She was helpless, staggered. The assault on her senses left her limbs shuddering and her heart hammering. She said his name, tried to, but it caught on a gasp as he spun her around. Her damp palms pressed to the wall.
He tore at the button of her skirt. She felt it give way, shivering as the material slid over her hips and pooled at her feet. His hands were on her breasts, molding, sliding from satin to flesh and back again. Then he tore that as well, and she gloried in the sound of the delicate material rending.
His teeth nipped into her shoulder. And his hands—oh, his hands were everywhere, driving her toward madness, then beyond. Rough palms against smooth skin, clever fingers pressing, sliding.
The breath that had torn ragged through her lips began to slow. Pleasure was thick, and midnight dark. She felt herself slipping into some erotic half-world where there was only sensation.
Slick, stunning, and sinful.
The wall was smooth and cool; his hands were not. The contrasts were unbearably arousing.
When he spun her around again, her eyes were dazzled by the sunlight. He was still fully dressed and she was naked. She found it exquisitely erotic, and could say nothing as he slowly lifted her arms above her head, bracketed her wrists with one hand.
Watching her, he combed his hand roughly through her hair to scatter pins. "I want more." He could barely speak. "Tell me you want more."
"Yes, I want more."
He pressed his body to hers, soft cotton, rough denim against damp flesh. And the kiss he took from her left her mind spinning.
Then his mouth went to work on her quivering body.
He wanted all the tastes of her, the dark honey of her mouth, the damp silk of her breasts. There was the creamy taste of her belly, the polished satin of her thighs.
Then the heat, the furnace flood of it as he licked his way between them.
Everything. All, was all he could think. Then more.
Her hands gripped his hair, pressing his face closer as she climbed to peak. It was her cry, the half scream, that broke the final link on his control. It had to be now.
He freed himself, then pressed against her. "I need to fill you." He panted the words out. "I want you to watch me when I do."
He drove into her where they stood, and their twin groans tangled in the air.
Afterward, he carried her to bed, lay down beside her. She curled up against him like a child, a gesture he found surprisingly sweet. He watched her sleep, thirty minutes, then a hour. He couldn't stop touching her—a hand through her hair, fingertips over the bruise on her face, a stroke over the curve of her shoulder.
Had he said he had something inside of him for her? He began to worry just what that something might be. He'd never felt compelled to stay with a woman after sex.
Had never felt the need to just look at her while she slept, or to touch only for the sake of touching and not to arouse.
He wondered what odd and slippery level they'd reached.
Then she stirred, sighed, and her eyes fluttered open and focused on him. When she smiled, his heart quite simply turned over in his chest.
"Hi. Did I fall asleep?"
"Looked like it to me." He searched for some glib remark, something light and frivolous, but all he could find to say was her name. "Anna." And he lowered his mouth to hers. Tenderly, softly, lovingly.
The sleep had cleared from her eyes when he drew away, but he couldn't read them. She breathed in once, slowly, then out again. "What was that?"
"Damned if I know." Both of them eased back cautiously. "I think we'd better order that pizza."
Relief and disappointment warred inside her. Anna put all her effort into supporting the relief. "Good idea. The number's right next to the kitchen phone. If you don't mind calling it in, I'd like to grab a quick shower, get some clothes on."
"All right." With casual intimacy he stroked a hand over her hip. "What do you want on it?"
"All I can get." She waited while he laughed and was pleased that he rolled out of bed first. She needed another minute.
"I'll pour the wine."
"Terrific." The minute she was alone, she turned her face into the pillow and let out a muffled scream of frustration. Steps back? she thought, furious with herself. Where did she get the idiotic idea she could take a few steps back? She was over her head in love with him.
My fault, she reminded herself, my problem. Sitting up, she pressed a hand to her traitorous heart. And my little secret, she decided.
she felt better when she was dressed and had a light shield of makeup in place. She'd given herself a good talking-to in the shower. Maybe she was in love with him. It didn't have to be a bad thing. People fell in and out of love all the time, and the wise ones, the steady ones, enjoyed the ride.
She could be wise and steady.
She certainly wasn't looking for happily ever after, a white knight, a Prince Charming. Anna had outgrown fairy tales long ago, and all of her innocence had cemented into reality on the side of a deserted road at the age of twelve.
She'd learned to make herself happy because for too many years following the rape it had seemed she was helpless to do anything but make herself and everyone near her miserable.
She'd survived the worst. There was no doubt she could survive a slightly dented heart.
In any case, she'd never been in love before—she had skirted around it, breezed over it, wriggled under it, but had never before run headlong into it. It could be a marvelous adventure, certainly a learning experience.
And any woman who found herself a lover like Cameron Quinn had plenty of blessings to count.
So she was smiling when she came into the living room and found Cam, sipping wine, staring at the cover of her latest fashion magazine. He'd put music on. Eric Clapton was pleading with Laylah.
When she came up behind him and pecked a kiss on the back of his neck, she didn't expect his jolt of surprise.
It was guilt, plain and simple, and he hated it. He nearly bobbled the wine and had to fight to keep his face composed.
The pouty face on the cover of the magazine in his hand was a certain long-stemmed French model named Martine.
"Didn't mean to startle you." She raised an eyebrow as she looked at the magazine in his hands. "Absorbed with this summer's new pastels, were you?"
"Just passing the time. Pizza should be along in a minute." He started to set the magazine down, wanted sincerely to bury it under the sofa cushions, but she was nipping it out of his hand.
"I used to hate her."
His throat was uncomfortably dry. "Huh?"
"Well, not Martine the Magnificent exactly. Models like her. Slim and blond and perfect. I was always too round and too brunette. This," she added, giving her wet, curling hair a tug, "made me insane as a teenager. I tried everything imaginable to straighten it."
"I love your hair." He wished she'd turn the damn magazine facedown. "You're twice as beautiful as she is. There's no comparison."
Her smile came quick and warm around the edges. "That's very sweet."
"I mean it." He said it almost desperately—but thought it best not to add that he'd seen both of them naked and knew what he was talking about.
"Very sweet. Still, I wanted so badly to be slim and blond and hipless."
"You're real." He couldn't stop himself. He took the magazine and tossed it over his shoulder. "She's not."
"That's one way to put it." Enjoying herself, she cocked her head. "Seems to me you race-around-the-world types usually go for the supermodels—they look so good draped over a man's arm."
"I barely know her."
Jesus, he was losing it. "Anybody. There's the pizza," he said with great relief. "Your wine's on the counter. I'll get the food."
"Fine." Without a clue as to what was suddenly making him so edgy, she wandered to the kitchen for her drink.
Cam saw that the magazine had fallen faceup so it appeared that Martine was aiming those killer blue eyes right at hi
m. It brought back the memory of a scored cheek and a spitting female. He cast a wary glance at Anna. It wasn't an experience he cared to repeat.
As he paid the delivery boy, Anna took the wine out to her tiny balcony. "It's a nice evening. Let's eat out here."
She had a couple of chairs and a small folding table set out. Pink geraniums and white impatiens sprang cheerfully out of clay pots.
"If I ever manage to save enough for a house, I want a porch. A big one. Like you have." She went back in for plates and napkins. "And a garden. One of these days I'm going to learn something about flowers."
"A house, garden, porches." More comfortable out in the air, he settled down. "I pictured you as a town girl."
"I always have been. I'm not sure suburbia would suit me. Fences with neighbors just over them. Too much like apartment living, I'd think, without the privacy and convenience." She slid a loaded slice of pizza onto her plate. "But I'd like to give home owning a shot—somewhere in the country. Eventually. The problem is, I can't seem to stick to a budget."
"You?" He helped himself. "Miz Spinelli seems so practical."
"She tries. My grandparents were very frugal, had to be. I was raised to watch my pennies." She took a bite and drew in a deep, appreciative breath before speaking over a mouthful of cheese and sauce. "Mostly I watch them roll away."
"What's your weakness?"
"Primarily?" She sighed. "Clothes."
He looked over his shoulder, through the door to her clothes, heaped in a tattered pile on the floor. "I think I owe you a blouse… and a skirt, not to mention the underwear."
She laughed lustily. "I suppose you do." She stretched out, comfortable in pale-blue leggings and an oversized white T-shirt. "This was such a hideous day. I'm glad you came by and changed it."
"Why don't you come home with me?"