Dreams of Her Own (15 page)

As he took out the makings for tea, Millie peeled off her coat and laid it over an armchair in the ‘library’ and then wandered the living space. Stopping in front of the desk, she picked up the RFP instructions and began reading them. “This is a different RFP.”

“Yes. It’s for a seventeenth century English manor outside of Oxford that was recently purchased by a hotel chain. They’re converting it into an exclusive inn.”

“Sounds like a lengthy project.”

“Eighteen to twenty-four months.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip as a furrow creased her brow. “Extensive,” she said. “Have you heard anything after you submitted the RFI?”

“No.”

“How’s this one coming, then?” She set the instructions back on the desk.

“Fine,” he lied. He didn’t have a teakettle, so he brought water to a boil in a pot then filled two mugs. Carrying them over to his desk, he handed one to Millie.

Wrapping her hands around the mug, she blew on the contents, drawing his eyes to her pursed lips.

Damn.
He wanted to taste those lips again. He wanted to take those infernal pins from her hair and fist his hands in it as he kissed his way down her throat. Feeling her eyes on him, he looked up into her flushed face.

She cleared her throat and glanced back down at the packet. “I can help you with this.”

He approached her, careful not to startle her, and set his mug on the desk, before taking hers and setting it next to his. Placing his hands on her shoulders he stepped into her, relishing the hitch in her breath. So much for ‘just a burger.’

“There’s only one thing I want from you right now.” He tipped his head, and gently sucked her lower lip between his teeth. She quivered against him, then her hands found their way into his hair. “And it’s got nothing to do with paperwork.”

Chapter 19

She sighed as Ian’s hands slid down her ribs to settle at her hips. This couldn’t be happening. First he calls her up, then he takes her to dinner. Now, here she was, in his loft, his lips pressed to hers. Again.

His fingers worked their way to the hem of her sweater, breaking their kiss, and lifting it up and over her head, before tossing it aside. She shivered as cool air hit her skin. Cupping her breasts, he grazed his thumbs over her already-hard nipples. She groaned. Bending, his mouth took over where his thumbs left off, suckling her through her bra. Legs quivering, she swayed into him.

“God, Millie. You have no idea how beautiful you are.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “You don’t have to say that,” she whispered.

He drew back, and she could feel his eyes on her face. “I know I don’t. I want to. Because it’s true.” His fingers skimmed her jaw, gliding up, they tangled in her hair, pulling on the pins until they fell, tinkling as they hit the hardwood floor. Next, he removed her glasses, setting them on the desk.

Emboldened by his words, she reached up and began unbuttoning his shirt. He released her so she could slide the shirt down his arms, his eyes never leaving her face. Next, she pulled his T-shirt off, dropping it to the floor. He was beautifully made. “Can I touch you?”

He closed his eyes. “Good God, Millie. Yes.”

Slowly, she skimmed her hands down his torso, fascinated by the way his muscles twitched beneath her hand. Leaning in, she pressed her mouth to his breastbone, feeling the deep rumble in his chest as he moaned. He smelled like soap and Ian. Grazing her nose across his chest, her hands grew brave, sliding down and around to cup his butt, drawing him against her. They both hissed when his erection met her stomach.

The average human has two yards of skin, and she wanted to kiss every inch of his two yards. Kissing her way across his chest, she stopped at his nipple.

“Millie, you’re torturing me,” he growled.

“I am?”

“You’ve no idea.” His hands found the waistband of her skirt and tugged downward, taking her tights and panties along for the ride. Holding on to his shoulders as she stepped out of her clothes, she almost took a header when on the trip back up, he grazed her thighs with his teeth.

Backing her up against an interior wall, he reached around and unhooked her bra, palming each breast as he freed it. She couldn’t wait any longer. Struggling with his fly, she finally freed him, grasping him in her hand.

“Okay, enough of that,” he ground out. Dropping his jeans and boxer briefs to the floor, he palmed her butt cheeks. “Wrap your legs around my waist. That’s it.” He sandwiched her between the wall and him. She didn’t know which surface was harder. The wall at her back, or his bare chest at her front.

Oh, my first experience with suspended congress!

“Millie.” His voiced sounded tight. “You were a virgin, so I know you’re safe. Do you trust me when I say I’ve been tested recently and I’m clean?”

She nodded.

“And tell me you’re on birth control.”

“Yes.” A girl had to be prepared.

“Thank you, Jesus.” He entered her in one long, slow, motion. Throwing her head back, she reveled in the feel of him, especially
sans
condom. The fullness, the delicious friction. She hadn’t imagined it. Sex with Ian was just as earth shattering this time as the previous three times.

He nipped at her collarbone, grazing her with his teeth and tongue as he withdrew and entered her again, then again, picking up the pace with each thrust of his hips. She gripped his shoulders with the frenzy of a woman on fire. He engulfed her. Her senses were surrounded by him. His smell, his skin, his mouth, his sounds. At that moment, he made up her entire world. And her entire world spiraled away from where their bodies joined. The tension built until she thought she might shatter into a million pieces.

“Sweet Millie,” he groaned, and she followed him into the cosmos.

Pressing kisses to her shoulder, he waited until their breathing returned to normal. Still palming her bottom, he stepped out of his jeans, struggling a little to maintain his balance, then carried her, still buried deep, up the stairs to his bedroom.

Barely catching a glimpse of a battered old wardrobe, she clung to him. Dropping down to his knees, he laid her on the bed and climbed in beside her.

“You okay?”

She nodded, the barely contained smile tugging at her lips. “More than.”

“Good.” He kissed her nose.

The light from downstairs cast enough light for her to see Ian’s naked body in all its glory. And it was a beauty. Muscled arms, firm pecs, flat stomach, hard chest. She let her fingers do the walking down a thin trail of hair to find another tattoo, the one she’d seen their first night together. A quote that ran horizontally across his belly just above his navel, but it appeared to be backward. She tilted her head. “What does this say, and why is it backward?”

“It says,
‘
Fear Kills More Dreams than Failure Ever Will,’ and it’s backward so that when I look in the mirror I can read it.”

That. That was why Ian was special to her. Everything he did had meaning.

And at that moment, she added something else to her Get a Life List.

“Where did you get your tattoos?” Her hand glided across the quote, making his stomach muscles quiver.

“Why?”

“I want one.”

He propped his head in his hand and gazed down at her. “You want a tattoo,” Ian said in confusion.

Millie lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because. You have one,” she whispered.

“I also have a penis. Do you want one of those too?”

“Only if it’s yours,” she said, and he laughed. “So . . . where did you get your tattoo?”

He huffed out a breath. “A tattoo parlor in Brownsville.”

“Brownsville?” The Brooklyn neighborhood had long been one of the most dangerous in New York City.

“Yeah. No place for a woman alone.” The finality of his tone indicated he thought the conversation was over.

“What’s the name of it, the tattoo parlor?”

He hesitated and finally said, “Dangerous Ink.”

Millie nodded. “Sounds apropos.”

“You’re not going there,” he said, an edge to his voice.

“Why not? You did. And I like your tattoos.” She brushed her hand along the tattoo on his forearm.

“You have a death wish or something?”

“No. I just want a tattoo.”

Ian sighed. “If you’re serious, I’ll take you, but you’re not going alone.”

“Fine.” Pleased, she rolled over and sat up. “So, will there be a round two?”

“Babe”—he snagged her around her waist and pulled her down on top of him—“there will be a round
three
.”

“I should go,” Millie said on
a sigh.

Ian contemplated the woman he’d just made love to for the third time. Her arm and leg were flung across his body, her head resting on his shoulder, her hair a wild tangle around her. He didn’t want her to leave.

He swept his hand along her back down past her hips to her bottom then up again. “Stay.”

Raising her head, she looked at him. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.” The more he thought about it the better he liked the idea. “We’ll go to breakfast at a diner not far from here. Best French toast in Brooklyn.” Another idea sprang to mind. “Then, if you’re up for it, I’m checking in on Ruby. Since it’s Christmas Eve, I’m sure she would love the company.”

“I’d like that. What does she like? Can I bring her something?”

“If you want. Being a retired librarian, she loves books, of course. Especially the classics.”

“I have a first edition Edith Wharton I could bring if we could stop by my apartment.”

He smiled. “Sure.” He tucked her head beneath his chin and pressed his lips to her hair. “After we see Ruby, if you haven’t come to your senses by then, we can go get that tattoo.”

“Oh,” she said, with a touch of reticence in her voice “They’re open on Christmas Eve?”

He lifted a brow. “‘Til seven. I’m not sure they even recognize Christmas Eve.”

A few beats passed, then she asked, “Does it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

“Oh.”

He smiled into her hair. “You can always change your mind.”

“No. I’ve added it to my list, now I have to check it off.”

“What list?”

Millie cringed. “It’s nothing.” Why had s
he let that slip out? Oxytocin overdose, no doubt.

“Well, if the list is so important that once you add something to it, you have to check it off, it’s not nothing,” he said, his voice soft in the dimly lit room.

She threaded her fingers through the dusting of hair on his chest, making circles. Apparently, being bold wasn’t something you checked off once. It was a lifestyle change. “Do you remember the day you hauled me from the street?”

“Of course I do. It’s not often I get to rescue a damsel in distress.”

She snorted. “I’ve given you plenty more opportunities since then.”

“True that. It’s practically a full-time job.”

She plucked a hair.

“Ow!” He grabbed her hand and rubbed his chest.

“I decided that day that I needed a change.”

“What kind of change?” He entwined his finger with hers.

How could she explain it? “One that would make me less invisible, more . . . alive.”

“So you made a list.” His voice rumbled in his chest beneath her ear. She nodded, surprised that he didn’t laugh or think her silly.

“And what’s on this list?”

“Oh, you know, have sex—”

“Check. Times five.”

“Six, but who’s counting?” She grinned. “Ride death machine.”

He snorted. “Check.”

“Get drunk.”

“I don’t know why that would be on your list, but check.”

“It was on my list because I’d never done it. Just like sex.” She shrugged.

“Well, don’t make a habit of it. Getting drunk, I mean.”

“No chance of that. The next morning I felt like I’d died and someone forgot to bury me.”

He chuckled. “Good. Alcohol is bad for you. How much did you have anyway?”

“Um”—she hesitated, embarrassed by her response—“a glass.”

“Of whiskey? Vodka? Gin?”

“Wine.”

He snorted again. “Seriously?”

She lifted her head and glared at him. “Don’t laugh. I’m a lightweight, what can I say?”

He continued to chuckle.

“You mean to tell me, you’ve never been drunk?”

“No.”

His terse response piqued her curiosity. Then she recalled both times they’d had dinner, he’d only had water and root beer. “You don’t drink.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I thought two alcoholics in the family was enough.” He shifted, then began stroking her hair.

“Your parents?”

“My mother and stepfather.”

“Oh. My parents don’t drink. Too busy chasing Thomas Hardy.”

“As in
Jude the Obscure
and
Far from the Madding Crowd
Thomas Hardy
?”

Not all surprised that he would know that, Millie continued, “Yes. They’ve spent their entire academic career trying to prove an unsigned, untitled, and unfinished manuscript is Hardy’s.”

“And have they? Proved it?”

“According to my mother, yes.” His gentle strokes were lulling her to sleep.

“That’s pretty incredible.”

“I suppose,” she murmured.

“You don’t think so?”

“No. It’s great. It’s just . . . It’s been everything to them. To the exclusion of all else.” Why was she telling him this?

“All else including you?”

God how that hurt. She didn’t hate her parents. The logical side of her brain knew they didn’t
intentionally
neglect her. They just got lost in their own world. And forgot. But that didn’t mean that her emotional side didn’t resent it. She’d never cared for Thomas Hardy for that reason. “Yes.”

“I’d have traded places with you if it meant my stepfather ignored me. No. Check that. I wouldn’t want you to take my place.”

Rising up on her elbow, she studied his handsome face, covered with at least two days’ stubble, his expression grim. “Why? What did he do?”

“He was a strict disciplinarian. Especially when he’d been drinking.”

“He abused you?”

“Not according to him. In the World According to Hank, at first I needed to be taught a lesson for everything from a bad grade to getting into–and often losing–a fight. Then, apparently, I needed to be taught a lesson for my very existence.”

“What about your mother? Didn’t she defend you?”

“My mother was usually too drunk to notice.”

“Oh, Ian.” Tears stung her eyes, and she admonished herself for thinking her childhood had been bad. She pressed a kiss to his chest, and his hand settled on her hair. “Is that what killed your mother? Alcohol?”