PhoenixKiss (6 page)

Jordan glanced at an alcove in the corner of the kitchen she
hadn’t noticed and back at her again. A laptop sat in the center. From this
distance, she could see the logo for her newspaper and, if she wasn’t mistaken,
a picture of her from her bio page.

“I’m also quite capable of doing research,” he said.

All the insecurities, fears and shame she’d harbored at the
beginning of her career came roaring back. She shook it off. “It’s the job I
wanted.”

“Oh no.” He shook his head and smiled. “You’re not getting
off that easy. You broke in my house to get a story, to ask me questions. You
can at least answer mine truthfully. Tell me how the daughter of a renowned
doctor and a judge ends up working for a tabloid.”

Layla set her fork down and looked him straight in the eye.
“It was the only paper that would hire me. Satisfied?”

His shoulders rose and fell. “Has to be more to it than
that.”

“I tried, okay. The
Atlanta Herald
. The
San
Francisco Chronicle
. The
New York Times
. I tried them all but
evidently I didn’t have what it took to work for any of them. I was desperate.
My parents were giving me those looks they give you.
What’s wrong with her?
We raised her so well. All that money spent on college for nothing.
”

Layla could still remember it. Six months after she’d
graduated with honors from Brown, she still didn’t have a job. She’d moved back
home with her parents, had been sending out resumes for months, going on
interviews. But no one would hire her. The disappointment in her parents’ eyes
had killed her.

“They were so sure I’d find a job with one of the top papers
in the country. Hell, even I’d been sure, but when it didn’t happen… I needed
out of their house, out of their sight. A college friend lived here so I
decided to come for a visit. As soon as I arrived, I grabbed a few papers from
a newsstand and started applying for any job I could get. There was no way I
was going back to my parents’ house.”

She took a breath and forked in a couple mouthfuls of
spaghetti and paused to chew. “This is really good.” She hunched her shoulders
and said, “The
Tattler
was the first to offer me a job, so I took it.”

“Now you’re one of their star reporters. I guess that means
you’re very good at your job.” When he said it, the edge in his voice didn’t
sound like a compliment.

“I’m guessing the reason you’ve never done an interview is
because you don’t like reporters.”

This time, he looked her square in the eyes. “Your guess
would be correct.”

The expression on his face revealed a feeling that went much
further south than mere dislike. It teetered on loathing. For some reason, that
hit her hard in her chest. Fundamentally, that meant he didn’t like her and
never would. So what if she harbored a secret wish that when the night was over
he’d want to see her again?

Well, so be it. She wasn’t here for him to like her. She was
here to get a story and a story she would get.

“Did you always want to be a reporter?”

The question surprised her. She expected he was asking to
keep her from inquiring about him. When she stared at him for a second, she saw
genuine interest on his face.

“No, actually, I didn’t. I had dreams of being a writer. I
won a writing competition when I was in high school and after I did, I knew I
was going to be the next Nora Roberts or Janet Evanovich. But when I expressed that
desire to my parents, they balked. Writing wasn’t a career, it was a hobby,
they said. I thought I had picked the next best thing.”

“But working for
the
Tattler
wasn’t exactly
your dream job?”

“Um…no. After a few months, I found I was pretty good at it
though.”

“You gave up your dreams to suit your parents and didn’t
even end up with the job you wanted.”

Layla scowled at him. “They were paying the bills at the
time. I had no choice.”

“What about after that? After you were grown and living on
your own. Why didn’t you pursue your dream then?”

She wouldn’t dare tell him that a finished manuscript sat in
a drawer collecting dust because she feared rejection. She’d already proven she
wasn’t good enough for the biggest newspapers in the country. Why in the world
would she think she was good enough to publish a book? Layla had had enough
rejection to last a lifetime.

“I grew up.”

“No, you gave up.”

Chapter Five

After she finished eating, Layla took her plate to the sink,
rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. She was neither a cook nor a cleaner
but she knew how to put the soap in the right compartment and push start.

“I’ve answered some of your questions, how about you answer
some of mine now?” she said after she turned around to face him. But when she
did, he was right there again, too close to her, screwing up her equilibrium.
The man had a raw sexuality that made hers kick into overdrive.

In a low, husky voice, he drawled, “But we haven’t had
dessert.” The immediate change in the pitch of his tone was enormously arousing
and she felt it all the way to her toes.

She placed her fingers over her belly, which zinged with
nervous flutters. Layla was stuffed but when Jordan pulled the plate of
cinnamon rolls he’d covered with icing forward, her mouth watered.

“I hope you have a gym somewhere in this place because after
that mouthwatering spaghetti and now those, I’m going to need to run about two
hours on the treadmill.”

When his gaze slid down and back up again, she tugged on the
T-shirt he’d given her. He smiled with a definite dash of wicked intent, which
caused a dimple to wink in his left cheek. And then he leaned forward, brushing
his slightly rough jaw against the soft skin of her cheek, which made her
shiver.

“I don’t think you need a gym at all. I haven’t forgotten
our bath together. Your body is perfect in every single way.” He picked up one
of the sweet, decadent treats and started to bring it to his mouth then
stopped. Instead, he brought it to hers. “Open up.”

She complied. It was still hot and smelled heavenly and the
icing dripped from the sides onto his fingers. When she bit down, she couldn’t
help but close her eyes, it tasted so delicious. She’d never experienced
something so divine.

“Another family recipe, I’m guessing?”

He nodded. “A great-grandmother.”

Wow. Sexy, smart, rich and he could cook. She’d died and
gone to heaven. He was the perfect man.

Well, except for that whole phoenix thing, which reminded
her she still hadn’t asked him one thing. “You didn’t answer my questions.”

A dribble of sauce dripped down her chin and she reached up
to swipe it away. She was about to stick her finger in her mouth when he
stopped her, took the digit and slid it between his lips instead. Every hormone
in her body took notice and a fluttering surge of desire caught her in a tight
fist.

He brought the roll up to his mouth and took a bite directly
over the spot where she’d bitten. “You said you wanted me to answer some but
you didn’t actually ask me anything.”

“Oh,” was all she could manage. “Well…”

Jordan tugged at the bottom of her shirt. “You really should
take this off.”

Damn, he was distracting her and dang it almighty, she was
loath to stop him. “Why?”

Swirling his finger around the cinnamon roll, he trailed
some of the gooey, sweet substance onto the tip, dipped it in the hollow of her
throat and moved downward. “Because I just thought of several places I could
put this.”

He leaned forward and licked the sugary goo off her skin. A
deep shiver went down her spine as his tongue, his warm breath, moved over her.
Relentless, his lips traveled to her earlobe and tugged, then down the side of
her neck where he bit and nipped.

Layla let a whimper escape and grasped him around his head.
She didn’t know what happened to their dessert, because he pressed her breasts
inward until they met and his thumbs rubbed circles around each nipple through
the thin shirt.

“This has to come off,” he said, and slid lower until he
took the shirt and lifted it up and over her head, leaving her completely
naked.

She felt the full, impressive length of him through the thin
cotton of his pajama pants. He circled her waist, lifted her and set her on the
cool granite countertop.

With a growl, he picked up another cinnamon roll, removed
the glaze and rubbed the substance over her breasts. She gasped when his mouth
swooped down to her nipples. His lips closed over one and the delicious suction
was almost too much for her to take. If she were standing, her legs would be
shaking uncontrollably.

While he suckled, she felt his fingers skim over the curves
of her legs, over her thighs, down to her calf muscles and back up again. She
opened her legs wider, trying to force him to touch places that clamored for
his attention even worse but he ignored her, focusing on her breasts with the
fascination of a man who’d never seen them before.

Layla wanted him gloriously inside her. She wanted to be
taken, roughly, fully, right in his gourmet kitchen. She squirmed. “Now.”

“Not yet.”

She blew out a huff and kicked her foot against one of the
lower cabinets. Fine then. Since he wanted to take his own sweet time, she knew
a way to make him hurry up.

The counter was low enough and he was tall enough for her to
reach inside his pants. She delved down and made a fist around his cock. He
groaned but didn’t stop the exquisite torture he was causing with his mouth.

Layla moved her palm along the full, solid length of him.
She squeezed and stroked him. Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized
she needed to keep some level of control, couldn’t lose herself to him again, because
if she did he’d own her heart forever.

Everything he was doing, every touch, every whisk of his
tongue, drove her closer and closer to the edge of something, somewhere she was
afraid to go.

She continued stroking him and he rocked to meet her touch.
She kept her fingers busy, exploring him, fondling his huge sac, her every
intent to take him right over the edge with her.

He yanked away from her breasts on a groan, pulled her hands
free, surged toward her lips but stopped mere inches from her face. When she
leaned forward and licked a trail over his mouth, he moved again to her neck.

She was hungry for him. “Kiss me.”

“I’ll kiss something else instead.” And lowered himself to
the floor.

When he reached out, parted her folds and zeroed in on the
sensitive nub of her clit, she forgot all about kissing him. He plucked and
tugged at her and rolled his lips around her before plunging deep.

An animal moan she didn’t know she could make escaped. She
surged forward, arched to meet him, riding the waves of pleasure. Before the
swell hit, he was up again, pulling her to the floor and turning her around.

Bending her over the counter, he thrust hard and deep,
grunting with the effort as her nipples rubbed against the chilly texture of
the granite. He gripped and lifted her, driving into her, her clit moving over
the round handle of the lower drawer. The pressure of it coupled with each
thrust ratcheted the pleasure so high, she thought she’d never come down.

Their images shimmered in each square glass tile on the wall.
For some reason, she saw her expression in one square, his in the other. But as
he caught her gaze, they seemed to meld into one, the rapture she felt mirrored
in his face. She closed her eyes, unable to fathom the possessiveness she
experienced because of his touch.

How could he be so in tune with what her body wanted and
needed when he didn’t even know her? Every time she thought it, he did it. The
man was an expert at knowing when to touch, how to kiss, where to caress and
how much pressure he delivered to her heated skin. She could become addicted to
this if she wasn’t careful. He could become her weakness.

As her orgasm crested, Jordan let out a cry of release as he
came, gripping her hips. He shuddered against her, his damp forehead pressed to
the middle of her back, her cheek flat on the cold surface of the counter.

The only sounds in the room were their labored breathing and
the gentle ticktock of the clock on the wall. He pulled her up, moved her hair
to the side and placed a quick kiss on her shoulder. He shifted her around,
grabbed the shirt off the floor and pulled it back over her head.

“Where’d you park your car?”

Her gaze swung up to his. “What?”

“I know you didn’t park your car in the drive. Where’s your
car?”

Her stomach dropped. How could he switch himself off like
that? Like nothing had happened between them?

“On the street. A couple houses down. It’s a black Honda,”
she murmured.

He bent over, stuck his leg back in the pants of his pajamas
and pulled them up. “I’ll go get it and park it in front of the garage. Where
are your keys?”

Layla hunched her shoulders. “Somewhere upstairs with my
clothes, I guess.”

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”

“Could you bring me my purse? It’s in the trunk.”

He nodded and before she knew it, dropped another condom she
never knew he’d put on into the trash and disappeared upstairs.

When her stomach clenched again, she realized it was her own
fault. This man wasn’t her lover. Hell, he wasn’t even her friend. He’d already
told her point-blank he didn’t like reporters. He was a story and sex was a
means to an end to get that story. Every time he touched her, seduced her, she
mistakenly made it more than it was.

She busied herself straightening up the kitchen, putting
dirty dishes in the dishwasher, leftover food in containers and in the
refrigerator. She kept the mantra going in her head that she wasn’t here on a
date. They hadn’t gone out, enjoyed a leisurely dinner as a couple, come back
to his house to make love. She paled at the thought of what doing any of that
implied.