Zipper Fall (25 page)

His back was turned to me, the shoulders tense under his elegant, charcoal pinstripe suit. He was dialing a number.

“Grrraawwwhrrr!”

My cell phone had an orgasm in my pocket.

I froze in place in midstep like the burglar I was.

He wheeled around, staring at me in disbelief.

“Grrraawwwhrrr!”

I fished the offending telephone out of my pocket and answered it. “Yes, Loverboy?” I met his eyes, trying to keep my voice playful.

He shut his phone off. I did the same and hid it in my pocket, trying to gauge his irritation level. His hair was mussed up as though he had been running his hands through it a lot, and his red tie was askew. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his sweet, lush lips were drawn into a tense line.

“Where have you been, Wyatt?”

“Out,” I said, turning around to hang my climbing bag in the foyer. The need to hide it had passed.

“What do you mean, out?” His voice was low and commanding as he neared me. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

I shrugged. “I know. Just… it’s lonely here, and I felt restless. I had to look into something, is all.”

His eyes ran up and down my body, inspecting it for damage. “No crutches?”

“Don’t worry, I took the cab.”

He lifted my hand to his face and smelled it. His clean, soft hands ran over my dry fingertips, over my warm palms. “Chalk?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you go
climbing
?” He was incredulous.

“Yeah. I’m so tired….”

I felt hands propel me to the sofa. “You’re not supposed to do that. You can’t even wear a harness yet. You can’t put any weight on that leg, Wyatt. Wait ’til I tell Paul.”

I settled on my side with my head pillowed on Jack’s powerful thigh. “I only bouldered.”

“Hnn.”

“Have you ever heard of a guy called the Demon of Santa Teresa?” I asked.

Jack rested his palm on my shoulder, searching his thoughts. “Yeah, it rings a bell, actually. I can’t place the term, though. What is it?”

“He is a legendary solo climber—he did most of the big peaks out West, and he did many of them solo and free. As in, no safety equipment.” I watched Jack’s eyebrows rise up to his hairline. “I know, I know… he’s nuts. He’s just extremely good. I remember some write-ups on him in climbing magazines from a few years ago when he retired.”

“So he’s not around anymore?” Jack asked.

“Not exactly… I saw him at the North Face. That’s where your sister used to train. His real name is Risby Haus.”

J
ACK
was pacing the blue carpet, back and forth.

Back and forth.

I was observing him from my leather sofa perch, lying on my stomach with one arm and one leg draped down to the floor.

“So you’re saying Haus must have been an expert climber before he and Celia hooked up?”

“Yeah.” I yawned. “There’s no way he could have gone from a rank newbie to a nickname-only legend in just a year or two.”

“I need to be sure.” His voice was grim with determination.

“I’ll find out for you. No problem.” I yawned again, and my stomach growled loud enough for Jack to hear.

He looked at me, melting into the sofa with my hair sticking out in all directions, and his eyes softened to a heated gaze full of want.

“You won’t tell on me to Paul?” I asked, dropping the irritating name just to gauge Jack’s reaction.

His eyebrow twitched. “Would you care if I did?”

“I don’t care what Paul knows or doesn’t know. As long as you don’t double-team me.”

“Okay, Goldilocks. You go take your shower and I’ll heat up some leftovers.”

Goldilocks.

I smiled. Things were looking up.

B
Y
THE
time I was rinsed off and changed into Jack’s black silk boxers and a bathrobe, he was out of his suit, looking comfortable in sweat pants and nothing else. I let my eyes run down his unruly hair. The lines of his strong neck continued into the well-muscled shoulders and back.

He was beautiful.

“Ready?” he asked. Dinner was buttered noodles and defrosted green peas and beef braised with onions, dried apricots, and the slightest hint of anchovy.

“Mmm, nice umami underneath all that fruitiness,” I commented. “It was pretty inspired to add cardamom, don’t you think?”

Jack poked at it some. “It tastes weird.”

I chewed some more. “I know what. It needs a tart counterpoint. Had this been Indian food, there would have been the yogurt sauce, right? So… hmm… do you have any balsamic vinegar?”

“Sure, I have a little bottle.” He brought it from the kitchen; it was covered with layers of dust.

“How long have you had this?” I asked, slightly amused.

“Tch. Rick Blanchard from the office gave me a bottle of vinegar for Christmas last year as a gag gift.”

“Really? Then it better be good, right?”

“I don’t know,” Jack frowned. “I haven’t even opened it.”

Now, I do know what balsamic vinegar tastes like, but have never seen it come in a small, square bottle like that. “You better taste it, make sure it’s okay,” I said, pulling out the cork and sniffing the contents. “Smells great, but you get the first taste.”

“I’m not tasting plain vinegar.”

“May I, then?” I asked.

He leaned forward, curious. “Go ahead, I dare you, Wyatt.”

I smelled the pungent, sweet liquid and watched its viscous body ooze over the stainless steel spoon. When I dipped the tip of my tongue in, a complex bouquet of dried fruit and florals assaulted my senses, and I even sipped a bit off, letting it invade my mouth and bloom into a complex, sweet-and-sour bouquet. My eyes widened in surprised delight. “It’s amazing. Here, you try.”

He did, not to be outdone, but his expression was a puzzled frown. “This is totally different.”

“Isn’t it? Wow. Not at all like the big-bottle balsamic I know. Now drizzle a spoonful over your food and taste it again.”

He did, and I did, and soon the only sound audible was that of eating and of silverware clicking against his stoneware plates.

“That Susan is a strange duck,” Jack commented. “But she sure can cook.”

O
NCE
the plates were put away, I thought I’d pull out my laptop and do a search on our mysterious doorman, but between the day’s adventures and the excellent meal, I was bushed. I yawned again.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Jack said, escorting me to my room so he could change the dressing on my butt cheek. Then after finishing that, he squeezed my shoulder and lingered, as though he wanted to say something or maybe do something, and I lay there motionless, not wanting to do anything that might chase Jack off.

“Good night, Wyatt,” he finally sighed and walked away from me. The sight of his alluring physique on his way out only added insult to injury.

I
T
WAS
dark and I was tired, yet I couldn’t fall asleep. Why didn’t he have any interest in me? Obviously he cared. He was protective. Nurturing, even. He had reminded me to submit my invoice so I could get paid. He turned his junky guest room into a peaceful haven customized to my taste. He’d been jealous.

Jealous.

And hurt.

Both the jealous and the hurt parts were a bit of an epiphany. I realized I had been an idiot, and I also knew this was something I wanted to fix. Right now, if possible. It was close to midnight, and he’d probably be asleep—but we didn’t need to get very far. I craved a bit of closeness—a caress—anything. Even a good fight would be better than the polite reserve of the last four days: the cool, courteous manner one displayed to clients and distant acquaintances.

I slipped out of my bed and limped through the darkened apartment. I had broken into it enough times to navigate it blindfolded. Here was my hallway, and the living room and the television and his hallway and his bathroom with a closet next to it, and his bedroom window, still lit up by an ethereal glow of street lamps and neon signs.

I loved that window.

Then there was Jack’s king-size bed, and he was in it, sprawled right down the middle. He slept in the nude and was covered with a cotton sheet, and he looked as gorgeous as the first time I ever set my eyes on him.

He was left-handed, so if he wanted to reach for me, he’d want me to be on his right. I shuffled to the right side of his bed and eased myself down, settling my head upon his shoulder. I could tell he had not showered after work; his warm scent carried to my nostrils.

Just a bit of closeness.

My choice of position left me lying on my hurt side, and it ached, but I didn’t care. I was in bed with Jack, feeling his warmth, smelling his musk and aftershave.

“Wyatt.” His low whisper carried through the darkness as his large, warm left hand ran over my shoulder, pulling me closer.

I hissed in pain.

“Turn the other way.”

Carefully, I did. I turned my back to him, letting him drape his arm across my chest as he spooned me from behind. I felt his dry lips nuzzle my neck as he tasted his way up to my shoulder.

I sighed in happy contentment.

Tender lips gave way to sharp teeth; I hissed again as he nipped my trapezius from behind. Right away, he caressed my distended flesh with his tongue.

“Jack!”

“Yeah….”

“Don’t start what you can’t finish. I still have some technical difficulties on my end.”

Jack slid his right arm under me and wrapped it around my neck in a tight, possessive hold as his talented left trailed down my ticklish ribs and tired abs, easing its way under the elastic of those erotic silk boxer shorts.

I gasped.

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Goldilocks,” he whispered.

The evidence of his excitement pressed into my rear, against the small of my back, and I pushed into it, eager to feel more. He eased the boxers off my middle and down to my knees. I felt his blunt tip tease my lower back as he ground into me. I loved feeling his excitement and wanted more, even though having more was a very, very bad idea.

A few more days…. Arrgh!

He sensed my frustration at being unable to lie on my back. “Shhh…,” he said, moving further down my legs and pulling my hips farther back. “Can you lift your leg a little?”

I did, and was soon surprised to find him aim his swollen length between my thighs, stroking in and out right under my tender parts, and I could feel its delicate, gentle brushes against me and the occasional blunt hit against my taint. I gave a little moan of pleasure and reached between my legs to caress his cock from the other side.

“Just let go, Jack,” I whispered. “I want to feel you… right in my hand.”

The friction of his hard, smooth shaft against my hand and my crack felt good in a teasing kind of way, but knowing I brought him pleasure was even better. Telling him to just let go must have loosened something inside him, because I felt him tense and pant. His coiled, wet heat exploded right into my hand.

“Grrraaaahwwrrr!”

Feeling Jack come into my hand in hot, wet pulses brought a satisfied grin to my face. My wound persisted in aching as I forced the distended muscles to work for me, move for me. I knew I’d pay later, but I didn’t care. It was definitely worth it.

Jack caught his slick seed in his own hand and slid it down my cock, wet and smooth.

“How’s your wound?” he asked breathlessly.

“I… what wound?” I was enveloped by the caring warmth and the sexy scent that was Jack. My breathing quickened and my eyes grew heavy. Soon I felt no pain at all.

“
H
ERE
, tissues.”

“Thanks.”

Before I cleaned the stickiness off my hand, I raised it to my lips with a measure of curiosity. My tongue darted out as I smelled him, and I tasted his essence. Bitter and briny and redolent of strong musk, same as before. I’d get used to it.

My eyes wandered up to his face as I settled on my back, taking advantage of natural anesthesia. I saw his eyes pierce the dim light of his bedroom, watching me. He didn’t say anything. I finished tasting him, and he turned my chin toward his face and kissed my lips, letting his tongue plunge in for a secondary sampling of his own flavor.

We broke for air.

“I don’t want you stalking Haus around,” he said, his voice hoarse and tight.

“I’m being careful.”

“No. I lost Celia already. I’m not losing you, too.”

I didn’t respond. Of course I’d stick my nose into Haus’s business. I’d find all I could about Jack’s sister’s climbing partner. I’d be careful, though. I nuzzled his neck in a tender kiss. “You won’t lose me.”

Strong, warm arms embraced me and held me tight.

As I drifted off to sleep, it occurred to me Jack had just said something significant, something having to do with the two of us. Fatigue fuzzed the edges of my conscious mind, and for the life of me, I couldn’t make the right connections. All I knew was, it was something good.

T
HE
radio roused me before the crack of dawn. I stirred, alarmed at the sudden voices invading my fragile consciousness. An arm let go of my waist and hit something, making the voices shut up.