The Downfall of a Good Girl (8 page)

It shouldn’t make sense, but it sort of
did
. Vivi didn’t care. Connor had answered the door shirtless, and the skin under her hands felt as good as it looked. The heat seeped through her jacket and shirt to warm her skin. She wanted more, though, not just warmth.

As if he was able to read her mind, Connor slid the zipper
of her jacket down and pushed it off her shoulders. She felt her T-shirt rising until it stopped at her breasts. She lifted her arms as Connor broke their kiss long enough to sweep the shirt over her head. The cool rush of air over her skin was fleeting as Connor pulled her immediately back against his chest. The contact was shocking, yet Vivi wanted more, and she melted into him.

Her lips traced the ridge of muscle from his shoulder to his neck and Connor growled, the rumble vibrating through her from lips to toes. The world suddenly shifted, making her head spin, but Connor had carried her halfway down the hall before it fully registered, and a second later she felt cool sheets under her.

Connor loomed over her, those powerful arms bracketing her shoulders, holding him solid and steady, his eyes hot on her body and face. When he finally met her gaze she realized he was giving her one last chance to end this before it was too late.

She hooked a foot around his leg and slid it over his calf. She let her hands trace the planes of Connor’s chest and felt the tightening of the muscles under her fingers. “It’s already too late,” she whispered.

The corner of Connor’s mouth curved up. “But I’ve only just beg un.”

Her blood took his words as a promise, surging through her veins. And Connor made good on that promise, exploring every inch of her with unhurried, methodical intensity until she was whimpering and incoherent. She wanted to bring him to the same place, but her hands were fisted in the sheets as she tried to hang on to the last shreds of her sanity.

Not an inch of her skin went unmapped by his hands, then by his lips and tongue and teeth. He held her at the edge until she wanted to beg, but she couldn’t find the words.

Connor was shaking, holding on to his control by mere
strings in danger of breaking at any moment. Vivi felt like a flame under his hands—hot and alive and dangerous. Her responses were raw, honest and almost more than he could handle without combusting himself as well. She seemed designed expressly for him: her curves slotted perfectly against him, her skin responded to his touch, demanding more. Vivi’s hands contained electricity. Her mouth…Her mouth did things to him that defied words.

The need to take her, lose himself in her, was overwhelming, and only the sting of Vivi’s nails biting into his shoulders kept him grounded as he slid into her. Hot…Tight…Wet…The sensations fogged his brain.

Then Vivi was arching into him, pressing her hips hard against his, seeking more, searching for the rhythm. His hands fisted in her silky hair and Vivi scored tracks down his back. His mouth landed on hers as he quickened the pace, and he felt the tremors building until she broke.

The contractions and shudders of her orgasm pushed him over the edge himself, and the world dimmed at the edges.

He vaguely realized he’d shouted her name.

V
IVI
lay facedown in the bed. She hadn’t moved other than to brush the hair out of her face since she’d rolled away from him. Her breathing had evened out and returned to normal, but beads of sweat still pooled in the indentation of her spine. Connor wasn’t much for
was-it-good-for-you?
pillow talk, but Vivi’s complete and continuing silence seemed odd. Finally she sighed and rolled to her side to face him. Her brow was furrowed slightly.

“Deep thoughts, Vivi?”

“I’m not really capable of higher brain functions yet.”

He’d take that as a compliment, but he was in a similar state. “That explains your silence.”

“Actually, that just seemed…” She laughed quietly. “Prudent.”

“Prudent?”

“It’s an awkward enough situation, and we’re not real good at talking without it denigrating into something else at the best of times. I’m not keen on the idea of arguing with you while I’m naked.”

“You do have a point.”

That earned him a smile. “Plus, it would kind of kill the afterglow, you know?”

“Well, I kind of suck at the afterglow chitchat anyway.”

“See? Silence seemed the best bet.”

“I think I’m slightly offended,” he teased.

“Why?”

“Sex but no talking? Just using me for my body?”

“The tables may have turned, but you have to have more experience in this situation. And you just said you suck at the chitchat anyway.”

He tried to keep his voice light. “It doesn’t mean that I’m happy to be your boy toy for the night.”

Vivi rolled her eyes. “Don’t pretend you’re that fragile.”

“I’m a musician. I’m artistic and sensitive, you know.”

She snorted. “I work with artists every day. I’m not likely to swallow that line.”

“You’re a hard woman, Vivi.” He rubbed a hand over his face.

“I try.” She smiled at him.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Coming from you? Of course not. But I’m going to take it as one anyway.”

The relaxed mood evaporated and he felt the usual tension building. It was at odds with the lingering scents of sex and sweat. “Because you want to be a hard-ass?”

Vivi pushed to a seated position and dragged the sheet up to cover her breasts. “Boy, you really do suck at this part.”

“Maybe we should have stuck with the silence.” His languorous, sated mood was giving way to a headache. He dropped his head back onto the pillow and draped an arm over his eyes. Vivi equaled trouble. Always.

“I tried to tell you.”

“But what you haven’t told me is why.”

“I just did. I don’t want to fight, so talking—”

“I get that.” He levered himself up onto his elbows. “Why are you even here? Your feelings toward me are pretty clear, so why on earth are you in my bed?”

Vivi was quiet for a moment. “I could ask you something similar.”

His pride answered for him. “What kind of man turns down sex?”

“What kind of man accepts sex from a woman he doesn’t like?” she shot back.

“What kind of woman offers sex to a man she hates?”

The sharp intake of breath told him he’d hit the mark. Vivi’s jaw tightened. “I knew I shouldn’t have come. I should have just stayed in a cold shower until the urge passed. Or should’ve just kept drinking until I forgot.”

“As someone who was doing both of those things when you showed up…”

She held up a hand. “Maybe now’s a good time for me to leave.” She edged toward the end of the bed, pulling the sheet with her as she went. “I’d say to just forget this ever happened, but I’ll settle for you not bringing it up in public.”

“Ashamed of yourself, Vivi?”

He caught the stiffening of her shoulders, the telltale flush of pink across the tops of her breasts. She shot him a dirty look and that supercilious eyebrow went up again. “Well, aligning myself with thousands of other groupies isn’t something I’m going to put on my résumé, you know.”

Argh
. “What is this obsession you have with groupies?”

“Because I’ve seen you charm people and I prided myself on being immune to it. And then…” She swung her legs off the bed and stood, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the fact she was gloriously naked.

“Then what?”

“Then I spent time with you this week, and I started to think that maybe I wasn’t completely right about you. That you’d changed or matured. I fell for it—again—and I shouldn’t have.” Vivi squatted, sorting through the piles of discarded clothing. “I’m going to kill Lorelei,” she muttered.

That was a bit of a non sequitur. “I’m afraid to ask what Lorelei has to do with any of this.”

“Nothing. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come, so I’ll just go. I’m really sorry.” Her words degraded into mumbles, but he could pick up the occasional “stupid” and “insane.” He couldn’t be sure which one of them she was refer ring to.

She was right, though. They should just forget this ever happened. But he didn’t want her to leave. Even though she infuriated him, his body was still primed for her touch. The edge was off, but the need was still there. How had they gotten to this point?

“Vivi, wait.”

“What?”

Vivi had swallowed her pride to come here; he not only appreciated that, he understood how much it had cost her. He should—and could—offer her something in return. He crossed the space and captured her face between his hands. Her eyes widened as he leaned in and kissed her.

“I’ve wanted to do that since eighth grade.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t want my bleeding head handed back to me.”

Vivi’s lips twitched at the image.

“I’ve never been a glutton for abuse.”

“You like to hand it out, though. At least to me.”

“I could say the same about you.”

That statement sent Vivi’s eyebrows to her hairline, and he knew once she recovered from the shock she’d be back at his throat again. Right now he really just wanted her to come back to bed.

“I asked you for a truce earlier tonight, and it was a serious offer.”
Especially now
.

“Forgive and forget? Bygones and all that?”

“The apology was also sincere. Why don’t we just decide that the statute of limitations for childhood and teenage idiocy has expired and go forth acting like grownups.”

“That sounds very mature.” Her lips twitched. “It might be a hard habit to break, though.”

“Any current idiocy can still be game. Just not old grudges.”

The last of the hostility drained out of her. “I think I can agree to that.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Vivi looked at the clothes she held in her hands. “Now I don’t know what to do.”

He took the shirt she was holding and dropped it to the floor. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

He sounded like the lyrics to one of his songs. It was embarrassing, but Vivi’s cautious “Really?” made it worthwhile. It was a strange feeling—one he didn’t understand or care to explore right now, though. His body was already recovering, simply from being this close to her.

“Eighth grade, remember?”

Vivi’s smile was seductive. She stepped closer and placed a hand on his chest. The smile got bigger as she looked up at him. “You had braces in eighth grade.”

“So did you.”

“At least we won’t have to worry about getting them locked together.”

The clock beside the bed ticked closer to four. Connor was snoring softly beside her, one arm thrown over her stomach, but Vivi couldn’t sleep. She was sated and exhausted; every muscle in her body felt like pudding, but her brain
just wouldn’t turn off and let her sleep. Not that her brain was working properly by any stretch of the imagination; it jumped from topic to topic like a flea on speed, unable to process any thoughts beyond the superficial and not following any kind of logical progression.

It was frustrating, but it was probably self-defense. Thinking too much about the last week—much less the last few hours—might cause her head to explode.

She eased out from under Connor’s arm. He rolled over but didn’t wake up, and she exhaled in relief. Her clothes were still a tangled mess, so she grabbed one of Connor’s shirts hanging off a chairback and slipped it on. The scent of Connor’s aftershave drifted up as she buttoned it.

On tiptoes, she crept into the living room. She knew the apartment well; Gabe Morrow had bought all of the art on the walls from her gallery and she’d been here many times, delivering or helping to hang. Although Connor was a temporary tenant, he’d made himself at home and his things were scattered throughout the room—it wasn’t untidy, but it showed Connor was comfortable here.

But there was nothing personal—no photos or anything like that. It underscored the fact that she didn’t really know much about the man Connor was now. And it also reminded her that his stay was temporary.
That
made all of this a little easier to understand, at least.

The biggest change to the apartment was the baby grand piano that now sat close to the balcony doors. Had Connor had one brought in for himself? To the best of her knowledge Gabe didn’t play, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t decided to get a piano anyway. It would make sense that Connor would want or need a piano in whatever accommodations he took, but now that she knew he was nursing an injury, having a piano here seemed like it would be a temptation or a distraction.

She smoothed a hand over the lacquered lid. Connor’s parents had a piano in the front parlor—an old upright that half the kids in the neighborhood had banged on until Connor discovered his passion and put it off-limits so they didn’t knock it out of tune. Even she’d tinkered on the keys as a child while her mother and Mrs. Mansfield had coffee in another room. As she’d gotten older, she’d been able to sit in her room and hear Connor practicing next door, mastering everything from Chopin to Count Basie to Billy Joel.

She sat on the bench and ran her hands lightly over the keys without making a sound. She traced the shapes and the edges with her fingers, not really wanting to think about the repercussions of what she’d just done, but unable to escape it.

Against all good judgment she’d let her libido bring her here tonight, and that had worked out pretty well, making her now question her judgment in general. Letting go of all that adolescent angst was an excellent idea—in theory, at least. It was a shame, though, that she hadn’t done that
before
she’d shown up at his door like she was desperate for his body.

Did she feel better? Definitely. Lorelei might have had a point about the joys of being bad after all. All the tension seemed gone from her body, if not her mind. If this was what being bad was all about, she now understood the appeal. How something could feel right and wrong at the same time, though, was a conundrum her brain just couldn’t process. Had she used him? Had he used her? Was it really possible that years of angst and anger could disappear just like that? Was she being shallow, falling under the allure of Connor Mansfield? No, that much she was sure of. Whatever she’d done, whatever this was, it had nothing to do with who Connor was other than just himself.

Like that hadn’t proved tempting enough.

But why had it happened
now
instead of five or ten years ago?

Maybe things just had their own timelines, and she shouldn’t question it. Tonight felt momentous—and not just because of the toe-curling experiences she’d discovered in Connor’s bed. No, she felt on the edge of something—like she’d left a part of herself behind and was moving into something new.

But that something new wouldn’t—couldn’t—involve Connor. He wasn’t a permanent kind of guy.

How many women had Connor made the papers with? It was a veritable
Who’s Who
of celebrity singles—all of them beautiful, powerful and talented—but none of them had lasted longer than a month or so. The idea of a fling had never appealed to her, though; it just wasn’t something she thought she’d do. Now she seemed to be in one, and while she didn’t quite understand it, she was okay with it. Connor might not be a permanent kind of guy, but he seemed to bring about excellent transitions.

Vivi felt more than heard Connor behind her, and a second later she felt his hands stroking her hair. Leaning back, she let her weight rest against Connor’s thighs as he ran those long fingers through her hair, removing the tangles. She wanted to purr. Obviously her libido wasn’t done with her yet.

“Do you play, Vivi?”

She shook her head. “Just ‘Chopsticks.’ Badly, I might add.”

Connor scooted her forward on the bench and moved in behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his naked thighs surrounding hers. The muscles in those thighs felt like iron and the crisp hairs tickled her skin. His hands slid under hers, lining them up from fingers to elbows as he began to play slowly.

“I thought you were supposed to be resting your hands.”

“Shh.” His breath moved the hair at her temple.

It was a simple but beautiful string of notes, and as long as she remained still and relaxed, her hands moved with his.

And now that she knew exactly how talented Connor’s hands were, watching him play seemed intensely erotic, and feeling him play under her hands made it all the more intimate.

Too intimate. Too intense.

She let her hands slide off his and into her lap.

Connor’s fingers changed direction and tempo, and the string of notes turned into a melody. The muscles in his forearms flexed, and she could feel his chest and shoulders moving against her like a massage.

And then he began to sing quietly, his voice just inches above her ear.

His voice.
Mercy
. It was a shot of straight sex, but served with a side of emotion that reverberated through her. She let her hands slide over the thick muscle of his thighs and heard the quick catch of his breath.

The music died abruptly when Connor’s hands came to rest on hers again, twining their fingers together and tracing them along the seams where his thighs met hers.