“HE’S GORGEOUS,” BELLA said, holding a tissue over her face.
“I can’t believe you lost the tickets!” Darcy was on her hands and knees, searching under Bella’s bed.
“Will you forget it? I’ve done that.” Bella blew her nose hard and flopped on the bed. “Come on. Take pity on a dying woman. Tell me what’s going on.”
Darcy scowled. “Nothing’s going on. Except that I kissed him. And he kissed me back.” She made a face.
“And—”
“And it was amazing.”
Bella’s brows lifted. “Either I’m sicker than I thought, or I’ve forgotten what the after-effects of an amazing kiss look like. Because honey, I’m not seeing the excitement.”
“He blew me off,” Darcy said, her throat thick. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry.
“Oh, sweetie. That’s horrible. After all this time, and when your dream finally comes true—”
“Please. Don’t rub it in.”
“Did he say why?”
“That’s the really horrible part. He said it was because of Cam.”
“Cam?”
“Because he’s my brother’s best friend.”
“That’s it?” Bella asked.
Darcy shrugged. “That’s what he said.”
Bella hugged a pillow to her chest, her expression thoughtful.
“Do you believe him? Or do you think that was just an excuse because he doesn’t feel the same way you do?”
Her wounded pride made her want to say yes. But the memory of that kiss made her speak honestly. “No,” she said. “I think he wants me, too. I can’t believe he’s stepping back because of my big brother—it’s not like we’re in junior high any more. But what the hell am I supposed to do?”
“Force the issue,” Bella said, her grin wicked.
“What? Say I don’t believe him about Cam?”
“You could,” Bella said. “Or you could just play on the fact that he’s a man. Push until he falls, and make sure there’s a mattress when he hits the ground.”
“I’M SORRY ABOUT YOUR PLAY,” Evan said as they maneuvered down the stairs. Darcy and Bella had spent a good half-hour tearing the apartment apart with no luck. “We could call around—maybe we could find a few seats for tonight.”
She looked at him, her smile so sweet that he wanted to pull her close and hold her. “It’s okay. The show’s completely sold out. Besides,” she added with a smile, “now I’ve got you for the whole evening.” She took a step closer to him, making the air sizzle and his self-control falter. “Maybe you could buy me a drink later?”
“Be happy to,” he said. “What do you want to do now? Shopping? That was your original plan, right?” He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of traipsing through Bloomingdales, but if that’s what she wanted, he’d survive.
She tilted her head to the side, her finger pressed to her lower lip as she looked him up and down, her scan slow and deliberate. And although it was probably his imagination, he had the distinct feeling that her gaze halted—ever so briefly—at his crotch.
Whether true or not, his crotch preened under the attention, and he shifted, turning away from her and continuing down the stairs so that she wouldn’t notice the way his body had decided to stand up and salute.
“Not shopping,” she said, when they’d reached the foyer. “You have the look of a guy who’d rather eat nails than poke through sale racks.”
“But if you want—”
“There’s something I want to do more,” she said, the tone of her voice making him swallow.
“Darcy…” He could barely speak through the lump in his throat, and his entire body was firing simply from the casual way she moved close to him. The tip of her nose was red, and he remembered with a sudden pang that that was the way she blushed. Not her cheeks. Her nose—and right then he wanted nothing more than to reach out and kiss it.
He forced himself not to close his eyes.
He forced himself not to groan.
He forced himself to look straight at her and pretend that he didn’t want to reach out, grab her and pull her close to him.
“Don’t you want to know what?” she asked.
“Huh?”
The corner of her mouth curled up, and he had the impression she was being deliberately seductive. God help him.
“What I would rather do,” she clarified. “The thing I want to do more than shop.”
“I…um…no. I think maybe I don’t want to know.”
“I think you do,” she said, and before he could even draw a breath, she’d grabbed onto the front of his shirt and pulled herself toward him. Her lips pressed over his, and she kissed him, long and hard and thoroughly, and even though he knew better—even though he didn’t want to be just Evan-the-Hero to her—his body, his damnable male body, sprang to attention and got with the program. Because this was Darcy, and this was what he’d wanted for so very long. Was he really so stupid or principled or whatever, that he was going to push her away?
No. He wasn’t that much of a fool.
Or maybe he was a fool. Either way, he wasn’t letting go, and as soon as his mind got to that point, his body shifted into full throttle, and he pressed tight against her, the world seeming to sparkle with sunshine and sweetness despite the shabby surroundings, the battered mailboxes and the peeling paint.
The dusty air blanketed them, crackling with a raw energy that was surrounding them and penetrating them and pressing them together. With one hand, he pulled her close at the small of her back, bringing her hips up against him, wanting her to feel his erection. Wanting her to know how much he wanted—had always wanted—her.
His other hand tangled in her curls, keeping her head firmly in the palm of his hand. She was right there, and he didn’t want to let go, afraid that if he did—if he stopped kissing her or touching her—she’d disappear. Or worse, he’d find his pride again and change his mind.
Pride, however, was nothing next to the power of this woman. He’d wanted her for years. And now—false pretenses though they might be—she wanted him, too.
He was going for it.
She made a sweet, desperate noise—a cross between a moan and a cry—and the sound of it made him harder, if that were even possible. Because he recognized that sound. It was the aural representation of need, and it was washing over both of them, filling them and teasing them, the sound both a plea and a promise.
It was, however, another sound that startled him. A harsh, gutteral sound—the clearing of a male throat—and he reluctantly broke the kiss long enough to turn his head and stare up into the pockmarked face of an elderly man with kindly eyes. “You should perhaps get a room, eh? The hall, it is not so comfortable for what I think you two have in mind.”
“My apartment,” he said, barely able to get the words out past his need.
She nodded. “Yes.”
He touched her face, then drew his thumb across her lower lip. Her mouth, once so off-limits to him, now felt familiar. Like home. Like sweetness and perfection and danger and delight all rolled up in one package.
Part of him wanted to rip off her clothes and drive himself into her, claiming her, making her his and only his.
Another part wanted nothing more than to keep this moment safe in his heart forever. He was desperately afraid that reality would come shattering around him all too soon, and he would have to face the fact that it wasn’t him she wanted, but the illusion of the high-school hero. That was why she’d kept the photo, after all. Because he’d rescued her brother.
To Darcy, that made him a true hero, and damn him all to hell for not walking away despite realizing that.
But he wasn’t walking. Instead, he was taking. Taking her to his apartment. Taking her in his arms.
Taking her.
Lord help him, he didn’t have a choice. How could he, when his body and soul were demanding, shutting out the protests of his mind?
They caught a taxi to his place, and it jerked as the driver pulled to a stop, then rattled off the fare. They paid and got out of the cab on the proper side, thus avoiding being mowed down by traffic. No one mugged them, and Darcy didn’t fall on her face while exiting the vehicle.
Neither of them tripped on slick stones or stepped in dog dirt as they entered the building.
“See?” she said, her smile wide with promise. “I told you there was nothing cursed about this day.” She squeezed his hand. “In fact, I’d say it’s all about good luck, just like Bella said.”
Right then, he had to agree.
He pulled her close again, his hands sliding over her waist, his mouth angling over hers, and his body tightening in such a way that he knew he needed to get inside right then, or get kicked out of the building for improper conduct in the hallways.
“Inside,” he said, his voice as rough as gravel as he stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the fifth floor.
“Hurry,” she said, following him from the elevator to his door. The fact that she wasn’t even trying to hide her desperation made him even more crazily desperate for her than he’d been half a moment before.
“I am,” he said, shoving his hand into his right pocket. He frowned, then released her hand to free his left, and shoved that in deep, too.
“What?” she asked, her voice shifting from dreamy to alarmed.
“Bad luck after all,” he said, slamming his palm flat against the wood of the door, his body tight with protest at the knowledge that they weren’t going to be tumbling inside, tangled up with each other. Not anytime soon. “I’ve lost my damn keys.”
DARCY PEERED THROUGH the window at the end of the hallway, looking down at the metal grating of the fire escape. No way—no way—was she letting something as ridiculous as being locked out destroy what she’d managed so far.
And manage it, she had. Never once would she have believed she had it in her to go after a man the way she had, but this was Evan, the man she’d wanted beyond all others. Once she saw it in his eyes—once she knew that at least a little, he wanted her, too—she found the courage to do what needed to be done, despite Cam, despite curses, despite Evan’s own loyalty to the fraternal boys’ order of best friends.
She was a seductress, she thought with a smile. Only this seductress was currently without a place to seduce, and that simply wouldn’t do.
The fire escape looked solid enough. But it also looked entirely unconnected to the interlocking pieces of scaffoldlike grating that formed the fire escape leading from the various apartments. “How are we supposed to get from here to your place?” It was an important question. Because right then, she wanted nothing more than to be inside his apartment. Specifically, she wanted to be inside his bedroom. And barring that, she might just have to jump him on the fire escape.
Frankly, that iron grating didn’t look all that comfortable…
He squeezed in beside her, his proximity making her feel warm and gooey, and she realized that she was smiling. This was luck. Heck, it was more than luck—it was perfection. The one man she’d wanted for as long as she could remember, and she was actually going to have him. In bed. Soon.
Hopefully.
She frowned at the fire escape. “Maybe we should go to a hotel,” she suggested.
“It’s a thought,” he said. “But we’re here, and odds are good my window’s not locked.”
He climbed past her onto the grating, then held out a hand to help her. She followed eagerly, slowing only when she felt a tug near her butt and heard the distinctive rrrriiiiipppp of tearing denim.
“Nail,” she said.
His grin flashed. “There you go. More evidence of bad luck for my article.”
She crossed her arms and looked down her nose at him, making her expression purposefully haughty. “Is that a fact? I’d think you’d see it as good news.” She turned so that her rear was aimed at him, then bent over a bit so the material stretched, opening the newly created hole and revealing the elastic leg-hole of her panty and the curve of her butt. “After all, it’s one more way into my pants.”
The air between them sizzled. “Darcy?” he said, his voice rough.
“Yeah?”
“We need to get into my apartment. Now.”
Her breath shook as she tried to steady herself. “There?” she said, nodding at the grating to her left, about three feet over and a few feet higher than the grating on which they stood. “That’s it,” he said. “Easy.”
She glanced at the concrete ledge that protruded from the building, then watched as he stepped onto a milk crate someone had left on the fire escape as a seat. He stepped onto the ledge, held on to a steel pin that protruded from the brick and took one long step over to his own fire escape landing.
He was right. It looked damn easy.
“As soon as you’re on the ledge,” he said, “I can take your hand.”
“Right. No problem.”
She was wearing black boots with a narrow heel—she’d splurged on them since she’d thought she’d be going to the theater—and she had to admit they weren’t the best for scaling buildings. But she was only going up and over—not any more involved than climbing a set of stairs.
After a quick mental pep talk, she climbed onto the milk crate, then lifted her left leg to the ledge.
“Other leg,” he said. “You’re facing the wrong direction.”
“Oh.”
She hadn’t been paying attention, but now that she looked, she saw what he meant. “No problem.” She tried to turn, got her heel caught on an indentation in the ledge, felt the heel break, and then caught that protruding steel bar in the nick of time as her body went sliding off the ledge. Evan’s shout filling the air.
“Evan!” She realized she was screaming, but wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. Dangling five floors above the apartment courtyard was plenty scream-worthy.
She didn’t, however, have to scream for long. Because just as she was wondering how on earth she was going to manage to hang on to that tiny little steel rod, Evan’s warm arm wrapped around her.
“I’ve got you,” he said. He was clutching tight to his fire escape with one hand, while the other held her tight. “I won’t ever let go,” he added, and she believed him. More than anyone in her life, she believed that he’d always be there to catch her.
With his help, she managed to get back onto the ledge, regain her balance, then cross over to him. Throughout all of that, she kept her composure. But as soon as they were on his landing—as soon as her feet were on solid ground—she clung to him. Not in tears. Not in terror. But in the urgent, desperate need to show him exactly how she felt about him. To demonstrate with her body how she would give everything to him, just like he’d promised everything to her with those five simple words.
“Open the window or break the glass,” she said. “Now.”
Fortunately for the super of Evan’s building, the window was unlocked. And since that was so damn convenient, she didn’t chastise him for what was a really stupid habit. Instead, she slid her hands over his chest, pushing him backward at the same time onto his bed, gratified to see that the fire escape had opened into the one room she most wanted to be in.
“Thank God,” Evan said, his fingers snared in the cotton of her shirt as he tugged it up and over her head. It stuck there for a moment, and he laughed as she struggled. But those struggles ceased when his hands cupped her breasts, pushing her bra up and freeing her flesh. His hands snaked to her back, and he unfastened the clasp, then tugged her free of the bra. At first she felt only the brush of his thumb over her nipples, each in turn. Then his hands disappeared and she, desperate to know what he was doing, attempted again to pull the shirt off her head.
She paused as she felt his mouth close over her breast, his tongue flicking her nipple even as his hand roamed the flesh of her belly, easing down until his fingers were dancing over the button of her jeans.
She couldn’t move, much less get herself free, and she arched her back, moaning, finally thrust back into action by the desperate desire to touch him the same way he was touching her.
With one solid yank, she tossed the shirt aside. His gaze was focused on her, his face pressed against the soft swell of her body, but he looked up, and his eyes said it all. This time, she watched him as she moaned.
“Evan,” she whispered, then slid her hands over his back. He still wore clothes, and that was unacceptable. With a laugh, she took hold of him by the shoulders, then rolled him over, the motion freeing her breast from his mouth. The air that rushed against her damp flesh made her tremble, not from a chill, but from the promise of what she knew was to come.
“Hey,” he said, as she pushed him flat onto the bed, then eased herself over to straddle him.
“Hey yourself.” His fingers had done their work on her jeans—the button was open and the zipper down. Now those same nimble fingers slid inside, tight between the denim and her crotch and the silk of her panties, moving with deliberate purpose over her soaking wet panties toward her clit.
She eased her hips up, ostensibly part of her movement to kiss him, but also to give him better access, then moaned as his finger slipped over her core, the sensation no less erotic because his hand was outside her panties.
In a bold movement, she pressed her mouth to his, claiming his, her hands on his shirt, her fingers fumbling at the buttons. With her tongue, she explored his mouth, learning the way he tasted, the way he responded, wanting to consume him and be consumed by him.
When she came up for air, she realized she hadn’t made progress on the shirt. “Damn,” she whispered.
“Really?” he said, raising an amused eyebrow.
“How much do you like this shirt?”
“At the moment, I’m feeling less than charitable toward it,” he admitted.
“Good.” She grabbed the sides and ripped it open, sacrificing a decent shirt and the flying buttons for the pleasure of quickly accessing his body.
His chest was warm with a smattering of hair, and she splayed her palms over him, her eyes closed as she explored with her hands and then with her mouth. His own hands were still exploring, and as her tongue flicked over his erect nipple, she shifted her hips, silently urging him to peel off her jeans.
He got the message, and his fingers left her sex long enough to grip the material at her hips and tug.
It wasn’t a maneuver that could be finished with her straddling him, her mouth on his chest, and apparently he realized that. She gasped as he flipped her over, then mimicked her position, with her straddling him, and his hands tugging and pulling until she was free of both jeans and panties.
“You, too,” she demanded, gratified when he nimbly and quickly stripped. “If you say you have no condoms in this apartment, then I’ll admit to my entire family that I believe in the curse of the Franklins.”
“I wouldn’t dream of being the cause of weakening your convictions,” he said with a smile, then leaned to the left and tugged open a bedside table. She mentally applauded, but let him handle the sheathing himself—her fingers were shaking too much in anticipation.
But oh, sweet heaven it was worth the wait. His fingers stroked her first, and as he did, she clutched his back, her fingernails digging into his flesh, her mind wiped of any thought except pleasure—giving and receiving.
“No more,” she said, desperate for him to be inside her. “Now, dammit, before I go completely crazy.”
“As you wish,” he said, his eyes twinkling. She was so wet that her body opened easily, accommodating him, and she lifted her hips to urge him further, deeper.
He thrust against her, and she mimicked his motion, their bodies coming together in an ancient, primal, horizontal dance that had her soul coming loose from her body, borne away by the pleasure of it all.
His face was red with effort, and he held tight to the headboard as he ravaged her, causing the bed to rise and fall with their movements. She watched, meeting the growing pleasure inside her, and saw his jaw clench as his own release drew near. Her breath was shallow now, matching his, and then, as their bodies merged to one, they both went over the edge together, their low cries full of satisfaction.
“Dear Lord,” he said, then collapsed beside her on the bed, which bounced a bit in response, then seemed to shift beneath her.
“Evan?” she asked, startled. “What is that?”
“What?” he asked, dreamily, but she didn’t have to explain herself or ask again. The cause of the shift became clearly apparent when, with a loud crack, one side of the bed collapsed, sending them tumbling to the ground.