Mine Until Morning (27 page)

He was willing to change everything. For her. The momentousness of it terrified her. What if she was the one who couldn’t live up to his sacrifice?

We never get over the regrets we have for the road not taken. Ma’s words of wisdom.

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“Love us, Walker,” she whispered, her heart laid open to him.

“I do.” He sealed it with a sweet kiss, their lips seeking. When she could breathe again, she murmured against his mouth, “Now, about that five hundred dollars you paid Jimmy on my behalf.”

She felt him smile in the car’s dark interior. “I’m sure we can work it out.”

“I have it all worked out,” she said softly, putting her palm on his jeans.

“How?” It might be dark, but she was sure a sliver of light sparkled in his eyes.

“Well ...” She stroked his cock, magnificently hard beneath his zipper. “Five hundred divided by fifty equals ten.”

“And you said you sucked at math.”

“Oh, I suck all right.” She unbuckled his belt, broke the silence of the night with the rasp of his zipper, and burrowed a hand beneath the waistband of his briefs to all that hard, hot flesh. “And I’m much better at word problems,” she said, smoothing a pearl of pre-come over his crown. “Like how many blow jobs at fifty dollars a pop will it take to pay off a five-hundred-dollar debt?”

“A million,” he answered, lapsing into a groan as she palmed him from base to tip, then pulled him free of his jeans.

“Now who’s bad at math?” She bent, sipped another bead of pre-come, then ran her tongue around the ridge of his crown. “The answer is ten.”

“Fuck,” he said on a mere breath of air, weaving his fingers through her hair and lightly pushing her head down. “That’ll never be enough.”

His come was so sweet, the feel of his flesh in her mouth like satin, his scent masculine and earthy.

“I’m going to have to charge a helluva lot more for the bathroom.” Walker pumped his hips slowly, sliding deeper.

Cleo took him all the way to the back of her throat, flexing around him. Her hair was like silk in his fingers, her mouth warm, wet. She withdrew to suction his crown, and his balls tightened with need.

God, he could have this every day for the rest of his life, not just her mouth on him or the heat of her flesh, but the connection. It was there, mind to mind, heart to heart, flowing between them.

“Make me come, Cleo, love.”

She took him deep, pumping him between her lips, and for one long moment, he gave her his essence, filling her with everything he was, shuddering for long, 175

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ecstatic moments as she soothed him with her mouth. When it was over, he hauled her up in his arms, felt the beat of her heart against his chest.

“Walker?” Her voice vibrated against his ear.

“Hmm?”

“You were right.”

“About what?” His words slurred with contentment.

“Paying for sex is powerful.”

Something eased in his chest. “And so is being paid for it,” he murmured.

“I think I understand now.”

God help him, he’d been waiting for that. Acceptance without judgment.

“I wonder what it would be like.”

“What?” He was sure she would feel his heartbeat quicken against her breasts.

“To be a courtesan.” She raised her gaze to his. “Maybe with you. Someday.”

“Maybe someday.” God, how he would love pleasuring her with another man, giving her the ultimate, two of everything.

“It’s just a fantasy,” she whispered.

“We all need our sexy fantasies.” But his specialty was making fantasies come true.

She trailed a hand down his cheek. “I love you.”

He closed his eyes to savor the words, the moment, as she snuggled closer, burrowing her nose into the crook of his neck. Even courtesans had fantasies. She had just given him his. 176

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NO SECOND CHANCES

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Six months ago

HER BREATH CAUGHT HALFWAY INTO HER LUNGS.

Time had wrought changes, but she knew him instantly. At forty-eight, he was more handsome than she could have imagined. His jaw chiseled, his body bigger—six feet of hard muscle—his dark hair heavily salted with a gray that seemed to match the color of his eyes, a shade that had haunted her. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a mere boy of eighteen compared to the man he’d become.

The memories she’d managed to bury slammed her chest so hard she was surprised she didn’t crumple to her knees. Love, hate, joy, anger, ecstasy, pain, wonder, anguish, and fear. All the emotions that she’d thought were long gone, dead and buried. He was the best of her memories and the worst of them. He’d been a part of her hopes, then a piece of her nightmares. If her muscles had cooperated, she would have run. Instead, she could only watch him cross the room. To her.

“Isabel.” His smile was brilliant, devastating, but his silver gaze was guarded.

“You’ve done well for yourself.”

For a long time, she’d believed she would have another chance. Now, thirty years later, she knew there were no second chances. 178

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1

The present

ROYCE HARMON LAY IN THE DARK ON THE FRAGILE ANTIQUE SOFA in the front room of Isabel’s Pacific Heights flat. It wasn’t made for a man’s six-foot frame, and if she saw him abusing it like this, Isabel would freak. But at three in the morning, she wasn’t home to see him do it. He’d arrived on a late Friday-evening flight, taken a taxi, let himself in with the key she’d given him. Now he waited. If he’d called ahead, would she have been there to greet him?

Royce stacked his hands beneath his head and stared out the picture window. During the day, one could see the streets sloping down to the water, Alcatraz, the bay dotted with sailboats. Right now, all he could see were stars, the heavens lit from below by the city’s nighttime glow. Despite its legendary fog, the San Francisco sky was clear tonight, even in late October. The three-bedroom flat was worth well into the millions even after the housing crisis. Isabel told him she’d inherited it. She’d never said from whom. She cut off any discussion regarding the past. She refused any overtures about the future. As for the present, he was sure he wasn’t the only man in her life. They’d made no commitment, never declared exclusivity, though he believed he was the only one with a key to her flat. No matter what time he arrived, whether she was home or out, he never found evidence of anyone else having been there, and she always seemed glad to see him. He’d loved the seventeen-year-old girl she’d been with every last cell in his body. The woman she’d become? He couldn’t say. He didn’t know her. They fucked, but they weren’t intimate. They didn’t date. Occasionally they’d dine at restaurants down along the Peninsula or Marin or the East Bay, but never San Francisco. She chose out-of-the-way places and always asked for a table tucked in a dim corner. As if she were afraid of being recognized or seen with him. All he knew about her was what he observed. She dressed expensively and elegantly. She had a BMW garaged beneath the building, but for the most part she used a limo service to get around town. Her jewels were real. She belonged to an exclusive club where she worked out daily. She never revealed what she 179

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did for a living, but when her cell phone rang, she always took the call in another room. She said she’d never married, so whom had she inherited from? And exactly what? Just the flat, or all the money, too?

Her secrets drove him crazy, but she wasn’t telling, and if he couldn’t live with that, the only alternative was to walk away. Royce couldn’t do that. Thirty years ago, he’d made love to her with all his heart. He’d never truly reclaimed it. Bare-bones, their story was a stereotype. Her family was trailer trash, his, community pillars. He’d forced their love into hiding; she’d accused him of being ashamed. Maybe he was, but not of her, never her. Prosperity, Oklahoma, was like any other small town; the gossip was merciless. He’d refused to subject her to it. They’d fought regularly over the issue. One day those fights got the better of them. She’d run away. Two months later, he’d received an apology card from L.A. He couldn’t argue with her reasons; everything she said was true. Their worlds were too disparate. Still, though he was about to start university, he’d boarded the first flight west. By the time he arrived in L.A., she’d already moved on. There were no more cards, no letters, no calls. If he’d been older, more savvy, he might have hired a private detective. But he wasn’t. Royce was forced to move on, but he’d never forgotten. He’d married, raised a family, divorced, sent his girls off to college, expanded the family business, opened satellite offices, the last one in San Francisco.

Then six months ago, he’d seen her. A benefit at the symphony hall. His life had turned upside down. He still hadn’t righted it. In the quiet of the flat, the front door lock clicked. Her high heels tip-tapped lightly from hardwood floor to Persian carpet to hardwood again as she strolled to the front window. She didn’t turn to see him nor had he left his overnight bag in the hall, but taken it straight to the bedroom. The starlight bathing her form showcased the slender lines of her body in a skintight costume, Wonder Woman or Supergirl or some other comic-book heroine.

She stretched like a cat kneading its paws, one arm straight up, fingers flexing, then the other, her hips swaying with each move as if she were dancing to music in her head. His cock rose to attention just as it did whenever she was near.

In the dark of the night, even when he was married, he’d jerked off to fantasies of her. He’d had her once, and despite the fumbling of virginity and 180

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youth, no other experience had ever compared.

Until he saw her again.

She unzipped the red boots, unsnapped the gold cloth belt shimmering at her waist, and wriggled out of the blue and red star-spangled bodysuit. She wore no bra or panties beneath. No lines to mar the costume. Gloriously naked but for the golden Wonder Woman wristbands, she stood before the window. High on a San Francisco hill with only the darkness behind her, he doubted any peeper could have seen much, yet she wouldn’t have cared. Raising her arms, she tugged off the costume tiara, tossed it carelessly, and pulled her hair from the knot on her head, letting the silky blonde tresses tumble down past her shoulders. She fluffed her hair. She was a sensual creature. She enjoyed touch. Her own, someone else’s, even the stroke of the night air. Royce couldn’t stand another moment without touching her, too. As much as he enjoyed watching her, the smoothness of her skin was infinitely better. Rising, padding across the expensive carpet, he trailed a finger down her spine.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” She didn’t startle or even turn. She knew the stillness of her house, had probably felt his breath disturbing it.

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

Thirty years. “Since midnight.”

She didn’t apologize. “Ah well, now I’m here.”

He bent to the curve of her neck, kissing the creamy skin. Another scent rose, the musk of come, salty male flesh, her own unique scent of arousal. She’d been with a man. His stomach clenched, yet at the same time his cock surged and his balls filled to aching. He closed his eyes, breathed her in, and, in his mind, saw her stretched wide on a bed, fucking hard, coming hard. He wanted her now, like this, in front of the window, for anyone to see. For everyone to know she was his.

Wrapping one arm beneath her breasts, he hauled her up against him and tunneled between her legs. “You’re wet,” he whispered.

“You’re hard,” she replied.

He rubbed, sliding in the moisture, and a fresh draft of her sweet sexual fragrance rose to his nose. Her scent intoxicated him; her wetness enflamed him. He hated that she’d been with someone else, yet it made him insane with lust.

“Those wristbands make me fucking hot.” Bending at the knees, he rubbed 181

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his jeans and the bulge of his erection along the crease of her ass. “Put your hands on the table.”

The long table beneath the window was thigh-high. Leaning down, she thrust her ass in the air. Royce went to his knees behind her and speared her with his tongue. She moaned. Her taste was sweet yet slightly acrid with the flavor of latex. She’d fucked with a condom, yet her ass cheeks were smeared with the scent of semen. He backed off to lick her flesh and a burst of come shot across his tongue. She hadn’t showered it off.

He wanted to ask who, didn’t dare to find out, wasn’t sure he could bear it, and yet, the smell drove him mad with desire. The man had fucked her, withdrawn, ripped off the condom, and shot his load across her ass. He fucking hated it, yet he couldn’t draw away from the taste and aroma of sex all over her. Fingering her clit, he took her with his tongue, drinking her juice, making her tremble.

“Royce, oh God.”

Did she cry out her other lover’s name with the same breathy lilt?

He licked and sucked, savored and owned, and tried to drive every thought of the other man from her mind.