Warm Hearts (11 page)

“Maybe you'd better leave,” was his quiet suggestion to Elliot.

But Elliot didn't hear. He was too busy working himself into a self-righteous rage. “I don't deserve this, Caroline. For three months I've been indulgent. I've let you call the shots. If you wanted to see a particular show, I took you. If you wanted to eat at a particular restaurant, I took you. When you were busy with work, I said, ‘Okay. I respect you for that.' Where's the respect I deserve in return?”

“Elliot, please don't,” Caroline said.

“Why not? Do you find the truth unsettling?”

What he had said wasn't exactly the truth. She knew that he was trying to save face in front of Brendan, but, in his indignance, he was digging the hole deeper. “Nothing will be accomplished by—”

“Shouldn't I fight for what I want?”

“Is that what you were doing just before I got here?” Brendan asked, his low voice cutting through the air like the purr of a whip.

Elliot grew rigid. His eyes widened. He opened his mouth and shut it in the same breath.

Caroline turned her head to meet Brendan's gaze, then promptly forgot both his words and Elliot's presence.

Brendan was beautiful. She couldn't think of another word, and she knew that an impartial observer might think her daft, but she didn't care. His jaw was firm, square and covered by the dark shadow she'd come to expect. But she hadn't expected the tiny white scar on his chin, or the quick softening of his lips when she'd turned, or the faint crookedness of his nose. And though she'd hoped that his eyes would be brown, she hadn't expected that they would be like thick, rich velvet, stroking her deep inside. She hadn't dared hope that they would hold such longing.

He gave a tiny, secret smile.
Hi, Caroline.

She returned both the smile and the greeting.
Hi, Brendan.

Did we finally do it?

I think so.

His hand left her arm. The backs of his fingers lightly brushed her cheek. Her lips parted. She tipped her head until those lips touched his thumb.

“Shit, I don't need this!” Elliot growled.

Jolted by the intrusion, Brendan and Caroline whipped their heads around in time to see him stomp to the door, grab the knob and slam it shut on his way out.

Then, more slowly, they looked back at each other.

“Hi,” he said aloud. His voice was nearly as velvety as his eyes, but a smokiness underlay that velvet to produce something extraordinarily manly.

“Hi,” she whispered. Standing there, looking up into his eyes, she nearly melted. Her limbs liquefied; her blood flowed faster. Any tension that Elliot's angry departure had caused seemed to gather, break apart, float away.

Brendan's gaze shimmered over each of her features. “I was beginning to think it would never happen.”

“Me, too.”

“I didn't plan it this way.”

“I know.”

“But I couldn't just sit there and let him paw you.”

She knew that she'd been far from helpless, but that didn't matter. “I'm glad you came,” she said, then, unable to resist, raised a hand to his jaw. His beard was rough and spoke of strength. She shaped his lean cheek with her palm and whispered her thumb over his chin.

He closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, they were darker. “Your touch is gentle. Nice.”

“I kept imagining what you'd look like.” Her fingers crept to his lips. Her eyes crept higher, meeting his in a wordless expression of admiration.

The compliment touched him to the core. She made him feel ten feet tall and quivery. He opened his mouth to say something but couldn't think of the words to express what he felt. So, instead of speaking, he touched his tongue to her finger and very lightly put his hands on her waist. Almost instantly, they began a feathery rotation.

Caroline felt the movement clear to her toes. His fingers were long and strong but gently enticing. Dazed with sensation, she closed her eyes and looped her hands over his shoulders. If it was an invitation, it was a subconscious one, but far more than her subconscious felt the glide of his hands on her bare skin as the hem of her T-shirt rose from her shorts. She sighed at the divine pleasure, then sighed again when his lips touched her forehead.

How fantasy paled, she thought. Had she never gone so far as to imagine the way her inner wrists would feel on his shoulders, or the way his chest would press closer with each breath, or the way his thighs would brace hers? She wondered what it was about this man that was so special; then she gave up wondering and simply savored his touch.

Soft. Moist. Sweet. Brendan couldn't believe how perfect she was. He'd held many a woman in his arms in his day, but none had felt so right. Caroline. Her name was as lyrical as she. Caroline. He might have said it aloud, but he didn't know for sure, because the effect she had on him was mind numbing, the pleasure deafening.

He caught a trickle of sweat as it left her hairline and it was on his lips as they moved over her eyes to her cheek. He didn't stop to ask himself if he was rushing things when he sought out her mouth. Hers was waiting and parted.

He kissed her with whisper-soft touches at first, enjoying those exploratory forays. Caroline enjoyed them, too, for her hands had slipped to his back, and the tight cording she found there stood in leashed counterpoint to that gentleness. His tank top was damp, the skin nearby slick with a sweat that lubricated her fingers in their slow journey of discovery. His breath mingling with hers bore the cool, fresh scent of tea. She felt the beat of his heart against her breast, heard its echo in her bloodstream, and she opened herself to him as she had to no man before.

Details blurred then amid an overall air of bliss. Mouths, tongues, hands, bodies—slow, languorous movements gradually speeding with sensual demands. There was heat within heat. The sultriness of the air lent a sultriness to their passion. One kiss led to the next, wider and deeper; one touch led to intimate others. If either of them had been asked if this was a dream, each would have been hard put to answer. The fine line between fantasy and reality ceased to exist.

“I need you,” he gasped in a moment's lucidity. Her bare breasts filled his hands; her own hands had slipped beneath the waistband of his shorts and were palming his naked flanks. They were mouth to mouth, chest to chest, belly to belly. His arousal was full, pressed so hard against her that he had to force himself to think. But think he did, even though his voice emerged husky, ragged and rushed. “You know my name, I'm thirty-eight, a lawyer, stable, not married, and I won't give you anything you wouldn't want to write home about except maybe a baby—are you protected, Caroline?”

“Yes,” she breathed, “yes.”

Within seconds, they'd sunk to the rug. Caroline's T-shirt fell aside, followed quickly by his tank top and then their shorts. They reached for one another, for the only vibrant touch that mattered in that instant out of time.

Caroline had never felt so filled as when Brendan buried himself in her depths. He had never felt so fully received as when she closed herself around him. Though they shared the trust reserved for longtime lovers, each minute, each movement was new and priceless. And whether it was real or imagined, neither could say, but an aura of invincibility gave force to the fire.

The still of the night was broken by soft gasps and breathless sighs, by whispered words of praise and encouragement and, incredibly, by the laughter of two people delighted with themselves and the moment. It was the echo of that laughter that remained long after the gasps had risen to cries and their bodies had erupted in climax.

5

They lay on the rug, bodies limp but entwined. Caroline was sprawled half over Brendan, anchored by the dead weight of his arm and one very long, very masculine leg. With her hair tangled, her cheeks flushed and her lips moist and full, she was the image of a woman well loved. He, with half-lidded eyes and a curling grin, was the cat who'd gotten the cream and then some.

“I feel happy,” he announced just for the hell of it.

She was every bit as ebullient. “So do I. I should be feeling guilty or embarrassed, even horrified.” She raised her head and sought his gaze. “I don't make a habit of going to bed with strange men.”

“I am not strange,” he assured her as he pressed her head back down. “And we didn't go to bed.”

“All the more horrifying. On the
rug
.”

He gave a smug chuckle. “Actually, it was nice. Spontaneous. A little unusual, in keeping with our relationship.”

“What relationship? We barely know each other.”

“We do.”

“It's only been eight days.”

“Are you kidding? I've been involved with you for weeks.”

Her head bobbed up. “Weeks?”

Patiently, he returned her head to his chest a second time. “Weeks.”

“But why didn't I know?”

“Maybe because you were too busy. Or because you weren't looking for anything. Or because you're a lady. I'm not.”

She grinned against his warm skin. “True. But still, if someone was watching me for that long, I should have felt it.”

“Actually, I had reason to start looking,” he confessed, and went on to explain about the two girls who had lived in the loft before her. “You are a pleasant turn.”

She considered that. “I don't think I've ever been a turn before.”

“Forget turn. Think pleasant. Then again, that's a gross understatement.”

She grinned again. “If you say so.”

“You don't think so?” He was the one to lift his head this time. “Hell, you're spectacular! You handled Elliot perfectly and didn't miss a beat when I arrived.”

“I missed a couple right at the start. I never expected to see you sauntering in that way.”

“But you knew who I was.”

She nodded, then dropped her chin to his chest. “How's the toe?”

“Don't feel a thing.”

“That could be good or bad.”

“I'll worry about it later.”

Her lips twitched mischievously. “How did you really bang it?”

“On the front door downstairs, when I was in such a hurry to rescue you from Elliot.” He narrowed one eye. “How did you know I didn't run into a trash can?”

“You wouldn't run into a trash can,” she said. “Besides, I knew you hadn't been running. You were in your apartment right up to the point when Elliot arrived, and within five minutes of that you were here.” She paused. “You do run, though, don't you?”

“Not as much as I should. Mostly I play racquetball.”

“Ahh.”

“Ahh what?”

“I was right. Those nights when I'd see you come home looking all grubby with your shirt hanging wide open, I guessed that you were coming from a club.”

“If I had any brains, I'd shower there. But I always figure it'll be a waste of time, since I'll be sweaty again by the time I get home.” Abruptly he looked stricken, almost comically so. Closing a hand over each of her arms, he tried to raise her. “Lord, I didn't think! I haven't showered tonight. How can you stand me?”

She denied his attempt to hold her away by exerting that little bit more force and said in a soothing voice, “I haven't complained, have I?”

“Maybe you're too polite.”

“And maybe I have a head cold.” But they both knew it wasn't so, which made her point. “Relax. I like the way you smell.”

Given her obvious sincerity, he did relax. Rather, he tried, but the directness of her gaze did something to him. It seemed to enter through his eyes and move downward, squeezing his heart, buzzing his stomach, settling with a hot thud in his loins.

“Ever think of getting an air conditioner?” he asked. It was the first thing he could think of to say, and even then his voice sounded odd.

“Yes, and decided no.”

“Me, too.”

“How long have you had your loft?” she asked, feeling slightly muddled herself. The husky sound of his voice, the solidity of his long body, the same scent he'd worried about—all conspired to stoke the desire she'd thought sated. And when she looked at him—looked him directly in the eye—she was lost.

“Two years.” His hand began to move on her back, palm light, long fingers gliding over silk-smooth skin. “I had another place before that, but it wasn't half as nice.”

“Me, too. I can walk to work now.”

“What do you do?”

She inhaled a deep breath and rubbed her nose against his chest, then found that so delightful that she repeated the move with her cheek. His skin was warm, lean over muscle, softened by hair. And he smelled … so … good.

“Caroline?”

She raised her head. “Hmm?”

It was a minute before he remembered what he'd been asking. He had to clear his throat before any sound emerged. “Work. What do you do?”

“I'm a family therapist.”

He smiled somewhat distractedly and murmured, “A helping profession. I figured something like that.”

“You did?”

He nodded, but very slowly. He was enchanted by the way her brows went up, widening her eyes. And those eyes … good Lord, he could drown. “It's the way you walk,” he said in a sandy voice.

“It can't be.”

He nodded again and as slowly.

“That's crazy,” she whispered. She was propped up on a hand that covered that faint rise of his chest, and she'd discovered that the slightest movement not only ruffled his chest hair but brought his nipple to a peak against her palm.

Brendan shifted her gently until she was more fully atop him. His hands formed Vs beneath her arms, supporting her upper torso. His eyes slid from her mouth to her neck, then slowly, helplessly, drifted lower. “Not crazy. You walk lightly and quietly—” he took an unsteady breath “—but there's a gentleness in your stride and a gracefulness in your legs. And—” his eyes grew smoky “—patience. You exude patience, all round and creamy, tipped with rose—”