Love Letters, Inc. (14 page)

"Later, love," he said in a strangled voice, pulling away from her briefly. Before she could open her eyes to see what he was doing, he was back. With one easy, fluid move, he covered her, nudged her thighs apart, and rested himself against her. His erection was a brand; long, hard, and sinfully hot.

Every gene, fiber, and nerve in Rosie's body anticipated him, longed for him.

He poised over her, probed gently for entry—and sank deep. His plunge, smooth and faultless, filled her to her core.

Dazed with sensation, Rosie met his strong, powerful thrusts, again and again, inwardly pleading for more. She scraped her nails along his back, dug them into his muscled shoulders. And she bit her lips, sealed them tight.

"Don't," Kent said in a strained voice, kissing her hard. "Let it come. Let me know how you feel."

"I feel like... like I'm breaking up."

When he gripped her buttocks and lifted her to him, held her firm to thrust deeper, she gasped and sunk her nails into his biceps. "No. Yes. No more. Oh, yes. I can't—"

"Let it happen, Red. Let go."

He shifted slightly, so the whole hard length of him, rubbed hotly against her—in her. Her body pulsed and writhed as she grabbed fistfuls of the sheet for anchor.

He held himself above her, almost but not quite out. Only air against her breasts—where Kent should have been.

She heard her ragged moan fill the darkening room, felt the rumble of a heart beating so wildly it threatened to leap from her chest. She wanted, ached with need, but there couldn't be more. She couldn't take any more. She opened her eyes, and they met Kent's, black and hot with sex and erotic challenge.

"Come to me, Red," he demanded.

Gazes locked, she gripped his straining biceps and lifted her body to his, invited him. He lowered himself, his hair tangling with hers, and came back to her, going deeper, holding, going deeper yet, taking her exactly where she wanted to go—with him.

Chapter 9

Kent's body thundered to a state of collapse. He felt like shouting for joy, but he was too exhausted. Spent and empty from the kind of lovemaking a man only dreams about.

He hoped Rosie felt the same.

He rolled off her and tugged her to a warm spot under his arm, kissing her hair, the lingering heat on her forehead. He could hold her all night. Or do a lot more than hold. The night had barely begun.

She sat up abruptly, jabbing an elbow into his chest to gain leverage. Her eyes were moon-wide. "We didn't use anything!"

He disengaged from her elbow, rubbed where he was sure to bruise, and swung his feet to the floor on the other side of
the
bed.
He
looked back at her. "Is that right?"

"What if I'm pregnant?" She skittered up the bed and pulled the quilt up like a shield, presumably against marauding sperm.

"Given your goal in life, I'd think that would make you a happy woman."

She gave him a scathing look, and he grinned. Jonesy was right, Rosie did have a problem with priorities. Most women would have thought of protection before, rather than after. Not that he'd given her much chance. He ambled into the bathroom. When he came back, she was staring out the window, looking fretful and adorable.

His stomach knotted, and he sensed a definite unbalancing of sorts in the vicinity of his chest. Love? Odd. The thought didn't bother him in the least. But the idea of the statistic-popping family Rosie wanted scared him half to death. He hoped she'd start thinking more rationally after tomorrow, because he wanted a lot more than good-time sex with this woman. A lot more.

"It's okay. I used something," he said.

Her gaze swung round. "You did not."

"Yes, I did."

"Didn't."

He grinned. "Did so."

She frowned, as if trying to remember, and pulled the blanket higher.

"Rosie, I would
not
lie about something like that." He stooped and picked up the empty foil packet from beside the bed, handed it to her. "Satisfied?"

She looked puzzled. "When did you put a condom on? I didn't notice..."

He sat on the edge of the bed, and touched her crazy hair. "That's because you were blind with passion."

"I was not."

"Were so."

"Was—" She stopped, then smiled. "Okay, Summerton, you're right. I have to admit the rubber doll thing really worked for me," she added dryly.

"Glad to hear it. Maybe I'll give it a try."

"Maybe you should," she said, then tugged him to the bed, and drew his face to hers, kissing him with more exuberance than passion. "I loved it!"

It was his turn to frown. "The rubber doll thing?" He was definitely having trouble following this conversation.

"No, you idiot. What we did together. The sex. I loved it. And you know what? I've never really loved sex before. I've always wondered what all the fuss was about." She kissed him again, looking righteously pleased with herself. "And now I know."

A weird warmth filled his lungs. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing, just stretched out beside her and tucked her in close. When she leaned over to kiss him, and her hair clouded across his chest, he stroked her head, then lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes.

"What I said, about you being special, Rosie, I meant. I'd like—"

She shushed him and touched his lips with two fingers. "Don't! If we talk, my imaginary kids will get in the way. For tonight, let's just pretend they're all tucked safely in their beds, and we're an old married couple with the door locked." She kissed him and nibbled on his lower lip.

It was the most unromantic scenario he could possibly imagine, but it didn't stop him from yanking her to him and giving her a lot more kiss than she bargained for. "If that's how you want to play it,
old
woman, we'd better not waste any time."

"Oh, yes, let's not." She lifted her head. "You do have more of those silver packets, don't you?"

"Enough," he said, hoping it wasn't a lie.

* * *

At five a.m. Kent kissed Rosie's shoulder.

"I've got to go, Red," he whispered in her ear. Her response was an inarticulate grunt. He tried a gentle tug on her hair. This time she groaned and pulled the blanket over her head. He didn't like leaving without saying goodbye. It didn't feel right. He swung his feet to the floor and looked back at her. Or rather at a mass of red hair that fringed the blanket covering her face. Much as he wanted to see her open her eyes, dousing her with ice water was out of the question. He pulled the blanket down, kissed her shoulder again, then stood.

It took all his willpower to walk away from her bed, but he didn't have a choice. It would be light soon, and he had work to do before the family barbecue. Work. There was never a shortage of that. And for the first time the idea ticked him off.

After showering, he walked back into the bedroom, hoping to find Rosie awake. But she was still snuggled into sleep. He stood quietly, toweling himself off, unable to take his eyes off her. He swore. He was hard again. This from a guy who just weeks ago figured he was in sexual decline. But then he hadn't met Rosie.

He wanted her.

He loved her.

Thank God for Gardenia was his next thought. Whoever she was—and he didn't really care anymore—he owed her. If not for her, he'd never have met his Rosie.

Yeah, he loved her, and he intended to do something about it. And his plans didn't include her going to a singles dance tonight. Or a baseball team of kids. He wrapped the towel around his shoulders and headed back to the bathroom.

"You've got great buns, Summerton."

He turned to face her, and she looked brazenly at his erection. He felt a surge of blood, a binding of muscle, and was surprised to find he was mildly embarrassed.

Her eyes lifted to his. "You weren't planning on wasting that, were you?"

He headed to the bed, sat on its edge, and twisted to lean over her. "I had some ideas, if I'd been able to raise the dead." He kissed her nipple, breathed in the scent of sex and cinnamon emanating from her warm skin. It hit him like a power surge.

But he damn well didn't have time. When he pulled back she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his shoulder.

"You know what I said last night, about never having enjoyed sex until you?" She paused. "It was true."

"I'm glad." That was the understatement of the year.

"Now I've got another confession to make."

"Uh-huh?" he kissed her head, ran a hand down her back. He really did have to go. Had to.

"I've never made love in the morning. It's just... never happened."

She reached down and took his hardness in her hand, circled him like a velvet vise. He restrained a gasp, but couldn't stop his eyes from closing, couldn't stop his mind from centering on the pressure of her hand.

To hell with work.
"Until now, Rosie. Until now."

* * *

"Isn't it amazing? The weather is perfect. You know, I don't think we've had a bad day in the ten years we've been having these barbecues," his mother said.

Kent nodded, and for the hundredth time looked at the French doors leading to the Beachline patio where he and his mother sat under a large tent.

He wished he hadn't let Rosie insist on driving herself today. What if she went straight through to the accounting office? He might miss her entirely. He tried not to think what her reaction would be when she realized the barbecue she'd refused to attend with him was today. His only hope was that last night had changed things between them, and she'd cut him some slack. He looked back at the doors.

"What time is it?" he asked, taking a drink from his coffee and ignoring the silver and gold watch on his wrist.

"Quarter to twelve," his mother said, then excitedly raised her hand. "Oh, look, here come John and Nancy. Don't they look wonderful? The move to Bothell obviously agrees with them."

"Where in hell is Bothell? And when did they move there?"

His mother gave him one of her get-a-grip looks, then sighed, one of those long-suffering, mother-type sighs. "Really, Kent, you could at least keep track of where your cousins live."

Before he could defend himself by telling her he'd need to hire a full-time staffer if he even tried to account for all his relatives' whereabouts, she was waving wildly at some new arrivals; his brother, Mike, his wife, Leona, and their two-and-a-half-year-old twin girls, Emma and Jane. His nieces, he reminded himself, thinking it had been a long time since he seen them. They'd grown. Looking at their beaming faces, he warmed inside. With those smiles, their bright summer dresses and straw hats, they were real little heartbreakers.

"Unken Ken. We're here," they said in excited harmony. They were beautiful, and he found he didn't mind a bit when they ran up to him and planted kisses on his cheeks. But then, they weren't sticky yet. Give 'em time, he thought. He watched them run off to play with their zillion cousins, then bear-hugged his brother and kissed Leona. He didn't know how they did it. Or why. Mike and Leona had three boys already in school when the twins came along. Kent knew Leona's pregnancy was no accident. He and Mike were alike that way, both into planning and controlling everything they could, both ambitious. But they sure as hell parted company when it came to the family thing.

"So, who's the woman?" Mike asked, the split second Leona and his mother left to start harassing Beachline's professional catering staff.

Kent's gaze shot to Mike's grinning face. "What woman?" He decided to play dumb. He wasn't quite ready for the family's inevitable scrutiny of every hair on Rosie's
Technicolor
head.

Mike patted him on the back, gave him a knowing look. "It's okay. We've all been there. Mom had me married to Leona from our first date—which, by the way, was a disaster. Why should you be exempt from her predictions?"

"Maybe because I haven't even got to the first-date stage yet." Kent was surprised to realize what he said was true. He and Rosie hadn't dated in the traditional dinner-and-candlelight sense. They'd kind of blasted past the preliminaries and gone straight to dessert. He remembered this morning and his groin tightened.

"It doesn't matter." Mike swept a hand to encompass the patio and garden area, already awash in Summertons and assorted in-laws. "We've all been put on notice to be on our best behavior. Which means, I presume, no drooling in our soup, because what's between you and this mystery lady is, according to Mom,
'very
serious.' "

"She said that?" Kent was dumbstruck. He'd barely mentioned Rosie.

"Uh-huh, that she did." Mike clapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a broadly sympathetic look. "And from what I'm told, if you don't nab this one, bro, you're headed for a state of permanent bachelorhood."

"I can think of worse things."

Mike's gaze shifted to where his wife was standing beside his mother, one hand on Jane's golden head, the other on Emma's. "I can't," he said quietly, then turned back to beam at Kent, again gesturing with his hand to indicate the growing crowd. "Hope she knows what she's in for."