Flip This Love (11 page)

He caught a rogue wave of dark hair and drew it to his lips. Her breath hitched and her pupils dilated. Smiling, he tucked the hair behind her ear, then smoothed his knuckles down her cheek. Someone knocked at the stairwell door, but he ignored it. This was one message he needed to be sure came through loud and clear. “No more games. This is going to happen, you and me.”

“It is?”

This time, her question wasn’t loaded with challenge or doubt, but tinged with caution and, if he wasn’t fooling himself too badly, hope. “Yes.”

Silence stretched between them, but for once it wasn’t charged. It was simply quiet. Comfortable. The knock came again. Laney glanced at the door, and her lips curved into a smile. “I think that’s our lunch.”

“Say yes,” he commanded, unwilling to let go until he’d closed the deal.

“Yes to lunch?”

“Yes to everything,” he corrected. “Or no lunch for you.”

“Well, if you’re going to resort to blackmail...”

“You have no idea how far I’d go.”

She licked her lips, a flash of something unreadable in her eyes. “I think I might.”

“Then what’s your answer?”

He’d give her credit. She hesitated only for a second. “Yes.” Their gazes held. “Now hurry up and get the door. My lunch is getting cold, and a girl gets fickle when she’s hungry.”

Grinning, Harley stepped past her to cross the room. “While we eat, I have a few suggestions and ideas to run past you. I may know some ladies who might be able to help you out with production.”

Her laugh bounced off the walls, filling the empty space with a sudden burst of light. “There go any hopes of you being a silent partner.”

He flashed a devilish smile as he reached for the door handle. “Sugar, if I get my way, neither of us will be anything remotely approaching silent.”

The hours since Laney left Harley’s office were a muddle. Her mind whirled with ideas. When it came to breaking down business plans, the man was like a centrifuge. Drop in a chunk of big picture, and within minutes, he’d have it dissected into pieces far less daunting than even the simplified plan she and Brooke had cooked up. But her brain wasn’t the only thing keyed up. She’d gone home from lunch braless, thanks to his callus dismissal of her Fashion Forms. Even after changing into an old Auburn University T-shirt and matching boxers, she could feel the gentle abrasion of wool against super-sensitized skin.

She couldn’t even let herself think about the moments of madness they’d shared on his desk. God, she wanted him. She wanted him with a passion beyond all reason and decency. Thinking about the night he’d spent in her bed was absolutely out of the question. She’d been a pathetic mess after he left. The kind of mess she’d sworn she’d never be again. At least, not over a man. Somehow the thought of becoming a pathetic mess twice over the same man seemed extra pathetic, but if their noontime activities proved anything, she was already halfway there. The meeting had been good, though. Her fish was delicious, the company stimulating in every conceivable way, and when she left, she not only had a check, but a dozen great ideas for the business contributed by her new partner.

Curled up on the sofa, she modified the sketch of the men’s gown to suit Harley’s suggestions. A little longer, because no guy wanted to look knock-kneed. A breast pocket in addition to the patch pockets, because men were lost without places to stash pens and other odds and ends. Snap closures on access openings rather than ties. Apparently, no man wanted to be covered in bows, no matter how nondescript she made them. She gnawed the end of her pencil and cocked her head, trying to figure out exactly what seemed off about the drawing. She’d colored this one in a rich burgundy a shade darker than the dress she’d worn earlier. It reminded her of the silk pajama and robe sets Hugh Hefner wore. And, of course, thinking about Hugh Hefner made her think about the Playboy Mansion, and that the man who’d laid hands on her that very afternoon had spent six months in close proximity to Hugh, his house full of bunnies, and the infamous grotto.

A door-rattling knock made her jump. The pencil she’d been nibbling skittered across the floor. Pages of her sketchpad ruffled as she leaped from the couch. The bound edge hit the hardwood at the precise angle it took to produce a slap that echoed like a gunshot. Arms akimbo, she looked from the pad to the door, then to the Louisville Slugger baseball bat she kept propped in the corner of the tiny entrance. Two years in New York City, and she had never been as jumpy as she was living alone in Mobile. Then again, until she’d moved into the apartment Brooke sublet to her, she’d never actually lived alone.

She’d gone from her parents’ home to the dorms and sorority house in college to an overpriced Manhattan apartment housing a half-dozen young women from the far reaches of Middle America, and back to her parents’ house, which explained why she’d never taken even the most basic self-defense class. Then again, she had played girls’ softball during the brief tomboy phase she and Brooke went through in middle school. For two girls raised by women who were considered paragons of Southern femininity, it was quite the ballsy rebellion. Her hand closed around the smooth ash of the grip. Hefting the weapon, she crept closer to the door. She held her breath as she stretched, leaning toward the peephole without putting any weight on the door. In case her assailant was too deaf to have heard the heavy sketch pad hit the deck.

She closed one eye and squinted through the cloudy fisheye as Harley called out, “Delaney? Are you okay in there?”

Letting go of the breath trapped in her lungs, she muttered lame comebacks along the lines of “Peachy keen, Jimmy Dean,” and, “Okey dokey, friend from Muskogee,” as she twisted the locks and bolts. Pain lanced through her when she realized they were her mother’s silly little sayings. She paused in the process of sliding the ancient chain lock free of its mooring and closed her eyes, clinging to the memory of exactly how those goofball responses sounded with the faint Cajun accent Camille was never able to shake entirely.

“Laney?”

Ignoring the burn of tears in her throat, she dropped the chain and yanked open the door. Harley stood with his feet braced wide, as if he were preparing to take the door down to get to her. The Hugo Boss suit had been replaced by a pair of jeans faded nearly white in all the most delicious places. The T-shirt he wore bore a picture of comic book hero Thor and featured a silk-screened nametag over his left pec that read, “Ask me about my mighty hammer.” He had a brown paper bag tucked into the crook of his arm. The tantalizing scent of Chinese takeout filled the air. Though she’d almost convinced herself she was still full from lunch, a loud rumble from her stomach proclaimed her to be full of crap. Both scent and sight made her mouth water. And more than anything, she wanted taste, touch, and sound to get in on the action.

Years of conditioning dictated she make at least a feeble attempt to resist. “Can I help you?”

“I, uh….” His gaze swept over her, appreciation shining bright in those clear green eyes. Until he spotted the bat in her hand. Then his expression vacillated between wariness and approval. He thrust the bag at her. “I brought dinner.”

Raising both eyebrows, she wet her lips then took a step back in silent invitation. The second he walked into the room, the air stopped moving. She spent so much time verbally cutting his massive ego down to size, she sometimes forgot how very big he was. Tall, broad, muscular, and utterly masculine. A wise woman would have held onto the bat a little longer, let the guy know she could and would bash him to pieces with her trusty Louisville Slugger if push came to shove. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine Harley Cade ever getting rough with a woman. At least, not the kind of rough that would make a woman beg him to stop. Looking at his broad-palmed hands and muscled arms made her want to plead for another helping of the wild, consuming need he’d served up on his fancy-schmancy desk.

She took the bag from him, peered into it, and nodded favorably at the number of little white cartons she saw stacked inside. “Did you order the whole menu?”

“I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

Laney looked up then, startled by the earnest simplicity of his reasoning. “I like you,” she confessed. “I tried not to, but apparently you’re a likeable guy despite your numerous faults.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I will do my best.” He shrugged, then gave her a lopsided smile. “But I’ll probably screw up again at some point, so could you do me a favor and write the fact that you like me down on a sticky note or something? Just in case?”

“If there’s cashew chicken in here, you won’t need a sticky note.”

“Cashew, almond, sesame, and General Tso’s,” he recited.

His inability to do anything halfway made her smile. “I’m afraid to ask what you got from the seafood section.”

“I’m a little scared to open some of those.” His smile widened and those devastating dimples made an appearance as he slanted a glance at the baseball bat. “I’m counting on you to protect me, Slugger.”

Tickled by his hyperbole, she smirked as she set the bag on the end table, propped the bat against the closet door, then turned to make sure they were locked in, all safe and sound. When she spun back around, she found him standing far too close, as usual, but this time she made no bid to reclaim her personal space. Sliding a hand down his shoulder, she ran her fingers over cartoon Thor’s flowing yellow hair, then let her hand drift south until her fingertips came to rest on his belt buckle. His eyes darkened and his nostrils flared. Her heart sped up as she cataloged the subtle reactions. A different kind of hunger gnawed at her gut. Dipping her fingers into the snug waistband of his jeans, she tugged him closer.

“I’m prepared to throw myself bodily between you and whatever slippery, slimy things might lurk in that big, bad bag,
cher
.”

Her voice was soft and thick, almost unrecognizable.
Cher
. She’d never used the endearment before, but with Harley it slid off her tongue more easily than the hundreds of other things she wanted to say to him. Things more eloquent than “I like you,” and a few more along the lines of, “How dare you?”

Instead, she looked him straight in the eye and asked, “How hungry are you?”

He didn’t flinch or smirk or even pump a fist in the air, proving that for all his strutting and posturing, Harley was a man who knew how to hold his shit together when things got serious. He simply pressed a hand to the small of her back and pulled her against him. The answer to her question was obvious, but being a thorough kind of guy, he demanded clarification. “For food?”

She wound her arms around his neck and plastered herself to every inch of rock-hard man she could reach. “For me.”

The next thing she knew, her feet left the floor, and he was turning away from the door, their dinner, and any last-ditch effort she might make to resist him. He caught her mouth and answered her question with a kiss so ravenous she found herself wondering if there’d be anything left of her when he was done. There was, but barely.

“Bedroom?”

It took a second to unscramble her thoughts, but the moment she remembered her own name, she answered him with the sass she knew drove him crazy in more ways than one. “Only other room with no toilet.”

She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and breathed deep. His skin was furnace-hot. He smelled like soap and laundry detergent and horny, determined man. Laney spent the short trip to her bedroom trying to decide which component was most potent. In the end, detergent won, and she buried her nose in the wash-worn cotton of his T-shirt. Might as well take advantage. If she had her way, he wouldn’t be wearing it much longer. He stopped short of her unmade bed and a chuckle rumbled through his chest. She pressed her cheek against him, relishing the husky vibration. He loosened his hold enough to let her slide down the front of him.

“I see you haven’t gotten any neater.”

Her bare toes touched the tops of well-worn work boots. The pearly pink polish should have looked ridiculous up against the scuffed brown leather. The steel reinforcement protected him from truly having to bear her weight, so she took her time and made a show of inspecting her admittedly messy domain. “I’ll understand if this turns you off,” she began, heaving a wistful sigh.

“There isn’t a damn thing about you that turns me off.” To prove his point, he grasped her wrist and pushed her hand down until her palm covered the fly of his jeans. “Plenty of things to drive me crazy, but not one of them a deal-breaker.”

She gave the hard ridge beneath the smooth denim an experimental rub. “You’re not going to cock block me again, are you?”

“Sugar, you can have as much of my cock as you think you can handle.”

Pleasure lit a blush in her cheeks. She stroked him harder, not making any attempt to play coy. “Are you sure? I don’t want to scare you. The last time I lured you into my bed, you got a little skittish.”

“You lured me?” He scoffed. “Hell, I chased after you for so long I practically had to ankle tackle you.”

Working her hands under his shirt, she indulged in a playful growl as her fingertips tripped down the ridges of his abs. She’d never slept with a guy as hard and hot as Harley. Most of the men she knew were desk jockeys. Successful desk jockeys, but even the most dedicated gym-dandy in the bunch had nothing on this guy. These muscles were the real deal. Every one of them sculpted by lifting, carrying, hoisting, hauling, and a thousand other panty-dampening verbs. Bunching the shirt at his chest, she only had to lift a brow to get the guy to raise his arms over his head in complete and total surrender. Smiling, she leaned in and took one last hit of freshly laundered man. “Tide?”

“Downy,” he answered as she slipped her hands under his shirt.

Her turn to scoff. “A man who uses fabric softener? No, wait, your mama does your wash for you, doesn’t she?”

“My mama taught me how to sort my colors when I was eight.” One thick brow rose at the corner. “Tell me, Princess Delaney, how old were you when you learned to fluff and fold?”