgent desire. He gazed at her boldly, hungrily, his eyes taking in her face, her body. He held her at arms’ length even as she moved to press herself against him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed.

At those words, Dorothy made her decision. She was with Mud, and he thought she was lovely—not Tiffany from the night before, or any of the others. Her.

Aflame from his intent scrutiny, her body felt almost as though he had the power to caress with only a glance. But then he lowered her, slowly, as though he wanted to savor the sight of her, and her breasts pressed against his chest and felt the powerful drumming of his heart.

Dorothy closed her eyes and let everything slip away, everything except sensation, everything but the delicious rising tide of passion that lit her skin from outside and her heart from within. The after-effects of last night’s indiscretions had gentled into a dreaminess, a sense of her body being weightless.

But with Mud’s lips, teeth, tongue, fingers at work, she thrummed with pleasure, helpless to hold back.

“How...mmm...” she murmured, allowing her legs to twine wickedly with his own, following the tempo of her desire without thinking.

In response, Mud strummed his thumbs lightly over her hipbones, then grazed the insides of her thighs before plunging his hands under the roundness of her bottom and cupping her fiercely against him.

“How what,” he muttered thickly as a moan of surprise and desire escaped her lips.

“I just wondered...how this could keep getting better...every time,” Dorothy sighed before her breath caught and she bit her lip as Mud teased the yearning folds of her desire with his shaft. As she strained to receive him, he held her firmly and caressed her with maddening leisure. He was resolute, hot steel to her quivering ache, and somehow that made her want him all the more.

At last he bent down and nipped her earlobe with his teeth before whispering against her skin.

“Let me show you.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

It had been a lovely dream. Of that Dorothy was sure, even as it slipped from her conscious mind like gossamer silk.