Warm Hearts (12 page)

“My legs?”

“Your breasts.” With ease and fluidity, he raised her until one of those breasts met his mouth, which latched on and began a sucking motion that brought a sweet cry to her lips.

“Caroline.” His voice was hoarse around her budding flesh. “Caroline what?”

She sucked in her breath and managed a strangled “Cooper,” as he tongued her nipple.

It was a minute before he spoke again, and then it was in the thickest of whispers. “I want you again, Caroline Cooper. Slower this time. I want to savor every … single … sweet … spot.” He punctuated each word with gentle nips that left her a writhing mass of awakened sensuality.

They did go more slowly this time, and Brendan wasn't the only one to savor the details. While he worshiped her breasts, she ran her fingers through the vibrant tangle of his hair. While she delineated the virile contours of his chest with her mouth, he familiarized himself with the ivory sheen of her shoulders and back. While he explored her legs and thighs with hands that trembled, her own, trembling, too, discovered the flatness of his belly and the smooth, soft skin by his groin.

The time for fantasy had passed. Everything they touched and tasted and felt was real. They flowed around and about each other, seeming suspended in time and space, yet acutely aware of each slow caress. The sweat that covered their bodies was an erotic conduit; the heat in the room was forgotten, overshadowed by the heat of desire.

But there was a price to be paid for slowness. Their limbs began to quake with the burden of harnessed desire. Sweet torture, pleasure and pain, contorted their features. Anguished cries tore from their throats.

When he could stand no more, Brendan turned them so that they were on their sides facing each other. He slid a leg between hers, then a hand to fill the gap he'd opened.

At the first such caress, Caroline tightened her arm around his neck. She needed to hold on; the world seemed to be falling away with sudden speed. She didn't know if it was the newness of Brendan that was so exciting, or if her reaction to him was pure chemistry, or if there were deeper factors at work. She did know that his most gentle touch was frighteningly intense—and that she needed more. With a low whimper, she arched closer.

“Is it good?” he whispered as he watched a myriad of expressions cross her face. By concentrating on those expressions and on the sheer act of speech, he was hoping to stave off his own hunger a bit.

She nodded. Another whimper slipped out.

“You're very soft there.” His fingers slid lower. “And moist here.”

She whispered his name, nothing more, but the wonder that filled her eyes was all the encouragement he needed.

He continued his low crooning. “Do you know what it does to a man to touch a woman here? Such a private place. And here.” His finger entered her with ease and was quickly joined by a second. “No, no, don't shut your eyes.”

“I can't help it.…” Barely a whisper.

“Look at me, Caroline.”

Only with great effort did she manage to obey. She felt dizzy, on a drugless high that threatened to blow her mind. Her fingers bit into his shoulders, and her whisper was broken. “When you do that to me…”

He repeated the slow inner stroking. “This?”

She groaned. “It's not enough.”

“What do you want?”

She lowered one hand and touched him.

The effect was like fire. He jerked, took several quick, shaky breaths and knew that he couldn't last much longer. Her fingers surrounded him, knowing just what to do. He was almost as moist as she and from the same cause. Still he spoke, albeit in a voice rough with strain. “Do you want me inside?”

She gave a vigorous nod. Her lips formed his name, then went on to whisper, “Now!”

“My tongue?”

“Oh!” she cried. The image he evoked was too strong. With a loud indrawn breath, she stiffened, then began to pant with the force of the inner explosion he'd caused.

But the image had worked on him, too, or maybe it was the feel of her hidden flesh pulsing, or the closeness of her body. Within seconds, he'd withdrawn his hand, rolled her over and surged inside. The last of her spasms was more than enough to send him into euphoria. But that was only the beginning, for no sooner had that climax passed than they worked together toward another, then another.

It was a long time before either of them was able to breathe with any degree of steadiness, and a lot longer before either spoke. Between utter exhaustion, intense satisfaction and the enervating heat of the night, they couldn't move. The silence seemed enough.

“Powerful,” Brendan whispered at last. His breath couldn't begin to ruffle her hair, which was dripping with sweat but no more so than his own, which clung to his forehead.

Caroline made a sound that was part hum, part moan, entirely in agreement with his assessment.

“In all my dreaming I never imagined it quite like this,” he added.

“I never let myself go half as far.”

“You dreamed, too?”

She gave another agreeing hum.

“Tell me what you dreamed.”

“I dreamed that you were tall and dark and handsome,” she said, nestling more comfortably against him. “And you are.”

“I could argue, but if you think so, that's enough. What else?”

“I thought your nose would be straight.”

“Sorry.”

“And that you'd be aristocratic.”

“Oops.”

“No problem. In my dream, you'd renounced all that decadence, so the end result is the same.”

“That makes me feel better. What else?”

“That you were in your late thirties. I was on the button there.”

“I dreamed that you were twenty-eight.”

She tipped her head against his arm and awarded him a grin. “I like that.”

“Was I right?”

“Nope.”

“Twenty-seven?”

“What a diplomat you are.”

“Okay. How old?”

“Thirty-one.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“The body I just ravished has been around that long?”

“Now, wait a minute. I'm not exactly Methuselah. And who are you to talk? You have seven years on me.”

“Which is just about right, don't you think?”

She caught in a breath, then let it out in a soft “Yes.”

He seemed very pleased with that. “Okay. Go on. What else did you dream?”

“That you were a doctor or a teacher.” When he raised a hand, thumb down, she hastened to add, “But a lawyer's okay. My sister's a lawyer. I can take it.”

“Thank heavens for that.”

“What kind of law?”

“Criminal work.”

“À la Perry Mason?”

“Not quite. I work for the Justice Department.”

“Do you now?” she asked with enthusiasm. Mentally she shifted the white hat from the head of a doctor or teacher to that of a loyal government employee.

“'Fraid so.”

“Why afraid? I think it's great.”

“There are many who'd disagree,” he said, thinking of one in particular, then quickly pushing her from his mind. “There is a stereotype of government bureaucrats sitting at their desks shuffling papers.”

“Is that what you do?”

“I often sit at my desk, but the only shuffling of papers I do is to organize one file and move on to the next.”

“What's in the files?”

“Investigation reports, witness statements, a million documents. I work full-time on domestic terrorism.”

“Bombings?”

“Those and kidnappings and scores of other crimes or would-be crimes.”

She couldn't quite hide a shiver. “Sounds frightening.”

“In the sense of the crimes being real, it is. Would that I were out of a job.”

In spite of the subject matter, she had to smile. She'd said something very similar to Ben when he'd been so blithely commenting on her work, and it warmed her no end to know that Brendan shared her feelings. That warming livened her curiosity.

“I don't usually think of terrorism in relation to this country.”

“Most people don't. Maybe that's because the most brutal acts of terrorism are still committed abroad. I'd like to think that the way this country's run has something to do with that. We're more vulnerable abroad, because we don't have the same controls there that we do here.”

“Controls and democracy—a strange pairing.”

“Not really. The Declaration of Independence pledges to protect the rights of our citizens to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Certain controls are necessary to protect those rights. The occasional traveler may complain about the security measures in airports, particularly when he's stopped and searched for whatever set off an alarm, but, by far, the majority of us understand that our own safety is at stake. We appreciate the measures taken to secure it.”

Caroline had been watching him as he talked and was fascinated. He was articulate, never slipping into the legalese some lawyers hid behind. He was also sincere. Honesty radiated from his eyes, and the relaxation of his mouth reflected his ease with his thoughts.

“Don't look at me that way,” he whispered. “It turns me on.”

She blinked once, unaware of what she'd been doing. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. It's just that you have such strong conviction. It's written all over your face.”

What was written all over her face was admiration, but it wasn't the kind that an empty-headed woman showed for a man snowing her with rhetoric. It was grounded in respect, and that was what was having such an effect on Brendan. It surprised him, actually. He'd never attributed sexual urges to respect. Of course, he realized they were indirectly related; if he respected the woman he was with, the sex was better. But the fact that the look on Caroline's face excited him had deeper implications, ones he wasn't quite ready—or able—to consider just then.

“I think I need a cool shower,” he said.

“Is there danger involved?”

“In a cool shower?”

“In what you do. If you're dealing with terrorists, you have to be putting your own life on the line.”

The concern he heard in her voice was adding to his woes. Concern … a sexual turn-on? He'd never have believed it before, but the proof was growing quickly. He tried to drag up an image of the most dangerous, the most despicable, the most offensive of terrorists. “I don't deal with them directly, not often.”

“Do you try cases?” she asked, raising herself to see him better. The movement shifted her legs between his, brought her tummy warmly against his hip and her breasts against his ribs.

“On occasion.” He cleared his throat. “Caroline, I do need a shower. How about we take one?” He felt he could handle showering with her better than he could handle lying naked with her. It would be all too easy to make love to her again, when what he really wanted was to talk, which they wouldn't do if they stayed as they were.

Caroline, who'd been totally immersed in thoughts of his work, wasn't quite sure what to make of his sudden wish for a shower. Though the room was still hot, the sweat had dried somewhat on their bodies. She wondered if he was looking for an excuse to get away. Some men wanted to be left alone after sex. He'd seemed perfectly comfortable to lie with her up until now, but maybe restlessness had caught up to him.

Her expression dropped, torn between apology and disappointment. “Am I asking too many questions? You're probably bombarded with the same ones over and over again. I'm sorry. It must get a little tedious … but I'd really like to hear more. I haven't known many lawyers. My sister is in corporate work, which is completely different—”

He stilled her babbling with a single, firm finger against her lips. “No, you're not asking too many questions. I'm glad you're interested, and I'll tell you everything you want to know later, but I'm gettin' pretty hard with you snuggling against me like this. I don't want you to think I have a one-track mind, because I really don't. It's just that my hard part doesn't want to listen to my softer parts. In short,” he said, catching a breath, “if we don't get off this rug right now, you'll have raw buns tomorrow.”

Caroline's cheeks grew red and she said, “Oh,” so sheepishly that he gave her a fierce hug.

“Come on,” he growled. “Let's shower. I want to know if your water pressure is as lousy as mine.”

It was, but that took little pleasure from the time they spent under the spray. They were completely at ease with each other, talking gently as they soaped, shampooed and rinsed themselves.

Brendan was pleased that Caroline showed neither coyness nor modesty. As he'd dreamed, she was comfortable with herself as a woman, and the idea that she was comfortable enough with him to relax in such an intimate, if nonsexual, activity was gratifying.

Caroline was pleased that Brendan, who was very clearly aroused when they first stepped into the shower, made no attempt to slake his need. It wasn't that she didn't want him again, but somehow, being in such close confines yet foregoing sex made a statement that their attraction went beyond the physical. And that was something she needed to know—particularly after Ben's crude words the weekend before.

“Next order of business,” Brendan declared, patting his stomach. “Food.”

They were out of the shower, dried as much as the humidity would allow, and dressed again.

“I could make something,” she offered hesitantly, “but the choice would have to be between a frozen dinner, a peanut-butter sandwich or scrambled eggs. I haven't much else that's fresh. Tomorrow's market day.”

He waved aside her apologetic look. “I feel like Chinese. How about I bring in some take-out?”

“Would you rather go to a restaurant?” she asked, but her reluctance to do that was reflected in Brendan's eyes. Neither of them wanted to eat out. They weren't ready to share themselves with the world, air-conditioned or otherwise.