Can't Get Enough (11 page)

"Let's just get this over with," he suggested, impatience oozing from
every pore as he swiveled his head around to look at her.

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Slapping every inappropriate thought to one side, she hitched her skirt
around her waist, stepped toward him, and slung her left leg over his
shoulder. She almost jumped when he immediately enclosed her ankle in a
warm, firm grip.

"Other leg, come on," he ordered, leaning forward a little so she could
find her balance. She obediently slid her other leg over his shoulder,
and before she could brace herself he'd locked her other ankle in place
and was surging to his feet. For a scary moment she teetered on his
shoulders, and instinctively she grasped at his head for balance.

His hair was thick and wavy, and she ploughed her fingers into it as she searched for a grip.

"Yow!" he howled, and she immediately loosened her death grip.

"Sorry."

"Can you reach it?" he asked, and she tried not to register the rasp of
his stubbly cheek against the tender skin of her inner thighs.

Jack Brook with his face against her thighs? She had trouble even
processing the thought, let alone the sensation. Forcing herself to
focus on the matter at hand, she studied the catch on the cover a
moment, then flicked it open. Tentative, she pushed the cover upward,
but it gave way readily, flopping open to clang loudly on the elevator
car's roof.

"Done!" she said with satisfaction.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, she shoved a hand up into the opening.

"Much cooler out there. Hopefully it'll make a difference in here," she
reported. She was about to suggest he put her down when he slid his
hands up her shins and over her knees to grasp her firmly just above
each knee. And then he began jiggling from side to side, causing her to
renew her death grip on his hair.

"What are you doing?" she squeaked.

She'd instinctively clamped her thighs tighter around his neck as soon as her balance was in jeopardy, and she could actually
feel
him grin.

"Victory dance," he said, and she held her breath as he twirled them
both around in a little circle. What a goof.But she couldn't help
smiling: ridiculous as it seemed, opening a stupid utility hatch felt
like an achievement. She smiled as she felt the shifting of his strong
shoulders beneath her as he danced a few more steps, and even managed a
little bongo-drum accompaniment on his head. She was still smiling when
he announced he was going to let her down. He crouched low, and she
maneuvered first one then the other leg off his shoulders, hastily
pulling her skirt back down where it belonged before he turned around
to face her, a jubilant smile on his face. He's beautiful.She tried to
squelch the thought, to pretend it had never entered her mind.
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"Feels better already. Way to go, team," he said, holding his hand up
in the classic high-five position. She slapped his open palm, all the
while trying to forget the feel of his hands on her thighs. And his
hands sliding up her legs. And his face against her breasts.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

This had to be caused by some weird combination of claustrophobia and
lack of oxygen. That's all this hyperawareness of him was. Hell, they
probably did laboratory experiments like this all the time. At NASA or
something. The Effects of Enforced Intimacy on Hardworking Female
Executives. Or something like that.

Find something else to think about.Her frazzled brain sought
desperately for a diversion as they both returned to their opposite
sides of the elevator. She found her eyes tracking to the scar that
slashed across his abdomen, and before she knew it the words had popped
out. "That's a pretty decent scar you've got there."

She wished the words back the moment they were uttered.
How rude! How invasive and nosy and
rude!
Wondering what sort of a kisser he was was better than being nosy. She
could tell by the way his eyes dropped to the floor that he was
thinking of some way to palm her off—which she deserved—and she rushed
into speech again.

"Ignore me. I didn't mean
to say that. I think I'm oxygen deprived," she blathered. She could
feel him watching her, assessing her, and then he shook his head
minutely as though shaking something off.

"It's okay. It's pretty noticeable. Someone once told me it looked like
a shark had attacked me." She made a disbelieving noise.

"Hardly. Unless sharks are getting medical training these days." He
smiled a little, just a quirk of one side of his mouth. Then he said,
"I donated a kidney to someone. My brother."

She could tell it had cost him a lot to say it. And she could feel the
weight of a long and sad story dragging the words down. This was not a
story with a happy ending, she sensed.

"That's pretty incredible. And scary. Your brother was lucky you were a
match," she offered, deeply uncertain about what to say.

He'd crossed his arms across his chest, the classic "locked off" signal
in body language. She didn't need it to know she was deep in territory
he normally kept very private.

"Yeah. Well, not really. We were twins. Perfect match." His face was so
carefully blank, but she could tell. There was a lot of anger and pain
pent up in this man, and she guessed why.

"He died?" There was no other explanation for Jack referring to his brother in the past tense.
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"Yeah."

"What was his name?"

"Robbie. Or Robert, according to Mom."

She was totally at sea. And she just knew she was going to say the
wrong thing any second now. But she also knew she was being given a
very privileged insight into Jack's life. No one at work had ever
gossiped about this stuff, and she knew absolutely that he didn't talk
about it. Normally. But this wasn't a normal situation, as she was
beginning to appreciate more and more with each passing moment.

"I don't have any brothers or sisters," she volunteered. "I can't
imagine what it would be like to lose someone so close you. Especially
a twin. Was he a writer like you?" He barked out a bitter little laugh,
and she could see so clearly the anger inside him. I bet you blame the
world for Robbie being gone. I bet you blame God, Buddha, modern
medicine and anyone else who comes to mind. But most of all, I bet you
blame yourself.

"He was a doctor. A pediatrician. He just loved kids, and even though
it cut him up when he couldn't help someone, he always stayed in there,
fighting away. But them's the breaks, right? Fate, luck, destiny.
Whatever. The doctor dies, the writer lives."

The words could have peeled paint. She just let the anger wash over
her. It wasn't for her, anyway. He ran a hand over his face, almost as
though he was removing a mask or wiping something away.

"It doesn't matter."

Of course, it did. In fact, it was probably what shaped his life. She
cocked her head to one side, considering. All her preconceptions, and
observations, and judgments reorganized themselves and settled into a
new pattern to accommodate this information, and she suddenly
understood why Jack shied away from commitment, and drove a sports car,
and skated by on the surface of things: he already had a world of pain
to deal with, and he just didn't have the room, or the time, or the
inclination to handle any more. She blinked, and it was as if she was
seeing him with new eyes. The lines around his mouth weren't all from
smiling and laughing. The spark in those bright blue eyes of his was as
much about covering as it was about charming. She felt an enormous
desire to cross the space between them and take him in her arms. She
actually swallowed at the intensity of it. She wanted to cradle his
head on her breast, and soothe him, and tell him that one day he would
be reconciled to his brother's death, but first he had to let himself
feel it.

It was a bone-deep longing, and it was so powerful she actually sat on
her hands, in case they reached out toward him of their own accord.
Jack would be horrified if she offered him comfort. In fact, she knew
with a crystal-clear prescience that he was going to regret ever having
said a word once they were out of this elevator.

And what could she offer him, anyway? They weren't even friends. They didn't even like each other.
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But despite all that, she found herself talking. Perhaps because she
couldn't offer him comfort, she instead offered him something of
herself so he wouldn't feel so exposed.

"I'm the biggest regret of my father's life. He wanted a boy so badly,
but my mom died just after I was born. I was his one chance. So Harry
tried to turn me into a boy for a while, but I hated the mountains, and
I was too scared of falling when he took me climbing. And then one time
he had to turn back from an expedition he'd taken me on because I got
sick. And that was it. He just kind of…wrote me off." They were the
most honest and painful words she'd ever spoken. In fact, she wondered
if she'd even thought any of this through so clearly before. Even as
the words tumbled out, she understood why she never acknowledged this
stuff: it was like taking her skin off and letting the world see all
her fears and ugly places.

Her mind swung around to that damned unanswered invitation for her
father to watch her compete at the finals in just over two weeks' time.
Why had she put herself in a position where he could write her off yet
again?

Jack was looking at her strangely. "Your dad's not Harry Marsden , the explorer?" he asked, amazed. She simply nodded.

"I never knew," he said.

"I don't exactly have T-shirts made up."

He studied her face appraisingly. "You look like him."

"Not enough, apparently."

A silence, then Jack said, "Thanks."

He held her eyes, and it was the most open and honest contact they'd
ever shared. It felt like a fresh start. She smiled, and he smiled
back, and all of a sudden all of her lust rolled over her, but this
time it was tinged with a desire to ease his unhappiness, to do
something without considering the merits and worrying about the
consequences.

Could he read her thoughts? It seemed he could, because his eyes
dropped to her breasts. She liked that, liked that he'd noticed her
that way. She felt her heart skip into overdrive. Had his eyes
darkened?

Was she getting the message from him that she thought she was? She
wasn't sure. Doubt assailed her. He was so much more experienced than
her. For Pete's sake, he'd slept with half the building. What would he
want with her?

"Claire."

It was an invitation. Wasn't it? She wanted it to be. Very badly.
Because she hadn't been this hot for someone for a long time. But he
was just sitting there, opposite her. What was he thinking? Should
she…should she make the first move? Tentative, she leaned forward,
placing a hand in front of herself so she could lean even farther
across the space that separated her from him. His eyes were locked on
hers, and she could see something come to life in them. He looked
hungry and
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sexy and very intent. He leaned forward. There was an excruciating
moment, a moment between breaths, where she waited for his lips to
touch hers. And then they were kissing, tentatively at first, no other
part of their bodies touching. His lips were warm, and he tasted of
mints and she felt a shimmering
something
unfolding inside her. By some unspoken agreement, they both broke the
kiss to stop and stare at each other for a moment. His eyes were very
close to hers, and she felt as though she was drowning in the myriad
blues of his irises. And then, as if drawn by gravity or magnetism or
some force outside of themselves, they came together again. This time
she felt a twist of excitement spiral through her as his tongue darted
into her mouth for the first time, and then, all of a sudden, it was as
though something had exploded inside her. She couldn't get a enough of
him, and she sensed the same greedy hunger in him as he reached for
her.

His hands swept up her arms, and a
shower of heat followed. She clutched at him, off balance, drunk with
lust. His skin was smooth and firm, perfectly sculpted over planes and
rounds of muscle. She explored him feverishly, measuring the breadth of
his shoulders, racing her fingers through the silky hair on his chest.
His hands were tracing her face, running down her neck, brushing across
the sensitive skin of her upper chest. She sucked in her breath as his
hands slid smoothly down and onto her breasts, his thumbs finding her
already-erect nipples through the satin of her bra. He plucked at her
breasts with a firm, sure touch, and an answering note sounded deep in
her belly and she felt herself tighten. As amazing as it seemed, she
wanted him. She wanted him right now.

Jack was nibbling his way down her neck now, and she let out a small,
excited moan as he brushed her bra straps down her arms and took one of
her taut, aching nipples into his mouth. She bucked instinctively,
unable to control the urge to push up into something as a storm of
sensation raced through her body. His mouth was so hot, and his tongue
so quick and firm…

"Jack, Jack—" she whimpered, unable to tell him exactly what it was she was feeling, or what she wanted.

He simply lifted his head to grin wolfishly at her, his eyes shining
with desire, and she found herself grinning back at him, glorying in
the absolute need that gripped them both. Bold, she reached for the
closure on his pants, even as he pushed her skirt up and pressed a palm
against the moist heat between her thighs. She could feel how ready she
was, was almost embarrassed by how ready she was, but it only seemed to
increase his desire as he helped her push his cargo pants down over his
hips. His erection was hard and proud against his belly and she reached
for it with sure hands. He was big and beautiful and she wanted him
inside her as soon as was humanly possible.