Take Me for a Ride (13 page)

“When? How?”

“I have a small device.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m calling the cops. She knows something about who did this to Luc.”

Eric took a deep breath. “May I suggest that you call in an anonymous tip?”

She shot him an incredulous glance. “Why?”

“Because you want to go after your grandmother, don’t you? And I can assure you that you won’t be allowed to leave the country for a while—in case the police want you for further questioning. Someone at your office is bound to tell them that the necklace turned up missing and that you were fired shortly thereafter. It won’t look good.”

She stood like a statue.

“I’m also quite surprised that none of the neighbors came out when you screamed. My guess is that one of them may have called nine-one-one already, and that we have very little time to get out of here.”

She took a few steps down the sidewalk and then turned, her expression anguished. “But Luc . . . poor Luc. How can we leave him like that?” Fresh tears streamed down her face.

“We have to,” Eric said, taking her arm. “That’s a crime scene, and we cannot tamper with it. Now, come on, Natalie. We’ve got to go.”

Eric hurried Natalie toward the subway but stopped just outside it and used a miraculously functioning pay phone to call 911. He reported a homicide at Luc’s mother’s address but declined to give his name.

Then they returned to the Upper East Side and the Waldorf, where he gave a shattered, unprotesting Natalie a sleeping pill and tucked her into bed. As he bent down to kiss her forehead, she asked miserably, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Shhhh,” he said. The truth was that he didn’t know. Maybe he just wanted to live up to her naive expectations for a little longer. Her perception of his character was refreshing, to say the least. Did she really think of him as some kind of hero, instead of a scab and a player? Apparently so . . . and he was low enough to enjoy it.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, McDougal—what is your problem? That is pathetic.

Just as he’d properly chided himself, Natalie opened her eyes, sat up, and kissed him full on the lips.

Oh, fuck
. He felt the sensation flow through every vein in his body, right down to his toes. His nerves bubbled and popped like champagne. And just like that, he was hard.

“Make love to me, Eric,” she whispered.

Okay!
But he groaned.

So tempting. So wrong on so many levels. The girl didn’t know which way was up right now. She was filled with fear and just wanted comfort sex.

And that’s a bad thing?
It had never been a bad thing before.

“Please, Eric. Make love to me?”

He eyed her helplessly, squeezed her hand, and stood up. “Soon,” he said. “When you’re sure it’s what you really want.”

She sighed. “Oh, this again. You’re such a gentleman that you’re not really even a gentleman.”

“Huh?”

“They
oblige
ladies.”

“Oh, they do, do they?” He put his hands on his hips and looked down at her, all seductively heavy eyelids and pillowy—that was the only word for it—lips. Her dark hair was tousled and formed a sort of silky gestalt painting against the pale bed linens.

“Yes.” She yawned.

“Natalie, I think you have some very old-fashioned and . . . er . . . romantic notions that you’re trying to give a modern twist. It’s more than a little peculiar.”

“Did I read too many fairy tales as a child?”

“Definitely.” But he smiled to soften his answer.

“You know what I liked best about them, Eric?”

“What?”

“It wasn’t the witches and princesses and knights in shining armor. It was that they all had happy endings.”

She looked so wistful as she said the words. Then she looked up at him again. “Do you believe in happy endings, Eric?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one.”

He sighed. “No. I don’t much believe in them. Do you?”

“I want to.” She closed her eyes. Her breathing slowly became deeper and more even, the sedatives kicking in.

Naive
, he thought again. She was funny and intelligent, but so idealistic and naive. Yet it was charming and oddly appealing; he hated to see it spoiled. He didn’t want to see cynicism etched into her features and hardening her spectacular navy blue eyes.

Eric turned out the lamp next to the bed so that she could sleep, but her voice stopped him.

“Don’t,” she said.

He turned the light back on, and it illuminated the fear in her face.

“I know it’s silly to be afraid of the dark.”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not. You’ve been through a lot in the past couple of days.” He reached down and brushed his fingers across her cheek, smoothed some strands of hair out of her eyes.

She caught his hand in her own and pressed her lips to it.

He was strangely, unexpectedly moved, and yet instinctively he tried to pull away. A girl like Natalie, so sheltered and pure, shouldn’t kiss the hand of someone like him. He was little better than a burglar or a mercenary. . . . He was, for all intents and purposes, a repo man.

“Please, Eric,” she said, breaking into his thoughts. “Just for tonight, give me a happy ending?” She sat up, and tears shimmered behind her lashes.

He didn’t say a word, didn’t think he could. But he sat down on the bed next to her and touched his lips to hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and opened to him, her tongue meeting his in an infinitely sweet offering of an eager passion. Again, he felt almost as if he were sullying her, but she gave him no chance to retreat.

As his hands moved to her breasts and cupped them through her flannel pajama top, he no longer wanted to escape. He swept his mouth along her jaw, made love to her ear, and listened to her soft sighs. He scraped his teeth down her lovely white column of a throat and stroked the hollow of it with his tongue.

He found her nipple through the folds of flannel and bit it gently while she moaned, her hands raking through his hair. The tiny moan was enough to make every inch of him painfully hard, and he tugged at the buttons of her top with hands that shook with pent-up desire.

At last her torso was bare to his hungry gaze, and he groaned at the sight of her perfect, small breasts. Cherry nipples. He licked one, bringing it to a hard peak, and she whimpered. The helpless, feminine sound trembled through her, vibrated under his chin, and brought out the wolf in him. He devoured the whole breast as her breathing became shallow and ragged.

She moved under him restlessly, and he transferred his attentions to her other breast while she dug her fingers into his scalp and moaned again.

McDougal moved farther south, scraping the stubble of his chin over the muscles of Natalie’s smooth, white stomach, which she’d clenched in unconscious anticipation. He tugged at the tie of her pajama bottoms with his teeth, but she’d knotted it tightly.

He spread her thighs anyway, caressing her through the flannel and kneading the muscles in her hamstrings, his fingers working ever higher. He slid his hands under the cheeks of her bottom and deliberately played his thumbs against the mound at the apex of her thighs.

She bucked at the contact, and the material there grew damp, but he didn’t relent. Finally he replaced his thumbs with his mouth, sucking and biting and licking while she cried out. She was right on the edge when he got the tie to her pajama bottoms undone and yanked them off her.

He pushed her knees apart once again and just looked at the erotic folds of pink. He brought his face close and gazed his fill, though he could sense an impatience or embarrassment on Natalie’s part.

“Eric?” she whispered. “Is—is something wrong?”

“Not a damn thing,” he said. “I’m a happy, happy man.” He bent his head to her and took a bite, sucking at the same time, as if she were a ripe peach.

She gave a low scream and came apart again and again, since he refused to stop. He growled with satisfaction and simply rode out the female storm. She quieted and he gave her a few seconds of relief, but then a single touch of his tongue had her disintegrating into helpless, thrashing pleasure once again.

He did it a third time, and she finally begged him to stop, unable to take anymore. He kissed her belly and propped himself up on an elbow. “Happy ending, sweetheart?”

“Not yet.”

“You seemed pretty happy—you got me confused with God a couple of times.”

“I want you inside me, Eric.”

He grinned. “You insatiable slut, you.”

“Hey!” she protested.

“My very favorite kind of woman,” he clarified, rolling onto his back and shedding his own clothes. “C’mere, honey. Why don’t you climb on and take me for a ride?”

She did. He was rock hard, and she finally allowed herself the pleasure of looking at him, exploring his body shyly. Up close, she could see there were freckles on his shoulders under the tan. Every inch of him was muscle—Eric spent some time in a gym, no doubt about it.

Natalie stroked her hand down his chest, over each ridge of his six-pack abs, all the way down to the curly red-gold hair at his groin. Just under it, his cock stood at attention, long, thick, and satin smooth.

She wrapped her fingers around it and he groaned. She slid her hand down to the base and then back up again to the ridge that circled the head of him, and he shuddered. So he liked that. She felt awkward, not knowing what to do next. What else did he like?

Nels hadn’t been kind about her sexual skills, basically implying that she had none.

Eric opened his eyes and seemed to read her like a book. He gave her a crooked smile. “C’mere, Natalie.” He took her hands and pulled her on top of him before sliding them down to her hips. She was so relieved that she almost opened her mouth and thanked him.

He guided her onto him, gently parting her, and she sank down until he filled her completely and they both groaned with the pleasure of it. She knew what to do now—it was pretty basic.

She rose along the length of him and then sank down again, establishing a carousel rhythm right away, sliding up and down the pole. But within a minute or so he took her hands. “Stop, sweetheart.”

His blue eyes evaluated her closely, and she began to feel uncomfortable again. “Am I . . . doing something wrong?”

He shook his head. “You seem awfully worried about your performance,” he murmured.

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and avoided his gaze.

“See, that’s not the way it should be, sweetheart.” He moved her hands up to cup her own breasts, rubbing them over her nipples. And he did something with his hips that altered the way they were joined.

He began to move again, very slowly, and this time his cock slid intimately along the front of her cleft in long, slippery, erotic strokes. She sucked in a surprised breath. “Ohhhhh.”

“Mmmmmm, that’s better.” He dropped his hands from hers and moved them down to her bottom. “Touch your nipples for me, Natalie. Yeah, just like that . . . You’re so beautiful.”

They moved in an achingly slow rhythm for a time, while her pleasure built and she relaxed completely. Then Eric flattened his hand against her belly and slipped a thumb down between them, unerringly finding just the right spot to touch.

Natalie’s thighs began to tremble, and she lost consciousness of everything around them as the world became reduced to just the sensation of Eric stroking in and out of her, Eric’s thumb rubbing against that special spot. She gasped as a tension inside her built unbearably and he thrust harder, deeper.

“Come on, honey,” he whispered. “Come for me . . .”

A cry ripped from her throat as her body convulsed around him and color exploded behind her eyelids.

Eric drove up into her in two powerful thrusts and finished with a guttural, primal male noise. He pulled her to him and she lay draped over his body, feeling as if someone had let all the air out of her.

“Jesus, Natalie,” he said. “You are so hot.” His chest moved up and down and she could hear his heart thundering. Her cheek was coated with a thin sheen of his clean perspiration. She felt connected to him, joined, in a way she’d never felt with Nels. Everything with Nels had been mechanical, and he’d rolled over and snored when he was done.

Eric had been attuned to her, had reveled in her sensations and worked intimately to heighten and share them with her. Eric . . .
got
her. On some deeper level than anyone else she’d been with. Was he. . . was he . . . the one? The one she’d waited so long for?

“What’s going through that gorgeous head of yours, sweetheart?” he asked.

She expelled a breath and lifted her head from his chest to look into his eyes. “Strange, but I feel as if I were a virgin before I met you.” Now, what man wouldn’t want to hear that?

She searched for the right words to elaborate, to keep the connection, but stopped at his horrified expression.

He blinked once, then twice, before releasing an uneasy chuckle. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up to dispose of the condom they’d used.

No, no, no, no, no. This wasn’t the way he was supposed to respond. She could
feel
the romantic in Eric McDougal. It was there—something that touched her and that she touched back. It was
there
. But somehow she’d said something wrong. She tried again.

“Really,” she said to his retreating back. “I’ve never had sex like that.”

A pause ensued. “Me, either,” he said in a low voice. And then he shut the bathroom door.

Well. So much for the spiritual, sexual connection. She had clearly been deluding herself.