He slipped a hand between them, circled his thumb around her. She gasped, arched against him. She knew exactly what he was doing, knew that he was teasing her, but she couldn’t help it. Normally, she never let a man get the upper hand, but with Nic she couldn’t help it. Everything about him appealed to her, drew a response from her that she had almost no control over. His sense of humor, the intelligence she could see in his eyes, the careful way he held and touched and kissed her. And, of course, the fact that he was the hottest man she had ever met certainly didn’t hurt, either.
“I’m saying,” she said, her voice more breathless than she would have liked, “that I very much enjoyed having sex with you.”
“Sex, huh?” He rubbed a little harder, a little faster, and shocks of electricity sparked through her. Just that easily, he made her ache. Made her want. Again.
“Nic,” she whispered, cupping the back of his neck with her palm, even as her head fell back against the cool stucco wall.
“Desi.” His voice was low, teasing, but she could hear the sudden thread of tension as clearly as she could feel him hardening once again within her.
“Don’t play.” Suddenly she was as needy, as desperate, as if she hadn’t come at all.
He scraped his teeth along her jaw, bit lightly at the sensitive spot behind her ear. “I thought you liked it when I played.” His breath was hot against her skin, the words a whisper that worked its way deep inside of her.
“You know what I mean.” She clenched her core around him to underscore her words, took great delight in the sexy hiss the movement elicited from him. He closed his eyes, dropped his forehead against hers, and the hungry noise he made had her tightening her inner muscles again and again.
He cursed then, a harsh, sexy word that only ramped up her arousal more. From the moment he’d taken her out onto this balcony—hell, from the moment he’d kissed her on that dance floor—Nic had had the upper hand. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t feel good to get a little of her own back. Especially when doing so was so incredibly pleasurable for both of them.
Nic’s hand tightened on her behind as he lifted her nearly off him before letting her slowly sink back down. He did it a second time and then a third, all the while continuing to stroke her with his other hand. It took only a minute or two before ecstasy beckoned—brought even closer by his careless demonstration of strength—but just as she was about to go over the edge for the third time in less than an hour, he stilled.
“What’s wrong?” She forced open her too-heavy lids, tried to focus on his face despite the urgent need lighting her up from the inside. “Why’d you stop?’
“Come home with me.”
“What?” She was so far gone that her brain had trouble assimilating his words.
“Come home with me,” he repeated, thrusting deep inside her for emphasis. She moaned despite herself, tried to arch against him and get that last bit of needed pressure. But he held her firmly, refused to let her move. Refused to let her come.
“Please,” she gasped, her whole body shaking with the need for release. “I need—”
“I know what you need,” he whispered, taking her mouth in a kiss that was somehow both hard and tender. “Say you’ll go home with me and I’ll let you come.”
She bit his lip, not hard enough to draw blood but definitely hard enough to make him take notice. “Let me come,” she countered breathlessly, “and maybe I’ll go home with you.”
He laughed then, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down her spine even as it made her entire body melt. “I want you in my bed.”
She tightened around him yet again, taking great pleasure in the fact that he groaned deep in his throat. “You know what you need to do then.”
“Is that a yes?” He stroked her once gently. Too gently, but she wasn’t complaining as her nerve endings tingled.
“It’s not a no.”
He laughed again. “Damn, I like you, Desi.”
“I certainly hope you do, considering what we’ve spent the last forty-five minutes doing.” She had to bite her tongue, but somehow she managed to resist adding that she liked him, too. A lot. She hadn’t been with that many men—only two before Nic—but neither of them had ever made her laugh. Not out of bed and certainly not while making love to her. Until him, until now, she hadn’t even known that she’d been missing something.
He bent his head, licking his way over first one nipple and then the other. “Come home with me,” he urged when she was even more of a trembling, needy mess, “and I’ll spend the rest of the night showing you just how much I like you.”
She didn’t want to give in—not because she didn’t like him, but because she did. Too much. And the last thing she needed right now was to fall for a sexy, charismatic rich guy who would break her heart if she let him.
And yet…and yet, like him, she wasn’t quite ready for this night to end. Wasn’t quite ready to walk away from Nic with his bright green eyes and ready smile, his quick wit and gentle hands. And she sure as hell wasn’t ready to walk away from the pleasure he brought her so effortlessly.
“Please, Desi,” he murmured against her cheek, and for the first time she heard the strain in his voice, felt it in the way he trembled against her. “I want you,” he said. “If you just want it to be tonight, that’s okay with me. But please—”
“Okay.” In one desperate, vulnerable moment, she threw caution to the wind.
“Okay?”
“I’ll come home with you.”
His eyes shot up to hers. “You will?”
“I will.” She grinned a little wickedly herself. “That is, if you make me come in the next sixty seconds.” This might be her first—and probably her last—one-night stand, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t make the best of it…
“I thought you’d never ask.” His answering smile was blinding, and it caught her right in the gut. Which probably would have made her nervous if her body hadn’t been on a collision course with its third orgasm of the night.
Nic bent down and took her mouth with his. Less than thirty seconds later he was muffling her screams as she came and came and came.
His house was gorgeous. Worse, it was perfect. Which, she was growing desperately afraid, was simply a reflection of its owner. And while most women would jump at the shot to start something with a gorgeous, rich, perfect man, Desi wasn’t most women. The thought of falling for Nic made her itch, so much so that she couldn’t help casting a few surreptitious glances down at her bare legs to make sure she wasn’t actually breaking out in hives.
Which was why it made absolutely no sense that she was sitting at the bar in the middle of Nic’s (still didn’t know his last name and still didn’t want to) gorgeously designed arts-and-crafts kitchen at two in the morning, watching as he made her homemade blueberry pancakes. Simply because he’d asked what her favorite food was and that was what she had answered.
“So, what’s your favorite TV show?” he questioned as he expertly flipped the first batch of pancakes. Watching him made her a little crazy, especially since all he had on was a pair of well-worn jeans. No man should be allowed to look that good outside the pages of a fashion magazine.
And no man should be able to make pancakes that perfect after three rounds of the best, most earth-shattering sex she had ever engaged in. It went against the laws of nature.
“Desi?” he prompted, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at her.
She tried to look as if she hadn’t spent the past ten minutes ogling his perfectly defined back. Judging from the smirk on his face, she didn’t succeed nearly as well as she’d hoped to.
So she cleared her throat and focused on answering his question as a means of distraction from the fact that she was more than a little afraid that she was turning into a sex addict. “I don’t watch TV.”
“What do you mean you don’t watch TV?” He turned to stare at her incredulously. “Everyone watches TV.”
She quirked a brow at him. “Not everyone. Obviously.”
He named a few popular shows, but when she just shook her head, Nic sighed heavily. “Okay, fine. How about your favorite movie, then? Or do you not watch movies, either?”
“I watch movies. But it’s hard to pick just one, isn’t it?” She did her best to keep from smiling at his obvious frustration.
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s your favorite then?”
“Titanic.”
It was her turn to stare at him incredulously. “You don’t really mean that, right? You’re just messing with me. You have to be.”
“Why wouldn’t I mean it?” He looked completely disgruntled now. “It’s a fantastic movie. Love, passion, danger, excitement. What’s not to like?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Betrayal, maybe? Attempted suicide, attempted murder, poverty, icebergs, death. Not to mention the world’s most infamous sinking ship.” She paused as if considering. “You’re right. What was I thinking? It’s a barrel of laughs. Obviously.”
He made a disgusted sound. “You’re a real party pooper. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
“No.”
“Well, then, let me be the first. You’re a real party pooper.”
“I’m a realist.”
He snorted. “You’re a nihilist.”
She started to argue on general principle, but stopped before she could do more than utter a few incoherent sounds. After all, whom was she kidding? He was totally right. “Just call me Camus,” she quipped with a shrug.
“Is that a movie?” he asked as he poured more batter on the griddle.
“Are you serious?” she demanded, watching him like a hawk as she tried to find some kind of tell to prove he was messing with her. But the look he sent her was utterly guileless. Not too guileless, mind you. Just guileless enough, as if he really had no idea what she was talking about.
Huh. Maybe he wasn’t so perfect, after all. The thought made her inexplicably happy, though she refused to delve too deeply into why that was.
“Albert Camus was a French writer,” she told him after a second.
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
That knowledge made her infinitely more relaxed. “Oh, well, a lot of people would say you weren’t missing much.”
“But not you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
He grinned as he slid a plate piled high with perfect, golden, fluffy pancakes in front of her. “But you still didn’t tell me what your favorite movie is.”
“I told you I couldn’t choose just one. Not all of us can wax poetic over a sinking boat, after all.”
“More’s the pity.” He cast her a mischievous look that she immediately mistrusted. “But you know what? I think you’re right. I don’t think I can choose just one favorite movie. Now that I’m thinking about it, a few more come to mind.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“The Stranger, definitely. And maybe The Guest. And—”
“You suck!” she told him, breaking off a piece of pancake and throwing it at him. He caught it, of course. In his mouth. Without even trying. “Those are two of Albert Camus’s most famous works.”
“Are they?” he asked, his face a mask of complete and total innocence. “I had no idea.”
She studied him closely, looking for his tell. He was lying to her, obviously, but the fact that she couldn’t tell was odd. She could always tell—she prided herself on it. It’s what made her such a good investigative journalist. And such a lousy society columnist.
The fact that he didn’t seem to have a tell fascinated her. And made her very, very nervous all at the same time.
When she didn’t say anything else, he nodded at her untouched plate. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold.”
“Maybe I like cold pancakes.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he grabbed the bottle of maple syrup and drizzled it over the top of her pancakes. Then he cut into them and lifted a forkful to her mouth.
He waited patiently for a few seconds, but when she just looked at him instead of taking the proffered bite, he rolled his eyes. “My pancakes don’t taste good cold. Trust me.”
Trust him. The idea was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed out loud. Only the knowledge that he definitely wouldn’t get the joke kept her from making one wisecrack or another. But there was no way in hell she was ever going to trust him. Mr. Perfect. No, thank you. Been there, done that, still had the T-shirt as a not-so-pleasant memento.
Not that she was bitter or anything. Or sexist.
Because it wasn’t that she didn’t trust men. It was that she didn’t trust anybody. Not when life had taught her over and over and over again that she couldn’t count on anyone or anything. If she needed something, she could count on only herself to make it happen. Anyone else would just let her down.
Maybe it wasn’t a great philosophy, and maybe—just maybe—it was a touch nihilistic. But it was her philosophy. She’d lived by it most of her life, and while it hadn’t gotten her much—yet—it also hadn’t cost her much since she’d adopted it. And in her mind, that was a win.
And yet, even understanding all that, she—inexplicably—leaned forward and let Nic feed her the bite of pancake. She had no idea why she did it, but it certainly wasn’t because doing so made him look incredibly happy. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
That was her story, and like her philosophy, she was sticking to it.
Which was why it was so strange when, after she finished chewing, Nic simply handed her the fork and went back to what he was doing without so much as a backward glance. Was she the only one affected by this strange night of theirs?
It was a definite possibility, she told herself. He could totally be the kind of guy who picked up a different one-night stand at every party he went to. Which would mean that tonight—hot sex and cool banter and delicious pancakes—could be standard operating procedure for him. Which was fine, she told herself, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. One-night stands weren’t SOP for her—far from it—but that was what she’d expected, what she’d wanted, when she’d come home with him. Deciding in the middle of it that she wanted something more wasn’t okay, no matter how much pleasure he gave her or how much she enjoyed sitting here, teasing him.
“So, favorite movie is off the table,” he said, after he poured another round of pancakes onto the griddle. “How about favorite song?”
She forked up another bite of pancakes under his watchful eye, took her time chewing it. “What’s with all the questions?” she asked after she finally swallowed it.
“What’s with all the evasive answers?” he countered.
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, if you think about it, I asked you first. About your favorite song. And I’m still waiting.”
“You are a persistent one,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I believe the word you’re looking for is charming.” He crossed to the fridge, took out a bottle of champagne and a quart of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Debonair. Maybe even…sexy?”
He wiggled his brows at her then, and it took every ounce of concentration she had not to burst out laughing. “Sexy, hmm. Maybe. And here I was thinking humble.”
“Well, obviously. Being humble is what PR professionals the world over are known for.”
“Is that what you are?” she asked, intrigued by the rare glimpse into his real life. “A public relations guy?” It would explain the gorgeous house and even more gorgeous artisan decorating scheme.
He s
hrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He faked a surprised look as he slid a mimosa in front of her. “You don’t actually think you’re the only one who can dodge questions here, do you?”
She did laugh then. She couldn’t help it. He really was the most charming and interesting man she had met in a very long time. Maybe ever.
She reached for the champagne flute he’d put in front of her and took a long sip. As she did, Nic took advantage of her preoccupation and grabbed her smartphone off the counter.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as he started pressing keys.
“Programming my number into it, so you can call me whenever you want.”
“What makes you think I’m going to want to call you when tonight is over?”
He gave her what she guessed was his most unassuming look. “What makes you think you aren’t?”
“Are we seriously going to spend the rest of the night asking each other questions and never getting any answers?”
“I don’t know. Are we?”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. But before she could say anything else, his phone started buzzing from where it sat next to the stove. He made no move to answer it.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” she asked, partly because the reporter in her wanted to know who was calling him at two-thirty in the morning and partly because he was standing just a little too close to her. They weren’t touching, but she could feel the heat emanating from his body, and it was making it impossible for her to think—and even more impossible for her to maintain the distance she was trying so desperately to cling to.
“It’s just me, calling from your phone. So now I’ve got your number, too.” He looked her in the eye when he said it and there was something in that look, something in his voice, that made her think he meant a lot more than the ten digits that made her phone ring.
Suddenly she was taking far too much effort not to squirm.
She didn’t like the feeling any more than she liked the vulnerability that came with the knowledge that he could see more of her than she wanted him to. And so she did what she always did in situations like these—she went on the offensive. “What if I hadn’t planned on giving you my number?”