Birthright (30 page)

“An hour. Right.” She still had on her lawyer suit. Pinstripes. What was there about pinstripes on a woman? “We were going to grab something to eat first.”

“We were.” She loved the way his eyes widened when she slid into his lap. “Or we could stay in. I could fix something here.”

“There's not much to . . .” He trailed off when she lowered her head and teased his mouth with hers. “Not much, but we could probably make do. If that's what you want.”

She ran her hands up his chest, linked them around his neck. “Hungry?”

“Oh yeah.”

“What're you in the mood for?” she asked, then laughed when he crushed his mouth to hers.

S
he wound herself around him. Surrounded him, was all he could think as her taste, her scent, her shape dazzled his senses.

It was like being possessed, and it had started the instant she'd risen to her toes and touched her lips to his outside the restaurant.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to burn this need out of his system or steer it in. He only knew he needed more of her. Now.

“Let me . . .” The chair creaked ominously under their combined weight. A car backfired on the street. But all he could think was how quickly he wanted to get his hands between them, deal with the buttons of her shirt and find her.

“I intend to.” Her heart was thudding, a thick, pounding beat in her breast, her throat. She loved the feel of it—that hard pump of life. She eased back to give his hands room to work. “The glasses were the kicker, you know.”

“I'll never take them off again.”

“That's okay.” She feathered her fingers through his hair, then slid the glasses off, folded the earpieces neatly.
She set them on the desk as he undid the buttons on her white oxford shirt. “They've already done the job.”

“I could say the same about the pinstripes. They just kill me.”

“It's Brooks Brothers.”

“God bless them.” She was so perfect—almost tiny, with skin smooth and white as milk. He could have lapped at it like a cat. “But why don't we . . .” He tugged the jacket off her shoulders, let it catch at her elbows. Her shirt was open, and the bra beneath was a slick of silk over a soft, subtle swell. “That's a nice look for you,” he told her and assaulted her throat with his teeth.

She smelled fresh, and utterly female. The fast spike of her pulse under his lips was a brutal thrill.

Her arms were pinned and her flesh exposed. There was something dark and erotic about that quick change of control, about surrendering that moment of power to him. She let herself ride on it, and on the giddy panic when his mouth came back to claim hers.

He rose in a move so smooth and fluid her breath snagged. There was a strength here she hadn't anticipated, and one that had her pulse skipping as he carried her, as his mouth continued its assault.

Then she was under him on the bed, her arms tangled in her jacket, her body captive and wonderfully helpless. He tugged, and her arms were free. Before she could reach for him, he rolled, then flipped her onto her stomach.

“Nothing against Brooks Brothers,” he said as he slowly slid down the zipper of her skirt. “But it's a little too crowded with them here. We'll just get rid of them.”

She looked back over her shoulder, and a wing of hair fell over her eye. “I could say the same about the Levi's.”

“We'll give them a minute.” He slid the shirt off, trailed a fingertip down her spine. “Nice back, counselor.”

He drew the skirt over her hips, down and away. She wore stockings that stopped at the thigh with little bands of lace, and a white satin thong he seriously doubted had come from the dignified brothers Brooks.

“The rest of you holds up, too.”

She laughed, started to say something quick and smart. And only moaned when his lips made that same trail down her spine. His fingers brushed up from the back of her knee to the edge of the stocking, and hers dug into the bedspread.

“You know, I'm never going to be able to see you in one of those lawyer suits again without thinking about what's going on under it.”

His mouth was at the small of her back, and working down. “Okay by me.”

He was nudging her along a plateau of pleasure so that her muscles went lax, her limbs limp. It was like sliding through a soft gray mist, sinking into it without a thought to destination.

Who needed power, she wondered as those mists closed in, when you could just . . . sink.

He heard her sigh, felt her go boneless. Her body was his to explore, to sample, to savor. The narrow waist, the long thighs, that fragrance that clung to her skin at the shoulder blades. He flicked open her bra, rubbed his lips over her skin.

She all but purred.

He turned her over slowly, tasted her lips, her throat, then her breasts.

Soft, scented, silky, and with a heat just beginning to flush along that lovely skin. Her hands stroked over him—his hair, his shoulders, his back. As she sighed into him, she tugged his shirt up, drew it over his head, tossed it aside.

And the slide of flesh to flesh made her tremble.

Patient, she thought dreamily, and oh so thorough. Here was a man who sought to give as much as he took, to please as well as to take pleasure. One who could make her body quiver and her heart stand still.

And because of it, she arched to offer him more. Moaned his name when his lips, his hands grew more impatient. Faster now, just a little faster, stoking the fires
already simmering, teasing patience to urgency and dreamy to demanding.

He pressed his hand against her, tormenting them both until he slid a finger under the satin and into her.

Her nails dug into his shoulders. He watched her eyes go opaque, and that beautiful flush rush out on her skin. He caught her cry with his mouth, feasting on her lips as she came.

Sensations tumbled through her, too quickly now to separate, too huge to hold. She fought with the button of his jeans. God, she wanted all of him, wanted that mindless plunge. Her hips moved restlessly as she freed him, as she closed her hand over him.

“Doug. Douglas,” she repeated, and guided him to her.

Pleasure shot through him like a missile, the sheer glory of filling her, of having the wet heat of her surround him. He fought back the urge to plunder and moved slowly, savoring each trembling rise, each shuddering fall of their bodies.

The light was going. The last quiet streaks of it shimmered through the open window, over her face. He watched her lashes flutter, and the pulse beat in her throat as her head arched back. As the pleasure built stroke by slow, deep stroke.

He knew she clung, as he did, to that last slippery edge of reason. When he felt her clutch around him, he lowered his mouth to hers again and took the fall.

D
oug?” Lana let his hair sift through her fingers, and looked out the window. From where she lay she could see the glow of the streetlights as they came on.

“Um. Yeah.”

“I have one thing to say about this.” She gave a long sigh, stretched as best she could with his weight pinning her to the mattress. “Mmmmm.”

His lips curved against her throat. “That pretty much covers it.”

“Now I guess I owe you dinner.”

“I guess you do. Does that mean you're going to put the pinstripes back on and get me hot again?”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you had a shirt I could borrow while I see what I can do with whatever you've got in the kitchen.”

“I've got a shirt, but I'm warning you, there isn't much in the kitchen.”

“I can do a lot with very little. Oh, and I have one more thing to say.”

This time he lifted his head and looked down at her. “What?”

“I've got the baby-sitter until midnight. So I hope you've got some protein in the kitchen, because I'm not done with you yet.”

He grinned down at her—delighted, flattered, aroused. “How'd I manage to miss you whenever I came back to town?”

“I guess it wasn't time yet. Now you're going to miss me whenever you leave town.”

Because that rang true, entirely too true, he rolled away and got up. “There's a library I need to assess,” he said as he walked to the closet. “In Memphis.”

“Oh.” She sat up, kept her tone very casual. “When are you leaving?”

“A couple of days.” He pulled out a shirt. “I'm coming back right after I'm done.” He turned now, walked back and handed her the shirt. “I don't think it's a good idea for me to be away for an extended period with all that's going on.”

She nodded, scooted off the bed to slip into the shirt. “I have to agree. Your family needs you.”

“Yeah. And there's another thing.”

She glanced over her shoulder as she did up the buttons. “Yes?”

“It doesn't look like I'm finished with you yet either.”

“Good.” She stepped to him, rose on her toes and brushed her lips to his. “That's good.”

Leaving it at that, she walked out to the kitchen.

He dragged a hand through his hair and followed her. “Lana, I don't know what you're looking for.”

She opened the fridge and with his shirt skimming her thighs peered inside. “Neither do I, until I find it.”

“I wasn't talking about food.”

“I know what you were talking about.” She looked back at him. “You can relax, Doug. I'm really good at living in the moment, dealing with a day at a time.” She looked back in the fridge and shook her head. “As, obviously, you are, judging by the fact that you have half a six-pack of beer, a quart of milk, two lonely eggs and an unopened jar of mayo.”

“You forgot the deli ham in the drawer there.”

“Hmm. Well, I love a challenge.” She started opening cupboards and found a set of four mismatched plates, three water glasses, one wineglass and a box of Cap'n Crunch, which had her sending Doug a pitying glance.

“It's a childhood weakness,” he offered. “Like the Pop-Tarts.”

“Uh-huh. You also have potato chips, a jar of pickles, a half a loaf of squishy white bread and a half-eaten bag of cookies.”

Uncomfortable, and afraid she'd poke in his freezer and find the half gallon of ice cream and the frozen pizza, he stepped in to block the fridge with his body.

“I told you there wasn't much. We can still go out or we can get some carryout.”

“If you think I can't make a meal out of this, you're very much mistaken. I need a pot so I can hard-boil these eggs. You do have a pot, don't you?”

“I've got a pot. You want one of those beers?”

“No, thanks.”

He got out the pot, handed it over. “Be right back.”

Lana rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

The eggs were starting to boil when he returned, just a little out of breath and carrying a bottle of wine. “Ran across to the liquor store,” he told her.

“That was very sweet, and yes, I'd like a glass of wine.”

“What're you making?”

“Ham and egg salad sandwiches. We'll have them with the chips and consider it a picnic.”

“Works for me.” He opened the wine, poured some for her in his lonely wineglass.

“How does your mother feel about the fact that you don't cook?”

“We try not to discuss it, as it's a painful subject. You want some music?”

“I would. Got any candles?”

“Nothing fancy, just some for power outages.”

“They'll do.”

She took the picnic idea seriously and spread a blanket on the living room floor. With the candles glowing, the music as background, they ate sandwiches, drank wine. They made love again, lazily, on the blanket, then curled up together in contented silence.

Neither of them stirred when the sounds of sirens wailed. “It'll be hot in Memphis,” she said after a time.

“Pretty sure bet.”

“Are you going to Graceland while you're there?”

“No.”

She rolled so she could lie over him and study his face. “Why not?”

“Because . . . first, it's a cliché, and second, I'm there to do a job, not to pay homage to The King.”

“You could do both.” She angled her head. “You should go, just for the fun and the experience. Then you should buy me something incredibly silly.”

She kissed the tip of his nose. “I have to go.”

He didn't want her to go, and the urge to pull her back, hold her to him, with him, was more than a little frightening. “Want to try for the movies again, when I get back?”

It pleased her he'd asked first this time. “Yes.” As she started to rise, the cell phone in her briefcase across the room began to ring.

He saw the instant, primal fear flash into her eyes as she scrambled up. “It must be Denny, the baby-sitter.”

She tore open the briefcase, was ordering herself not to be an alarmist when she snagged the ringing phone.

“Hello? Denny, what . . . What? My God. Yes. Yes, I will.”

She was already running toward the bedroom as she disconnected.

“Tyler. What's wrong with Tyler?” Doug demanded as he sprinted after her.

“Nothing. He's fine. Ty's fine.” She grabbed her shirt. “God, Doug. My God. My office is on fire.”

T
here was nothing to do but stand and watch. To stand across the street from the smoke and the flames and watch a part of her life burn.

She'd lost far worse, she reminded herself. Far worse than an office, than equipment and papers and some furniture. She could replace everything. She could rebuild. There was nothing in wood or brick that couldn't be replaced or repaired.