Four
An hour later a breeze blew in from the Gulf, light but laden with chill. When Dane saw Esme rub her bare shoulders to warm them, he rose. “It’s turning cold,” he said, stating the obvious, and looking for any opportunity to move, escape the sexual hunger twisting his gut like a badly applied tourniquet. “Let’s go inside.” The last interminable hour had rattled Dane, and he’d learned something. He’d forgotten how to wait, forgotten how not to have what he wanted when he wanted it, and forgotten how to make charm-talk.
And he’d underestimated Esme’s effect on him. Jesus, he’d gone hard, then harder, watching her simply savor an oyster . . . or a goddamn cracker. Esme was trouble—and he couldn’t wait to get into it.
Unless he missed his guess, she was playing him, and even knowing it, he enjoyed it. He might not trust her, but when his cock left him brain enough to think on it, he discovered that while he was frustrated, he was enjoying himself for the first time in what seemed forever.
“I’d rather take a walk.” She stood beside him, dropped her napkin on the table.
He ran a finger along her collarbone. “Upstairs?” He felt the pulse jump in her throat. The breeze, not so cold now, blew between them.
“Not tonight,” she said, her mouth warm, her gaze half-lidded. She placed a hand on his chest, rubbed lightly. The heat of her hand burned through his white cotton shirt. “Not that you’re not tempting.”
“I didn’t know I was in for an exercise in willpower.”
“You’re not, but . . . look,” she added, and gestured toward the sweeping seascape. “It’s so beautiful.”
He looked, saw a pale ribbon of moonlight crossing a wind-rustled sea to touch and brighten the sand on the beach. Beautiful. Yes. A detour from the bedroom? Definitely. Esme wasn’t through torturing him yet. “I’ll get you a jacket.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
He offered her his hand and she took it. Hers felt small, cool, and strong in his, and he lifted it to his mouth, turned her palm to his lips and kissed it. “You’re very ‘fine.’ And if you were a business deal, this . . . transaction would already be in the completed column. I think you know that.”
She frowned, and for the briefest moment she looked uncertain. “I’m not a business deal, Dane. I’m a woman who intends to take her time. A woman who likes to be sure of what she’s getting herself into.” She squeezed his hand, smiled at him. “No matter how potent the temptation.”
He didn’t miss the determination in her gaze and revised his original estimate. Three days. “Let’s go, then.” He made an immediate decision to provide some sexual torment of his own. “I’ll show you the Too Much.”
“The Too Much?”
“My boat. I bought it last year.”
“Interesting name.” Her look was curious. “What does it mean?”
He hesitated. “Nothing.”
A few minutes later Dane helped her board Too Much. The boat wasn’t big—maybe thirty-five or forty feet—which, considering Dane’s fortune, surprised Esme. It also wasn’t new and appeared to be in the process of being restored . . . beautifully.
“A Chris-Craft from the sixties,” he said. “She’s a work in progress.” He ran a hand lovingly along the polished wood railings, gave her a lingering look. “Like you.”
“First I’m a business deal. Now I’m a boat?” She couldn’t help her grin. “That’s a move forward. I guess.”
He took her hand. “Come with me.”
He led her to the front of the boat, stopped at the prow, and nudged her ahead of him. “Not exactly the Titanic, but the view is good.”
From behind, he gripped her by the waist and drew her flush to his chest. The heat of his body against her back, the gusts of his breath across her temple, his erection pressed against her buttocks, made her head swim. If she’d ever felt this powerful a sexual attraction, she couldn’t remember it, or it had been exorcised by Dane McCoy’s laying-on-of-hands. Hands he slid now to around her middle, splayed wide over her stomach. Her breath stalled in her throat.
“Like it?” he whispered into her hair.
In sensory overload, achingly aware of him, her mind was a fog, dense and blank. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out what he was talking about. Nothing registered except his light, almost careless, touch, his hands sliding around her belly; first up to under her breasts, drifting down—but not down far enough to touch her in the place she yearned to be touched.
“The view, Esme. How do you like the view?” He pulled her hair back, kissed her nape, nestled his mouth close to her ear.
Seven days . . . definitely too long. Five at the max.
She turned in his arms, looked into his face, every angle of it silvered by moonlight. “I like this one better.” Esme ran her hands across the muscles of his chest. They tightened under her palms, like strong ropes pulled taut, to be ready . . . able. She traced the muscles down to the belt, circling his lean waist, ran a finger along the leather, just inside the band. She looked up to see him briefly close his eyes, then open them, slam his gaze into hers, daring and dangerous. He clasped her hand, held it to his chest.
“Enough,” he said gruffly. “Given that ‘waiting’ you’re so intent on.”
She didn’t intend to study his mouth, but she did, drawn as if under a spell. She didn’t intend the rush of moisture at the apex of her thighs, but it came, and she didn’t intend to say, “Kiss me, Dane,” but she did.
His mouth came down on hers hard and hungry. He spread his legs, tugged her into them and slipped his hands down to grasp her rear, hold her against the steel jut of his penis.
The kiss slowed, turned deep and voluptuous, and she gave herself to it, taking his tongue, probing his mouth with hers, until her lungs were as empty as her mind. His hot hands grew urgent on her body, and his fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of her buttocks, each an anchor to hold them fast.
“Jesus, your mouth is heaven.” His expression hardened. “I don’t want to wait.”
Esme, breathing hard, her underwear dampened with need, her head as useless as a half-filled balloon, took a step back, out of Dane’s arms, away from the heat of him.
The cold claimed her instantly, and she massaged her upper arms. “I do want to wait.” She didn’t, but she had to, because this instant lust, this sudden . . . blaze between them was bewildering. Too fast. Too primal. She’d always counseled her clients to relax about sex, worked to free them from inhibitions that kept them from enjoying their bodies and those of their lovers—as she did herself—but that hadn’t meant leaving the brain out of the equation.
Dane didn’t try to hide his frustration. “Why, for God’s sake? I want you. You want me. And we’re both over voting age. What could be simpler?”
“There is nothing simple about this.” She looked up at him, squared her gaze with his. “Maybe you’ll understand this. I have a rule and I’ve never broken it. I don’t fuck on the first date.”
For a second he stared at her, as if he couldn’t assimilate what she’d said, then a smile, slow and easy, tilted his lips. “I haven’t had to work this hard for a woman in a long time.”
“Hard? You call having to wait a few days hard?”
He lifted her chin, brushed his mouth over hers—stopped when their breaths fused and need tore up the air between them. “When it comes to waiting for you? Beyond hard and into impossible.” He rubbed her mouth with his thumb. “You have any idea what it’s going to be like for me tonight? Knowing you’re a bedroom away?”
She nodded. “Yes, I do. Because, believe it or not, I’ll be sleeping on the identical bed of hot coals.”
Maybe four days would be enough . . .
The next morning, Peggy knocked on her door. It was past eight. “Ms. Shane,” Peggy said, rapping again. “I’ve brought you coffee.”
Esme, sitting at the desk under the window, had been up since six, working on the book layout. And, yes, delaying seeing Dane, which wouldn’t have been a problem if she hadn’t spent the entire night acting opposite him in a triple-X movie that put Sex And The City on a par with Barney. Heat crawled up her throat, and her body thundered even now remembering it.
Afraid every scene she’d played with him would show on her face, she’d decided to wait, connect with real life and get her wits about her before going downstairs. If she didn’t she’d attack him over the breakfast table. She smiled. Not really the worst idea she’d ever had. Although the man was going to have to be damn good in bed to top the movie version.
Still smiling, she headed to the door, clad in the cotton robe she’d put on after her shower. She opened the door to the aroma of fresh baked . . . something and sniffed appreciatively.
“Something smells so good it has to be sinful.” She stepped aside to let in a tray-laden Peggy.
Peggy carried the tray to the table near the window seat, and set out a service for one. “Mr. McCoy said you liked my beignets so I brought a couple. And some fruit.” She poured a big cup of steaming coffee.
Esme picked up a beignet and sighed. “Peggy, you should be bronzed. No, make that gilded—in pure gold. Thank you.”
She smiled, walked to—and started making—Esme’s bed. “When would you like your lunch?” she asked, smoothing the duvet.
“Whenever Mr. McCoy wants it is fine with me.”
“Oh, he’s not here. Mr. Janzen called on some business matter early this morning and he flew off. Didn’t say exactly when he’d be back, said maybe a day or two.”
So much for seduction . . .
Esme was ridiculously disappointed. “Then, twelve or twelve-thirty for lunch will be fine. Thanks.”
When Peggy was gone, Esme went to the window and gave herself ten minutes to sort through her feelings. Dear God, she was actually hurt. How stupid was that! Dane was committed to his work—was crazed by it, if Marilee was to be believed—which made it insane for her to think he’d put his business on hold for her. When it came to a choice of money or sex, for men like McCoy, the decision was a no-brainer. His abrupt departure was a good lesson for her, though, a reminder to stay on her toes and keep her emotional distance.
Which left only one thing to do: get that grip everyone was always yammering about and do something.
She dressed and was on the beach in minutes. The Gulf water, glorious and bright under the morning sun, lifted her spirits somewhat and she settled in to work, Dane—and last night’s movie—never far from her mind. But she refused to fret like an adolescent over a man she’d met only two days before. She absolutely would not. He had his life, she had hers.
It wasn’t as if they were heading for hearts, flowers, and minivans. More like a king-size bed, where, if she got really lucky—and Dane McCoy knew what he was doing—she’d enjoy some seriously fine sex. An activity, she reluctantly admitted, that had, somewhere along the way, grown stale and uninviting and been pushed to the bottom of her priority list. And wouldn’t some of her old clients laugh at that, after all her lecturing about the necessity of a healthy sex life. Yes, sexual. . . release with Dane would be good for her. Healthy.
Which was all she wanted. Wasn’t it?
Her hand slipped and the charcoal pencil she’d been holding scarred the drawing on her lap. Damn it! She erased her mess, told herself to focus, gritted her teeth, and started again.
The day was long and productive; another few like it and Esme figured she’d have most of the drawings she needed for the book—and one other—one she’d begun sketching late in the day. The drawing, started on a whim, had engrossed her so completely her entire body ached from the rigid posture imposed by the intense concentration.
Rubbing the tired muscles in her lower back, she got up and headed for the house. There was still light, but she was beat. It was Peggy who offered to bring her dinner to her room, and Esme accepted gratefully, her thoughts on a leisurely, warm bath.
Close to nine, there was a knock on her door. Peggy to pick up the tray, she assumed. She tightened the sash on her robe and opened the door.
Dane’s eyes swept over her. “Can I talk you into a brandy on my deck?”
Esme was so surprised to see him, she had trouble finding her voice. “I thought you were away . . . for a couple of days.”
“I came back early.” He lounged in the open doorway. “Because you’re here.” He’d obviously just showered because his dark hair was damp and caught shine from the light in the hallway behind him. His eyes slid down, over her cotton robe to her bare feet. “You’re ready for bed,” he said, his voice intoning nothing, his eyebrows arched. “Which is either convenient for me—or another test of my willpower.”
Feeling oddly disoriented, Esme scrunched up the front of her robe and held it tightly closed under her chin, as if she were a nun facing the devil himself. She had no idea why, because what she really wanted to do was throw herself into this particular devil’s arms and let modesty—and any lingering reluctance—be damned. “I was thinking about going to bed,” she said. “Until you showed up at my door.”
“Now, what are you thinking about?” Not waiting for her answer, he touched the hand holding her robe closed and pried it open. He undid the sash, watched the robe fall open to reveal her gray silk night shift. Scoop necked, mid-thigh, and whisper light, it was her favorite sleep wear. “Nice,” he said, his voice low. “Soft cotton on the outside, slick silk on the inside.” He touched the rolled edge at the neck of the shift, studied it a moment, then pulled his hand back. His expression grew intense, locked with hers. “How about that brandy?”
“I don’t often drink brandy.”
“Another taboo? Like the no-fuck rule?”
She smiled. “I might get . . . careless, drop my defenses.”
“I should be so lucky.” He smiled back.
“Give me a second to change and I—”
“You don’t need to change.” He slid his eyes over her. “You’re dressed perfectly for . . . a nightcap.”
Esme looked up at him, saw the deep sensual light in his eyes, knew exactly what he meant by a nightcap. “We’re talking about sex, aren’t we?”
“I haven’t thought about anything else all day. But not just sex. Sex with you.” He ran a finger along her jaw. “I want you, under me, over me, and any other way that suits us both.”
She hesitated, tried to think, while his demanding gaze, easy touch, and her own clamoring hormones made hash of her logic. Damn it! She didn’t know him any better tonight than she did yesterday—except for her home movie. If she did this, went to his room now, it would be rash, crazy—the most foolish thing she’d ever done.
Dane began a new pattern with his finger, drew it down, under her ear to her throat, down again, stopping at the neckline of her silk shift.
She swallowed . . . decided every woman should be foolish—at least once in her life—especially when a man like Dane McCoy came along. She pulled in a breath, and with a short prayer to the angel up there who supervised the Sexual Affairs department, she said, “I hope it’s good brandy.”
He took her hand. “The best.”
The inside of his room—no, Esme thought, looking around the spacious interior, the right word was suite, which was subtly decorated in chocolate and cream and with as little furniture in it as was necessary. Surprisingly ascetic, she thought. Dane closed his bedroom door, strode to the wall on the far side of the bed, and turned on the stereo. Soft piano jazz joined with the moonlight coming in through the high windows to fill the room.
He handed her a brandy. “Are you nervous?” he asked, sipping his drink and looking as if he had all the time in the world.
“No. I think I’m more surprised than anything.”
“Surprised?”
“That I’m here, in your room. So soon.” She paused, took a breath. “And given how impetuous this is—at least for me—I think it’s important we’re clear about our expectations.” And, God, didn’t she sound cool and composed, as if her heart weren’t racing, her blood roaring at the sight of him—while he studied her, looking as casual as a customer in a fast-food line with a two-hour lunch.
She went on. “When this is over, we pretend it never happened. No strings. No telephone calls”—she gestured toward the computer in the corner of his room—“no e-mails. Nothing. We’ll be having sex, pure and simple. A natural human expression in response to—” She stopped, knew she was babbling.
“Lust at first sight?” He eyed her quizzically, then his brow furrowed. “Are you always this detached about making love?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She moved away from him.
“I mean, do you always over-think it, analyze the outcome ten ways to Sunday?” He sipped his brandy, kept his eyes on her, and waited for her answer—all the while looking vaguely amused.
Esme had no trouble seeing the effect his inscrutable and unblinking gaze would have on his competitors, no trouble seeing how he’d become so successful. Because she had no idea what he was seeing—or what he was thinking. “If you mean, am I cautious?” she said. “Yes. Always.” And growing increasingly uneasy with your questions. She prided herself on her openness, her knowledge of sex, her possession of sexual skills that had more than satisfied lovers in the past—and would no doubt satisfy this one. “Does that bother you?” She lifted her chin.
He shook a slow negative. “Not unless you take that caution to bed. There’s always the chance the . . . detachment required to do your job as a therapist has”—he took a step toward her, and moonlight pierced the amber liquid in his glass, gave it a dull glow—“has blunted your own hunger. Made having sex pure textbook.”
“I don’t—”
He touched her mouth and shook his head again. “Don’t say anything. I’ll answer my own question . . . soon enough.” He finished his brandy, set his glass beside hers on the table. “But if what you want, to set your mind at rest, is a ‘no-strings’ addendum, you’ve got it.” He let his eyes wander over her, his gaze explicit and half-lidded. “Because right now, I’m prepared to give you exactly what you want.”
“So you can get what you want,” she stated, eyeing him closely.
He gave her one of his half smiles. “Exactly.”
“Then we agree; what’s between us is sex. Only sex,” she repeated, a surge of something a lot like panic rushing up her throat. “We’re moving far too fast for it to be anything else.”
“ ‘Fast?’” he echoed, giving her an amazed look. “Hell, if it had been up to me, I’d have had you naked two seconds after you walked off my plane.” His eyes darkened.
He didn’t touch her. And, God, she wanted him to touch her.
So she touched him, his damp hair, the lean strong cords in his neck, his powerful shoulders. Leaving her hands to rest palm-flat against the wall of his chest, she said, “It’s up to you now, Dane McCoy.” She kissed his jaw, the side of his neck.
His intake of breath was sharp and deep. “I take it we’re done talking the business end of this relationship?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank God,” he murmured. He gripped her shoulders, vise-like, and pulled her hard to his body. He took her mouth hungrily, his tongue tasting all of her, hers tasting all of him, deeply, wetly. The heat was instant, trembling, and their bodies fused, one into the other.
Dane pulled back, took her face in his hands, and dipped his head. “If we don’t slow this down, it’s going to be no fun at all.” A brief dark smile crossed his mouth. “I guess you know by now ‘detachment’ isn’t one of my strengths.” He slid his warm hands under the lapels of her robe, shoved it from her shoulders.
The next moment, he’d grasped the hem of her shift and pulled it over her head, let it fall to join her robe on the floor. The moment after that she was cradled in his arms, being carried naked to his giant bed.
He settled her in the center of it, stood back, and started to strip off his clothes—and he didn’t waste any time doing it.
His shoulders were broad, his body lean and fit—his erection. . . breathtaking. He gazed down at her in time to see her look at him and blink. “Standard equipment,” he said, his tone gruff.
If what Dane had was standard equipment, Esme had been spending way too much time at the mini-market. Dane must have been the envy of every guy in the locker room.
When he was stretched out beside her, he nuzzled her ear, then raised himself over her to look down into her eyes. Esme forced her unruly heart to ease back a notch, find a steadier beat, but it resisted, pounded harder, seemed to grow under the intensity of his gaze until it felt too big for her chest. He blew some hair off her forehead, smoothed tendrils behind an ear.
She waited for the usual words a man said to a woman freshly naked and in his arms . . . God, you’re beautiful . . . and waited, and waited.
“One of your earlobes is smaller than the other,” he said, and ran a finger along the shell of her ear. “Did you know that?”
“Uh . . . no.”
He kissed her ear. “This one,” he murmured, and his breath, skittering along her neck, had the odd effect of making her eyes close.
“Good to kno—”
“Shush, no talking. You can make notes later.”
“I don’t under—”
He took her mouth again, shutting her down, making her breath rise, spin, and stall in her throat. He ran a hand down between her breasts, over to squeeze her waist, then slid it over the outside of her thigh, up the inside, briefly touching her mound. His hand was hot, the pressure of it expert and strong, and under the heat of it, she started to open for him.
“No, not yet. Keep your legs closed. No matter what I do, keep them closed.”
Esme, dimly aware she was in bed with a man who made his own rules, nodded, met his gaze, tried to see him through the sensual fog that came and went across her line of vision.
He slid his hand up the front of her thigh, pressed his palm against her pubis, then gently probed the tight juncture at the apex of her thighs with one deft finger. Feeling his way to her clitoris, he stroked it slow and easy, building pressure, and breathless pleasure, with each precise rub and swirl of his finger.
Esme gasped and bucked.
In the limited space between her closed legs, everything was pressure, heavy and demanding; everything was confined, uncomfortably, frustratingly caged. She throbbed, tried to thrust herself up, open for him, but he straddled her, his strong legs on either side of hers, a vise, holding them together.
“Dane . . .” She looked up at him, knew her need was in her eyes. “Let me—”
He shook his head, brushed his mouth over hers, then took both her wrists in one hand and held them fast above her head. He didn’t stop, neither the warm kisses across her throat and shoulders, nor the mind-numbing rub of his finger, dipping in and out of her tight crevice, making her ache all the while, forcing her to take it, legs closed.
His every move was smooth, expert, and in a distant part of her mind she remembered Marilee saying something about her brother not liking women. Well, if how he was pleasuring her was any indication, Dane McCoy had liked more than his share.
“You’re wet,” he said, his voice low. “All honeyed.” He took his finger from her crease, slowly ringed her jutting nipple with it, then bent to her breast and suckled her, taking her deep and luxuriously.
His mouth drawing on her, she nearly came off the bed. Delirious, she fought him, desperate to spread herself, feel the warm air on her exposed vulva, feel him on her vulva. Still, he kept her pinned beneath him, immobile, desire whipping through her, a hot wind, swirling and fierce, unrelentingly contained.
He moved over her, rested the weight of his erection against her mound, making sensual primitive moves she knew tortured him as much as they tortured her.
He lifted his head, moistened her dry lips with his tongue and kissed her deeply, then he slid down—let his length and hardness rest in the valley created by her closed thighs—and gave his attention to her other breast, pulling the nipple deep into his mouth, lapping at it with his tongue.
Esme felt another rush between her legs, and lifted herself to him, crazed and increasingly desperate, every fiber and nerve in her body fire-driven and scorched.
“Now,” Dane growled from somewhere above her.
She looked at him, so dazed she couldn’t understand what he meant.
He released her wrists, shifted his lean hard body down, and planted his knee as a lever between her calves. “Open your legs, Esme. I want to look at you in the moonlight.”
She did as she was told, and he immediately put his hands on her knees, spread her wide. He studied her with dark hungry eyes, and she saw his chest expand and contract as if he’d run a marathon in the desert. “You,” he said, running a finger deeply through her drenched and oversensitized crease, “are cream, slick and rich.” He tore his eyes from her pubis and met her own fogged gaze. “In the moonlight you shine like poured gold.” He looked back down at her mound, now raised in full display, and his eyes went heavy lidded. He opened her more, spread the lips of her vulva until she felt the cool evening air against her heated center. “I could look at you forever.” He lightly kissed her clitoris, pulled back, and stroked her softly, his eyes never leaving her sex.
Esme panted, forced her eyes open wide enough to see his face, and said as sternly as her dry voice allowed, “You’d better plan on doing a lot more than looking, McCoy.”