Blind Date Disasters & Eat Your Heart Out (21 page)

“Yeah. Among other things.” And then he walked away, leaving her clinging to the counter for balance in a world where there was no balance to be had.

W
HAT HAD HAPPENED
to casual? Everything was supposed to be casual! But Mitch had no illusions as he drove to Dimi's town house that night and sat on his bike, staring at the lights, staring past the place to the lake and the dancing of the moonlight across the whitecaps.

He'd come for sex.

Talking not required.

He wasn't sure exactly when he'd changed his mind and decided he had to have her, but it was a foregone conclusion now.

Even though he'd be leaving for Los Angeles in less than a week. He was ready to go.

After this, that is. After he went inside and hauled Dimi into his arms and gave them both what they'd been panting after for weeks.

Yeah, then he'd feel better.

Sure of it, he got off the bike and headed up the path. He faltered twice, but then figured with any luck Dimi would come to her senses, re
member her asinine no-men rule and not let him within ten feet of her, anyway.

 

D
IMI STOOD
inside her kitchen, cooking with a frenzy she knew to be sheer panic mingled with wild hope. She set a Hershey's kiss on top of a sugar cookie, gluing it there with frosting, taking the extra time to lick the knife.

She set the useless knife on the growing stack of other useless knives and grabbed a clean one out of the drawer.

Her last one. How had that happened?

She refused to admit or dwell on the fact that she'd taken twenty-three licks of frosting or exactly how many fat grams that might equal.

She also refused to allow herself to look at the clock again, as she'd been looking every ten seconds or so, driving herself crazy. But she peeked, anyway, pretending to be checking on Brownie, who was fast asleep in her hut.

Seven o'clock.

Surely if Mitch had meant it, he'd have been here by now.

But what if he showed up, looking all rough and tough, wanting to talk, among other things?

Just remembering the kiss they'd shared was enough to have her sucking in a shaky breath.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd been kissed that way, so intimately it had been like making love. And if he kissed that good, she could only imagine how good he'd be at all the other stuff, the stuff that most guys were in a hurry to get past just to get to the end.

She had a feeling Mitch wouldn't be in a hurry to get past anything.

She pressed a hand to her racing heart and spread chocolate frosting all over her blouse. But that's what she got for creating cookies and thinking of Mitch at the same time.

Shaking her head, she bent to her task once again, carefully spreading frosting over the next cookie. A knock came at her back door.

She dropped the knife and went very still.

Knock, knock.

She nearly jumped out of her skin. She went to the back door and put a hand on the knob. No need for this heart-pounding anticipation, not when it was probably just Cami wanting some cookies.

“Dimi.” The voice coming through the wood was deep and husky and almost unbearably familiar.

Not Cami.

She jerked her hand from the knob, then reached for it again. Then stood there frozen.

“Dimi? Can I come in?”

Yes. No. Yes. “I don't know.”

He made a small sound, one of understanding, amusement. Desire.

It was the last that had her fisting the knob again. Shaking, she opened the door. “I thought maybe you were Cami. You know, for food. And then I thought, no, Cami wouldn't be showing up this late, not when she has Tanner, and so all these cookies are going to go to waste. Or into my stomach, neither of which really appeals, and—”

Mercifully, he shut her up by stepping inside, sweeping her into his arms and covering her mouth with his. His lips were as firm as his body, which was pressed so satisfyingly to hers. As he'd turned her world on its axis, she had to clutch at his shirt for support, but still, thankfully, he kissed her.

And kissed her.

When he finally pulled back, he looked down and smiled. “You taste like chocolate.”

Dazed, she could only nod.

“Cookies, huh?” As if he hadn't just kissed her stupid, he grabbed one off the counter and
popped it into his mouth. “Mmm, good.” His eyes darkened when they lit on her again. “Not as good as you, though. Come here, Dimi.”

Oh, boy.
“I'm…sticky.” She backed up. “I've got to go wash up.”

“I don't mind a little sticky.”

“Good, because your shirt is a mess. I'm sorry about that. I'll be right back.”

When he looked at himself, at the shirt she'd personally smeared with frosting, she took the chance to bail. Down the hall she ran, like a chicken, shutting herself in the bathroom.

She'd been in a hurry that morning, so it was a mess. Makeup was scattered across the countertop. A box of tampons, not in use at the moment, was precariously perched by the sink. So was her shower cap, for those miracle mornings when washing her hair wasn't a necessity. She'd left the toilet lid up and the cap off the toothpaste, reminding her what Cami had always claimed.

She'd make a better husband than a wife.

Which was convenient, really, because no one wanted her as a wife.

The mirror above the sink reflected a rosy-cheeked, glassy-eyed, wet-mouthed, incredibly
ravaged-looking woman she hardly recognized. “What are you doing?” she asked that woman.

“What we've been heading toward since that very first day.”

Mitch. He'd pushed open the door she hadn't locked and come up behind her, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

“I'm…very busy,” she said.

“I can see that.”

His chest brushed her back. Her heart beat even faster, and was joined by a tightening from deep within. Lust to the tenth degree, she figured. Then he touched her hair, ran his fingers through the long strands in a way that made her want to stretch and purr like a cat. He eased the heavy mass aside and bent, putting his mouth to the incredibly sensitive spot beneath her ear.

Her knees wobbled, and she grabbed the porcelain sink for all it was worth. “Mitch—”

His hands found her hips, eased them to the juncture between his so that she could feel exactly what was happening inside him, as well.

She was still trying to catch her breath over that when he slid his hands up, up, up, splaying with characteristic bluntness past the chocolate stains and over her breasts. His mouth was busy nibbling her neck, and his fingers occupied
themselves, as well, unbuttoning her blouse and slipping inside to unclasp her front-hook bra.

“I'm sticky,” she said inanely, watching with utter fascination in the mirror as he slipped her blouse down her shoulders. Then her bra, too, until she was standing there nude from the waist up with nothing to say except a little squeak when he cupped the weight of her breasts, his fingers stroking her nipples to two hard, begging peaks. “Really sticky,” she murmured weakly, shamelessly pressing her hips against his.

“I happen to like sticky. You're so beautiful, Dimi,” he said, shocking her, not because of his words, but because of the look in his eyes, as if he really, truly meant them, and not just as a line to get her into bed.

“Watch me touch you,” he said, dragging hot, wet, openmouthed kisses along her shoulder while his fingers continued to drive her to the very edge.

“I need to wash up,” she said on a low moan.

“I'll help you. In a minute.” The rasp of a zipper came next, hers, and then her skirt pooled on the floor, leaving her in nothing but her plain white serviceable panties, which naturally made him smile.

She covered them with her hands, which he
gently but firmly moved away. “You're the sexiest woman I've ever met, and I love your underwear.” His eyes gleamed with affection and a hunger that took her breath. “Now let's take them off.”

“I—” But nothing else came out, except for maybe another squeak as he skimmed them down her thighs to puddle around her ankles on top of her lonely skirt, blouse and bra.

Which pretty much left her entirely naked, facing a mirror, in the embrace of a fully clothed, fully aroused man, whose hands were driving her directly to heaven and beyond.

He danced those very clever, very talented fingers down her quivering belly, his mouth on her neck, her shoulders, everywhere, and then suddenly his fingers were between her thighs, softly stroking exactly where she needed them, starting a rhythm that made her cry out helplessly. She grabbed for support, and in the process knocked the box of tampons over, scattering them into the sink, onto the floor, on top of her clothes at their feet.

Staring at the paper-covered columns did one thing—it allowed some sanity to return. Along with a good amount of humility.

Mitch let out a soft laugh and lifted her face.
“So you use tampons. More than half the female population uses tampons.”

At the word coming out of his mouth,
tampon,
such a feminine word, she groaned.

And he just laughed. Then kissed her, kissed her until she managed to topple some of her makeup to join the tampons.

“And so you're a slob,” he added, lifting his head and looking around at the havoc. “And yeah, okay, you do own a dorky shower cap. I just don't care, Dimi.” He turned her to face him, cupping her jaw in his big, warm hands, waiting with barely restrained patience until she opened her eyes to look at him. “I don't care about any of it except sinking into you, hearing you cry out my name, feeling your legs wrap around my hips and knowing I can't tell where you end and I start.”

A tremor started at the region of her heart.

“I just want you,” he whispered. “All of you.” His hands skimmed down her body, renewing the flame as he eased her onto the counter, stepping between her legs so she had no choice but to wrap herself around him.

“Want me back,” he murmured, sinking his fingers into her hair, placing his mouth over her
jaw, her lips, her throat, renewing the heat and need in less than two seconds flat. “Say it.”

Not a problem, since every inch of her shook with the need. “I want you back.” And because she did, because she wanted him with everything she had, she tugged at his black leather jacket, which he shrugged off to join her discarded things. “Why are you wearing so many clothes?” she demanded, going to work on the buttons of his shirt.

Grinning, he added his hands to the mix, and then he was as wonderfully, gloriously naked as she.

She couldn't take her eyes off him. “Wow.” She ran her hands over his leanly muscled chest, his flat belly, his amazingly strong shoulders, anywhere and everywhere except the one place on his body that was currently nudging her in the belly because…well, quite frankly,
that
made her very nervous.

He wasn't nearly as shy, and in less than a minute he had her hot and shaking and desperately whimpering, but when he brought out a condom from the pants he'd shucked to the floor, she once again came to her senses, because for all her man hunting, for all her whining, it had been awhile since the actual act, and even
then it hadn't been anything to write home about.

And here was Mitch, standing in all his very naked splendor, and…he was huge.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said, tearing open the little packet.

She couldn't take her eyes off him as he donned the condom. “I doubt it,” she said, thinking there was something inherently wicked about watching a man touch himself.

Lifting her chin with his finger, he kissed her, soft and sweet and somehow unbearably sexy. “I'm going to fit.”

She swallowed hard, nodded and prepared herself, but Mitch ran his hand down her body, over her breasts, her belly, to the throbbing flesh between her legs, teasing, stroking, until she couldn't remember what she'd been hesitant about…until he removed his hand, wrapped her legs around his waist, grabbed her bottom in his big, warm hands and sank into her.

It was so utterly delicious, and she was so utterly close, she could do nothing but clutch him and squeeze her eyes shut, waiting for him to move, waiting to be dropped off the cliff into ecstasy.

But he didn't do anything except hold himself really, really still.

“Dimi.”

Please,
was her only coherent thought.

“Dimi?”

With some effort she opened her eyes.

“Okay?” he whispered.

Okay? Couldn't he see she wouldn't be okay until he gave her that orgasm? The one she needed above all else including air? Darn it, she didn't want to talk, she wanted action!

“Baby, am I hurting you?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she said, the words bursting out, thrusting her hips up to meet his. “Don't talk, just do me!”

Startled, he stared at her for one heartbeat, then let out a rough laugh. “Absolutely.” And bowing his back, he began a deep pumping with just the right rhythm, so that it was as natural as breathing to cry out his name, to toss her head back and explode right out of herself.

Registered blind, deaf and dumb as she was, she hardly heard his cry. She certainly couldn't respond, couldn't do anything, until finally her senses returned and she realized Mitch was leaning over her, muscles quaking, breathing every bit as harshly as she.

She was just giddy enough to open her mouth and let her first thought fly. “I'm definitely revoking my no-man rule for you.”

He jerked, then stared at her. “What?”

The horror in his gaze definitely brought her the rest of the way to earth.
Crashing
to earth.

Without an air bag, no less.

“Nothing,” she said stiffly. Because she wouldn't repeat it, not even at the threat of death, not with him looking at her like that, as if she'd started speaking in tongues. “Nothing at all.”

She shoved him away, opened the bathroom door and kicked out their pile of clothes, perfectly aware half of them were hers, but she was having a moment here. “I'd like for you to go now.”
Go fall off a cliff, damn you.