Wishes and Stitches (19 page)

She went to his head like no alcohol ever had. He practically had the spins.

Leaning forward, she reached across him to the coffee table, where he had a pad of paper advertising some drug company or other and a pen. He held his breath. Lord, she was practically in his lap. If he were sixteen and in a movie theater, this would be his version of yawning so that his arm would come down around her shoulders. The only difference was that that she'd come up with it first.

And at the last moment, before she settled back into her spot, Naomi turned her head and brushed his lips with hers.

“Thanks,” she said. And then she did it again.

Her lips pressed chastely against his, drew away. He opened his eyes and, while the touch of her mouth was light, he was damned if she wasn't looking at him with something akin to pure lust. Just about what he was feeling, actually. Those green eyes of hers, just the color of the Gulf at sunset, when the blue had worn off and the dark night was rolling in.

He should put the brakes on before the car even got rolling. “Should we—maybe we should start with things like cups? Napkins?”

“Nah,” she said as she wound an arm around his neck. Now she really was in his lap.

“Plastic forks?”

“Plastic's fine.”

“So . . .” Should he pull away? Why wasn't she moving away from him, scooting off him? Instead, she stayed exactly where she was.

Her fingers reached up to play with his hair, sending shivers down his spine. Could she feel how hard he was under her? She had to be able to. He should move, should do something . . .

Rig forgot what he was supposed to do as she kissed him again. This time it wasn't chaste, it wasn't closed mouthed, and it wasn't casually friendly. This was for her, he could feel it. This was what she wanted, as much as he did.

Sweet hell. He'd give it to her, then. He kissed her with all the heat that he'd stored inside, ever since she'd let down her hair in the reception area, ever since she'd walked in here with those red fuck-me heels.

When her mouth parted under his, his tongue stroked hers as he plundered her mouth with his. He sucked the delicious plumpness of her lower lip and heard her gasp, a tiny inhalation he gloried in. The temperature of her skin soared right along with his, and he didn't know how he was going to get enough of her.

Rig didn't think it was possible.

Chapter Thirty-two

N
aomi started out totally in control. But what was supposed to be a sexy romp turned heavy in seconds. She couldn't breathe when he was kissing her, and she didn't want to breathe when he wasn't.

Bad sign. It was a very bad sign.

She could feel him under her, hard as a rock, ready. And she could feel herself, slick and heated. She wanted one thing, but this wasn't the way she wanted it. Naomi had planned on guiding him, leading him, turn by turn, as they both shook this insane wanting out of their bodies for once and for all.

But it seemed like he'd arrived at this ready, and it was seriously throwing off her concentration.

Damn
. The arm that he'd been using to hold her on his lap trailed down her spine until he was touching the small of her back. While he did that thing with her bottom lip again lightly, that lick-suck thing that made her insides melt, he lifted the hem of her silk shirt, moving his fingers across the sensitive skin he found. The heat of him was so intense that she felt a fine trail of sweat break out wherever his fingers touched.

Naomi tugged her lip back and tried to regain her focus—she sucked his tongue, so soft, so wet, as she moved against him. She ground into his hips. For the love of God, if she just shifted six inches, if her damned panties were off and gone, she'd slide his zipper down, and he'd be in her, and she'd . . . God . . . Who
was
she? Was this what she'd . . . Her brain stilled and focused on the most important thing—the way his fingers slid up her spine again, and then—

If he'd just bring that hand at her back up and around, like that, until it was under her shirt, pushing her bra aside, touching her nipple just like
that
, yes.

Naomi wasn't sure which one of them gasped as she pulled her head back to look at him again. His dark eyes were even darker now, stormy, his lids half dropped, a satisfied look on his face as he tugged gently on her nipple. The touch sent an electric jolt to her groin and she arched her back, pushing into him again. His eyes grew even blacker, and he sank the fingers of his other hand into her hair, pulling her mouth back up to his.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled against her mouth.

“No.” Naomi ran her hand down his side and tugged his shirt up. “You can't.” His skin underneath was so soft, a fine layer of hair covering a hardness underneath, the muscles matching the ones in his forearms.

“Do you know what you're saying?” His voice was low.

“Take me to bed.”

He pulled away one more time. Naomi didn't think he'd pause like this for much longer. Thank God. “And you're sure? I want to know that you're with me in this.”

“Oh, yeah.” Boy, did he not know how with him she was. She'd come over for this. Why, then, did she feel like she wasn't keeping as tight a rein on things as she'd thought she would? Why was her breathing this ramped up, catching in her throat, when he wasn't even in her yet? From just his kiss and a light touch?

She slid off his lap, careful not to hurt him—good lord, he was big—and stood. She wobbled on her left heel and tried to make it into a sexy sidestep. Curling her first finger in a come-hither gesture, she winked.

“Wanna show me your bedroom?” Crap. It came out sounding silly. Rig's laughter showed he obviously thought so, too. But he stood and pulled her close, flush against him. He dipped his head to her ear, touched the lobe with a flick of his tongue and whispered, “Okay. I'm going into my bedroom. You going to come, too?” The double entendre made her knees wobble again. Damn heels. She was never wearing these again.

Rig led her forward through the door on the right, the one room she hadn't yet seen. He reached left and turned on a desk lamp that gave off only a soft glow. Through the dimness she saw a large bed, the simple brown quilt kicked aside. A low bookcase ran along the wall under the windows, and two boxes sat near the bed. She could see from where she stood that they were filled with more of the old paperbacks.

Two black-and-white prints hung above the bed, one of an oil derrick shot in bad weather—the rain clouds hung low, the deck of the rig was ominous, almost frightening. The other had been taken from the same vantage point, but on a sunny day. Naomi couldn't believe how cheery—pretty, really—an oil derrick could look.

“Those are great,” she couldn't help saying. It wasn't part of her seduction technique, but he grinned when she said it.

“Thanks. They're both taken from a helicopter on the approach in.”

“Wow.” In the second, bright one, she could see a gull in the upper-right-hand corner, swooping away, on his way out of the picture. Naomi pointed at it. “Is that you?”

Rig turned her in place, his hands on her shoulders. “No one's ever seen that in there before. But yeah.”

For a second, as he looked at her, Naomi felt giddy. As if he was her first crush. As if she'd gotten an A for getting the answer right to a test question she hadn't studied for.

“Please,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, trying not to let him see how tangled her emotions were. She knew she was here to accomplish a goal. And even though she couldn't remember the point of it anymore, Naomi knew it was the most important goal she could remember having in a very long time. She stepped closer into the circle of his arms and said, “I need you.”

“Whoa,” laughed Rig, pulling her closer. “You're not shy.” He dropped his head, his mouth nuzzling the soft place in the crook of her neck, just above her shoulder. She shivered.

No, in this, she couldn't be shy. This she knew. Stepping back, she pulled her shirt up over her head, slowly, so that he could discover that the red lace demibra matched her heels. He murmured something, and his hands came forward to touch the soft skin between her breasts, but she shook her head.

“Not yet,” she said.

“Ah, I get it. You're running the show.”

“Yes, please.” And she'd give him a show, all right, if her heart didn't stop first. She unzipped her skirt, sliding it slowly down her legs, then stepped out of it.

She stood there, in front of Rig, in her red bra, matching panties, and red high heels.

This was where she'd predicted she'd feel in control. Powerful.

Where the hell was that feeling? Why did she have the shivers, deep in her stomach, a quivery feeling that in about a second he'd be able to see? Why this incredible nervousness? She wanted to run to the bed and pull the covers over herself.
Damn
it.

Rig stood in place, watching. He liked what he saw, she could tell. That intense heat poured off him in waves, warming her, lessening the inner shivers.

She would
act
like she was brave, then. Act like everything was normal. This was just sex, right? They both understood the human body as a mechanism and the clinical state of arousal: part A fit into slot B, add friction, achieve pleasurable state of relaxation. As she moved to sit on the bed, she told herself he could be anyone.

But he was Rig. That was the difference.

She draped herself over the bed in the most seductive pose she could imagine, her knees crooked, left ankle draped over right ankle to show her shoes to best advantage. She sucked in her belly, inclined her head, and patted the spot next to her.

“Want to join me?”

Rig shook his head as if to clear it. “I'm still getting used to what I'm seeing.”

“Don't you like what you see?” Big, brave words. Now she was getting the hang of it.

“I do,” he started. He paused. “But I'm not buying it.”

She straightened a little, heart racing. “What are you talking about?”

He put one knee on the bed, just below her foot, and half knelt. “This isn't you. The only time you've really been you since you got here was when we were talking books, and when you saw my photography.” He gestured to the prints above her. “This sexy-siren thing? It's working for you, and goddamn, you look amazing, but I'm just going to keep waiting until the real you shows up again.”

Naomi sat all the way up. Why couldn't this be the real her? How dare he presume to know who she was? And what she wanted?

Especially since she didn't even know what she wanted this very second. To make love to him or to run out the door? She was torn between desires, although since she was dressed for only one of those activities, she didn't bolt. Yet.

“Who hurt you?”

She pulled back, her libido screeching to a halt. “What?”

“Who made it hard for you to trust anyone else? What makes you keep all those secrets inside?”

She pulled a portion of the sheet over her to cover the lace bits. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Someone did a number on you. Was it a boyfriend? Ex-fiancé? Is that the ring you still wear?” He pointed at her right hand.

Naomi snorted. “Of course not. You're imagining things.”

“Isn't that an engagement ring?”

“Maybe it was once, but never for me. A friend I loved gave me this.” She rubbed the circlet with her thumb and hoped it would help ground her.

“Your family, then. Your dad then, when he died. Where did that leave you? How did you recover from that?”

Naomi shut her eyes. This was too intense. She hadn't expected this onslaught of questions. Where had her father's death left her? Alone, a package to be handed off to a mother who wasn't pleased she'd have to house it for the last year before she turned eighteen. Her boyfriend at the time, with whom she'd never gone past third base, dumped her since she'd be too far away down 405 to be worth driving to. She'd had no one. Even her friends hadn't called her after she moved, as if they hadn't known how to talk to her anymore.

The worst part had been her mother, though. To be seventeen and to feel unwanted, unseen, like that. . .

She pushed the feelings down and prayed they hadn't played across her face. “I was fine. I was studying premed by then, on my own. I wanted only one thing.”

“Love?”

Naomi shook her head, hard. “To be a doctor.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice a rasp. “There you go with the secrets again. I don't believe you.”

“I'm not asking you to.” Naomi rearranged the sheet around her and didn't meet his eyes. She almost didn't recognize her voice as she continued to speak. “If you don't protect yourself, you get hurt.”

“Darlin', that's no way to live life. And I
will
get to the bottom of your secrets, Naomi. But you can hold on to them right now.” Rig came all the way up on the bed, easing her down, pulling the sheet back off her. “I have other things in mind.”

Then, while she still wasn't sure what she was going to let him do, he bent over her, flicking his tongue into the dip between her breasts. He licked his way up to the underside of her jaw, then nibbled her cheek, grazed her forehead, and worked his way back to her mouth, all the while holding himself above her, not touching her with anything but his mouth.

Keeping his lips on hers, their breathing mingling, he said in a dark, low voice, “You want me inside you.”

She gasped against him. Yes, she did. That's what she'd come here for. To get it out of the way already, to get her brain back into working order when it came to him.

“But that's not the way I work,” he went on.

All her senses went on even higher alert as he drew back and looked down at her.

“You just lie back. Relax,” said Rig.

Oh, no. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go.

“And now,” he went on, “I'm going to take off your bra even though you probably don't want me to.”

He was right, she didn't. It would help with keeping the upper hand if she stayed a little bit dressed, she knew it would: men loved a woman in lace. But his hand went to the catch between her breasts, and with one quick snap, the bra came open. Her breasts spilled out, hitting the cool air, her nipples immediately stiffening.

“Now, I'm going to lick you.” He put one hand on her right breast and flicked the nipple with his finger. “Here.” He gave her left nipple the slightest twist. “And here.”

His mouth came down, and he made good on his word. And while he bit and sucked, teased and taunted, his hand roamed her body, dipping into the top of her panties, trailing up to her other breast, then back down to touch her inner thighs as if testing their softness, their willingness to part for him.

When she regained a few seconds of sense, Naomi twisted her fingers into his hair, stopping his mouth from kissing the sensitive skin just below her breast. She could still get herself back in control of the situation. She knew it. If she could just tamp down this need . . .

Oh, thank God. Rig sat up and tugged her panties down. She lifted herself to make it easier and then wriggled her legs, pushing the underwear down with one high heel. He helped her work it off, and then, to her surprise, he took first one of her shoes, then the other one, off. They dropped to the hardwood floor with a clatter. Didn't he like the way they looked?

But at least he was going to do as she wanted. He'd get a condom and then he'd be . . .

Rig moved down her body, placing slow kisses on her belly button, her hip, the outside of her thigh. Then he put himself between her legs, yes, that was it, but oh, God, he was too far away. Not there. That's not what she wanted. That would be
way
too much.

“Rig.” The voice that she'd meant to be commanding came out as a squeak. “Not that, I need—”

He interrupted her as if she wasn't speaking. “Now I'm going to lick you here.” He touched her inner folds with a finger, running it slickly up to her clit, and then back down. “Oh, Jesus, Naomi. You're so wet.”