The Passionate Mistake (9 page)

As he released his iron hold on her to prop himself up on his elbows she kept her eyes tight shut, moaning in sorrow as he withdrew then sighing with satisfaction as he returned in a controlled motion, filling her so completely. At his next withdrawal she joined the motion of reconnection, lifting
to him to meet him halfway, falling into a driving rhythm that quickened and quickened again.

Already most of the way there, her orgasm came swift and blinding, making her buck and cry out.

“Yes!’ he said and she felt him let loose the control he held over himself, plunging into her recklessly, straining to reach his own completion. It was electrifying, the energetic thrusting of a man consumed by his pleasure, his enjoyment of her body wrapped tight around him. She was stunned to feel the swelling tension as she followed him over the edge and into a second shuddering climax.

She turned her head away from him as she came, denying the intimacy of their shared completion, little aftershocks clenching her inside as she felt the quiver of his cock spilling into her. It was too much.
Too tender and good.

When he rolled to one
side to take his weight from her, his arm gathered her and cuddled her close, a warm rumble of masculine approval resonating from the throat under her ear. She didn’t know what to say or do next, all her certainties lost in the experience of taking Mike Summers for a lover.

Her mind raced as she lay there, trying to draw the pieces together, to arrange them somehow so this craziness that was suddenly her life would make some sense.

He hadn’t recognized her. She hadn’t told him. There was no shared joke. But the sex was . . . something else.

It was making love. That’s what it was. She had in no way been prepared for that. She thought it would be scratching an itch, the way it had always been.
A tussle. A roll in the hay. Enjoyed and easily forgotten.

Now suddenly she had deceived him twice over, this man who took her body and gave her
that
experience in return.

It was terrifying.

She found herself scared, a piercing thrust of fear that he would any moment find out either one of her lies. Terrified of making love with him again, and even more terrified they might never make love,
she
might never make love like that again.

She burrowed her head into his shoulder and clung to him, comforted despite
herself by his solid male presence, the deep breathing evening out into sleep.

This was an unholy mess, and she had no idea how to straighten it out. But for this moment he didn’t know, so it was okay. Okay to enjoy being here like this with him, another guilty pleasure stacked on the ones that had come before. One more couldn’t hurt.

Five minutes passed. Then ten, twenty. She heard a light snore and took that as a signal it was time to extract herself, to find some distance and sanity.

Yet
the moment she moved his hands clenched, one on her shoulder and the other her hip, holding her still. “Stay,” he said, stroking the length of her, up and down, rolling so she sprawled on top of him, his hand free to roam everywhere, massaging, squeezing, drawing delicate designs with the tips of his fingers that make her shudder.

It was entrancing. Impossible to move away, to disobey that sure touch that soothed and stimulated. She
hesitated, then tentatively gave him the weight of her head, laid it on his chest and stopped thinking.

Instead she felt. The generosity of that touch, savoring and . . . worshipful. Sweetly sensuous, setting her
adrift with a head full of butterflies, soft fluttering flashes of sensation.

Subtly
over the long minutes the mood changed as he caressed her more intimately, finding the cleft in her buttocks, her inner thighs, the wetness between them. He shifted his legs so hers fell apart on either side of his, his erection pulsing and growing to nestle just where she was most slick.

He pushed her thighs closed again, wrapped around that insistent silken shaft, and went on stroking and touching,
his cock joining in with its own sliding motion. It was unbelievably decadent, to press her legs closed as if protecting her feminine core and still feel him there, teasing her, gliding over her clitoris, over the swollen lips that had enfolded him so recently, that surrounded him now.

She was passive, receptive, dazed and bemused by the softness and ease of it, punctuated by electrifying tingles that swept through her so she quivered and gasped, instantly soothed by those masterful hands back into quiescence.

Analytical thought gone. Barriers down. Lost. At peace. Outside herself and yet housed firmly in a body so overwhelmed there was no room for self-consciousness or fight.

And when
he held her hips, tilted her pelvis to suit his design and after a moment’s maneuver entered her at an angle she would have thought impossible, the exquisite delicacy slackened her muscles, every part of her suspended in a bliss like she’d never experienced. Touched inside and out, filled and stretched, the rocking motion of his body beneath, around and in her.

It unstitched her
. Her orgasm was like a wave, sweeping over her, lifting her in exultation and transporting her impossibly far from where she had been; leaving her beached on far distant shores, weeping a single strange, silent tear in awe and sorrow.

He parted her legs again so she straddled him, sliding extraordinarily deep and then stilling, motionless so long that eventually she – senses reassembled
– lifted her head. He opened his eyes to meet her gaze, half lidded and with a sensual smile curling his full lips.

And she found herself smiling back, instinctively, with no h
ostility inside her, no anxiety; nothing to prove. A partner to him in his quest for their pleasure. An ally. A friend.

He was all warmth and lazy enjoyment, unhurried and languid. She
flexed up and down to watch him, and he closed his eyes to savor the movement, then opened them again to grin up at her, boyish and relaxed; trusting her.

She could give him pleasure. She could give him that much.
Out of whatever twisted and impoverished being dwelt inside her where he could not see, still she knew how to do that.

So she rode him gently, seeing his eyes haze, his hands tightening on her waist as he absently kneaded her flanks, adding his strength to speed her descent, raising her up then pulling her down again. When she leaned forward those hands rose to cup and shape her breasts, lifting their weight and plucking at her hard nipples so her rhythm became ragged, lost in the jolt of fire that made her clench around him. He liked that. She could see it, could read his enjoyment. He liked her pleasure. As she found she liked his. Not to prove her own skill, but for its own sake, as a beautiful thing worth cherishing.

When his breathing hastened and become harsh, the tendons standing out on his neck as he threw his head back, she didn’t feel triumph. She felt moved. Aroused and touched.

There was no concealment in him. Again and again he sought her eyes, until it began to feel like a connection clicking into place between them, interrupted only briefly by the crises of sensation she brought him, that drove him wild for pulses of time. Yet always he returned to her.

When he came she stopped, drinking the sight in hungrily, muscular ripples of her inner passage sucking at him, drawing him in, milking the pulses of his body spending itself within her.

And when he was done she was there to welcome him back
, to smile down at him, to let him draw her closer to lie once again on his chest. This time when he slipped over the threshold into sleep she went with him, hearts synchronized and breathing in time.

She woke with a start in the pale, cool light of dawn, her heart racing. The unfamiliar surroundings were disorienting and for a moment she was frightened. When her gaze found him her fear changed focus, becoming sharper and more precise.

How could she do this? How could she face him and tell him?

This . . . thing between them, newborn and fragile . . . would surely die the instant he knew. She had not looked for something from him, but found he had taught her to want this treasure nevertheless. It was a painful, wonderful, agonizing lesson. How long had it been since she learned not to give anyone power over her? Not to let anyone e
xert such influence and control? Not to want what only another could bestow?

Years
gone, and a lesson hard-taught. She didn’t want to unlearn it, but here was the crux of it. Somewhere in the night she had learnt a new truth. There was something more precious than safety; more compelling than self-preservation.

She couldn’t put words to the feeling, not even in the stillness of her own head. But the
past weeks living her days near Mike, and this one night in his arms, his body against and inside her, had reshaped her knowing.

She blinked fast, frantically, feeling the unaccustomed
rise of tears to her eyes, a subtle sting.

Now she had something infinitely valuable to lose, and every reason to believe it already lost. Just being here with him was being on borrowed time.

It filled her with a panic she quickly stifled. Useless to feel like that. Useless and weak. So yeah, she . . . well maybe this might possibly be some sort of love. And definitely it couldn’t be returned, couldn’t grow into an actual real relationship, given everything she’d already done to him by intention and fact; every deceit, every plan to use and misuse. These misplaced feelings should be strangled at birth.

She shifted, found his hand was on her hip, lifted it cautiously and put it down on the sheet as she sidled away.

Running would be wise. That’s what a prudent woman would do. She was always prudent. She always cut her losses when the going got tough emotionally. Except with family, and he wasn’t that.

So where did that leave her?

Out the door and gone before this got any messier than it already was.

She rolled once, to take her to the edge of the bed, pushed up until she was sitting with her feet on the floor, and looked back at him over her shoulder. In sleep his face was young, relaxed, not charged with the vitality of his wakeful presence.

Yet . . . yet it felt different from any time before, any time she had walked away from a man saying ‘too much, too complex, too wrong.’ This time it felt . . . too late. She just . . .
couldn’t
walk away now; couldn’t imagine the strength into herself, for all her usual ruthless determination. She simply could not bear to. Was there an alternative, a viable alternative to disappearing?

No
, nothing viable.

But she
could
stay. Take a chance and find out if this led somewhere.

Which of course it probably wouldn’t.
How could it?

She stood up and looked at him, a fierce yearning rising up in her to crawl back into those arms, wrap them around herself and take shelter; to take everything from him he was willing to give.

She bared her teeth and panted a little, despising the helplessness of the feeling, the subjugation of it when she knew how utterly
hopeless
this was. It was already destroyed. Without another word or action from her it was finished and she couldn’t change that now. Pretending everything was alright, that she had just met him and never known him an instant before last night wouldn’t make it so.

She took a single step backwards towards the door and stopped, the struggle inside straining her muscles one against another.
To stay or to go? To suffer now or later?

She closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him, lighted by the dull glow of the city, the faint moonlight falling on his face. Shut her eyes but still saw him as he lay now, as she had seen him smiling, laughing, reaching out a hand in a moment of inspiration, hunched over a keyboard, grinning with his fingers flying. A thousand pictures she had not known were stored in her brain waiting to leap out into the darkness inside her eyelids.

How long would it take for them to fade so she could forget?

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go.

She
must
stay, for as long as it lasted. And soon, soon she’d be alone again and it would . . . she measured the odd new pain in her own chest with an attempt at dispassionate observation . . . hurt. A lot.

But that was tomorrow, and this was today, and she’d done enough destructively stupid things lately. She ought to balance it out with . . . a mistake that was about joy. Just for a change.

She felt the expansion within her as she was suddenly able to draw a deep breath, released by the relief of her own decision.

It was foolish. It was stupid. But her heart wanted to sing inside her.

She had to wash. Wash and reapply the armor of her makeup. Then they would see what he made of it, to find her still in his bed, the morning after the night before. Maybe this was impossible anyway, because Mike Summers would want nothing to do with his one night stand.

Chapter
Ten

When he woke she was watching him, as she had been for more than an hour. Simply watching the rise and fall of his chest, the twitch of his fingers as they lay curled on the sheets. He sighed, stretc
hed luxuriously, smiled and yawned a jaw-cracking yawn. Then his eyes popped open, searching for her and finding her next to him, her chin propped on her wrists.

He grinned, not troubling to hide his delight.

“G’ morning.” He rolled to his stomach and scooted the single foot needed to bring their faces together, cupped her cheek in one big hand and kissed her. Her eyes opened wide in surprise, the careful dignity she had intended completely derailed by his gesture. At close range she saw the creases around his eyes crinkle even deeper before he made appreciative, “Mmm mmmmmm,” noises and began to nibble on her jaw, ear, then down her neck.

She
drew in a sobbing breath at the tickling, still on edge and upset but willing to be drawn out of it if he only knew how. She put out a hand to hold him off but changing her mind as she cupped the solid muscle of his shoulder, flexed by his position. She squeezed it, measuring the difference between the two of them, the masculine hardness a thrill to her fingertips even now.

He gave a mock snarl like a lion at a meal, pushing her over onto her back so she
sighed then laughed a little. His silliness caught her off guard. Where she expected the man she knew from the office, she found boyish exuberance. She let herself be tumbled and when he covered her body with his she deliberately opened her legs so he came to settle between them.

“Clothes,” he said with
a tut tut in his voice, one finger lifting the spaghetti strap at her shoulder and running under it, back and forth. But the hand that went up her thigh under the hem of her dress discovered the variation on last night’s outfit. “Ahah,” he said with satisfaction when he found only naked womanflesh there.

He kissed her again, tongue stroking hers, erection prodding her thigh as his hand cupped her intimately.

“Yes, well I
was
about to go,” she said, then closed her eyes as he slid a finger inside her, his thumb finding her clitoris, touching her oh so delicately.

“You could come first,” he offered. “Start the day off right.”

“Oh I . . . ah . . . guess I could . . . hmmm . . . make a little time in my schedule.”

“You are so wise.” He slid down the length of her body,
ruching her skirt up around his forearms. “Such a good example of time management. Inspiring.” He laid a sucking kiss on the inside of each thigh. “I am humbled in the face of your . . .” he reared up and surveyed the treasure he had uncovered. “. . . pure awesomeness,” he finished on a gratified exhalation, as if she were some extraordinary wonder of nature.

She blushed, completely undone by him.
By his open enjoyment of her. She didn’t feel worthy of such regard. But she’d never admit such a thing aloud. Not for a moment. So she bit her lip and was silent.

Her uncertainty only lasted a moment, for that was how long it took for him to settle down to a more physical demonstration of his enjoyment.

She took a second shower in his intimidatingly high-tech and gleaming bathroom. This time she knew which button not to push. The multi-directional showerheads were all-too-ready to explore every crevice and aperture with high-pressure spray. A single jet from above was all she was prepared to deal with so early in the morning. Or possibly ever, after the shock she had received from her innocent
investigations earlier.

Wriggling back into the red dress a third time struck her as seedy. Now she was certain of her welcome she borrowed the man-size white robe that hung on the hook, doubling the waffle fabric around her waist and cinching it tight with
the belt.

She touched up the
make up she had applied at the break of day, working with the limited but carefully planned resources of her tiny handbag. It wasn’t quite the dramatic alteration of the night before but there was still far more of Kate than Cathy about her. She was careful to sweep her fringe back out of her eyes and scrunch her hair into an artful tumble with what remained of last night’s waves.

Then she went looking for Mike.

He was in the kitchen, humming to himself as he threw things into a bowl then took up a fork and began to whisk the contents briskly, looking completely at ease.

“I’m making
omelets, if that’s okay with you.”

“You can make what you want. It’s your house.”

“I’m making one for you, if you want it,” he said patiently, a tolerant smile curving his full lips at her snippy answer.

“Sounds great,” she said, embarrassed by herself. She wandered over to the window, arms wrapped around her waist.

The view was extraordinary. Delicate blues of sea and sky, rooftops peeking out of the mature trees that covered the slopes, boats of early-rising Saturday sailors puttering out of the estuary into the bay. All was silent behind the double glazing. They might have been far from the city instead of in the inner suburbs, for all the traffic noise.

“Nice place to live,” she said with assumed casualness, as if she saw such sights ever
y day.

“It’s the view that sold it to me, really. I’m not a big fan of the design or décor.
Flashy and soulless. But that,” he made an expansive, sweeping gesture that she caught as she tilted her head towards him, “you can’t beat that as a sight to wake up to. If you have to live in the city that’s the way to do it.”

“You don’t like the city?”

“It has its advantages. It’s hard to do what I do away from it. And I like the opportunities. But I’m a small town boy at heart. Here.” He handed her a glass of orange juice then crossed the expanse of carpet back to the shiny granite-and-marble zone of the kitchen.

She
took in the scatter of orange halves at the end of the kitchen island.

“
Mmm, fresh.”

“You
betcha,” he tossed her a grin then bent to rummage under the counter and came up with two frying pans.

“I hadn’t picked you for the domestic type.”

“You mean it wasn’t the hint of apron and oven mitts about my aura that drew you to me?” he said with a ridiculous leer and waggle of eyebrows. She gave a startled laugh at the strange mental image and then remembered as far as he was concerned they had known each other for less than twenty-four hours.

“I had my eye more on the way you filled
out your suit,” she said with a confiding air, and he nodded.

“Of course.
I see how it is. I myself would never be so shallow.” His tone was superior.

“Oh really?”

“Yes. Quite.” He set aside the bowl of eggs and sauntered towards her, the khaki shorts that were all he wore hanging tantalizingly low on his hips. “I am quite capable of seeing past the stunning,” he seized her around the waist, “sensuous,” he dipped her suddenly backwards so she shrieked and clung to him, “intoxicating temptress to the hungry woman within.” He bit her lip gently.

“Hungry?” she
said breathlessly.

“Starving.
That woman – I said to myself – that woman needs a decent meal. And I am the man to give it to her.” He set her back on her feet, waited a moment to ensure she had her balance, and then left her staring after him as he walked back to the kitchen. After a second she chortled.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“It’s all part of my charm,” he said without missing a beat, carving off a wedge of butter and sliding it into one of the pans.

She came to sit at one of the chrome stools at the breakfast bar. The thing was damned difficult to mount but she persevered, glad his back was towards her as she slid about
clumsily before finding her balance precariously atop it. Brand new and slippery like it had been waxed and polished. Keeping her backside carefully motionless she leaned her elbows on the counter and watched him.

He moved well, graceful and long-limbed. If he wore this
outfit – or lack of one – to the office she would never get any work done. Instead she’d spend all day staring at him.

She smelt the richness of browning butter as he divided the eggs between the two pans, watched them carefully for a moment then started giving them judicious pokes
with his spatula. Then he set the spatula aside and sprinkled the contents of another bowl over the top of each omelet. She recognized the grated cheese but had no idea what else was going in.

After a minute more he took the two pans from the heat and slid them into the massive oven under the grill. To one side sat a pair of plates with salad already heaped on them.

She was terribly impressed. She could barely feed herself out of cans and jars. Most meals she made for herself were a sandwich or tinned soup.

“Who taught you to cook?”

“Mum,” he said, bending over to check the progress of the omelets and giving her a wonderful view of his tight buttocks through the fabric of his shorts. She regarded them dreamily. “She can make anything. I don’t have her skills but I’ve picked up a thing or two. And if you’re going to work until midnight you have to know how to feed yourself or you’ll starve. There’s nothing worthwhile open that time of night.” He wrinkled his nose fastidiously, and she thought with some guilt of the fast food outlets that almost knew her by name.

“You are what you eat,” she murmured, and he nodded.

“Absolutely.” He deftly transferred the omelets to their respective plate, folding them in the process to create a masterful effect that could have graced a restaurant table.

“Wow!” she exclaimed as one arrived under her nose. “This looks fantastic.’

“It should be. That’s how I like them, anyway. Here, let’s sit at the table. I always fall off those stools if I try to sit on them. ”

She slid off gratefully and followed him to the immensely long table
, where they sat side by side at one corner facing the view. All her attention was for the steaming pocket of egg, which smelt divine. As soon as she was seated she attacked it. The taste of the savory mass, oozing with molten cheese, exploded across her taste buds. She groaned with delight and shoveled in another mouthful, and another. After an ecstatic interval she looked up to see him watching her with mingled amusement and satisfaction. He hadn’t yet taken his first bite. Hurriedly she set down her cutlery and toyed with her glass of orange juice, trying to look casual.

“Um, it’s really tasty,” she mumbled around
the hot egg.

“Good. I’m glad you like it.” He started to eat.

She took a sip from her glass, and involuntarily screwed up her face at the sourness. That was horrid! “I think there might be something up with your oranges though.”

He raised his brows in query,
then said, “Oh, not oranges. Those are grapefruit. It’s quite bitter if you’re not used to it. You don’t have to drink it if you prefer. I don’t mind.”

Bravely she took a second, larger swallow. “No, no that’s fine. It’s good to try something new.” But she was pleased to
return to the more palatable eggs. “What’s in this? I don’t think I’ve ever tasted one as good as this.”

“Mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, cheese, thyme.
Ham. Salt and pepper. And butter of course.”

“You can cook me breakfast anytime.”

“That’s kind of you,” he said, and from the quiet amusement on his face she knew he thought her innuendo accidental.

“No, I swear. You can ravish me from top to toe if you feed me eggs like this afterwards.”

He laughed outright. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

They shared a companionable five minutes of silence as they emptied their plates, Kate tempted to lick hers clean.

“What do you have planned for today?” he asked conversationally.

“Nothing specific,” she replied in the same tone.
“Some chores at home.”

“Fancy a walk along the waterfront? The jazz festival’s on today and I thought I’d give it a look. You’re welcome to come.”

She leaned back in her chair, lifting the neglected grapefruit juice to her lips and sipping it tentatively to give herself a moment to consider. Every new exposure to him was a new opportunity for danger. Danger of deception revealed. Danger of deepening emotions. Her instincts warned her off. Her hunger for him waved her onwards.

“Sounds great,” she said warily, and he quirked an eyebrow at her tone.

“There’s no obligation. We could always do something else if you prefer.”

That warmed her. He was willing to put aside
plans for the sake of her company. She felt so tentative, knowing for him this was a one night stand and not certain if his sophistication – not to mention the image she had created last night with her overt seduction – would make a night of sex a disposable commodity. It had seemed tender to her but . . . well, one couldn’t assume too much.

But he
had invited her to stay, cooked her breakfast, suggested they share the morning if not the whole day. He treated her with consideration and respect. She liked it. She liked him. He was so much more than she expected.