The Kissing Game (15 page)

He lowered his head, exploring with his lips and tongue where his hands had been. He felt her tense, felt her fingers tighten in his hair, then felt her open herself to him and pull him closer.

He felt her trembling, heard her soft cries, saw her head thrown back in sheer uninhibited pleasure.

He'd died and gone to heaven.

He could feel the tension building in her, sense
how close she was to the brink of release, yet before she reached it, she pulled away.

He couldn't believe it. “Don't you want …. ?”

She pulled him up, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss as she ineffectively sought to rid him of his own clothes. He kicked his pants and shorts free as she reached for him, closing her fingers around him.”This is what I want.”

Yes. He could certainly arrange for her to have that, along with his heart and soul ….

“Do you have protection?”

He nodded. Man, he'd been reduced to a speechless idiot. “Somewhere, yeah,” he managed to say. His wallet. It was still in the back pocket of his pants, in a tangle on the floor. He spilled his credit cards in his haste to find the condom he carried in among his dollar bills. “Got it.” He tore open the paper, and quickly, expertly, covered himself.

She took his hand, pulling him out of the shower stall, toward the bathroom door. But he stopped her.

“Isn't this where I'm supposed to carry you to the bed?”

Frankie laughed. He loved the sound of her laughter.

“Can you do it at a dead run?” she asked, entangling one of her legs with one of his, pressing his arousal against her stomach as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

The last of his control vanished under the power of that kiss. He lifted her up, wrapped those gorgeous legs around his waist, and drove himself deeply inside her.

“Yes …. “ They breathed the word at the same time, and Simon lifted his head to look into Frankie's midnight eyes.

“Aren't you gonna say ‘owe me a Coke’?” she whispered.

Simon laughed. “No,” he said, and kissed her hard.

She returned his kiss voraciously, and began to move on top of him in a way that made his head spin. It was too much, too soon, and he groaned, trying to hold her still, trying desperately to regain his equilibrium. But she didn't want to stop, and truth be told, he didn't want her to either.

But, dear God, they weren't even going to make it out of the bathroom. Determined to achieve at
least
that
much dignity, Simon kicked open the bathroom door and propelled them out into the hotel room.

The enormous bed seemed at least as far away as the moon. He'd imagined them making love for the first time on a bed like that, savoring each languorous touch, each deliberate, sensuous caress. He'd imagined taking hours and hours and
hours,
lazily exploring every inch of her body, fully experiencing each delicious sensation, each exquisite moment of ecstasy.

But he seriously doubted his ability to make it over to the bed. Dammit, he was going to disappoint her. Dammit, he was going to—

“I love this,” Frankie breathed into his ear. “I love it hard and fast and deep—like you're gonna die if you can't get enough of me.”

Who the hell needed a bed anyway? Making love on a bed was
way
overrated.

Simon turned, pinning her against the wall for leverage. She was sexy as hell with her head thrown back, her breasts slick and gleaming with perspiration. She opened eyes that were dark with passion. “I love this,” she whispered again.

I love you.
With her anchored firmly against
the wall, he was in charge now, but it was tenuous at best. Still, he controlled each stroke, each movement, watching her face, the incredible sensations he was feeling amplified a thousand times over by her obvious pleasure.

It couldn't get any better. It couldn't, but then it did. Frankie opened her eyes again. “Oh, Simon,” she breathed. His name sounded like music when she said it that way. As she held his gaze, he felt the beginnings of her release, and she smiled.

It was the same smile she'd given him when he'd won the free-throw contest the year before he'd graduated from college. It was the same smile she'd given him when he'd made his first major antiques deal. It was the smile she'd given him when Leila and Marsh had announced their wedding engagement.

It was a smile of pure joy. It was pure Frankie. And it pushed him over the edge.

He held her gaze as he felt himself explode, felt his own lips curve up into an answering smile even as his body and brain shattered into a million scorching, ecstatic pieces. He felt himself shake, felt her grip him tightly, heard himself cry out, heard her whisper his name again and again
as he rocketed light-years outside of previously explored space, into new, uncharted territory.

Stupidity.

Frankie had done a number of stupid things in her life, but waking up in Simon Hunt's arms was an entirely new study in stupidity.

She lay in the predawn light, hardly daring to breathe for fear of waking him. But he was sound asleep, one arm thrown possessively across her. His hair was rumpled and he needed a shave, but despite that, he was entirely too handsome. His eyelashes looked to be about four miles long against his smooth, tanned cheeks. His elegant lips were slightly upturned in a contented smile. He looked boyish and innocent—of which he was neither.

Of course, she herself wouldn't quite fit in the innocent category anymore. Certainly not after last night ….

After their first incredible round of lovemaking, they'd fallen into bed and slept for many hours. But Frankie had woken in the night and, as if in some wild, erotic dream, she in turn had
woken Simon with her hands and her mouth and her tongue. Somehow they'd ended up on the floor, in an exchange of passion no less tempestuous than their first steamy encounter.

And now, here she was, staring at the eggshell-fine cracks in the elegant old hotel ceiling in the early morning light, miserable as hell.

She was a fool for making love to Simon. Yes, he was hard to resist, but resisting him was not impossible. She'd been resisting him for years. But now she was no longer content with her life because she'd had a taste of what it would be like to have Simon as a permanent, full-time lover.

And she knew damn well that the words
permanent
and
full-time
weren't in Simon's vocabulary.

Yes, she was a fool. She'd sampled the forbidden fruit, and now she was forced to see the truth she'd been hiding from herself for God only knows how many years.

She loved Simon Hunt.

It was sheer stupidity, because she could never, ever have him. Not for more than the fleeting few weeks that his affairs usually lasted. She knew she couldn't change him—she'd seen far too many
women try to do that and fail. She was wise enough not to make that same mistake. She was smart enough to keep at least
that
much of her dignity.

Still, she was in love with the man. She'd been forced to admit it. She couldn't deny it any longer. And now she was going to have to live with that, probably for the rest of her life.

Although the pain of living with that knowledge was going to be a million times easier to handle than watching the desire in his eyes turn into that trapped look he always got a few weeks into a relationship. And
that
pain was nothing compared to the awful thought of his finding out her true feelings.

And he
would
find out. If he so much as kissed her again, he'd see the love in her eyes.

And then she'd see nothing but pity and fear in
his
eyes.

It was too awful to consider.

It was not, however, unavoidable.

Soundlessly, she slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom, taking her suitcase and locking the door behind her.

Ecstasy.

It wasn't something that Simon had experienced frequently in his life.

At least not before last night.

He woke up smiling, remembering, reliving. He rolled over, hoping to find Frankie somewhere on one of the outer acres of the oversized bed, but came up empty-handed.

She wasn't there.

He sat up, alarmed, but sank back down, hearing the sound of the water running in the bathroom.

He had to laugh at himself. For one panicked moment he'd imagined that she'd woken up early and sneaked out of the room. But that was ridiculous. This was
her
room. Besides,
he
was the one with the reputation for sneaking away after sexual encounters. And this time he wasn't going anywhere.

He was in love with Frankie Paresky.

So why hadn't he told her?
I love you.
Three words. Easy to pronounce. Not a tongue twister.

He'd had plenty of opportunities. Such as when she woke him in the middle of the night ….

Simon closed his eyes, reveling in the remembered ecstasy, feeling his morning arousal growing. After last night, he was amazed that he'd been celibate by choice for all those months. After last night, he was amazed that he'd known Frankie for close to twenty years, and yet he'd had no idea just how incredible making love to her could be.

He listened to the noises in the bathroom, hoping for the sound of the shower. If Frankie turned on the shower, he'd get up, join her in there ….

But the shower didn't go on. Instead, he heard the sound of a hair dryer. Was it really possible that she was done with her shower, and was already drying her hair? Simon turned to look at the clock on the television set. Seven
A.M.
Man, she must have been up early to be already showered by seven
A.M.

God, was Frankie a morning person? He definitely was not. That was going to take some getting used to. The thought was a little frigh t ening ….

Frightening.

There was more to this that was frightening than whether or not Frankie was a morning
person. And that, Simon suddenly realized, was the real reason he hadn't been able to tell Frankie that he loved her.

He was scared to death. Ecstatic, but scared to death all the same.

He'd never felt like this before. He thought it was love. It
had
to be love. But what if everything he was feeling just up and disappeared? What if it faded? What if he was wrong and this burning sensation in his chest proved to be nothing but indigestion?

And what if he made a promise that he couldn't keep?

The sound of the hair dryer stopped, but Frankie still didn't come out of the bathroom. What was she doing in there?

Simon threw back the covers and got out of bed.

He padded, naked, over to the bathroom door and knocked. “Hey, Francine?”

There was only silence from inside the bathroom.

He knocked again. “Are you okay in there?”

The bathroom door opened. Frankie. She was wearing a red cotton button-down shirt over a
pair of jeans. She looked beautiful. Her hair was still a bit damp, and she smelled clean and fresh. Simon felt himself smile just at the sight of her.

“Good morning.” He reached for her, wanting to feel her body next to his, but she stepped away.

“I left your clothes out by the bed.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the bathroom counter. “I thought you'd be gone by now.”

Simon heard her words but couldn't make any sense of them. “Gone?” What the hell was she talking about? The first thin blade of fear penetrated his heart. He reached for her again, and again she anticipated his move and slid farther down the counter, away from him. Something was wrong.

She gazed down at the floor, as if she were afraid even to look in his direction. “I guess we have to talk.”

“Okay. I'm listening.”

She glanced up at him, then quickly away, looking back down at the floor. “Simon, you're naked.”

“Yeah, I was naked last night too.” He kept his
voice light, teasing. He even managed to smile. “You didn't seem to mind it then.”

He'd meant it as a joke, but she didn't react at all. Something was
very
wrong here. His fear sharpened.

“Would you please get dressed so we can talk?”

Simon kept his voice even. “You mind if I, um, use the bathroom first?”

She shook her head and vanished, closing the door behind her.

Simon relieved himself, then washed his hands, staring at his face in the mirror. What the hell had he done wrong? It was clear this talk was going to be all bad news, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

He splashed water onto his face. Whatever it was, it was a mistake, a misunderstanding. They'd talk, he'd clear it up, they'd order room service, and he'd sweet-talk her back into bed before the coffee was cool.

He hoped.

He dried his face on a towel and opened the bathroom door.

His clothes were in a neat little pile right outside the door. Hint, hint.

His boxer shorts and pants were still a little damp, but he pulled them on anyway. He didn't bother buttoning his shirt before he went out into the room.

Frankie was sitting at a small table, sorting through one of the boxes from Jazz's mother's desk. She didn't look up until he sat down across from her.

Her face was expressionless. The night before he'd been able to read every look, every smile, every movement of her face perfectly. But now all he could see was …. nothing.

He took a deep breath. “Talk to me.”

She looked up, steadily meeting his gaze with eyes that carefully guarded her every secret. “I just wanted to thank you for last night.”

She wanted to
what?
Again, it was as if she were speaking a foreign language. Simon leaned forward. “Come again?”

“Thank you,” she repeated. “Last night was …. fun.”

Fun?
Fun?
Simon was speechless. Last night had been soul-shattering, not
fun.
Bowling was
fun.

“I just wanted to tell you that, you know, you don't have to worry. I, uh—” She hesitated,
clearing her throat and pushing her hair back from her face.

Horseback riding on the beach was
fun.
A barbecue with friends was
fun.
As Simon gazed at her, she seemed to collect herself and continue.