Hard to Hold (True Romance) (17 page)

With traffic darting past at surprising levels for the hour, she and Shane waited for the light to change at the intersection. “David and Carina are having a party Saturday night.”

“David and who?”

“Carina? Oh, I forgot, you probably haven’t met them. They moved in to 8-D while you were in Egypt. Great couple. He’s an adjunct professor at Siena. I think she’s a chef. I’m not sure. I just met them last week myself, but they are right down the hall from me, so they invited me over for a housewarming and they said I should bring friends from the building.”

Anne frowned. She wasn’t in the mood for a party. She was still dealing with jet lag, an unexpected breakup, and the night desk. She’d been looking forward to Saturday because she fully intended to remain in her pajamas until Sunday.

“I don’t think so. I need to catch up on a few things.”

“Like sleep?”

“Exactly like sleep,” Anne said.

Shane mulled this over while they crossed the street. In the distance, Anne could see both their building and the streetlamp-lit park further down the block. She couldn’t stop herself from scanning the landscape for any sign of Michael, who at this time of night, might be out with Sirus for her final walk of the evening.

She didn’t see him.

It was just as well. If she saw him, she’d have to pretend she didn’t and she had no desire to be childish about their situation. In fact, in her estimation, it was her insistence that they act like adults that was keeping them apart.

“The fact that Michael might go has nothing to do with it?” Shane asked.

Anne groaned. “I hadn’t thought about that, actually, but now that you mention it, I’m definitely not going.”

“You can’t let him ruin your social life, sweetie.”

At this, Anne snorted. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted a social life again any time soon. Not the kind that included men.

Fourteen

M
IKE RAISED HIS FIST AND POUNDED
again on Anne’s door. He’d had enough. She was going to open up or he was going to break in. Wasn’t like he didn’t know how, thanks to her.

Luckily, his second barrage did the trick. She swung the door open, fury dancing in her sleepy-lidded eyes.

“What?” she snapped.

“Were you sleeping?”

It was only eight o’clock and yet she was wearing what might pass for pajamas—baggy flannel pants and an oversize Syracuse sweatshirt that had faded from crisp navy to soft cadet blue. Her normally vibrant skin struck him as pale and her irises, though flashing with annoyance, betrayed lack of rest.

“Is there a law against it?” she snapped.

He opened his mouth, but decided that any attempt he might make at humor would not be well received. He opted to cut to the chase.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you up, but I had to see you.”

Her mouth quivered. Her luscious lips pursed, sparking an ache deep in his gut. Her hair was mussed. She had circles under her eyes.

And yet, his need for her spiked so high, he felt dizzy.

He missed her. He missed seeing her. He missed touching her. Hearing her voice stirred him up as if she’d spoken with provocative innuendo instead of strained aggravation. A week away from her had done nothing to counteract their powerful attraction. In fact, the longer he went without her—so keenly aware that she was just a floor above him that he imagined hearing her footsteps— the more he realized how wrong he’d been.

He couldn’t analyze his way out of the inevitable. He wanted Anne Miller in his life—and in his bed. Even with sloppy clothes and a bone-tired expression, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She understood him. Connected with him. How could he throw that all away just because he might fall in love with her sooner rather than later?

“I brought you something,” he said, responding to her impatient huff. “You said you liked Mexican food and
salsa verde
. I made enchiladas for that party up on eight and thought maybe you’d like to try some. Before I go up. Unless you’re going, too?”

To help his case, he unfolded the aluminum foil. The smell was bright with cilantro and smoky with cumin. He’d tossed a generous helping of fresh
pico de gallo
over the top and the combination of scents and colors seemed to soften her expression.

“Smells good,” she said. “I’m sure everyone will love it.”

“I wasn’t concerned with everyone,” he said, presenting the plate. “This is for you.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Peace offering?”

“I hope so.”

She shook her head and started to close the door. “I’m not playing this game, Michael.”

“It’s not a game,” he insisted, blocking the door and thrusting the plate into her hands. “It’s a gift. Really. No strings.”

She hesitated, but then gripped the plate so that he could safely let go. Her expression, however, remained resolute.

“I’ll take the enchiladas because they look delicious and I’m starving and because you made them. But I think I was pretty clear last week—”

“Crystal clear,” he assured her. “Now it’s my turn to be just as transparent. Anne, I was wrong. Painfully wrong. I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. And I hoped that if you liked the enchiladas—and even if you didn’t—that you would give us another chance.”

Her mouth quivered and though it might have been a result of her obvious exhaustion, her eyes glossed, heightening the richness of her deep brown eyes.

“Seriously?” she asked.

“In every sense of the word. I’m sorry, Anne. I miss you. I miss you like crazy.”

She set the plate down on a table just inside the apartment. Before he could take a single step forward on his own steam, she grabbed his shirt at the chest, balled the material in her hands and launched her lips against his.

The explosion of sensations rocked him harder than any music, filled him fuller than any food. He could not get enough of her and was only vaguely aware of leaving the hallway. One of them shut the door, probably with a foot since both arms and hands were engaged in the finest make-up kiss ever shared between a guy who’d temporarily lost his mind and the woman who had the amazing capacity to forgive.

By the time they came up for breath, Mike had to lean on the back of her couch to regain his balance.

“I can’t believe you’re giving me a second chance,” he said.

“Who said I am?” she replied, coyly toying with the top button of his Oxford shirt. “I still haven’t tasted those enchiladas. Maybe my forgiveness will depend on your ratio of cilantro to tomato in the salsa.”

He’d missed her sense of humor—her ability to tease and taunt him about one thing while his mind overloaded with images of something so much more important than food. But before any taste testing commenced, Mike took her hands and reeled her in, pressing full against her, knowing his body was hard and primed and wanting her to know it, too.

“I’d rather taste you.” He dipped his head to nibble on her neck, savoring the flavors of her flesh and the feel of her pulse on his lips.

“I’m a mess,” she said, though her conviction was weakened by the pleasured noises emanating from the back of her throat.

“No,” he insisted, kissing a path from her throat to her earlobe. “You’re delicious.”

She chuckled and the vibration beneath his mouth drove him past caring about anything but savoring the sensation of his mouth on her skin and his hands on her body. Against him, she writhed in maddening rhythms that reminded him of cool jazz. Slow, cadenced, and quivering with barely contained sensuality.

He’d never wanted a woman this intensely. He’d never allowed himself to fall so hard, so fast. Making love to Anne wouldn’t be the next step in a rising flowchart of cause and effect, but an unexpected explosion of irresistible forces.

She untucked his shirt and explored beneath the fabric, sending lightning strikes of sensation through his system as her hands ran up his back and down his obliques. He broke the kiss only long enough to whip off her sweatshirt, only briefly registering the glossy silk of her lingerie before closing his eyes and losing himself in the utter ecstasy of her kiss.

Their tongues clashed, battled and pleasured. Their hands roamed and explored. Though he was mildly aware of television voices chattering in the background, in his mind, the music shifted from jazz to rock ’n’ roll. Hard-driving, guitar-heavy, drum-pounding beats surging from deep within his soul.

Wrangling every ounce of his self-control, he broke away from her. He needed her the same way he needed air, but he had to give her a chance to backdown or at the very least, slow things up.

“The enchiladas are getting cold,” he said, panting.

“What enchiladas?”

Her sassy comeback stoked him to a burning point. When she took his hand and led him to her bedroom, he hardly registered the mounds of clothes on her bed. She swept them onto the floor, clearing the path for their bodies.

Out of sight, out of mind.

The mattress bounced beneath them, making them both laugh. Her drawstring pants proved easy to peel away, but his jeans resisted, giving her time to find a condom in her bedside table while he undressed.

“That’s handy,” he said.

“You’re complaining?” she asked, incredulous.

“Not in the least,” Mike said. He should have thought about protection, but he’d never dreamed he’d end up in bed with her when his first concern was securing her forgiveness.

“Then shut up and kiss me,” she replied.

In his whole life, he couldn’t remember wanting to follow a woman’s command more. She was his to have. His to command. He’d follow her to the ends of the earth if she told him to, so long as she didn’t stop touching him.

Beneath Michael’s clash of a kiss, Anne squealed with happiness. Was this all a dream? For a full week, she tried to get over Michael, but the task proved impossible. Every time she closed her eyes at night, she fantasized about precisely this moment, when he unhooked her bra and chucked it away, then gazed at her breasts with undeniable hunger. She’d tortured herself with imagined sensations of his hands cupping her, his thumbs taunting her nipples, his mouth descending until she spiraled out of control with the sensations of his tongue and teeth against her sensitized skin.

And now she was living the dream.

She scrambled her fingers into his hair, loving the lush, thick feel against her fingers. With each nipple and bite, however, she found herself wanting to explore all of him. She raked her hands down his back and traced his spine even as his own hands roamed and explored, finding the sweet erogenous zones she’d wanted him to discover so badly and for so long.

The rumble of Mike’s desire as he slid her panties down her body was uncomplicated. Honest. He wanted her. She wanted him.

God, how she wanted him.

By the time they’d stripped down to nothing, his kisses left her lips pleasurably bruised. He dusted them with sweet brushes of his mouth over hers while he took care of protection and moved atop of her so their bodies melded and blended into one glorious amalgamation of man and woman.

“Michael.” Hot pricks of emotion fired behind her eyes, the sharpness smoothed by the sweet rhythm of his body sliding into hers.

“I know,” he said. “We’re perfect. You’re perfect.”

Their trip to the bedroom might have been hurried, but once inside her, Michael took his time. He kissed her and caressed her, sliding her arms over her head so that he could have access to her breasts and control of the pace. Even when she hooked her ankles behind his and matched his languorous thrusts, he chuckled and slowed her down with a distraction like a hand on her hip or a mind-boggling exploration of her earlobes, throat, and neck. By the time she thought she might go mad, she could see his control slipping.

She ran her hands over his chest, tweaking his nipples as he had hers, arching up to soothe the pleasurable pain with kisses of her own. In the space of a heartbeat, his pace increased and she couldn’t resist collapsing into the softness all around her, even as she touched him, kissed him, coaxed him to take what she knew he desperately wanted since she wanted all of the same—and more.

The sensations swept over her in a wild wave, and at the last possible moment before she crested, he took her hands in his so they could ride the surge together.

In the last second before the delirium of her climax overtook her, she turned her head and spied the empty bedside table.

Only now, nothing about her was empty. Absolutely nothing at all.

Mike kissed Anne lazily. Her mouth had no expression beyond exhaustion, but her eyes lit with a smile.

A smile he’d put there.

“Hungry?”

“Not particularly,” she said, sounding entirely sated.

“Not even for Mexican food?”

She laughed, so he rolled out of bed, shrugged into his jeans, and strolled to the kitchen. He retrieved the enchiladas from the table by the door and popped them in microwave until the cheese bubbled. He snatched two forks from the drawer, found a dish-towel they could use for a table cloth, and brought the feast to Anne’s bed. As he moved into the room, he watched her sit up against the pillows and headboard, wrapping herself in her comforter until she looked even more tasty than the Mexican staple he’d made for the party.