Yes, dessert, Cooper thought, as Angel’s mouth softened beneath his. She tasted hot and sweet and like something he didn’t want to skip. Not tonight.
He lifted his head to catch his breath. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her lips already reddened by his. She’d been driving him nuts during the last week, coming and going from the retreat in her city dresses and city skirts, looking purposeful—God, how he envied her purposefulness. And looking pretty. Looking so damn pretty.
He’d stayed away from her, telling himself to accept his monklike existence and refusing to indulge in fantasies of laying slabs of beef jerky at her high-heeled feet. But hell, he’d given up nicotine, caffeine, and the adrenaline of his work. Surely that proved he had enough control over his appetites to safely allow himself a longer taste of her.
“Come here,” he said, drawing his fingers through her hair. “Come over here to me.”
“To you,” she echoed, blinking slowly.
“Here, to me.” He wouldn’t risk anywhere more comfortable, because he was giving himself permission for just a taste, after all. Her hand lay limply on the tabletop, so he took it and tugged. “To me, honey.”
Even as she rose, a wrinkle appeared between her golden, feathery eyebrows. “I don’t know if this is a good idea….”
“Don’t worry about that,” he said, knowing he would only go so far and no further. “Remember, just this once you’re letting me take care of you.”
With a little sigh, she allowed him to draw her down onto his lap. Even after he’d fed her, she weighed nothing, and her fragrant hair was just more weight-lessness that tickled his chin. For a moment he was still, merely enjoying the warmth of her in his arms. He breathed in and out steadily, keenly aware of the moment. Of living in this warm, woman-in-his-arms moment.
It was almost enough.
But then she shifted and the slinky skirt she was wearing edged up on her knees. His pulse jumped and he ran his hand down her thigh to find her bare skin.
Her breath caught and she looked up, and then he had to kiss her. He intended to take it slow, to give himself plenty of time to enjoy her before drawing the interlude to a close. But Angel was the very devil of a temptation. Her mouth opened beneath his, and he had to steel himself not to give in and plunge inside. Instead, he kissed the corners, the bow of her upper lip, the tender center of the bottom one.
She moaned, but he shut his ears to the demand in the sound and repeated the baby kisses, lingering on that bottom lip, then drawing it between his to suck. His hand was cupping one of her bare knees, and as he sucked more strongly, her other knee clamped tight, trapping his fingers between her legs. Oh, she liked that.
But she wanted more, he knew it, because her fingers speared through his hair, her nails scraping erotically against his scalp. She drew his head closer and he surrendered, releasing her lower lip to slide his tongue into her mouth.
Now they both moaned.
Reminding himself he was supposed to go slow, that he was supposed to savor the little he was going to have of her, he rubbed his tongue against hers, then lifted his head.
“No.” Her fingernails bit into his scalp.
He smiled. “I’ll do it again, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worrying.” Apparently even tough girls could sulk.
He laughed, then fisted his hand in her hair and drew back her head. “You have the prettiest neck,” he said, nuzzling along the line of her jaw, then licking toward her pulsepoint. “I’ve been wanting to taste it since the day we met.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes closed.
He smiled against her skin, taking his time to reacquaint himself with female flesh, how smooth it was, how his attention warmed it, how that warmth deepened the scent of enticing, feminine perfume. He explored Angel’s throat until his chin brushed the little ruffle around the top edge of the lacy sleeveless top she wore. Lifting his head, he tried not to notice the line of buttons that ran toward her waist.
That way led to disaster.
He’d learned a lot about settling for less in the past year. Though he was still working on total acceptance, he was accustomed to paring down his expectations. So he knew this would have to do. Little touches, little tastes, just enough to keep the hunger at bay and not enough to make him greedy for more.
He kissed her bare shoulder, her chin, then allowed himself her lips again. Angel instantly widened her mouth, but instead of taking all that was offered, he just dipped inside.
Little touches, little tastes. Satisfied he was under control, he ventured a bit farther.
Then Angel sucked on his tongue.
He groaned. Oh God. God. Good good good.
As her mouth was taking its pleasure, her hand slid down his chest. He didn’t have the will to stop her from finding her way beneath his shirt. His stomach muscles jumped as her warm hand slid along his ribs. He tried to ignore the way his heart jumped too.
But the unsettling sensation made him desperate to distract her, so he covered one of her breasts with his palm. She froze, then her mouth released his. Gazes locked, they stared at each other. Both of them were breathing hard, and each of her quick inhales pushed her soft flesh into his hand.
Then her hand moved, sliding down his bare back, around his ribs toward his chest. His mouth dried. He knew where she was heading. Tit for tat.
He might have laughed at his own bad pun if he weren’t so afraid she’d have her way. Shifting his fingers across the lace of her top, he unfastened the first button.
Thank God, once again she froze.
That’s when he knew what he had to do. If she didn’t move, if he only touched her, he would survive this pleasure. Steadying his breath and ordering himself to think of England, he slowly began unfastening Angel’s buttons.
She lay passively in his arms, her face flushed, her breathing shallow.
“You’re so beautiful.” His voice was rough, unsteady. “Like an angel.”
She smiled, then lifted her hand to his face. He caught it, kissed the fingertips, then placed it safely back at her side. “Let me,” he said to her. “Just be still and let me touch you.”
He’d only managed to undo the buttons to the point below her breasts, but he couldn’t wait any longer. Pushing the lace edges apart, he created a gap that revealed the first rise of her breasts beneath a glossy pink bra.
Lust beat like a fist inside his chest. Cooper sucked in a quick breath, beating back the sense of almost-panic. The overly rapid thrumming eased, and he lifted his hand to the bra’s front clasp.
Where he fumbled.
God, he never fumbled! But the fingers that had once—and, as far as he knew, still—held the dorm record for one-handedly unclasping twenty-five different bras in fifteen seconds were so unsteady that he couldn’t do the deed. Granted, the bras had been strapped to chairs instead of warm-skinned women, but he’d had plenty of opportunity to practice his technique in the flesh since that time.
She started to squirm. “Cooper…”
Hell, hell. There was a hint of trepidation in her voice and he didn’t want to stop now.
“Cooper.” One of her hands rose to the edges of her blouse as if she wanted to draw it together. Her face flushed brighter, and he knew her embarrassment was about to ruin the mood.
Damning his clumsiness, he blew out a calming breath and smoothed her protective arm away. Then he kissed her again and, giving up on the damn bra clasp, slid his hand between the open edges of her shirt to cup her bra-covered breast.
She made a sweet little moan and Cooper glanced down. What a sight. Almost as much a turn-on as that sweet, warm weight in his palm was the vision of his heavy wrist disappearing inside her lacy clothes.
His heart was pumping easily now and he decided it was because most of his blood was staying south. He was hard as stone and he went even harder as he rubbed his thumb over her stiff nipple.
She made another little sound, but he didn’t look away from her lace-covered breasts. It was too good to see how she was trembling and to feel the fluttering of her heartbeat against his fingertips as he wandered toward the other breast. He weighed this one in his palm too, then stroked the side of his thumb back and forth to bring the nipple to a tighter, harder point.
“Cooper,” she whispered.
He glanced up, saw her nostrils flare and her tongue dart out to moisten her bottom lip.
Watching her face, he lightly pinched her nipple. Her eyes closed.
So he snuck up on her then, in a quick move pulling his hand away to put his mouth there, right over her clothes. Ignoring her little jolt of reaction, he wet the fabric with his tongue and felt her nipple go stiffer. His tongue flattened over it, getting the material wetter, until it was plastered against her skin. Then he took her breast into his mouth, pushing that sweet tight nipple to the roof of his mouth. Sucked.
She bowed in his arms, her thighs shifting against his erection. The sweet, unconscious stroke made him suck stronger, made her shift again.
But he couldn’t have her moving like that. No.
Transferring his attention to her other breast, he circled the fabric over that nipple with his tongue. Like before, this new touch rendered Angel motionless. So he circled it again and again, feeling her tense as she anticipated that soft sucking she’d liked so much.
When she was trembling with eagerness, he covered her breast with his mouth and bit down.
She cried out.
He lifted his head, pretended concern. “Did I hurt you?” He knew he hadn’t. He knew the cry had come out of pure pleasure.
“No, I…” She shook her head, her hair floating away from her shoulders, then falling to settle over her half-buttoned blouse. “No.”
“Then…” Keeping his smile to himself, he very deliberately brushed the back of his hand across one breast, moving the blond curls that were in his way. Then he stroked across the other, brushing her nipple with his knuckles. He heard her breath catch, and ran his knuckles by the nipple again. And again.
“Cooper.” This whisper was agonized.
He glanced up, reading the desire, the need, on her face. “Let me,” he said, suddenly knowing he couldn’t, wouldn’t stop unless she wanted him to. His original intention had been nothing more than high-school-level experimentation, but now he wanted to go beyond that.
A last taste for himself. Relief for her.
“Let me.” Without waiting for an answer, he bent his head to her breasts again.
They smelled like her perfume, and even through the wet blouse and bra, they tasted sweet and warm. They fit perfectly in his mouth, and when he sucked them, the little sounds she released made him think he still served some purpose in the world.
She made him feel like more than half the man that he’d been.
Her body was vibrating, trembling with arousal. He tried to soothe her by stroking his hand down her thigh, but she flinched at the touch, her skin hypersensitive.
“Cooper,” she whispered.
He kissed the very tip of her nipple and he could feel her heart racing against his cheek. It was life in his hands, life under his control, and he knew, now, how very precious that was.
“Cooper…” she said louder, putting a hand against her temple as if she were trying to pull herself together.
Ah, but he was after making her fly apart.
“Shh,” he said, kissing her mouth softly. “Don’t fight it.”
He stroked down her leg again, ignoring another small jerk. He ignored the next, bigger jerk too, when he began to draw up the hem of her skirt. It was full enough to move easily along her thighs. To divert her attention, he kissed her mouth again, then ducked his hand beneath the ruched fabric to slide his fingers to the warm mound covered by silky material.
His hand resting there, he kissed his way down her chin and throat to take her nipple in his mouth once more. Sucking strongly, he eased his fingers beneath the panties and cupped her. Her moan was long and sweet.
She was hot. So wet that his fingers slid easily between the folds of her sex. Her clitoris was like her nipples—hard, and eager for his touch. He brushed his thumb across it once, and her body went rigid. Eyes squeezed tight, she was soundless now, totally focused on his hand.
He brushed her lightly again, and then, in one deliberate coordination of movement, he slid his tongue over her nipple, he slid his thumb over her clitoris, he slid his two longest fingers inside her tight body.
The moment stretched as her body bowed against his lap, went taut.
He nudged her once more with his thumb, and her inner muscles clenched hard. Clenched hard again. Releasing her breast, he lifted his head to watch the climax roll through her, even as he felt every wave of it through his invading fingers.
It was the most erotic, beautiful thing he’d ever seen. All that delicate blond prettiness splayed across his body, her clothes half-on, shoved up. But even more erotic, more beautiful was that, for a few moments at least, it was Cooper who was controlling every breath, every response, of a woman as complex and independent as Angel.
God, he thought, amazed at the pleasure of giving pleasure. He could die at this moment and die happy.
Even before the aftershivers of pleasure had played out, Cooper had Angel’s hem back at her knees, her blouse rebuttoned, and her two feet flat on the ground. Swaying a little, she blinked down at him. “I…um…”
She should say something, really she should. And as soon as she figured out exactly what that should be, she would. But no other man had ever managed to bring her to such a state and she was still befuddled by it.
He unfolded stiffly from the seat, not quite meeting her eyes. “It’s late. I’ll walk you to your cottage.”
She blinked some more, trying to reconcile his brisk tone with what had just happened on that bentwood chair.
“Ready?” he asked politely. “It is getting late.”
Since she assumed he didn’t have a curfew, she caught the clue and figured out their little interlude was going to end just like this. He didn’t want to come into her cottage tonight, much less into her bed.
Good Lord. She didn’t know whether to feel rejected or relieved, but she’d been left out of pleasure enough times herself to know that he couldn’t be feeling very cheerful at the moment. So what was she supposed to do now, apologize?
Ignoring the hot flush of embarrassment rushing over her face, Angel crossed her arms over her chest. Wasn’t this always the way of it? Though tonight the “before” hadn’t been half-bad—okay, it had been great—the “after,” as usual, sucked.
“It isn’t fair,” she finally muttered.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced away. “It doesn’t always have to be fair.”
“I’m not talking about that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I haven’t even gotten to that.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I just hate all this.” Her hand waved to indicate him, her, the chair.
“You hate to come?” he asked, his tone amused.
Oh, curse him, Angel thought, narrowing her eyes. He’d decided to cover the clumsy moment by being cool. Cool and detached and amused.
It only added a layer of irritation to her mood. “I hate after,” she clarified.
“Well—”
“What are you supposed to do, after? Can you tell me that?” She allowed righteous indignation to plow right over her discomfort. “I’ve read a thousand articles on how to get a man in bed, how to keep a man in bed, how to make a man breakfast in bed, but I’ve never read a word on how to gracefully pick up right where you left off with a man after…well…you know.”
His eyebrows lifting, he rocked back on his heels. “Is that what you usually do? Try to pick up ‘right where you left off’ after you’ve had intercourse with a man?”
Her jaw dropped in disbelief. How had she let this man, this man with the annoyingly calm voice and irritatingly superior expression, touch her? Was he really the one who, just minutes before, had one hand down her blouse and the other up her skirt?
She pointed her finger at his chest. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me that assessing, amused look while asking me questions. That’s lawyer hoo-doo, and you’re using it to avoid this discussion.”
“Angel—”
“And then there’s that word. Intercourse.” She was on a roll now, and he wasn’t going to stop her. “What kind of word is that? It sounds like something cars travel along—you know, ‘take a left at the first intercourse’—not something a man and a woman do together. Which, by the way, we did not. Perhaps you’d care to elaborate on that, counselor.”
Hah. Let him take the witness stand for a minute.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’re moving too fast for me.”
“Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Let me slow it down for you, then.” She sucked in a breath. “The fact is, we didn’t—”
“I don’t think we should go to bed together.”
“Hey, I don’t recall favoring the idea either!” She tapped her toe, impatient with his maddening sangfroid and her just-as-maddening lack of it. “But see, well…the kissing was nice and then…and then…and now…”
“Then? Now?”
She threw up her hands. “Now I don’t know what to do or what to say.”
“Why don’t you just say thank you?”
At times like this it was hard not to believe that men were truly the inferior sex, Angel thought, staring at him and shaking her head. After thousands of years, they’d yet to figure out that reason and logic had no place under certain circumstances.
“Look,” she said through her teeth. “I feel…I feel as if I’ve done you wrong.”
“Come on, Angel, it’s not that big a deal.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he spun away from her. “Hasn’t any man ever done you right before?”
That was such a good question—and on so many levels—that she should be laughing hysterically. But instead there was something about his abrupt about face that made her pause. That made her see there was a ruddy flush crawling up the back of his neck.
She wasn’t the only one embarrassed.
She wasn’t the only one who was wishing this awkward moment away.
Well.
“I think we should blame it on the eggplant,” she suddenly announced, walking over to Cooper to tuck her hand in his arm. She ignored his quick flinch and started strolling toward the door, tugging him with her. “I read all about it in last month’s issue of Vegetarian Times.”
She peeped at him from beneath her lashes and saw the frown between his eyes ease.
“Eggplant?” he echoed.
“Eggplant.” Without a thought for the truth, she launched into an extensive, detailed account of how the purple properties of eggplant led people to do all sorts of out-of-character things. “It affects a person’s decision-making process,” she concluded, when they were outside her cottage. “The fact is, it’s the anti-garlic.”
“The anti-garlic.”
She waved a hand. “That’s right, anything good that garlic does, you know, like heighten the brain’s focus or whatever, eggplant un does.”
“In some cultures garlic’s considered an aphrodisiac.”
“Well, there you g—” Looking up, she broke off, her tongue tied by the half-smile on his face and the look of understanding in his eyes.
His expression was so warm, so…honest that it almost had her begging to bring him inside. Angel Buchanan, nearly begging a man to join her in bed.
What was wrong with her?
He left before she came up with an answer.
Only later did she fall upon something that satisfied her. Lying in bed, trying not to think of what she’d let Cooper do, she realized that it was the “letting” that had gotten her into trouble.
Let me take care of you, he’d said.
She knew better than to fall for that! A woman had to take care of herself, and take care not to give her heart.
But the very fact that she had fallen for that line, and then that she had abdicated even a tiny, purely physical bit of herself to Cooper, made it all the more important that she finish up her interviews and get back to the city. Coupled with instant coffee, the eggplant—organic fare in general—was making her soft.
Dangerously soft.
The next morning, straight from the shower, Angel showed up at the Whitney house unannounced. “I want to finish my interviews ASAP,” she blurted out the instant Lainey opened the door. “I was hoping I could talk to Katie.”
Lainey acted as if wet-haired women with urgent voices showed up on her porch every day. “Surely you’d like a cup of coffee first,” she said.
Just like that, Angel found herself following the other woman into the kitchen, cursing her own frailties all the way. If she didn’t get back to the city, and soon, her self-command would be completely eroded. Not only did Cooper make her weak, but she couldn’t say no to Lainey’s coffee.
The mug the woman handed her was filled with a dark brew that smelled of French-roasted, freshly ground beans. Angel liked Lainey’s coffee. She took a deep breath of its scent. Really, really liked it.
One cup couldn’t destroy her objectivity, could it?
Telling herself to gulp it down and then get on with her job, Angel lifted the mug to her mouth. With it halfway there, she froze, gawking at Lainey.
The other woman was warily approaching a cardboard box sitting on the kitchen table, a sharp knife in her raised hand.
Angel set her mug on the countertop. “Shall I arm myself with a frying pan?”
Lainey started. “What?”
“You look as if you’re afraid of what’s inside that box,” Angel said, nodding at it.
“Yes, well…” Lainey shrugged, then used the knife on the tape binding the cardboard flaps. “It’s from the licensing company. More of the Whitney merchandise.”
Angel already knew of the licensing agreement, but Lainey’s odd manner aroused her curiosity. It only grew stronger as the widow reluctantly peeled back the box’s flaps and then, taking a deep breath, looked inside.
“Well?” Angel asked.
Flicking her a glance, Lainey drew from the box a cardboard, accordion-style car windshield visor. As she slowly unfolded it, a colorful, typical Whitney image was revealed—a drive-in movie theater at dusk, circa 1950s.
Angel tilted her head. There was something part Norman Rockwell, part Andy Warhol about the artist’s work. Every one of the old-fashioned, sentimental scenes were as brightly colored and as marketing savvy as a soup can.
Lainey set the item on the table and reached inside again, this time bringing out a bundled trio of small, shaggy rugs, all three printed with the same bucolic washbowl and pitcher filled with wildflowers. It took a moment for Angel to discern that while two were indeed rugs, the third of the set was actually the furry cover for a toilet seat.
“Oh, Stephen,” Lainey whispered helplessly.
Angel shook her head. The “Artist of the Heart’s” latest endeavors were going to give the art critics—who unanimously abhorred the Whitney paintings—a field day.
“A chance to get in their potshots,” she murmured to herself, as she watched Lainey unfold one of the matching rugs.
“Oh no,” the widow said in stunned tones. “It only gets worse. Look, this one goes beneath the toilet. My husband approved of his art on a shag rug that surrounds the base of a toilet.” Lifting it up, she peered at Angel through the distinctive cutout.
Oh my. Lainey’s pretty face and horrified expression, framed by the little rug, were suddenly too much for Angel. Biting down on her lower lip, she spun toward the countertop.
“What’s the matter?” Lainey asked, crossing toward her. “Are you all right?”
Hastily nodding her head, Angel waved the other woman back. “Mmm, mmm.” She pressed her lips together harder.
Lainey halted. “Why…why, you’re laughing.”
Feeling lower than a rat and all humor evaporating, Angel spun back, ready to apologize. But Lainey was looking down at the rug in her hand.
Then her serious gaze lifted to Angel’s. “Short of the ‘Artist of the Heart’ toilet paper,” she said, her voice glum, “this is the tackiest thing I have ever seen.”
“T-toilet paper?” Angel echoed.
And then, God forgive her, she burst out laughing. And then, disaster upon disaster, Lainey joined in. To make matters worse, as the widow continued to laugh, she clutched Angel’s arm as if they were truly sharing something—as if they were friends.
“Why?” Lainey finally choked out, still holding on to Angel with one hand and shaking the offending rug in the other. “Why this? Why toilet paper? What was he thinking?”
Angel couldn’t help herself. “That he wanted to be on the minds of men everywhere?”
That set them both off again. When the laughter died down, it was Angel who poured coffee for Lainey. Then she freshened her own mug and joined the other woman to sit at the kitchen table.
Pushing the bath items aside, Lainey frowned at them, then sighed. “One of my bigger regrets is that the last work Stephen gives to the world will be these.”
Angel took a swallow of her coffee. “So you didn’t want to burn the new paintings?”
Lainey shrugged. “That was his wish, that the unfinished work be burned.” Then she sighed again. “Which meant all the past year’s work was lost. It was his habit to leave a little piece of each painting undone. Then, come the month before his annual show, he’d paint like a maniac to finish them. I’d bring food to the tower, but half the time he wouldn’t eat it.”
Lainey’s expression turned bleak and Angel heard herself rushing to reassure her. “I’m sure you took very good care of him, Lainey,” she said, though she was keenly aware it wasn’t objective reporter-speak. The trouble was, she not only liked Lainey’s coffee, but she liked Lainey too. “I’m sure you did.”
“That was my job. To make his life comfortable so that he could concentrate on his work.” Her gaze met Angel’s. “But what am I going to do now?”
Angel instantly pretended an interest in the inside of her coffee mug and wished herself in a galaxy far, far away. “Well, uh, I don’t know.” This was what she got for staying past her one-coffee limit: emotion-heavy, teary-eyed questions. “What did you want to do before he came along?”
Lainey laughed again, but this time there wasn’t the smallest grain of amusement in it. “I wanted him to come along.”
Angel jumped out of her chair. The other woman’s answer cut too close to what she’d wanted when she was a little girl. It was also what she’d vowed never to want once she was old enough to understand why her mother had married—disastrously—on the rebound from Stephen Whitney’s defection.
Because by then Angel knew it was the very worst kind of dependence, tying your happiness to a man. Tying yourself to a man at all.
“May I see Katie now?” She took her mug to the sink. “If she becomes upset, I won’t push.”
At the mention of her daughter, Lainey’s expression shifted from sad to worried. “Talking might do Katie some good, actually. I can’t seem to get anything out of her—the rest of the family either. Go on up the stairs, her room’s the first door on your left.”
Angel nodded, turned.
“She hasn’t cried since her father’s death,” Lainey added. “A friend sent me a book on children and grief and it says she should cry.”
In one swift woosh, Angel’s stomach tightened.
“Maybe you can do something about that.”
“Um, maybe.” Right after I poke myself in the eye with a sharp stick. There was nothing, nothing Angel wanted to avoid more than a girl crying over her missing daddy.