Reckless Promise (19 page)

She looked at him uncertainly.

"Why do you do that?" he asked

"Do what?"

"Look so unsure every time I say anything
about how much I want you. By now you have to know I do."

"Peanut butter and all?"

"Yes, damn it. Peanut butter and all."

"Well, you've had other chances and you
haven't."

"Honey, I'm no boy scout, but I don't do
defenseless women, and that's what you've been every other chance
I've had." He regretted the crudeness of that the minute the words
left his mouth. Fortunately, she seemed swayed by the helpless grin
that went with them.

"What makes you so sure I'm not defenseless
tonight?"

"Maybe I don't care anymore. Maybe you've
just pushed me over the edge." He regretted the words when she got
that uncertain, unsure look again. "I'll swear, I can't decide if
you're a fake or a tease."

"Oh, a fake," she said promptly. "Definitely
a fake. No teasing. I'd actually planned to seduce you tonight.

Every drop of his blood drained south and he
shot from anticipation to painful arousal in a single heartbeat.
"Why wait?" he asked through lips stiff with shock.

She gave him another one of those curiously
vulnerable looks that caught at his heart. "Because I won't feel
beautiful with peanut butter in my hair, and I'm betting that you
can make me feel beautiful."

She didn't feel beautiful? The most gorgeous
woman he'd ever been privileged to have his hands on? "I don't get
it. You shouldn't need help with that. You're the most beautiful
woman I've ever seen."

She went rigid in his arms.

"One who also happens to have a beautiful
mind and joyous soul."

"Nice recovery." Her voice sounded breathless
and she relaxed against him again.

"So why do you get so nervous when I tell you
how beautiful you are?"

"That's outside. That's all anyone ever sees.
I want to feel beautiful inside, too. As though someone cares what
I think and feel and am. If any of the men I've ever known had had
chances like you've had, none of them would have waited for me to
be there, too."

"Oh, honey." He put his arms around her. She
did it again, tearing at his heart and making him want to make her
world perfect. He rested his cheek against her hair, and recognized
the pungent stickiness of peanut butter on his skin. "If we keep
this up, we're going to have to start in the shower, and that
usually comes later."

She giggled, her golden eyes dancing.

"Tell me," he said. "What color does the
drivers' license bureau call your eyes?"

"Brown," she answered with a puzzled
frown.

"Idiots." It should have been a line. He
meant it, he realized, and the faintest sense of impending doom
lingered at the back of his mind, as though he stood on the highest
diving board, or the top of a ski jump. He swallowed hard. "Your
eyes are gold, a king's ransom in gold, and a man could find all
the secrets of the universe in them."

"I don't think the DMV does gold."

"Aren't we lucky I do? Now get your shampoo.
I think we'd better do this in the kitchen."

She came back with shampoo and a couple of
towels. "You're really going to wash my hair?"

"Yep." And she'd be damned lucky if he didn't
half drown her while he couldn't stop thinking of all the other
things he'd like to do to her. "I guess you'd better bend over the
sink." He adjusted the water to warm and moved in to stand close
behind her. She bent obediently, and he edged closer, until her
lush rear brushed him. Oh, man, he was in trouble already. And she
had to know it. "Okay, here we go."

He worked shampoo into her hair, adding more
until thick billows of lather filled his hands. The scents of
cinnamon and lemon rose around him, combining with that special
peppery scent that said 'Poppy,' making him light-headed. "I think
it's coming out."

"You have no idea how happy that makes
me."

He rinsed and soaped, leaned closer, his
strong fingers massaging her scalp.

"Mmmm. That feels so good." The world-class
butt pressed against his erection wriggled and his fingers
stilled.

"Yes, it certainly does." He couldn't
recognize the strangled voice as his.

"Don't stop," she begged.

"We're all done here unless you're planning
to grow gills." With major effort, he controlled himself enough to
give her hair a final rinse and step back. "Come on. Upsy daisy,"
he said, and wrapped a towel around her hair as she
straightened.

"No more peanut butter?"

"No more peanut butter. What do we do with
your hair now?" He'd probably have to wait for an hour while she
fussed and fiddled with it. He could stand it. Maybe.

"Oh." She unwrapped the towel and began
rubbing her hair. "Comb it. It'll dry by itself."

A drop of water trickled down the side of her
neck. Mac watched it scoot across her collarbone, over the upper
slope of her breast, and disappear into the dark shadow between her
breasts. A helpless sound grated in his throat.

"What?" She stopped rubbing and looked at
him.

He couldn't seem to form words, and his hand
drifted of its own volition up to cover the path the drop had
taken.

"Uh-uh." She was laughing at him, damn it.
"If I don't comb this out, I'll look like Little Orphan Annie with
her finger in a light socket."

"Let me do it." His voice sounded strange. He
had to get his hands on some part of her or he'd die.

She handed him the towel and a comb and stood
in front of him while he toweled the rest of the moisture away.

He dabbed the comb gently at the exploding
curls. Raging carnal desire rioted through him, diluted by
something tender, something about taking care of her like this.
"Here, you finish," he blurted. "I'm ready for a glass of
wine."

She quirked an eyebrow at him but didn't
comment. With one last swipe with of the comb, she shook her hair
into place and leaned on the counter next to him. "Me too," she
said, and lifted her glass in a wordless toast.

You're Something Special To Me
began
to play on the radio. 'Special' defined Poppy, and when he could
think clearly, that scared the socks off of him. Right now he
didn't care. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. He set
down his glass and held out his hand. "Dance with me," he said, and
pulled her against him and into the rhythm of the song.

She came into his arms, light as Chickie's
angel food cake and just as sweet, a wickedly scented temptation
that he had no intention of resisting. He held her close, until the
electric touch of her from breast to thigh sent his head spinning,
and he took her hands to link them behind his neck. Sharp pleasure
shot through him as her body shifted against his. He put his hands
on her hips, cupping the delightful sway against him. She trembled
and let her head droop against his shoulder. Her hands slid lightly
up his neck and his whole body jerked at the seductive suggestion
of her touch. He pulled her hard against him, knowing she could
feel his arousal.

He gave up any pretense of dancing and stood,
swaying gently, enjoying the softness of Poppy in his arms and the
building anticipation. "So who's going to seduce whom?"

She made a sound that might have been his
name or just a low wordless moan, and lifted her face to him in
blind seeking. He lowered his head slowly, savoring the lush
temptation of her unpainted mouth, wondering if it could be as
wickedly devastating to his senses as he remembered, knowing it
would be, tormenting himself for a few throbbing moments with the
promise of heaven.

Her eyes went wide and unfocused. Golden
eyes. A gold lust he understood. A man could spend his life, be
willing to die, to find this gold. He had come here intending to
sample, to draw out his pleasure—and hers—tonight. He wanted to
torment her with the lightest of teasing kisses before feathering
his tongue over that maddeningly full lower lip, before tasting
her, feasting on her.

She had her own ideas, he realized, when her
mouth nipped across his in tantalizing little nibbles designed to
drive a man beyond control. He might have held himself in check,
but she licked the corner of his mouth and the world spun
dizzyingly.

Maybe he could have stopped if she'd
protested. Maybe he would have stopped kissing her if she had said
'no.' But she rose to meet him like flame to dry tinder and his
brain went foggy with the need to be buried in her. He lifted her
against him, took half a dozen swift steps that took him through
the door and brought him up against the bed, and followed her down
on to the yielding bed.

* * *

Poppy sank into the mattress, lost in the
weight of Mac covering her. 'It's about time' sounded too much like
criticism, so she contented herself with a grateful murmuring of
his name. His body radiated heat that burned through the layers of
clothing that separated them.

She tugged at his shirt, frantic to tear away
the last barriers that separated skin from skin. The snaps opened
in a single yank.

"Good thing that shirt didn't button," he
said, his voice thick.

Knowing she'd done that to him made her soar.
She ran her hands up his sides and across his back, the smooth skin
hot to her touch. "You're so hot," she said. "Like you're running a
fever."

"Yeah. It's a condition known as Poppy," he
breathed into her ear. "Stay with me, honey. I know the cure."

He lifted away from her to pull the shirt all
the way off. Her eager hands were at the fastening of his jeans,
playing over the hard bulge and toying with the snaps.

"You're going to kill me," he muttered,
fumbling for the fastenings of her negligee.

Poppy guided his hand to the row of tiny
buttons from neck to waist and her smile broadened at his muffled
curse.

"There are a thousand of those damned
buttons," he moaned. "I'll tear—"

Poppy put her hand over his. "You'll unbutton
like a gentleman," she said, enjoying the teasing even while her
vision went blank at the desire in his voice. "Anything worth
having is worth working for."

His only answer was a growl.

She swallowed a smile while he worked at the
buttons and pulled the clouds of soft fabric away from her breasts.
She watched him look at her. Her nipples peaked and throbbed in
response to his stare, and when he leaned down to kiss them, she
wriggled helplessly. "Oh." Her whisper made it a plea and a prayer
and a paean of gratitude.

He leaned down and kissed each nipple, the
tip of his tongue sparking a shower of pleasure. She gripped his
shoulders. He shuddered under her touch and covered her breasts
with his hands. "Honey," he said, and came out a groan that rumbled
through her bones. "Poppy." He kissed the side of her neck and she
rolled her head to give him whatever he wanted, pressing her
breasts up into his touch.

She fumbled his jeans open, and wished that
the heavy denim would disappear magically the way it did in books.
His heavy erection pressed into her hands. She cupped him, running
her fingers over the hot, hard length of him until he pressed his
hands over hers, stopping her.

"You keep doing that and this'll be all over
before it starts." He pulled her hands up, kissing each palm in
turn, and released her to pull off his jeans and throw them on the
floor.

When he rolled back to her, he had a condom
in his hand, and she snatched at it, fumbling to rip open the foil
envelope. His hands closed over hers, under hers, fumbling and
trembling just as much. "Smooth, huh? We're some pair," he said
with a shaky laugh.

Yes, she wanted to be paired with him.
Pleasure sang through her brain when he finally mastered the
condom, along with a sense of rightness that she didn't have time
to stop and examine. She ran her hands through his hair and arched
her back, a gesture of surrender and welcome to remind him—if he
needed reminding—of what the fumbling was about.

"Witch," he muttered, and kneed her legs wide
apart. He settled over her, nudging hot and hard against her.

She reached down to guide him. He trembled
over her for an endless moment, his hard, blunt heat just touching
her, a tormenting promise of how he would fill her. She rocked
against him. The gentle motion dampened him until he eased into her
a millimeter at a time. She pulled his head down, put her mouth on
his, and murmured his name into the kiss.

He made a strangled sound that could have
been anything and plunged full into her, fitting into her in an
exquisite, blinding coming together. He set a fire in her blood,
hotter and hotter. She moved against him, demanding more, more,
harder, pleading, forcing.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he muttered,
his voice, so guttural she could scarcely recognize it.

"I know," she said breathlessly, trembling on
the edge. "I know." And felt the first warning shocks deep inside
her.

He put a hand on her throat, his fingers hard
on her jaw, bringing her mouth to meet his. Sweat slicked his body,
hard and slippery under her hands, and she fell into the hot slap
of flesh on flesh until the world went dark with a white spinning
fire behind her eyes and nothing existed but Mac, nothing to hold
onto but Mac.

When she drifted back to awareness, the first
things she knew were his arms around her, his breath in her ear,
his comforting weight sprawled across her.

"Welcome back," he said, and she felt the
rumble of his almost soundless laugh. His breath still came
unsteadily but she certainly didn't have the energy to tease
him.

Her own breath hitched, still not all that
dependable. At least he could talk. She wasn't sure she could.

"Let me stay with you tonight." He shifted
his weight to the mattress beside her without loosening his hold on
her.