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Staring at those shoes, Ellen wished they could talk, because she needed to know if she’d been set up again.
The shower spray shut off, and a quick glance revealed the bathroom door wide open. Whoever was in there—and she desperately hoped it wasn’t who she thought it was—would step out of the shower—naked—and see her.
Ellen had this wild urge to drop the shoes and race out of Félicie Allée, not stopping until she hit the highway. But she just knelt there, shoes in hand, panicked, like a squirrel staring down a two-ton SUV.
The shower door skidded across the track and a hand—definitely male—reached out to grab a towel from a nearby rack.
Then her roommate stepped from the shower.
One gorgeously muscular leg appeared at a time, silky dark hairs shimmering with water, dripping onto the mat. He unwittingly flashed her glimpses of flexing thighs, toned abs and strong biceps as he wrapped the towel around his waist to cover a very nice butt.
He shook his jet-black hair—not waist-length hair that needed more cream rinse than her own, but neatly short hair—sent more droplets flying and turned toward her….
Ellen’s breath and her heartbeat collided.
It wasn’t Mr. Muscle-Butt.
It was him.
3
The Garden Suite
ELLEN HADN’T SEEN HIM in three months, yet her soul drank in the sight of this tall, athletic man as though she’d thirsted for this glimpse. His broad shoulders, the silky hairs nestled in that strong chest, the rippled lines of his stomach.
Though he enjoyed sports—he was an avid ice hockey player—Christopher Sinclair spent an equal amount of time indoors and outdoors. His skin flushed healthily, neither pale nor tanned, a combination that made him look so incredible in a tux that he’d have been an easy contender for Vittorio’s cover model prize.
If she actually believed heroes existed anywhere except in her authors’ stories, Ellen might just be convinced Christopher was one. At least looking at him didn’t break the rules, which was a good thing since his polished good looks and striking coloring—black, black hair and blue, blue eyes—still tied her in knots. His piercing gaze had an amazing ability to sear through her.
His gaze seared through her right now.
She let her eyes flutter closed in self-defense and forced herself to breathe, to stand, to whisper. “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you’re my roommate.”
The very idea was appalling, ludicrous; exactly the type of surprise Miss Q might spring on her. But Lennon?
She couldn’t reason this through, couldn’t get past the fact that he was standing just a few feet away—practically naked—clear across the country from where she’d left him.
What was he doing here?
Someone needed to explain they were over. Finished. She forced herself to face him, found him staring at…her hair.
Suddenly she remembered the feel of his hands skimming along her scalp as clearly as if he’d just touched her. She remembered how he’d threaded his fingers through the long strands when they’d kissed, how he’d fanned it out over the pillows, over their naked skin on the night they’d made love. How he’d suddenly flipped her on top of him when she’d least expected it, cocooning them inside the drape of her hair, shutting out all stimuli, he’d said, to create a place where only the two of them existed.
In a last-ditch attempt to exorcise this man from her system and obey the rules she’d never break again, Ellen had cut her hair, refashioned her appearance as a cathartic exercise to transform herself into a new woman who wasn’t hung up on Christopher Sinclair. It had been working.
Until she stared into those too-blue eyes…
All she could do was stand there, unable to breathe, waiting for him to say something. Anything.
And hoping, damn it. Hoping he liked what he saw.
All she could see was surprise. She knew she should say something, do something to take control of the moment, to stop this horrible vulnerability that was bridging the distance she’d worked so hard to put between this man and her emotions.
This man was against all the rules.
She should send him packing. Couldn’t. And Christopher remained silent, moving toward her. Then he reached out….
Ellen watched as he threaded his fingers into her hair, just like he’d done so long ago, tipped her face toward his.
He took in her hair, his eyes caressing her with a look of such tenderness, as if he’d waited forever to see her.
And just like that, the months melted away, along with any will to resist him.
His mouth came down on hers, hard.
Ellen had the fleeting thought that even he seemed surprised by the intensity between them, the sudden rush of longing that swelled in their first exchange of shared breaths. But that was before his grip tightened. He tilted her head and held her firmly, revealing without words just how much he approved of her hair, how much he approved of her. In the process making a total lie out of her belief that any haircut would exorcise him from her system.
Without asking permission, without so much as a question about whether she wanted his kiss, he flaunted every rule of civilized behavior by plunging his tongue into her mouth as if he had the right to kiss her.
Experience told her she should shove him back. Experience told her that being with him would end in disaster. Experience told her to slap his face.
She kissed him, instead.
Reason scattered. How could she remember the rules when her tension liquefied into a heat that flooded her like a wave, warmed her blood and made her pulse with awareness and awakening.
Ellen recognized this sensation, grew amazed that she’d survived so long without it, that she’d convinced herself this dizzying rush she only knew with Christopher hadn’t been real.
It was all too real.
How could she have forgotten this intensity, the almost violent swell of need that made thinking impossible, that made the careful deliberation she prided herself on diffuse like snowflakes in a blizzard? What was it about this man that dragged her down to an elemental, primitive level, where instincts ruled common sense?
He wasn’t the one. No matter how much she’d wanted him to be. He was a wild guy who meant trouble. No question. And she’d taken the reckless road before. Reckless roads usually led to mistakes that left her feeling as if she’d disappointed everyone again, most of all herself.
But when his hands were on her, Ellen’s entire world pared down to what felt good and what didn’t. Christopher’s hands anchoring her face close, his approval, and the longing he didn’t even try to hide, all felt too good.
She slipped her arms around his waist.
Her actions weren’t a concession. They simply were. A necessity. A fact. The chemistry between them was too potent to ignore. No point in even trying, although Christopher had always found this easier to acknowledge than she had. Perhaps because he’d simply been looking for a woman who challenged him. He hadn’t been looking for the one.
At this moment, Ellen wasn’t, either.
Dragging her fingers along his damp skin, she explored the contours, recalled the sleek strength of trim muscles, the way his waist veed into the broad lines of his back. She remembered this man. The feel of him. The scent of him. The taste of him.
Her tongue sought his and she answered his demand with a demand of her own. Kiss me. Touch me. Want me. Not an admission of how much she’d missed him, not a surrendering to his boldness, but simply a kiss that explored their desire.
His hands trailed from her hair, following the lines of her face, his touch gentle and searching, as though he was refreshing his memory or perhaps proving to himself she was real. She was very real. And she savored the feel of his fingertips against her skin, the hot minty taste of his mouth, her body’s explosive reaction to him, his explosive reaction to her.
Christopher had always reveled in the chemistry between them, had held his hunger up as proof of how great they were together. She’d been the one overwhelmed by her need. Trying not to break the rules and sleep with him before enough time had passed had been a balancing act of anticipation and longing, where she could too easily lose all control in his arms.
She’d been sure this sort of passion meant he was the one.
He wasn’t. But when his hands rounded the curve of her neck, tipped her chin just enough to deepen their kiss, Ellen forgot the past, forgot the rules. She knew only excitement when he crowded her back against the sturdy post of the tester bed, sealed their bodies together. Inch upon inch of hard, damp muscle crushed her, awakening all sorts of hunger.
Her hands raked his shoulders and trailed down his back, recalling the smooth flexing of muscle when he’d thrust on top of her, beneath her, from behind her.
Her sex began to clench with hot little aches.
And when he drove his thigh between hers, hard muscle into yielding skin, Ellen knew, oh, she knew exactly what Christopher wanted. He wasn’t going to stop with a kiss. He wasn’t going to waste their first meeting in so long—not when he was almost naked. Apparently time hadn’t lessened their chemistry.
Lifting her, he anchored her along his hard thigh. Her filmy skirt was only a whisper of protection separating skin from skin, nothing against the need making her sigh against his lips.
He caught the sound with his kiss and she felt his mouth curve upward, tasted his smile. He had the upper hand and he knew it, as he always had. Three months hadn’t changed that.
Sanity cried out, a mental scream reminding her that she’d left this man for a good reason. The right reason. But reason didn’t exist when he touched her. Nor did rules. Apparently time hadn’t changed that, either.
But she wasn’t the only one who lost her mind when they were together. Ellen may have sighed. She may have melted against him. She may have spread her legs to ride his thigh, the pressure kneading just the spot to feed that pleasure inside.
But Christopher’s breaths were as ragged as hers.
His fingers dug deep as they dragged the curve of her shoulders, her silk tank top only inviting him to caress the length of bared arms, to slip below and reacquaint himself with her breasts. He did. A gentle weighing of her fullness that was at once appreciative and reverent.
And so needy. He was as caught up in this moment as she, clearly unable to resist the pull of their bodies or burying a hard-as-steel erection against her stomach.
His hot shaft was an insistent, demanding pressure, greedy for her attention, straining against the flimsy barrier that barely separated them, promised such ecstasy….
A promise Ellen couldn’t ignore. Not when his hands traveled through sheer silk with such skill. Not when her breasts filled with an eager heaviness that made her swell into his palms, made her so sensitive she gasped when he flicked his thumbs across the tips.
Not when she hadn’t had sex in so long, when she’d never had sex like she’d had with him.
But wasn’t she already two steps ahead in the game since she knew he wasn’t the one? Wouldn’t knowing that protect her when she had to leave him all over again?
Damn Miss Q.
Damn her own disobedient body for this desperate ache that wouldn’t consider denial, even though everything about him wrought havoc on her emotions.
And Christopher knew—damn him—pressing his advantage by trailing his mouth along her jaw, down her neck, nibbling, sucking, tasting her skin as though he planned to savor every inch of her at his leisure.
Tingles chased behind his kisses, the steady flicking of his thumbs over her nipples making her tension coil tighter.
He bent low, nipped her shoulder with exactly the right pressure to make her tremble. The sight of his dark head poised over her brought her emotions so close to the surface, made her recall with almost painful clarity how much she’d enjoyed having her world blocked out by the breadth of his wide shoulders, his dark head, his laughing kisses.
Slipping her hands beneath his towel, she dislodged it, and he assisted by shifting his hips to bare himself to her.
Skimming her hands along his skin, Ellen explored, cupping the tight curves of his butt, drawing him closer, his hot erection branding her through the sheer silk of her skirt.
He shivered, a vibration that ran from head to toe, and his teeth flashed white as he nibbled her nipple through her blouse.
She gasped.
He lifted his gaze, those blue eyes meeting hers with his mouth parted over her breast, over the faintest trace of wetness on silk.
All she saw in his darkly handsome face was desire.
Christopher wanted her.
No matter that he’d let her go with only a few token phone calls and no fight. No matter that they’d lived in the same city and he’d never shown up at her office, or her apartment, never suggested a compromise that could satisfy his impulses and her needs. No matter that he hadn’t followed the rules.
Christopher wanted her, and right now she wanted him.
So what if Miss Q had manipulated her—and most likely him—into this situation? They were together, the weekend’s training session provided the perfect cover to protect her from the media’s attention. Here they could play in privacy and safety.
There was a bed. And they weren’t expected in the parlor until seven.
All hurt faded beneath the strength of their attraction. Nothing mattered beyond how explosive they were together. Every inch of her skin tingled, made her want to peel away her clothes and melt against him.
Letting her eyes flutter shut, Ellen pressed a kiss to the top of his silken head.
It was all the permission he needed.
Drawing the hem of her blouse up and over, Christopher peeled away her bra before his arms came around her, pulling her close. She melted into the strong circle of his embrace, breasts crushing his chest, bare skin against bare skin.
Then his mouth found hers again, his kiss urgent, as if he had something to prove. To her. Maybe even to himself.
Driving his fingers into her hair, Christopher cupped her head and braced her entire body upright, his free hand sliding down her hip, dragging her skirt up around her waist.
She’d worn only a thong, the temperature making even the thought of panty hose unbearable. But the sultry bayou heat was nothing compared to the fire raging inside her as Christopher sank his free hand between her thighs. He brushed aside the skimpy panties. His fingertips curled into the folds of her skin, separating, testing, finding her moist, ready for him.
With one bold stroke he slipped a finger inside.
Ellen’s world narrowed to that fiery thrust. Her sex greedily tried to hold him steady, but Christopher controlled the moment, pressed his palm against her core of nerve endings, stroked her tenderly, knowingly, just the right pressure to coax her hips into motion.
Running her hands up his back, Ellen pulled him close and deepened their kiss. She rode his hand, each roll of her hips feeding the friction, coiling her tension tight.
Another finger circled lazily, intimately stoking new sensations to life, feeding her pleasure until she was wild with need, convincing her that Christopher did have something to prove. He would prove he could take her apart at the seams, unglue her until she was a mass of sensation.
Her body played right into his hands.
Ellen exploded, her moan swelling softly between them. He broke their kiss, stared down at her with eyes half hooded by pleasure, as though watching her climax was a wish granted. He held her entire body balanced with only a hand in her hair and another wedged between her thighs as he rode out the echoes of her orgasm with smooth knowing strokes and a big smile.
Only when she’d regained her senses enough to focus again did she follow his gaze to a very unique feature of the room that she hadn’t noticed before.
A mirror. The reflection of Christopher standing dark and tall over her, her body arched erotically against his, her skirt wadded up around her waist to expose her parted thighs. Not one reflection, but many, each a little smaller, receding into infinity. She glanced in the opposite direction to see an identical mirror positioned on the other wall.
Ellen had seen vis-à-vis mirrors before, with Christopher in fact, when they’d toured an art exhibit at a New York museum. The interesting effect of multiple reflections had fascinated her at the time, but couldn’t compare to the sight of their bodies twined together, as exotic as a living sculpture.
The reflection of the two of them together, forever.
Before she had a chance to react, Christopher drew his hand away, hiked one of her legs around his waist. She followed their reflection in the mirror with her gaze, the way his muscles shifted powerfully as he positioned himself.
