As Hot As It Gets (10 page)

A few minutes later they were racing across the resort in the rain, hand in hand, drawing occasional stares from other passing couples who were out braving the weather for one reason or another.

The tropical storm whipped at them and soaked them but was hardly a deterrent. A full-blown
hurricane couldn't have stopped Mason from his goal then.

The way Claire made him feel was dangerous, insane, out of control, and he couldn't wait to finish with her and get back to his easy, controlled existence. He liked predictability. He craved order. And he prided himself on his levelheadedness. All that flew out the window when Claire was around.

He wanted his life back.

But at the moment, it was hard to care about anything except finding the nearest condom so he could bury himself deep inside her over and over until the aching stopped.

They made it to his suite in record time and let themselves in, breathless and soaked. His hand gripping Claire's, he tugged her to the bedroom. Again they undressed in a hurry, and Mason went to his nightstand and found the box of condoms. His hands fumbling with the lid, he tore the box open and flung the little black packets all over the bed.

Not exactly like a bed of roses, but it was the best he could do in his half-crazed state.

He pinned Claire on the bed, condoms surrounding her. “Hopefully we won't run out.”

She laughed. “If we do, a lack of protection will be the least of our worries.”

Mason covered her mouth with his, too desperate to wait a second longer, thrust his tongue inside her
mouth and drank her in, but a kiss could hardly quench his thirst. He needed her now.

He sat up and pulled her up with him. Claire opened a condom and slid it on him, and he turned her around and grasped her hips. His cock, pressed against her, so close to entering her, was almost all he could focus on.

He slid his hands around her waist, then let one slip between her legs. She was so wet, so ready….

He found one of her breasts with his other hand and squeezed her nipple while he kissed the back of her neck and rubbed her clit. She moaned, squirmed her hips against him.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want you inside me.”

He'd intended to practice a tiny bit of self-control to make sure she got hers first, but it only took that one breathy little request to break down his will.

Bending her over, he held firm on her hips and pushed into her from behind. She arched her back and accepted him as deep as he could go, and it was as if a dam had broken.

Mason could no longer take his time. He thrust into her, faster and faster, harder and harder, until he was trembling, blind, sweating.

He could hear his own gasping breaths, could feel his body tensing in preparation for a great release, and then it came.

He came. His body was out of his control as he spilled into her, holding on tighter to her than he
should have, unable to let go as the blinding pleasure coursed through him, out of him.

And then he collapsed over her, showered kisses on her back. Mason slipped his hand down between her legs, and with his cock still inside her, he found her clit and massaged her until she too climaxed.

Her cries of pleasure drowned out the sound of his breathing as her body bucked against his touch. When her muscles stopped flexing, he slowed the massage, then stopped. Held her tight. Lowered her to the bed. Curled his body against her.

They lay like that together for a while until the chill of the air-conditioning got to Mason and he sat up to pull the covers over them. Part of him was ready for another round, and part of him was content just to lie still and enjoy the silence with Claire.

But silence made him start thinking. About Claire. About their crazy weekend. About what they were doing together.

“When is it going to be enough?” he whispered, half to himself, not expecting an answer.

Claire's breathing had grown slow and steady, and he didn't really expect her to still be awake. Tucked up against him, warm and soft in his arms, was where she seemed to belong at that moment. It was hard to imagine this was just a temporary thing when she felt so right.

“I don't know,” she said.

“I thought you might be asleep.”

“Maybe we just need another couple of days.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I hope you're right.”

As soon as he said it, he wished he could suck the words back into his mouth. It had come out sounding bad…. And yet, he couldn't deny it, could he? He didn't want Claire around any longer than necessary, right?

If he wasn't mistaken, he could feel her body stiffen against him, but she said nothing.

Because she felt the same way, of course. She wanted nothing more from him than some quick satisfaction. He should have felt thankful for her lack of interest in him as anything more than a lover.

And he did feel thankful. Sort of.

C
LAIRE WOKE UP
slowly, feeling oddly satisfied for reasons she couldn't pinpoint right away. The room was bright, as if sunlight had finally prevailed over the clouds, and a glimpse of the blue sky outside the window confirmed it—the storm had passed.

As the fog of sleep lifted from her brain, she remembered the night before. The frantic lovemaking, then the leisurely lovemaking that had turned into more leisurely lovemaking….

That's
why she felt so satisfied.

She stretched and felt her hand and foot bump against something warm and hard. Mason, sleeping next to her, his bare back a smooth expanse that beckoned for a woman's touch. And then she noticed the fingernail marks—four on each side—she must have left during some wild moment of their night together.

With the potential for awkwardness or arguing so great, Claire decided she wasn't much interested in sticking around for morning-after pillow talk. Not that she minded a good argument under normal cir
cumstances, but for some reason, with Mason, she didn't want to do it in the morning. As quietly as she could, she slipped out of bed, then gathered up her clothes and dressed.

She felt a little rude just leaving, so she wandered into the living room in search of pen and paper to leave a note. Having no luck, she tried the small kitchen and found what she needed next to the phone. But standing in what suddenly felt like an intimate part of Mason's suite, she found herself curious about him.

Did he cook or just order room service whenever he was home? What was it like living in a glorified hotel suite all the time, on one's own private island? Surely it occasionally drove a guy to break out the frying pan and scramble some eggs or something.

She peeked into his refrigerator and was surprised to see that it was fairly well stocked. Bottled water, beer, milk, orange juice, white wine, an array of condiments, a wheel of Brie… He probably paid someone to shop for him, and cook for him, too, for that matter.

She closed the fridge and checked inside a few cabinets, where she found more normal food. Some pretzels, canned soups, things you'd expect to find in someone's home.

And maybe that was part of Mason's problem. He made his home in hotel rooms.

One thing guys rarely guessed about Claire was that she loved to cook. They always labeled her as
one of those helpless carryout chicks who was completely at a loss if faced with preparing any food more complicated than a microwave dinner. But rather the opposite was true. She'd been fascinated with cooking since her childhood, and although she didn't do it often living alone, she could whip up an impressive meal when she wanted to.

“We can order room service.” Mason's voice startled her, and she swung around too fast, sending pen and paper flying out of her hand and onto the floor.

Claire didn't show off her cooking skills to just anyone. She much preferred surprising the select few guys who deserved her culinary attention with a lavish meal once they'd been dating for a while. And yet, for reasons she didn't care to analyze, she had a burning desire to cook for Mason.

Or maybe it was just that she was insanely hungry from having skipped dinner the night before.

“How about I make some omelets?”

He blinked, looking deliciously rumpled with his hair mussed, the start of a beard darkening his jaw and a pair of navy plaid pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips.

“You can cook?”

Claire shot him a look, almost ready to toss aside her Betty Crocker urges and just pick up the phone for room service. “I know a thing or two.”

He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Be my guest then.”

Fifteen minutes later, she'd whipped up two spinach-and-cheddar omelets and found an unopened bottle of champagne in the back of the fridge to make mimosas.

She arranged breakfast on a large coffee table in the middle of the living room, then went off in search of Mason. She found him in the bathroom shaving.

“Too bad,” she said. “The five o'clock shadow was pretty hot.”

He glanced over at her and smiled. “But you've got rug burn on your face.”

For the first time, Claire noticed the raw sensation around her mouth. She looked in the mirror and saw the telltale red rash. “Oh well, that's what concealer is for. Breakfast is ready.”

“Thanks. I'll be out in a sec.”

Claire found one of Mason's sweatshirts and a pair of gym shorts in the dresser and took the liberty of changing out of the skimpy silver dress into them. They were big on her, but a heck of a lot more comfortable than her costume from the previous night. If it bothered him, he could remove them himself.

Back in the living room, she took a peek at his bookshelves. Mysteries, thrillers, classics, contemporary literature. She never would have guessed she and Mason shared the same taste in reading material—or that he was even a reader—but she spotted several of her favorite mystery authors in his collection.

A glance at his magazine rack revealed a more predictable stash of reading material—news and business magazines, plus a few guy magazines that seemed right up Mason's alley. She picked up the one on top, last month's copy of
Excess,
and sat down next to the coffee table to thumb through it.

The magazine focused on what was really important to men—women, expensive toys, fast cars and more women. An article about how to keep your girlfriend coming back for more caught Claire's attention, so she flipped back to it.

A couple of minutes later when Mason appeared at the table across from her, she looked up at him and smiled. “I can't believe you were making fun of my reading taste last night. I hope you don't follow the crappy dating advice they give in here.”

He eyed the photo on an open page of a woman in a black lace bra and panties. “I just buy that magazine for the pictures,” he said in a tone that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or serious. Since it was an echo of her own comment about
Chloe
magazine from the night before, she decided it was a joke.

“You read Elmore Leonard?” she asked, nodding at his bookshelves.

“Everything he's ever written.”

Claire blinked. Finally, something they could agree upon. “He's brilliant, isn't he?”

“The best.” He eyed the omelet. “Wow, you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble.”

Claire picked up a fork and stabbed a bite from her plate. “No trouble. I don't tell this to guys I'm dating, but I actually attended culinary school for a short while.”

“And you hide this from your dates because?”

She took a bite. Not her best work, but not bad for what she'd had to work with. “I know how men are. You find out a woman likes to cook and suddenly you expect her to do it every night.”

He tasted the omelet and moaned in appreciation. “Wow, this is delicious.”

“Thanks.”

“Aren't you worried that you might actually impress me or something?”

Claire glanced down at the magazine that was still open on the table. “According to this magazine, all I need to do is stay awake and wear sexy underwear, and I can't help but impress you.”

He smiled. “Probably true.”

She flipped to another article, this one steamy fantasy letters from readers. “Listen to this,” she said. “‘How I made my flight attendant fantasy come true…'” She glanced up at Mason. “Do you have a flight attendant fantasy?”

“Depends on the flight attendant.”

“I'll bet every guy does. Mile-high club and all.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you a member?”

“Are you?”

“I asked you first.”

“Sadly, no. I think airplane bathrooms are just too disgusting to get romantic in.”

“That's what chartered jets are for.”

Claire laughed. “My travel agent discount doesn't cover chartered jets, unfortunately.”

Mason was devouring his omelet like a starving man. When he finished it, he looked up and smiled. “You must like to travel, with your job.”

“Some girls played house or Barbie dolls or school. I played airline stewardess and sailor.”

Both eyebrows shot up this time. “Um, stewardess and sailor?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Not at the same time! I mean, I played stewardess because I saw them on TV and wanted to wear the cool uniform, and other times I played sailor because I was a big Popeye fan and I loved the ocean.”

“And, of course, both careers offer the opportunity for travel,” he said smiling.

“Of course.”

“I bet you were a spitfire as a little girl,” he said, looking at her in a way that made her turn her attention to her omelet.

Claire poked at it, suddenly not so hungry. Okay, so she was a complete spaz when it came to intimate conversation. So she was afraid of letting her real feelings hang out in front of the wrong person.

Mason was definitely the wrong person.

“I was daddy's little princess, completely spoiled, always got whatever I wanted.”

He nodded. “That explains a lot.”

“Screw you.” Claire immediately regretted mentioning her father. It was a subject she avoided with almost everyone.

“Sorry, I couldn't resist.” He finished off his mimosa, then asked, “What about your Dad? Is he still around?”

“Actually, no. He passed away recently in a car accident.” Claire willed her voice to remain casual, free of emotion, just the way she wanted to keep their conversation.

His expression darkened. “I'm sorry. That must have been really tough for you.”

She shrugged. “That's life, right?”

“You don't have to act like this around me, you know. I expect you to have actual feelings about your family.”

“Right.”

“What about your mother? Does she live in Phoenix?”

“She died when I was ten. Breast cancer.”

Mason frowned, silent for a few moments, while Claire struggled to recover the carefree feeling she'd had a few minutes ago.

“That must have made your father passing away even more difficult,” he finally said.

She was such an idiot. Tears were welling up in
her eyes, and she was about to start bawling like a baby in front of the guy she was trying to screw out of her system.

“Are you okay?” He stood up and came over to her, sat down beside her and held her arm when she tried to scoot away.

She felt her lower lip quivering. She was the biggest idiot on earth. “Yes, of course I am.”

“No you're not.”

“I'm just losing my freaking mind, that's all.” She was starting to blubber now, out of nowhere, like the soon-to-be mental patient she was.

Mason wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, and she found herself resting her head on his shoulder, feeling a lot more comforted than she would have liked by his embrace.

She was taking whimpery little breaths now, like a toddler who'd missed nap time. Maybe she hadn't let herself mourn her father for as long as she'd needed to, but why it was all coming out now was beyond her.

After a few minutes, she'd calmed down, and she pulled away from Mason. “Sorry,” she said, wiping at her eyes.

“It's okay. You're supposed to be upset about things like this.”

“I'm not supposed to become a basket case over morning-after omelets.” She stood up and cleared the plates off the coffee table.

“I'll get those,” Mason protested, but she was already on the way to the kitchen.

“You get the glasses,” she called over her shoulder.

Once she'd put the dishes in the sink, she turned to him. “I should go,” she said. “You probably have work to do today, right?”

“Yeah, unfortunately I do have to go to the office for a while.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her on the forehead. “Why don't you relax and enjoy your vacation today, and maybe we could meet up again tonight? Say around dinnertime?”

Claire couldn't help but smile at the thought of another night with Mason, doing more of what they'd already done. No, she definitely wasn't cured of him yet.

“Sounds good,” she said. “How about you come get me around six?”

“Let's make it five-thirty so we'll have plenty of time for a little pre-dinner appetizer, if you know what I mean.”

Did she ever. Claire sighed into Mason's chest, marveling at the roller coaster of emotions he managed to evoke in her. Anger, desire, giddiness, more desire, melancholy, excitement…

If they didn't work out a cure soon, she wasn't sure what she'd do with herself. Maybe find a nice white jacket and a quiet little room with padded walls, where she could go absolutely crazy without harming any bystanders.

 

M
ASON WAS PRETTY SURE
e-mail would be the downfall of civilization. He felt like he spent more time reading and responding to it than doing anything else, and now that he'd wasted an entire morning answering business e-mail, he'd had enough.

The drudgery of it had been oddly soothing, the one thing that took his mind off of Claire. He'd spent the weekend holding her at arm's length emotionally as they stayed anything but arm's length in bed.

And having her break down in front of him over breakfast had thrown him for a loop. He'd ached for her, and he'd found himself wanting to see more of her inner landscape. What made Claire the woman she was fascinated him a hell of a lot more than he would have liked. It reminded him of why he liked to keep things simple, uncomplicated, easy.

A handful of a woman like Claire was anything but.

He gave himself a mental shake and forced his mind back on work.

Today his first order of business should have been firing Mike D'Amato and tracking down everyone involved in the whole dominatrix business. But he wasn't ready to deal with it yet. He wasn't mentally focused enough, and he needed someone to bounce ideas off. He was tempted to find Claire and use her as his sounding board, but he feared he'd lose all focus again if she were anywhere nearby.