Not the Marrying Kind (Destiny Bay Romances - Forever Yours) (13 page)

What would happen later?
 
Would she regret it?
 
Would she be angry?
 
Would he try to get as far from her and her complaints as he possible could and quickly?
 

Could be.
 
Never mind.
 
He would risk it.
 
He wanted her.
 

Shelley woke to find sunlight streaming across the bed in golden shafts of warmth. She raised her head, blinking blearily, and saw Michael at the window, securing the drapes.

For one long second shock froze her. What was she doing here—in a man's room, in a man's bed? Then the events of the previous evening came flooding back, and she relaxed. But only a little.

“So you wake to sunlight, do you?”
 

He'd turned and was watching her.
 

“That's good to know. The alarm didn't do the trick. Neither did the ringing of the phone. And I've spent the last half hour walking heavy and clearing my throat a lot.” He grinned. “I even tried singing 'Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin'.' You're lucky you missed that.”

She smiled sleepily, then felt for her hair, wondering what she looked like. Probably a raving banshee, she thought with a soft groan. Makeup smeared, hair standing on end—
how can I slink away without him getting a good look at this mess
?

“You look gorgeous.”
 

So he was a mind reader. She'd thought as much.

“You look pretty good yourself.”
 

Was that really her voice saying that
? But it was true. She watched as he walked toward the bed. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only dark slacks that fit low on his slim hips. The sunlight sprayed around his form like spears, as though he were some kind of golden god. When he sank into the bed and leaned toward her, she smiled, reaching out with one tentative hand to barely touch the tangled hair that matted on his chest, watching her fingers play with the curls, not daring to look into his eyes.

His shoulders looked much broader naked than they did when covered by suit cloth. The muscles were thick and rounded, giving him a powerful look that was something of a contrast to the slimly elegant figure he cut in a well-made suit. He looked real, earthy, and very, very sexy.

“How are you doing this morning?” he asked softly, stretching back a bit as though to enjoy the way she was touching his chest.

“I feel ...” She hesitated, still not ready to look at him. “I feel fine physically, but kind of out of place socially.” She risked a quick glance into his eyes. “Do you know what I mean?”

“Don't worry about that.” He moved closer, blotting out the sun. “I'm going to make you feel at home.”

He kissed her very softly, barely touching her lips with his own, then again, gently nibbling on her lower lip, moving surely, insistently, against her. She closed her eyes and leaned into her pillows, letting her breasts press into his chest, thrilling slightly to his conquest.

A conquest accomplished without firing a single shot. She wasn't thinking very clearly yet, but then she didn't really want to think. Much nicer just to feel. Much, much, nicer.

He traced the outline of her lips with his warm tongue. She raised her arms and encircled his neck, pulling all his weight down on top of her, wanting to feel him everywhere, all around her.

“I've been waiting for this all morning,” he breathed into her ear. “I thought you'd never wake up.”

“Why didn't you wake me?” she whispered back.

“I tried.” He raised his head and smiled down at her. “Another few minutes and I would have seduced you while you were sleeping.”

She writhed beneath him, every nerve end tingling with sensuous arousal. He wanted her. She wanted him. What could be simpler? She'd never known a man she liked more.
 

Loved more? No, she didn't want to admit to that. That brought with it all sorts of awkward baggage she didn't feel up to opening. Things like tomorrow.

But what did tomorrow matter? Shelley asked herself. They had this moment. Maybe they could stretch it out for a very long time. If they played their cards right.

“Wait!” Suddenly memories resurfaced. “What about the Weeks? Wasn't Margery going to come calling for me at five-thirty, or some nasty time like that? Surely it's way past that now.”

He swept the hair back from her eyes and smiled. “She came. I let her see how peacefully you were sleeping, told her I'd convinced you to stay over another day, and she left, happy as a clam.”

Shelley giggled. “I can just imagine what you led her to believe. She probably thinks you're some persuasive guy.”

He shrugged modestly. “I am.”

“Are you?”

“That's just what I'm about to prove to you.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “If you'll shut up and let me-”

She wanted to do just that, and she closed her eyes, reaching for him again. Her hands slipped up into his hair and she opened her eyes in surprise. “Why is your hair so wet?”

“I just took a shower.”

She made a face. “Another shower? How many showers do you take?”

“Last night was strictly therapeutic. This morning was more functional.”

“Such a clean man,” she murmured.

“Such a hungry man,” he growled against her ear. His kiss was full of wild, tempting excitement, an intoxicating brew that went straight to her head, leaving her reeling, but reaching for more. His hard male warmth flooded her, and when she felt the covers slip away, she made no move to stop them.

His hand covered her breast, still cloaked by the thin jersey of his T-shirt. “You're so soft,” he whispered. “You practically melt away under my hand.” His fingers curled around her nipple, already hard and high with excitement. “It's a good thing I've got something to hold on to,” he teased.

His touch was exquisite, electric, impossible. Every time his fingers moved, they sent sparks into her bloodstream. When he touched her breasts, the sparks burst into fire, and she moaned out his name, wanting him as she'd never wanted a man before.

His hand went to the hem of the T-shirt and began to pull it up. She felt the heat of his unhindered touch on her stomach, and then his fingers were slipping beneath the elastic of the black nylon panties that were still clinging to her hips, and she gasped as the world seemed to fall away, leaving her floating in space with only his body to cling to.
 

The T-shirt was gone, the panties were gone, even his slacks had disappeared. His kisses were wild with an urgency that flattered her, making her feel like an impossibly desirable woman, a goddess to equal the god he seemed to her. His passion kindled a like response, and she met his ardor with a hunger of her own.

Suddenly the shrill cry of the telephone split the air with savage insistence. Michael didn't seem to hear it. His hands were stroking her, his lips were testing the most sensitive spot behind her ear, and his body was ready, so ready, to complete what they'd begun.

But Shelley heard the phone. With each ring it bothered her more and more. “Michael, it might be the Weeks,” she whispered at last.

He groaned into her hair. “Why can't you ever get a busy signal when you need one?”

Jackknifing away from her, he reached for the receiver, snarled into it, “Not now, call later,” jammed it back down on the telephone, thrust the whole contraption under the bed, and was back with her in less time than it took to tell it.

Shelley couldn't help but laugh, but the laughter died in her throat as she was quickly caught up in the vortex of their lovemaking once again. And when he came to her, so clean, so crisp and eager, and when she opened to him, warm and loving and trembling with excitement, they were beyond laughter, beyond tears, sailing in a special heaven reserved for lovers, caught on the cusp of a rainbow, riding the crest of a whirlwind.

And when the wind died away, they lay tangled in a sweet knot, both breathing very hard, still enjoying the feel of each other's bodies.

“Let's do it again,” was the first thing Michael said once he'd caught his breath.

“What?” She rolled aside enough so that she could look into his face.

“Let's do it again,” he repeated, reaching for her. “We were interrupted. It wasn't perfect.”

She laughed, evading the hand that fumbled for her breast. “It was perfect for me,” she protested. “It was wonderful.”

He went very still, his blue eyes infinite and sure. “Was it really?” he said, so softly that she realized with sudden astonishment that he really cared whether it was or not. “I want it to be perfect for you. Every time.”

She wanted to say,
 
So do I want it to be perfect for you,
but how could she? Instead, she smiled uncertainly and touched his lips with her finger. “It was wonderful,” she repeated, suddenly shy.

“It'll get even better.” Now he was his cocky self again. “Just wait. The more we practice, the better we'll get.”

She looked at him searchingly. He was kidding, of course. This was the man who'd informed her airily that for him relationships didn't even exist.
Talk is cheap, Mr. Hudson,
she said to herself.

“Hand me the T-shirt, please,” she asked aloud. “I'm going to need a shower myself now.”

“Can't you walk around naked in front of me?” he asked as though merely curious about a sense of modesty he didn't share.

“No,” she told him firmly.

“Why on earth not?” He laughed at her, leaning back, his blue eyes shimmering in the sunlight.

“I don't know you well enough yet,” she said primly. She used a teasing tone, but she was serious, nonetheless, and he could tell.

He handed her the shirt but shook his head, puzzled. “You know me well enough to sleep in my bed. You know me well enough to make delicious love to me.” He ruffled her hair as her head came through the hole at the top of the shirt. “But you don't know me well enough to be unashamed of your nakedness.”

“It has nothing to do with shame.” Didn't he understand what a giant step she'd taken here? Couldn't he see that this was unusual for her? That she didn't sleep with every man she dated? Good grief, Shelley told herself, she didn't even sleep with men she was attracted to, Of course, there'd been few of them lately. But even nice men, fun men, attractive men, had been locked away from this kind of intimacy with her.

That brought her back to her major problem. Why this man? Why Michael Hudson—undercover operator, con man extraordinaire, playboy, drifter? Why had she felt it was so right to sleep with him?

So right, in fact, that she couldn't even regret it now.

What would happen next? She had no idea. He liked her. She could tell that much. But did he really want her around any longer, now that— But she wouldn't think about that.

She jumped up from the bed, needing movement to still her restlessness. “All things in their proper place, at their proper time.” She spied the breakfast trays on the table in the corner. “Ooooh, I'm starved! What's to eat?” she said, and started for the food.

“Oh, well.” Michael sighed, giving up on the nudity. “I've got to admit, you do look cute in my T-shirt. You poke out in such great places.”

Everything he did and said made her want to smile. She glanced down at herself. “You would like that, I suppose,” she answered lightly. “It doesn't do a whole lot for me.”

“Think we could get it to stay that way?” he asked, casually rising from the bed and coming along behind her. He was oblivious to his own nakedness, perfectly at home with it.
 

“What do you mean?” she asked, pausing before pouring herself a cup of coffee from the vacuum pot.

“Maybe I could get it bronzed,” he mused, cocking his head and looking at the shirt and how it fit her.

“Not with me in it!” she cried.

He came closer, talking low, reaching for her. “But how else are we going to get it to stick out here . . . and here . . . and all these yummy round places down here. ...”

The coffee was forgotten, and she was in his arms again, his large hands gripping her bottom, his face nuzzling into her neck.

“Michael,” she choked out, “you take my breath away. Do you know that?”

“Sure.” He nipped at her neck. “It's all part of my unnerving charm.” And he gave her earlobe a little kiss.

Just as long as it's not all part of an act as well
, Shelley thought. She bit her lip.
Now where had that ugly thought come from
? Shaken, she pulled out of Michael's embrace.

“What do you want with a bronzed T-shirt anyway?” she asked quickly, pouring out her coffee with a trembling hand.

“Not just any bronzed T-shirt.” He flopped down in one of the chairs and picked at a cold breakfast roll that was sitting on a porcelain dish on the tray. “One that exactly duplicates your lovely form.”

She slipped into a chair facing him. “Need a new planter, do you?” she quipped, avoiding his eyes. “Just don't pot me with marigolds. They make me sneeze.”

“Planter!” He threw down the sweet roll in disgust. “I don't want a planter. I want a reminder of you. And of the miracles you can accomplish in filling out my clothes.”

A reminder? A souvenir? What's wrong with the real thing, Mr. Hudson? Has it ever occurred to you that making a commitment, establishing a relationship, could have its own rewards?

No, she didn't suppose it had. He was the man who couldn't afford to get too close to anyone. He'd told her that from the first. It wasn't like he was asking her for anything under false pretenses. She'd known the rules before she entered the game. So why did the coffee taste so bitter in her throat?

The telephone rang, sounding muffled and slightly offended from underneath the bed.

“You see?” Michael said brightly as he dove for it. “They always call back.”

He brought the phone to the table, talking as he came. She thought at first it must be the Weekses on the line, but when he gave her a delighted wink, as though he'd made some sort of coup, she realized it must be someone else.

“Absolutely,” he was saying. “We'll be there in an hour.”

She mouthed “Who?” and he snatched up a pencil and wrote Mr. Big on a handy napkin.