Every Girl's Secret Fantasy (7 page)

But she wasn't fourteen any more. She was an adult who could look after herself. She should be able to rationalise those feelings. Sort them out and get on with it.

“I'm sorry—” she began, not really knowing what else to say.

“It's fine. Don't worry.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “Come on. If we hurry, we can get back on the road before sunset.”

He turned away to repack the hamper.

Phoebe watched, sick at heart, knowing precisely what he was thinking: that she was a nut. That Steve was right. She was a big fat dud.

As a young girl she'd wanted to find Prince Charming. When she was a teenager she'd been determined to stay away from men; she didn't want to know about emotions that might blind her to responsibility and common sense. Later she'd decided she only needed
to keep clear of the wrong
kind
of man—love 'em and leave 'em types like her father. But recently…

Well, recently there'd been the list.

Find Mr Right Now.
The guy with the magic touch.

But she was putting too much pressure on herself to make that happen. Perhaps she'd held back too much for too long? Maybe she ought to simply let it go and not dwell too much on being…incomplete?

She watched Pace, the way he moved with such animalistic grace—so fluid and hypnotic, even while doing something as banal as folding a blanket—and, no matter the demons knocking in her brain, she simply couldn't accept it. With Pace she
knew
she'd feel everything a woman was supposed to. The sparks, the fire, the furious euphoric release.

She wasn't talking about something as basic as an orgasm. She wanted to know about the genius of two people joining who connected on every intimate level in every intimate way. About a person's soul reaching a burning pinnacle and being reduced to ashes a heartbeat before it was reborn into something close to profound. An emotion, an experience, that could never be threatened or belittled or taken away even if the relationship wasn't meant to last for ever. She wanted to know she could feel that whole.

She couldn't let that go.

She had something to prove—not to Pace or to Steve or to the Tyler's Steam prudes of her childhood. What she had to prove she'd prove to herself. And, make no mistake, despite what had just happened, barring nothing, she'd prove it tonight.

 

From Phoebe's front door, Pace searched the endless plain. He coiled some fingers into his mouth and hurled out a long, loud whistle, then, straining to hear, waited for a response.

Where the hell
was
that dog?

After arriving back from their walk fifteen minutes earlier, Phoebe had assured him that Hannie would return soon enough. Then she'd set about unpacking the hamper, insisting he relax and that she'd do it herself.

She seemed affable enough, but…distracted. He couldn't blame her. What he'd learned this afternoon changed everything. He'd hoped to stay the night, but that was no longer on the cards. He still wanted her, nothing could change that, but from this point on it was advance in first gear all the way.

She'd had it tough as a kid. Phoebe didn't want to end up like her broken-hearted mother and so, if he had it right, she found it difficult to trust—herself or anyone else in that situation—and truly let go.

But she wanted to. That list at her apartment proved it. Still, nothing was going to happen tonight.

“I'll scout around,” he suggested. “Hannie might be lost.”

Phoebe flung the teatowel over her shoulder. “He'll be back soon. Take a seat while I finish up.”

She bent forward from the hips, rearranging the crockery to fit the cups back in. His gaze followed her movements while she worked. As her rear in that white flowing dress tipped one way and then the other the length behind his zipper grew. There wasn't a man in existence who desired a woman more than he desired her at this moment. What a time to want to play Galahad.

From the shadowed doorway, he watched as she straightened. After stretching her back like a world-weary cat, she rummaged around in a drawer and found a rubber band. Holding the band between her teeth, she set about finger-combing her long silky hair up into a ponytail.

Beneath the bodice of the white dress her breasts bobbed as her fingers worked her hair higher and higher. He imagined how rosy the tips would be, how hot and delicious they'd feel and taste beneath his tongue. Between his teeth.

His erection throbbed and, uncomfortable, he rearranged his feet.

It was all he could do not to stride over, bring her into his arms, plunder her mouth with his and grip her palm over one very volatile, very hard place. Would she shriek back in horror, or melt like butter on a red-hot stove?

She stopped, frowned. When she darted a look his way and smiled, that rubber band still in her mouth and arms holding up all that hair, his stomach kicked with want and his gaze slid away.

Get it together, Davis.
She might be the sexiest female on the planet, but he'd vowed to step back. If he couldn't do that, then he needed to step out.

Driving down a breath, he hooked a thumb towards the fields outside. “I'm going to find that dog.”

“No.”

Already heading out, he pulled up. Having dropped her hair, Phoebe was crossing the room to join him in the doorway. She slipped the rubber band over her wrist and searched a landscape patterned with deepening shades of purple and grey.

“When he's out playing,” she said, “Hannie won't come even when
I
call. We'll just have to wait. I'll put the lights out too, except for the lamp. That should help.”

“How?”

“If the lights are on he'll think there's still time to run around. Lights out, he'll race back, afraid to be left behind.”

Pace rubbed his chin. Oddly enough, it made sense.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Holding you up like this. Especially…” Her gaze edged away. “Especially after what happened this afternoon.”

An image of him holding her, kissing her passionately under that tree, gripped his imagination, and an even more dangerous heat flooded his veins.

“I want you to know—in case you didn't…” she smiled almost shyly “…I like the way you kiss.”

He pressed his back against the jamb and groaned in his throat. She wasn't making this easy.

“Thanks,” he said tightly. “Ditto.”

She looked out, surveying the view again.

“Someone on the show last week explained a good kiss as ‘the elixir of life'. But a recent report I read for research talks of kisses only in terms of foreplay.”

He crossed and fastened his arms over his fast-beating heart. Foreplay was such an evocative word—particularly in the state he was in.

“On one of the first shows we did,” she continued, “a contestant said she believed it all begins and ends with a kiss.” She wound the rubber band off her wrist, set it between her teeth, and filed her fingers up through her hair to finish the job he'd interrupted a moment ago.

As she gazed out into the coming night, gathering silken hair high on her head, he stood, absorbed in the sight of that rubber band in her mouth…entranced by how lush and wet and inviting her lips looked in the rising moonlight. At some point he realised she was talking—something about her hair sticking to her back while she'd been working in the kitchen—and as her lips moved and unwittingly teased him the band fell from her mouth. Still holding her hair up, she let out a curse. Then, “Could you get that for me, please?”

He'd hop around on one leg and blow a plastic horn if she asked.

He hunkered down and spotted the band straight off, but then his gaze locked on her beautiful bare feet, her slim ankles, toned naked calves. The perfumed scent of her skin drifted into his lungs and his chest squeezed. What he wouldn't give to taste a deliberate line from her inside knee all the way up to her throat.

The sound of her voice filtered over the top of his head and unlocked his spellbound state.

“Can you see it?” she asked. “Feel around.”

His fingers itched to reach out and do just that, but he bunched them tight and clamped shut his eyes. If he didn't know better, he'd think she was deliberately trying to drive him mad.

“Isn't that it?” she said. “Near my foot?”

A set of feminine toes, painted pink, edged out. A breeze blew in at the same time, and as her leg moved, the wind rippled up under her skirt. He caught a flash of creamy thigh and white panties, and at the same time her scent burrowed deeper under his skin, detonating a series of test explosions through his blood.

Releasing her hair, she hunkered down too. Waves of blond silk spilled over her shoulders while she searched the floor and then broke into a smile. “Here it is, silly.” She pulled the rubber band like a miniature slingshot, flicked his forearm and then laughed.

He didn't laugh back. He was too engrossed in that pair of firm breasts that seemed to jut out and whisper,
touch me
. If he moved a single muscle it would be to gather her up and kiss her senseless.

Foreplay… Elixir…

Perspiration broke out on his hairline.

That mutt had better get back soon, or he'd lose it.

When she reached out and he felt her fingers lift through his hair every tendon in his body winched tight. Burgeoning doors he'd held closed for too long sprang open and the beast inside reared up. Whether she needed time or not,
this
was a very self-evident first move. No man could—or
should
—ignore such an obvious sign.

But as he leaned towards her she drew away. He saw what she was holding and his gut fell.

“A leaf,” she said, inspecting the dry brown specimen. “Must've blown in on the breeze.” She flicked the leaf. As the wind carried it away she hugged herself, and inadvertently pushed her breasts together. “In fact it's getting cold. Think I'll go pull on something to warm up.”

While Pace shuddered out a barely controlled breath, Phoebe found her feet and navigated the couch. She flicked the switch on a lampstand, then moved to thumb off the kitchen light.

When she asked, “Do you know how to light a fire?”
a rush of heat pooled in his loins.
Someone in this house sure did.

She nodded at the fireplace. “There's wood in the bin. Matches on the mantel.”

She added, “You'll need a poker. There's one there but it's so heavy I can barely lift it.”

He swallowed. Join the club.

Fixated upon the sway of Phoebe's butt while she ascended the stairs to the loft, Pace managed a Neanderthal grunt as his eyes rocked back and forth. When she'd disappeared from sight he slumped against the jamb. He only hoped she'd find something huge and ugly to wear. A fashion monstrosity that obliterated her figure under a cover of thick, hairy wool.

He crossed to the hearth. Dropping to one knee, he scrunched paper, shoved it under the wood, and set it alight. Weak blue-orange ribbons licked through the pile, within minutes catching the wood to cast a theatre of flickering shadows across the ceiling and walls.

Standing, he prodded the crackling logs with the poker, and watched sparks swirl like clouds of busy fireflies. He heaped on another log, then stood back and dusted his hands, somewhat satisfied. A bit of masculine industry and exertion and he felt halfway composed. He could get through this. He just needed to remember that while sex was the only thing on
his
mind, she'd waved the “proceed with caution” flag. More was the pity.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement…the glittering prisms of Phoebe's gaze reflecting the fire's glow. When his eyes adjusted to the light, they fell clean out of his head.

This couldn't be.

Phoebe was relaxed, leaning against the stair railing…

Naked?

P
ACE
shook his head to jostle his brain, readjusted his vision and looked again.

No, Phoebe wasn't naked. Not entirely. Although the only thing separating decency from the barest of facts was a set of sexy black lingerie.

Dropping back against the mantel, Pace scrubbed his eyes. When he refocused, Phoebe was still there, looking like a pin-up, propped at a lazy angle against the railing, one shapely leg bent, an arm posed casually above her head. Roughly teased hair sat high in a wild, messy bun.

His pulse-rate tripped out as she began to move, slinking down the stairs with an unmistakable feline prowess, dragging a black silk night-coat behind her.

“Pace, you look a little piqued.” Her voice was as sweet and thick as a smear of whipped cream. “Did I catch you off-guard? I'm sure I told you I wanted to change.” Mischief twinkled in her eyes, while a twinge of wicked amusement framed her mouth. “Haven't you heard? It's not polite to stare.”

She moved the rest of the way down the stairs and joined him. By the dancing flames of the fire she arched a brow and dropped the coat before one red-lacquered
fingertip reached out. About to touch his lips, it backtracked to her own overstated pout. The tip disappeared, sucked into that hypnotic rouged vacuum, before gradually withdrawing to ride a slow circle around the rim of his own gaping mouth. His mouth automatically closed when her finger slipped between his lips, slipped back out, then—dear God—slipped back in again.

A hum of satisfaction vibrated from Phoebe's throat when she retracted her finger a final time, then trailed it from her jaw to the dip between her cupped breasts.

Pace shook himself again. Hard.

Nothing made sense right now except the wild thumping in his chest. What had got into her? Less than an hour ago, by that tree, she'd apologised for having to break off what had seemed to be going so well. She'd still been acting all butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth before she'd gone upstairs to “warm up”. More like
strip down
.

But she sure as hell didn't look innocent now. She looked seriously sexy.

Still, there was something more lying behind the shadows in her gaze and the too-perfect pout of her lips. A hint that perhaps she wasn't as comfortable with this show as she might have him believe. But she was doing such a fine job it wouldn't take much to ignore it.

She dropped her gaze and studied his shirtfront before meekly handling its opening. When she twirled and tugged at the wiry hair at the vee, the fireball forming low in his gut swelled and almost shot free.

Pace pointed out, “You said you were cold.”

“I'm heating up now, though,” she purred. “How about you?”

He moved closer. “I'm about to boil over.”

But she was already curling around his side, manoeuvring her body so it seemed each gliding inch made contact with some area of his anatomy. Behind him now, she fanned meaningful touches over his shoulders and back. Her fingers trailed lower, across his butt, then scooped between his denim-clad thighs to cup and squeeze.

Shuddering at a spike of pleasure, he made a grab for her hand, but she twined away again, slipping under his arm until she stood before him once more. A brush of satin—her cheek—nuzzled at his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, sharp teeth nipped. On fire, he gritted his teeth against a groan of pure ecstasy.

His mind was sizzled mush, his body a mass of molten lust. This entire scene was mind-blowing, and while every brain cell still functioning told him not to question, Pace couldn't help but ask…

“What's going on?” Was she about to pull the pin again? Back off and make an excuse like earlier. “Is it safe to get excited?”

Her smile was ripe with promise. “Should you get excited? Definitely.” Straightening, she urged up his shirt and, with his help, wrangled it over his shoulders and head. “Is it safe?” Each hand cupped a pec as her tongue, stiff and wet, tickled that still burning nipple. He felt her grin against his flesh. “That's something you'll need to decide for yourself.”

She swept up the robe and whipped out its tie belt. Then she found his hands and joined the palms as if he were in prayer. After slotting them into her cleavage, she lashed his wrists together. She double-checked the knot before a dainty foot hooked the back of his ankles and she shoved him on the couch.

In freefall, he hit the cushions with an airy thud. A dizzy moment later she was kneeling over him, manipulating their positions until he lay on his back, arms bridged over his head. As if she were doing something as everyday as icing a cake, she straddled his chest and tied his cuffed hands to the lampstand.

Absorbing it all, Pace merely grinned.

He couldn't wait to see what came next.

 

Don't think. Just do it.

On the surface, she might appear to be completely in control, but underneath her sultry act Phoebe wasn't much better than a quivering bag of nerves.

She'd made her decision. No more false starts. No matter what, the next time Pace held her the kissing wouldn't stop until they'd gone all the way. Walking back to the cottage, she'd formed her plan. She'd primed the scene, talking with Pace in the doorway, then headed upstairs to change into the lingerie she'd brought with her from Sydney just in case.

But as she'd slinked down the stairs to rejoin Pace in the firelight flickering over the quiet walls, her anxiety had peaked to a near-crippling state and she'd very nearly backed out. Her palms had been so damp. Her stomach wouldn't quit rolling. Her knees had trembled enough to fold at any time.

She'd been committed to going forth and slaying those I'm-not-frigid dragons. But could she go through with something as outrageous as a striptease? If only she knew how it would play out. Would she make a complete fool of herself? Or, having thrown herself into the deep end without a lifejacket, would she at last find what had previously eluded her? An experience—a
connection—that would once and for all release her and all she could be.

Now that she'd witnessed Pace's positive reaction the nerves weren't jittering quite so much. And she felt so incredibly aware. So alive! Still, she'd only just made it out the gate. The interesting, terrifying part was still to come.

With a merciless yank she made certain the rope lashing Pace's wrists to the lampstand was secure. Then, for good measure and an added tease, she leant forward, trailing two fingertips over the vein bulging on top of one masculine hand. She peered down over her black lace bra and, amazed she was actually doing this, meekly enquired, “Too tight?”

Pace blinked up with a mixture of arousal and expectation. “Just tight enough.”

Beneath her spreadeagled thighs Pace shucked his wrists one way, then the other. The heavy base of the stand didn't budge; it weighed at least half a ton.

“Can't see how I can help this way, though,” he said, and she shrugged.

“No help needed.”

Remembering his advice from yesterday again—
don't think, just do it
—she twirled around until she sat facing his boots. Her heart pumping madly, she gradually fell forward, touched his toes, then arched slowly back, scraping her nails along two long stretches of denim. Her fingers came to rest on patches of burning skin either side of a concave navel. When those boots quivered, Phoebe took two deep breaths and then brought her mouth to his toned belly. The coarse hair tickling her chin, she kissed the square inch directly
above his zipper. The flesh beneath her lips was on fire…the scent she caught was uncensored male.

Phoebe's core heated and throbbed.

“Everything under control down there?” Pace's voice had been dragged through the thickest molasses. “Want me to…uh—” she kissed him again and his hips bucked “—heel off my boots?”

She cast a lazy glance over her shoulder. “You can leave your boots on.”

After easing off her perch, she stood before him, taking stock of the blood-pumping picture splayed out on her couch. She lapped up the magnificent male form…the shadows shifting with erotic languor over hard-muscled abs, biceps, chest. When her gaze connected with his, her heart leapt to her throat. She'd expected to see a certain wariness edging his expression. What she recognised in the focused gleam in his eyes was something else entirely.

Enjoyment—pure and simple. And challenge. He reminded her of a wild beast that was biding its time, waiting for the right moment to break free and claim a sweet reward all its own.

At her back, a log crumbled into the fire's ashes, and Phoebe was shaken out of her trance. Swallowing, she focused on taking her next step before any nerves could creep back in.

Moving to the CD-player, she made a selection, pressed “play” then let the soulful notes of a clarinet wash over her. Conjuring a provocative fluid motion, she threaded her fingers up through her hair to dislodge the single pin and release a waterfall of hair upon her shoulders. Then, ordering herself to give in to the
music and the mood, she began to dance—to weave and stretch, roll and dip—a little stiffly at first.

But as the seconds wound into minutes she limbered up, and the tight knots in her stomach gradually took on a different form…a pulsing push and pull that started out as sparks igniting back and forth through her blood and then grew into something far more intoxicating.

Something clear and bright.

Listen to the music and let yourself go.

Her confidence building along with the heat in the room, Phoebe swayed away from the corner, arching and twirling, allowing herself only to
feel
in the immediate, smouldering present. When barely an arm's length separated her from Pace she closed her eyes again and absorbed the crisp dry air, as well as the symphony caressing her every move.

She felt it.
Was
it.

Desirable. Powerful.

Sexy.

Opening her eyes, she focused on her captive audience. Pace's nostrils flared like an animal testing the air as he concentrated on her performance.

Deliciously reckless now, she smiled. “You like to see a woman dance, Pace?”

A pulse pounded at the side of his throat.

“Some women.”

Winding around to offer a rear view, she tucked a cheek into her shoulder. “
This
woman, Pace?”

Blue eyes gleamed in the shadows. “Yes, Phoebe. I like to see you dance.”

Something in the deep focus of his tone stilled her for a beat. She felt locked in the power of his gaze and the message it seemed to convey.
My turn's coming.
But then the music swelled and she was lost again, more aware with every chord of how deeply this act was affecting her—and Pace—on every level. It was as if she'd become another person…the person she'd always known she could be in the right situation. With the right man.

On a whim, she turned her back to him, hugged herself, and manufactured a pitiful attempt to reach her bra's clasp. “I can't seem to…” She pretended to stretch. “I can't seem to reach.”

But rather than react Pace simply lay there, strangely unmoved.

Her swaying faltered as her stomach pitched and her heart began to pound a different beat. Why no reaction? Had she done something wrong? Something to turn him off?

As she edged around to face him Pace grimaced, arched his back, and let out a gut-wrenching oath. A harrowing feeling funnelled through her and Phoebe held her breath. What was happening? Clearly he was in pain. Was he having a heart attack? A stroke?

When he arched higher, grimaced harder, she rushed over and fell to her knees. His eyes were squeezed tight, his expression tortured.

She touched his cheek. “Pace, what's wrong?”

“Something…cutting into—” he cursed again “—back of neck.”

Had she left a pair of manicure scissors on the cushions? She'd eaten dinner on this couch many times. Had a knife, lost in the join, stuck into his back?

She sent a hand in to tunnel behind his neck. He growled out again, louder this time. Desperate, she struggled to see around his mountainous shoulders.

“Right
there
,” he let her know, as half her arm disappeared between his back and the couch.

Panic beating in her ears, she burrowed deeper, felt around. “I—I don't feel anything.”

His face was inches from hers. Heartbeat hammering, she searched his eyes for a sign, for some instruction on what to do next. But of course she needed to get a knife, or scissors, hurry back, cut the tie and set him free. She needed to do it
now
.

About to bolt to the kitchen, Phoebe hesitated. Pace's expression had changed. Rather than pinched, his face now seemed strangely at peace. Make that supremely satisfied.

Her stomach clenched sickly around a dense ball when he smiled and the horrible truth dawned.

His sudden pain, the grimace, the moans…it had all been a trap. She'd been tricked!

Growling, she tried to yank her arm free. Stuck fast between the couch and his back, it wouldn't budge.

Pace's smile grew. “What do you intend to do now, Mata Hari?”

Her mind racing, she stammered, “I—I wasn't going to keep you tied up all night, I swear.”

“And now?”

“Now you move and I'll cut you free.”

In the firelight, she saw his eyes narrow. “What say we strike a deal? I'll let you go in return for a kiss.”

“A
kiss
?”

She blinked. That was it? There had to be more to it than that.

“One kiss,” he confirmed, reading her thoughts. “Now, bring your lips here, Phoebe. Bring them here
now
.”

She bristled at his command. She was the one who
was supposed to be in charge here. But pins and needles were biting at her fingers, and his steely gaze told her he had no intention of relenting until she did as she was told.