The Reluctant Cinderella (10 page)

He hadn't—not that Megan could tell, anyway.

So strange. He seemed totally unaware of all the beautiful women who wanted him to glance their way. But when it came to Megan, he behaved as if he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

It was…kind of dizzying, really. To have a guy like Greg so interested in her. Heady and exciting and just a little bit unreal. She kept thinking she should pinch herself, to make sure she wasn't dreaming.

And that made her want to laugh out loud. After
all, as she'd told him yesterday, if he wanted to adore her, he should go right on ahead.

“Are you hungry?” he asked as they left the housewares department. It was after four.

“Starved. Let's eat.”

They had hot dogs from a street vendor, Jerry in the limo trailing them as they strolled along 34th Street, laughing and chatting, discussing how Greg's new furniture ought to be arranged in each room, eating their lovely, late, junk-food lunch.

Then came more shopping. They stopped in at Macy's.

Greg teasingly threatened, “Don't ever tell anyone at Banning's I was here.”

“Never,” Megan vowed.

They bought Egyptian cotton towels and linens for the master bedroom in a really nice sage-green and gray—and then moved on to Bloomingdales, where he picked up some lamps and a couple of occasional tables for the entryway. From Bloomies they went on to Saks.

Finally, they returned to Banning's, where she made
him
do some choosing—of various vases and mirrors and other decorative touches.

It was after eight when they finally called it quits. They went to a quiet little place in the Village for a leisurely dinner. They talked about anything and everything. He told her more about growing up a Banning, and she elaborated on her plans for Design Solutions.

At a little before eleven, they emerged onto the
darkened Greenwich Village street. Jerry was right there waiting, with the limo.

Greg pulled her close beneath the streetlamp for a quick, sweet kiss. Then he told Jerry, “Take us to the apartment,” and a naughty little thrill went shivering through her. Greg sent her a warm glance. “Okay with you?” She nodded. He kissed her again. “Good.”

In the plush comfort of the car, when he reached for her hand, she twined her fingers with his. By then, to Megan, the night ahead seemed meant to be—
their
night. Together. In the most intimate way. At last.

The limo glided to a stop at the curb. Jerry held the door for them and they got out. Megan waited, a tingle of anticipation making her feel all shivery inside, as Greg paid the driver and sent him on his way.

In the apartment, Greg offered wine. She accepted. They kicked off their shoes and sat on that gorgeous Italian leather couch of his, in the moody, shadowed light provided by the single lamp he'd lit.

He touched his glass to hers. “To a good day. The best. You. Me…”

“And your platinum credit card.”

He leaned closer for a brushing kiss. “Admit it. You like a man with a big…wallet.”

She sipped her wine. It was excellent. “A big wallet is nice. But first and foremost, a man should have a sense of humor.”

“You women always say that.”

“Because it's true.”

“What else—after the sense of humor?”

“He should be a good kisser. Definitely.”

He kissed her again. “I'm working on it.”

“Truth is, you started out fabulous and you only got better from there.”

“Now, that's what I like to hear.”

“Not that I'm exactly an expert…” In fact, she was so far from being an expert on kissing, it was laughable.

He caught her chin as she tried to look away. “Hey. Whatever it is, you can say it. You can say anything to me.”

Crazy. She believed him. And she told him, “Women look at you. All the time. Beautiful women. You have to know that.”

He shrugged. “So? Men look at you.”

“Oh, come on.”

But he was insistent. “They do. Believe me, I notice. But you don't see it. You're oblivious to how…
alive
you are, how downright gorgeous. How sexy, how
real…
”

She laughed and put up a hand. “Stop. All this flattery will go to my head.”

“It's not flattery. It's the truth.”

She teased, “You're only trying to get me into bed.”

He arched a brow. “Well, there is that.”

She touched his cheek with the side of her hand. Slow heat trickled through her. And she told him the truth, in a breath-held whisper. “I…want that, too—to spend the night here. With you.”

“Megan. Damn. I was hoping you'd say that.” He took her chin again and he kissed her, a brushing, lovely, soft kiss—a series of them, really, back and forth across her eager lips, setting off sparks and heat and that wonderful, warm, melting feeling down below. When he pulled away, he sat back far enough to sip more wine and look at her as if she were the most fabulous woman in the whole of the five boroughs and beyond.

She gulped and ordered her racing heart to slow down a little. “I think it's only fair to warn you….”

He caught a lock of her hair, rubbed it between his fingers. “Go ahead. Hit me with it. I can take it, whatever it is.”

“You, um, say that you think I'm sexy.”

“Because you are.”

“Maybe. But I'm not very…experienced.”

His mouth kicked up on one side. “Exactly how inexperienced are you?”

“Well, I'm not a virgin.”

He smiled a little wider. “Whew. Had me worried there….”

“Oh, very funny.”

His expression was instantly serious. “Listen.”

“What?”

“It doesn't matter. It's not how experienced you are—or aren't. It's
you,
Megan. I just want you.”

His words helped. A lot. They made a glow—in her heart, all through her. She touched his face again, traced that nose that would have looked just right on
a Roman coin, caressed his slightly stubbled cheek and each of his sable brows.

He kissed her fingertips as they brushed his mouth. “Say it,” he commanded. “If you're afraid whatever it is that you're thinking is going to sound strange or silly…it's not. Just tell me.”

She groaned. “Oh, all right. The truth is, you're the first guy I've even
kissed
since college. How odd is that?”

“Not odd,” he whispered. “Not odd in the least….”

She released the breath she hadn't even realized she'd been holding. “Well, I have to say, it's nice to hear you tell me that.”

He set his wine on the coffee table and she set hers beside it. And then he reached for her, stretching out on the sofa, pulling her down so she rested half on the sofa and half on top of him. Once he had her arranged to his satisfaction, he threaded his fingers up into her hair and combed down the length of the strands in a lazy, slow stroke.

“So tell me about the guy in college.” He smoothed her hair so it fanned out on her shoulders.

“Oh, puh-leese.” She folded her hands on his chest and rested her chin on them.

“I'm serious. I think I'm jealous.”

“Why? You have absolutely no need to be.”

“Say that again.”

“All right, if you insist. Don't be jealous. There's no reason.”

“Good to hear—and tell me about him anyway.”
Greg ran a slow finger down the side of her neck. “Come on…”

“Oh, all right. His name was Seth Prankmier…”

“Let me guess—he looked just like Brad Pitt, right?”

“Not even close. He was studying to be a painter.”

“Ah. The artistic type.”

“Seth weighed maybe one-ten soaking wet and he wore a long scarf and a black beret and he quoted famous poets. Only the dead ones. As I remember, I met him at a poetry reading….”

“And you kissed him?”

“I did. I also slept with him—and don't you dare ask me to tell you about
that.
All I'm going to say is that it was more than once and maybe it shouldn't have been. I kept hoping it would get better, you know?”

“Not a match, huh? You and Seth?”

“Right. Very, very not a match. Now, what about you?”

He pretended to look innocent. “What do you mean, me?”

And she realized she didn't really want to know how many model-thin, drop-dead-beautiful women he had slept with. “You know what? Never mind. Don't tell me.”

He said, “The truth is, there have been a few. Before I was married. And after.”

“What about during?”

He looked directly into her eyes. “Never. I was true to my wife. To my marriage.”

Megan realized she'd been holding her breath again, and let it out on a relieved sight. “I believe you were. And I'm glad.”

He caught her by the shoulders and urged her up until her mouth hovered above his. “No one,” he whispered, his breath warm against her lips.

She frowned, not following. “No one?”

“…like you, Megan. No one ever like you….”

“Oh, Greg….”

“It all starts with a kiss,” he whispered. “You should do that now.”

So she did; she lowered her mouth to cover his.

H
e undressed her right there, in the living area, in the glow of the city lights beyond the windows.

At first, she was so scared—that he'd see her not-concave tummy and her too-full thighs and find her suddenly less attractive, even regret that he had charmed her and pursued her until they came to this moment: here, in the moonlight, the two of them, alone, shedding the final protection of their clothes.

But he only whispered, once and then again and again, that she was beautiful, as he revealed every inch of her—full breasts, round belly and curving hips. He pulled her to her feet and he looked at her, long and slowly, his gaze sweeping from her flushed
face to her pink-painted toenails and back up to meet her waiting eyes again.

He said it once more: “Beautiful…” And he reached out, brushing his open palm against her breast, causing the nipple to draw up tight in excitement. And yearning. “So beautiful….”

She believed him. How could she not? She saw the truth in his dark, soft eyes. He looked at her and saw her beauty.

She wasn't perfect—but then, he'd told her from the first that he'd never wanted perfect. Greg wanted
her.
He wanted her just as she was. He truly did. And that made the constricting grip of her fear ease to a shadow and fall away to nothing. Her fear, after all, was only one more unneeded covering, one more barrier between them.

And all barriers must fall….

She whispered his name as she stepped up close, granting him a quick kiss, taking the sides of his polo shirt and skimming it upward. He raised his arms for her and she whipped it off and away.

Talk about beautiful….

His chest was hard, the muscles clearly cut, his skin silvered in the moonlight. “Oh, Greg….” She rested both hands against his heart, felt his heartbeat, like a promise, so deep and strong and sure.

He pulled her close and took her mouth and…

Oh, there was nothing like it. Greg's strong arms around her, his big chest against her soft breasts, his heart beating in time to hers. He kissed her and he kissed her some more, his skilled tongue finding
all the wet, secret hollows beyond her lips—finding them, stroking them, exciting her so that her whole body seemed to shimmer. Between her legs, she yearned and opened—wet. And so very needful.

He stroked a burning caress—down her arm, back up again, along her side, over the wide-flaring curve of her hip…and inward.

She gasped and then cried out.

And he did what he always did—smiled against her mouth in that special, tender, knowing way of his as his fingers combed the tight curls and then smoothly delved, parting her, sliding along the slick, sensitive inner lips, finding that special spot where her pleasure was greatest. He caressed that spot and she cried out again.

He muttered her name and he went on touching her there. She rocked against him, already spinning beyond herself, out of control in the most exquisite, unbearable, amazing way. He eased a finger inside—two—all the while using his thumb on that secret, swollen bud.

The world, spinning so fast now and glittering wildly, tightened down to that one spot—and then exploded. Pleasure claimed her, washing over her in pulsing waves. She clutched his shoulders, buried her head in the warm, firm curve of his neck and held on for dear life.

The pleasure crested and cascaded outward so that she saw a million shooting stars, each one popping and flashing on the dark screen of her shut
eyelids. Finally, slowly, the wonder faded to a shimmer and then to a soft echo, leaving her weak and sighing, clinging to him for support, thinking how she could hardly move.

He gathered her closer, wrapping both arms around her, nuzzling her hair, nipping her ear with tender little biting kisses, kisses that teased and thrilled and made her feel every bit as beautiful as he'd told her she was.

“Ohmygolly…” She made a sound that was both a moan and a giggle at once.

He chuckled. “Say that again.”

She looked up at him. “Let me elaborate. Wow and double wow.”

He bent to nip her ear once more. She shivered in delight. He whispered, “Time for bed, I think.”

“Oh, well sure. Easy for you to say. If I let go of you, I'll only fall over.”

“No problem.” Effortlessly, he bent and scooped her up against his bare chest.

She laughed in sheer joy as he lifted her high. “If you drop me, I will kill you.”

“Megan,” he said reproachfully, “don't you know yet that you can count on me?”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressed her lips to his neck and whispered happily, “I'm learning. Believe me. I honestly am….”

 

His platform bed was acres wide. He laid her down on it with infinite care. And then he stepped back to skim off his khakis and the checked silk boxers beneath.

When he stood up again, the sight of him stunned her—stole her breath and made her heart do something totally impossible beneath her ribs. He had one of those stomachs you could scrub your laundry on. And narrow, hard hips. And big, hard thighs.

And from the tangled nest of dark hair where those thighs came together, his erection jutted out at her. Very big. And very ready.

“Oh, Greg. You are something to look at,” she told him in an awestruck whisper.

His eyes holding hers, he opened the drawer in the night table beside the bed and brought out a condom, setting it on top, ready for the moment when it would be needed. Then, at last, he came down to join her, pulling her to him, tucking her head under his chin and stroking her hair as if he treasured her above everything and everyone in the whole wide world.

His big, warm hand swept down to the small of her back and he pressed her in, closer still, to his heat and maleness. The warmth in her midsection bloomed into flame as she felt him, so hard and thick, nudging her stomach, rubbing her down low. She moaned and lifted her mouth for yet another of those endless, seeking kisses.

Oh, there was nothing—nothing like his kiss. He kissed her and his hands explored her, stroking up and down the curve of her back, over the generous swell of her bottom, up again to learn the rounded shape of her shoulders, then slipping between them to cup each full breast.

And her mouth wasn't all he kissed. Oh, my, no. Those warm, soft lips of his went roaming, over her chin, down the line of her throat, which she stretched for him with a long, low moan. He licked the twin points of her collarbones, dipped into the soft hollow between them.

And went lower.

Capturing one aching, taut nipple, he sucked, slowly, circling the areole with his so-clever tongue, then sucking harder.

Deeper….

Megan gave herself up to his skill and his tenderness, clutching the silk spread, tossing her head on the pillows, so that her hair came alive, crackling with static, clinging to the silk as she moaned out her excitement, her willingness, her need….

He trailed more kisses down between her breasts, around her belly button, over the curve of her abdomen and then into the curls that covered her mound.

She gasped in delight as he kissed her some more, parting her with his tongue, stunning her with his wet, rough-velvet caress, so that she cried out his name and begged him to fill her.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Not yet…”

With his mouth, he found that special spot. He licked it and teased it, even caught it so very gently between his strong teeth, and flicked it, maddeningly, with his naughty tongue.

By then she was writhing beneath him, making low, urgent, pleading sounds. Again she felt her body rising, gathering to hit the peak once more. She
moaned and she pleaded in a breathless, yearning whisper, “Oh, Greg. Now. Please, please…now…”

And still he kissed her in that secret, most intimate way, until she could hold back no longer and the waves of sensation took her, rolling over her, spinning all through her, tossing her to the edge and beyond—out into a boundless universe studded with stars.

 

Greg felt the tiny, hot pulsing, tasted the silky spill of greater wetness when she hit the peak. He stayed with her, kissing her, drawing it out, making it last….

She was so sweet and so sexy—and yet innocent, too. Eager and amazingly responsive. But tight.

She'd said she hadn't had a lover since that poet in college—and the poet had hardly counted, from the way she'd described how it had been with him.

Greg had to remember that. He had to go slow with her. Had to make it good for her. He didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to be certain she was truly ready to take him.

So he continued his intimate kiss, until the tiny contractions faded down to almost nothing, until she sighed, her pretty, curvy body going limp, her soft arms thrown wide.

It was then, when she went boneless and loose, that he knew it was time. At last….

He lifted his head, lowering it again to press one last, gentle kiss on the tight, shiny curls that covered her sex. She panted, lifting up a little, staring down at him through glazed eyes.

“Oh, Greg…” Words seemed to fail her. She let her head drop back down.

He got up on his knees and reached for the condom, slipping it free of its wrapping, rolling it smoothly down over his aching erection. When he glanced at her sweet, flushed face again, he saw she was watching him now, her eyes wide, her sweet mouth swollen and lax from pleasure and kisses. With a small moan, she lifted both arms, reaching for him.

And he went down to her, bracing his upper body on his hands as he settled his hips between her thighs, nudging them wider with one knee and then the other, positioning himself. She moaned his name again, reaching down, closing her hand around him.

He threw his head back with a hard groan, almost losing it right then. “Careful,” he warned her, the sound guttural, rough with his straining effort at self-control.

She smiled a tiny, womanly smile and stroked him, slow strokes, up and down the shaft, careful of the condom, but with such tender and purposeful concentration. Each stroke brought intense pleasure—a pleasure very close to pain. He shut his eyes and he bore it. She was killing him. It felt so good.

As she stroked, she eased his way in, her body opening to him, warm and wet and so welcoming….

Finally, when she held him within her, she reached up, tipping her mouth to him, pulling him down along the soft, willing length of her. He kissed
her, slow and deep, and then, as the pleasure grew yet more achingly intense, he buried his head in the curve of her shoulder. Through gritted teeth, he warned, “I can't…hold back….”

Her hands stroked his spine, straying lower. She surged up against him and pulled him tight to her at the same time. He groaned as he slid in that tiny bit deeper, as he felt her firm, satiny inner muscles tighten around him, then loosen, stroking him, arousing him even more than before.

If that was possible….

“Don't, then,” she whispered. “Don't hold back….”

“I don't want…to hurt you.”

“You won't. You can't….”

And by then, it was too much: the feel of her all around him, her soft hands stroking his back, her full breasts against his chest, the sweet, clean scent of her skin….

He began to move, a slow glide at first. She wrapped her legs around him and went with him, her body instantly picking up the rhythm from his.

Careful. He really needed to be careful. And he tried, tried so hard….

But she was so eager, so open, so willing. And he did want all of her—to be buried to the hilt in her curvy, soft body; to feel those tender arms around him, her heels pressing into him, urging him on.

Everything flew away. He moved wildly and she went with him. He heard his own low, pleasured groans and her tender, encouraging cries and moans.

Faster.

Harder.

He was out of control and he knew it. It was good and it was right….

Had never been so right before.

He threw back his head at the end and he called her name—out loud that time.

She whispered, “Greg,” and he was going over, pushing so hard into her, feeling her body contracting around him, her climax catching fire from his.

The hot pulsing started, burning along his every nerve, emptying him out in a release that never seemed to end.

Finally, after forever, he went limp and heavy on top of her, crushing her, though he knew he shouldn't.

She didn't seem to mind in the least. She only stroked his back and kissed him and whispered with a sweet, low chuckle, “Oh, my, my—or did I say that before?”

 

In time, they left the bed, poured themselves more wine and went to soak in the big tub he'd had installed when he bought the loft. He turned on the massage jets. She laughed and lay back in his arms, and he found himself wishing he could hold her there, with him, that he would never have to let her go.

He whispered, only half teasing, “Sorry, but I think you'll just have to stay here forever.”

Beneath the water, she ran her finger up his thigh. He knew she could feel him, at her back, growing harder again. She gave a husky laugh. “Forever, huh?”

He nuzzled her hair, which curled into charming little corkscrews in the steam that drifted up from the tub. “Didn't I just say that?”

“Oh, yeah. You did.”

He shifted, leaning farther back, pulling her with him, so they were floating together, loose and easy in the hot, bubbling water, her body above his. “That's right. You'll have to stay. There's no escaping. I've decided to make you my sex slave.”

She let her arms float out, trailed them on top of the bubbling water. “Hmm. A sex slave. What's the pay like?”

He told her sternly, “Slaves don't get paid.”

“Well, then. I guess I would have to focus on enjoying my work.”

“An excellent attitude.” He nuzzled her hair. “And if you please me, there could be…benefits.”

“Full medical, you mean? A retirement plan?”