Not Another New Year’s (12 page)

She swallowed. The truth was, she hadn’t banged on the door
that
hard. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say. “I came in to tell you I’m leaving.”

The expression on his face responded
Good riddance
, but then he sighed. “Wait a minute.” He turned to a shelf, took down a jar and handed it across the desk to her. “Your tips.”

“My tips?” She stared at the bills curled in the glass. Her job description had remained hazy and she’d never actually served any drinks.

“The waitresses share with those who bus the tables and pour the booze. That’s your take.”

Desirée dumped the money out into her hand. She fingered the bills, now hardly aware of her ruined manicure, and appreciated the crisp texture of paper money for the first time in her life. Folded in half, they made a thick bundle. Rolled, an even more gratifying wad.

Money. Money that she’d
made.
Gazing down at it, she decided that short of soaking in a hot bathtub, right now nothing could make her feel better.

“You did a good job to night.”

Except that.

She managed to look up at him and hoped he didn’t see the stars in her eyes. “I’ve never actually earned any money before.”

“I doubt you’ll develop a taste for it,” Troy said,
coming around from behind his desk. “Let’s go. I’ll walk you to your car.”

She might too develop a taste for it, Desirée thought, glaring at his back, stars extinguished by his rough tone.

But as they walked out into the night, she wasn’t so sure he wasn’t right. Exhaustion seemed to swamp her all at once: the accumulation of an evening’s worth of noise, activity, and the ever-present tension she felt around Troy. When they reached her car, she leaned back against it as she fished her keys out of her fist-sized purse.

“So what’s that degree of yours in?” he asked.

Startled by the sudden question, she bobbled her purse. They both tried to save it from hitting the ground, and ended up gripping it together, their fingers entwined around the soft leather and around each other.

Desirée looked up at him. “Art history.”

The rain was gone and the sky was scudded with moving clouds, just like the one in the Pirates of the Ca rib be an ride at Disneyland. Moonlight washed over his wide shoulders and limned the strong shape of his skull. Her jittery insides felt like they used to on Disney trips too. As if something wonderful and magical was about to happen.

“Meaning you’re educated to do what, exactly?”

She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. It’s Nature, she consoled herself.

“Well?”

She licked her lips. “I was taught how to recognize beautiful things.” The next words flowed out of her
mouth without a second of forethought. “Beautiful things like you.”

His eyes widened. Then his hands squeezed hers and yanked her close. His head bent, blocking her view of the moon and the sky.

Letting her only see him. And then he was gone as her eyes drifted closed and his mouth found hers.

They both grunted, maybe in protest at the instant spark when lips met lips. She gulped air to cool the heat, but instead he filled her with a smooth thrust of his tongue.

Her body swayed toward his as he deepened the kiss, and he wrapped one arm around her waist to draw her closer. The buckle of her purse pressed hard against her chest. The fingers of his hand, still entwined with hers, tightened.

She was losing circulation.

She was losing air.

She didn’t care, not with Troy’s mouth on hers, not with his tongue sliding along hers. Her breasts swelled, aching and tight, her tight jeans didn’t press tight enough in the right places.

She shuffled closer to him. His grip on her firmed.

A car honked loudly.

Troy jolted back.

“Hey, get a room!” a voice yelled out of the darkness.

Troy half turned, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “Assholes,” he muttered.

“Yucktards.” She didn’t move. She liked her lips still damp from his. She wanted to keep his kiss right where it was.

Forever.

“I’ve got to get back inside,” he said. “Get your keys out and get going.”

Desirée almost saluted again. She almost cried at the tone of unfeeling command in his voice. Of course she did neither, even as she realized the kiss meant nothing to him. It was probably punishment for that “dud” crack she’d made earlier.

In seconds she was inside her car. Another couple and she had it started and was driving away. In her rearview mirror she saw that Troy was watching her go. Probably thanking his lucky stars that she was finally gone.

What a difference a few hours could make, she thought. When she’d arrived, she’d been pleased with the sense of purpose her new job had given her.

But now…now it was clear she had a whole new task ahead—to make sure Troy didn’t break her heart.

T
anner knew the world wasn’t fair. There was that damn stupid Desirée kiss. Ayesha’s death. The past year of twiddling his thumbs instead of doing the job he’d been trained for. Still, he hadn’t foreseen Hannah’s request.

His life had turned into a
Roadrunner
episode, that’s what had happened, and the Acme bird trap that he, as Coyote, arranged on the railroad tracks had just collapsed on his back. Yeah, collapsed on him, leaving him stomach down and staring at the glaring headlight of an oncoming train.

But this wasn’t a cartoon, and the headlight of the oncoming train was the warm light in Hannah’s velvety brown eyes. He’d told her the sex between them was explosive as petty payback, and now it was paying
him
back.

He managed to signal for the check without giving her a direct answer. He managed to bundle her into his car and then drive away from the restaurant.

He hadn’t yet managed to control the reckless direction of his thoughts.

She already thinks you’ve done it with her, so where’s the harm?

You haven’t had sex in eleven months and Hannah hasn’t had a man in four years.

Pow. Boom. Bang.

It really
could
be explosive.

Then she put her hand on his thigh and he stopped thinking altogether. Instead he whipped into a beachside parking lot, turned off the car, and stared out the wet windshield into the black night. It was raining again, the water drumming on the roof like his heart inside his chest.

And Hannah’s hand was two inches above his knee and ten inches from his other inches, which were growing longer and harder by the second. “Look…” He turned toward her.

His mouth dried, as it had when she’d first opened the door of the hotel suite. Patriotic, he’d said like an idiot, but it was true. In that flame-red dress she woke up everything inside him like a John Philip Sousa march. His cock had risen like a trumpet toward the sky and his imagination had gone wacko again. This time he’d seen her in his mind’s eye in a flaming hot majorette costume, cut high on her ass to reveal black fishnet stockings and with white tasseled boots on her feet.

He’d wanted to push her inside, throw her down
on the nearest bed, and introduce her to his ready, randy baton.

Jesus.
The Secret Ser vice psych team could have a dandy day figuring out just what that all meant, if he shared it with them.

If he still was an agent with the Ser vice. Which he wasn’t.

The thought should chill him.

“Just forget I brought it up,” Hannah was saying now, the hand on his knee patting the muscle that was tight with lust.

He wasn’t in the least bit cold.

She took her hand back and placed it with the other in her lap, folded together like an honor student hoping for an extra credit mark. Her face was directed toward the window, so he could trace her profile with his gaze and think of all the ways men had screwed her:

Fiancé leaving her alone with a ring on her finger for three years, then marrying someone else behind her back.

Tanner lying about their mutual explosion.

Then there were all the ways men
hadn’t
screwed her:

That fiancé.

Tanner when she’d asked so nicely.

“Hannah,” he said softly. For the first time he realized her voice was like an exhalation. Just her name, Hannah, like that breathless moment of anticipation before a man saw a woman’s naked breasts or touched a woman’s wet, naked sex.

He made up his mind. “Hannah.”

She continued staring out the window. “Yes?” There was a wealth of information in that syllable. Her throat was tight. Her nerves were shot. She was braced for rejection, or, more likely, already thought he’d given her his answer.

“Hannah, this time when I touch you, you’re never going to be able to forget it.”

Her head whipped toward him. And one look at her tender mouth, parted in surprise, and he couldn’t figure out how he’d lasted this long without tasting it.

They’d find a bed later. But now, now there was only
this.

He slid from under the steering wheel and down the leather bench seat until he could pull her into his arms and onto his lap. Her sweet little ass nestled onto his thighs and her hip pressed against his aching cock. The position yanked high the hem of that cinnamon-candy dress, and at the top of her endless legs he could see the tabs of a garter belt.

His heart slammed to a stop, colliding against his chest wall. One of his forefingers—Christ, was it trembling?—traced the stretch of matching crimson tape. Hannah jerked at his touch, her little gasp of desire reminding him of how it had been between them on New Year’s Eve.

Instantaneous.

Undeniable.

She’d been so turned on, she trembled as he took off her shoes.

“I like garter belts,” he murmured against her ear, fingering the little piece again.

She ducked her head, a bit shy, he supposed, yet
jerked again as he dipped his finger under the strap to stroke her bare thigh with his fingertip.

“I—I’ve never worn one before.”

“Never?” He traced the top of the stocking, and licked the delicate rim of her curved ear at the same time.

Now
he felt that telltale quiver in her body and he smiled against her cheek. He ran his mouth toward her lips and felt her little sigh.

He lifted his head. “Okay?”

“I only wished I remembered,” she said, a seductive little pout in her voice. “It isn’t fair.”

But it was getting fairer by the second, Tanner thought, because Hannah felt so right in his arms. He grasped her chin and turned her face to meet his kiss.

So right.

Her lips opened beneath the pressure of his. He slid his tongue inside, just brushing the tip of hers with the tip of his in the smallest greeting. She pressed closer, but he retreated, even though she made an impatient noise in the back of her throat.

He soothed her by first kissing one corner of her mouth and then the other. When he lifted his head again, she chased his mouth and he let her do what she wanted. It was like that kiss at the bar on New Year’s Eve—desperate.

Stroking his hand over her bare shoulder, he pulled away from her again. “I’ll give you what you need, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

Her hands tangled in his hair and brought his mouth back down. “It’s just so good to have someone want me,” she said against his lips.

Oh, Hannah.

“Your ex,” he muttered, anger and sympathy mixing inside him. “I could kill—”

“Shh.” She pressed her fingers to his mouth to stop his threat. “Don’t say that.”

“But—”

“Think about me.” She snuggled closer, her hip pressing tighter against the base of his erection.

He groaned.

“You said explosive. That’s what
I
want. I want that again. I want that
now.
”

No, no. He needed to warm her up, start slow, get her worked up—

But then she thrust her tongue in his mouth and he remembered this was Hannah, his New Year’s Eve surprise of a prize, who had been so ready for him her pan ties had been wet before he’d done so much as look at her breasts. Which made him remember.

He’d never looked at her bare breasts.

He had to see her breasts.

Sliding his tongue along hers, he ran his palm around the back of her dress, searching for a fastening.
Please God, make this not one of those wiggle-in garments.
He knew he wasn’t capable of letting go of her for that long. When he deepened the kiss, she wrapped her arms around his neck and—bingo!—he found the side zipper.

Her mouth was wet as he lifted his away again. They were both breathing hard and her eyes were as dark and intimate as the rainy night. Fingering the zipper tab, he heard her suck in a breath.

“You should know this about me, Hannah.” Sound
grated as he took the zipper down, one tooth at a time. “I’m a breast man.”

The dress had enough form to it that once he’d unzipped her to the waist, it stayed up on its own. But he liked that, because it made the anticipation greater, made it coil at the base of his spine and send arrows of heat up his back as he hooked a finger at the point of cleavage and drew down the garment so it pooled at her hips.

Revealing—oh God. Flames streaked up his back.

He brushed Hannah’s long hair off her shoulders so he could take in the beautiful sight of her breasts, encased in strapless, low-cut, peekaboo red lace that wasn’t a bra, it went lower than that, it went—who could tell?

“It’s a Merry Widow,” Hannah said, glancing down at the place where her breasts were served up like two delectable scoops of ice cream. “Desirée has some pretty amazing underwear.”

He didn’t want to think about Dez. “The pretty amazing part is all you.” He let his fingertips trace the tops of the cups and felt her shiver.

Leaning down, he kissed the top of one plump form and then the other. “I want to get you out of this too.”

He looked up, catching the flare of her nostrils and the way her lips were parted again. It wasn’t mere hot talk that turned her on, he realized, though that wouldn’t have surprised him in a teacher. A teacher would like words. It was the particular words he used that unlocked her desire.
I want
, he’d said to her, and those were magic. The key that released her inhibitions. Oh, yeah.

He rubbed his thumb over first one lace-covered peak and then the other, his gaze on her face. “I want to take your nipples in my mouth and I want to hear the sounds you make when I suck on them.”

From the back of her throat came a half moan, half squeak. He smiled at the sound, loving it. “How do we get this thing off you?”

She swallowed. “It’s kind of…kind of complicated.”

But he was already pushing the dress down farther, and she lifted up so he could slide it over her hips. The red fabric pooled on the Mercedes’s carpet, leaving Hannah—

Tanner choked.

The Merry Widow was merry as hell, all right. Not only did it prop up her breasts, but it curved along her torso and over her hips where it served as garter belt too. A matching scrap of red lace pan ties were worn over the garter tapes.

She was wrapped in red. On fire.

Devilish fire that he wanted to take into his mouth without cautious thought to safety or the burn. Giving up on getting her out of the corset—hell, hoping she never wore anything other than that corset ever again—he took the expedient route by reaching his hand in one bra cup to enclose smooth, heated flesh. Pushing down the lace, he drew out Hannah’s breast.

Hannah’s perfect breast, full and round. He glanced up at her face, then back. Her nipple was tight with desire and was as berry-red as her swollen lips.

As he moved toward it, her fingers speared through his hair. Her back bowed as his wet mouth closed over her.

His eyes closed. With one hand gently kneading the plump curve, Tanner curled his tongue around her hard nipple, then sucked. She swallowed a sound and he sucked harder. He wanted her wild with sensation.

Four years, he remembered.

He wanted her beyond wild.

His nose was pressed into her fragrant flesh and he drew in her scent, that rose-and-aroused perfume that he’d noticed the first time she sat on his lap. His All-American Rose.

But he wasn’t thinking of flowers when he lifted her other breast free of the corset. Now he was only thinking of how he was going to hang on so he could wring out every drop of Hannah’s plea sure.

She wiggled on his lap and he sucked her second breast harder and brought his palm over the triangle of lace that covered her mound. He opened his mouth wider over her nipple, taking in more of her hot flesh, and then he sucked again, pressing the heel of his hand against her mons in the same rhythm.

She was trembling, saying his name, a litany of girl-lust, and he was digging it, God so digging it, that he almost missed what happened next.

Her hips rose toward his insistent hand and her back arched to his mouth. Her body gave three little tremors, then one hard jolt. Hannah’s personal little earthquake.

He couldn’t believe it. He lifted his head. She was
blinking, and another little tremor took her as he watched. His hands shaking, he lifted one to brush her hair away from her face. “Did you just come?”

Her head bobbed in a tiny nod.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmured, glancing up toward God. “Life is getting fairer by the minute.” His hand had just been
near
her switch. He hadn’t even touched her there and she’d still gone off like one of Troy’s Marine incendiary devices.

Watching her face closely, Tanner drew one palm down her throat, over her damp breasts, and then down the center of her belly until he could slide his fingers under those red-hot pan ties. “Open your legs, sweetheart,” he said. “I want to touch your sweet heat.”

Her head fell back against his shoulder as her legs splayed wider. Then he found her, and it
was
sweet, and so freakin’ hot that he almost singed his hand. And wet. So wet.

He pushed two fingers into her tight channel, then drew them up, to catch her clit between his knuckles. He gave it a friendly squeeze, then went back inside her again. Back out. Another squeeze.

With a cry, she came again.

Tanner froze. God. Oh, God. Locker rooms didn’t cover this.
Playboy
or
Pent house
neither—not in any believable manner anyway. Did she have four years of orgasm stored up inside that sweet body just screaming to get out, or was she merely the most responsive woman he’d ever played with in the front seat of a car?

Car. Shit.

They were parked in a car in a public lot.

“Sweetheart. Hannah.” He brushed her hair back again and kissed her slack mouth. She was awake, but looked as shell shocked as he felt. He kissed her again, and groaned as he felt her return to life. Her tongue licked his bottom lip and then bit there.

She was getting aroused again already, but he for damn sure didn’t want to do the deed here. The first time with a man inside her in four years shouldn’t be in a public place in a car that had been someone’s grandmother’s before he’d bought it and its ridiculously low mileage after leaving the Secret Ser vice.