Authors: Elizabeth Adler
Hypnotized, Mal unfurled herself from the sofa. She stood just a pace from him, their eyes connected with that live-wire tension again, and a tiny shiver ran down her spine. “Why did we have that ‘no strings’ contract anyway, Harry?” she asked softly.
“It’s like a no-claims policy, I guess.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and she thought her bones would melt under his touch. “We could always add a rider to that clause stating ‘with the exception of tonight.’”
He took off her glasses and placed them carefully on the table. She peered nearsightedly at him, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat. Then he reached up and ran his finger across her mouth. The sensuousness of the gesture made her shiver. She closed her eyes as he dropped soft kisses onto her eyelids, then ran the tip of his tongue along her lashes.
“Sweet,” he murmured, “so sweet. I wondered how you would taste.” He licked the corner of her mouth, kissed the tip of her nose, nuzzled his face into her neck. She sighed softly.
He pulled her closer, and she slid her arms around his neck, tilting back her head, wanting to be held, wanting to be kissed. When his lips skimmed hers delicately, she murmured with pleasure, absorbing the feel of him. Then his mouth closed on hers, parting her lips, drinking her like a thirsty man, and she was lost in the moment, wanting it to go on forever.
When he finally took his mouth from hers, she clung to him, her eyes still shut. Harry looked tenderly at her, then he picked her up and carried her back to the sofa in front of the fire.
“I can walk,” she protested dreamily.
“Blisters, remember?”
He set her down on the cushions, smiling. She looked like a teenager in the ridiculous blue flannel pajamas and socks, with her hair all mussed and her cheeks flushed
pink. But then she opened her eyes and gave him that enigmatic sapphire look that was half
please
and half
no
, and he knew it was no simple girl he was looking at.
“You nervous, Malone?” he asked, taking her left foot and pulling off the sock.
“Mallory,” she corrected him.
He pulled off the other sock. “You didn’t answer.” He began to massage her foot, gently, rhythmically.
“Of course I’m not nervous.” She watched him, big-eyed, not wanting him to stop.
He ran his hand along the smooth length of her calf, massaging the aching muscles. It felt wonderful, and she relaxed into it. “Mmmm, good,” she murmured, “that’s so good ….” She leaned over, looking deep into his eyes. “When are you going to kiss me again?”
“Since you ask …” He cupped her face, kissing her lingeringly, then hefted her into his lap and crushed her to him. Minutes slid slowly by as they kissed. She couldn’t get close enough to him. She pulled out his shirt, running her fingers over his naked back, feeling the sleek muscles.
His hands were under the blue pajama top, exploring her skin, then, with just the pads of his fingers, he circled her breasts. Mal gasped at the sheer electric shock of it. She leaned back in his arms, surrendering herself to his touch.
Harry’s fingers trembled as he unbuttoned the pajama top. He looked at her lying there, golden all over from the Arizona sun. Her round breasts tipped with coral nipples invited his mouth. He inclined his head, ran his tongue over them, tasting her flesh, trailing along the line of her throat, circling her breasts, inching down.
He untied the pajama cord and slid off her pajamas, drinking her in with his eyes. She was all hot silken-fleshed woman: soft, golden, responsive. She shuddered as his fingers traced the taut line of her belly, arching against him as he gripped the soft mound of hair, then ran his
finger gently over her sweet center. She cried out in soft throaty little moans, thrusting upward into his hand. He jammed his mouth onto hers, biting, kissing, searching, as she demanded more, reaching for it as his fingers brought her to the brink, and then with a cry that was half groan, half scream, she shuddered over the edge of control. “Oh, Harry, oh, Harry,” she moaned.
He gazed down at her, loving her for her abandonment to the moment, as crazy for her as she was for him.
She watched like a woman in a trance as he undressed. Firelight licked at his body, and she gazed longingly at him, wanting to taste him, wanting him to taste her.
She edged over on the deep sofa, making room for him. “Harry,” she said in a deep purring voice, “Harry …” And then he was lying beside her, his flesh cool against her heat as he devoured her, in a give and take of pleasure that sent ripples of delight through her. Then they slid gently, all of a heap, from the sofa onto the rug.
She sprawled before him, her body sculpted in the fire’s glow, her eyes locked with his. Waiting. She was damp, beautiful, softly sensual, and deeply exciting. Desire leaped like a knot of white heat in his belly. He lay over her, holding her, taking her mouth again. Her fingers clutched his hair as he entered her, and she shifted against him, wrapping her legs around him, moving against him….
His need for her was urgent, he was trembling with it, but he wanted her to be his equal, to give her pleasure. “Wait,” he murmured, “Mal, wait.” He took a deep shuddering breath, holding back, and then she said, “Harry,” again in that purring little voice that sent a groan of pleasure from his throat, and he was lost.
She cried out with each stroke, tiny moans that grew deeper. He rested, leaning on his hands, looking at her. She met his eyes—they were drowning in each other, as he slowly took her to the brink again, and then they were
both tumbling over the cliff, arching, flesh against hot damp flesh, warm wet lips colliding fiercely. And then they were still.
Mal lay under him, her arms and legs still wrapped around him, floating somewhere in space, not wanting him to leave her. His weight was beautiful, his smooth skin, beaded with sweat, was delicious under her skimming hands, and the rough masculine scent of him was in her nostrils.
“Ohhh, Harry,” she murmured.
“Mallory,” he growled, and she smiled, coming slowly back to earth again.
“I’m crushing you.” He eased himself away from her, and she sighed with regret. Sex was not something she indulged in simply to satisfy a momentary urge. The act meant more to her than mere pleasure; it meant that, for that moment, she felt loved. She wanted to hold on to that moment as long as she could. When his body left hers, she was bereft, alone again.
She sat up and clasped her knees under her chin. Harry looked at her for a long moment, and she tried to read the message in his eyes. Then he bent his head and gently kissed her blistered toes, one by one.
Tears pricked her eyelids. The tough cop was a tender lover, thoughtful and generous.
He picked up her sweater, wrapped it around her shoulders, smoothed back her tangled hair. His hand was shaking, just like hers, as she touched him, wonderingly, running her fingers gently along his jaw, across the stubble that had bristled her tender female parts, and she hadn’t even minded, she had been so lost in it.
The Sinatra record was still spinning on the phonograph, long since finished. She put her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding like hers, and she smiled.
Harry thought she was like a candle glowing in the dark. He took the glass of wine, held it for her while she
drank, then inclined his head to her and licked the wine from her lips.
“I don’t need wine,” he told her throatily. “I can drink you instead.”
She stretched her arms over her head, lithe as a cat, contented—until he cupped her breast again, running his thumb across the nipple, following it with his lips. And it was starting all over again.
The log had burned through, slipping lower in the grate. Only the red glow remained when they finally came to their senses. The record was still spinning without music, and the wine was still undrunk.
Harry eased his arms from under her, and she protested muzzily as he stood up. Her eyes followed him as he walked across the room. She thought he was beautiful. He turned off the record player, then picked up a soft chenille throw from the back of the sofa and a couple of cushions. He lifted her head, arranged the cushions beneath her, and covered her with the throw. Then he lay down beside her again.
“Comfortable?”
“Mmmm.” Her eyes were half shut, and a blissful fatigue drew her down. Harry kissed her gently as he put his arms around her, fitting her head snugly into the groove of his shoulder. “Custom made for you, Malone,” he said, closing his own eyes.
“Mallory,” she corrected him. Then before she knew it, she was asleep.
Squeeze woke them early the next morning, whining at the door to be let out. Harry edged his numb arm from beneath her and got to his feet.
“Don’t go,” she said in a muffled voice, her head still hidden beneath the blanket.
“The dog,” he explained. “I’ll be right back.”
He let the dog out, then threw another log onto the
embers, blasting it with a pair of ancient leather bellows until it sparked into flames again.
He looked at the blanketed mound still lying motionless on the rug. All that was visible were her feet, sticking out at the end, blisters and all. Even her feet were pretty. He pulled on his boxer shorts, then walked barefoot to the kitchen.
“You’re so goddamned
busy
, detective.” Her complaint floated after him.
“And you are consistent, Malone,” he called from the kitchen.
Mal snuggled back down into the rug, listening to the early morning sounds: birds singing, the dog barking, dishes rattling in the kitchen. Soon the good-morning aroma of fresh-roasted coffee drifted her way, along with Harry’s voice singing something in Spanish. She wondered if he was dancing.
“Room service.”
She shuffled upright, clutching the chenille throw modestly over her breasts. Her eyes widened. “Mmm, coffee. And
muffins.”
He held out the basket. “Blueberry on your left, jalapeño cornmeal on your right.”
“Jalapeño cornmeal?”
He looked apologetic. “My one indulgence, I’m afraid.”
“Oh? I thought I noticed a few more ‘indulgences’ last night.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You noticed?”
She laughed, and he bent and kissed her. “Your hair’s a mess,” he murmured, tasting her earlobe.
“Mmm, then I must look like you.”
He ruffled her hair affectionately. “Eat your muffin, and stop complaining, Malone—
Mallory.”
“You finally got it.” She took a bite of the muffin. “Do these taste like heaven or what?”
“Low-fat
heaven.”
“They’re not!” She looked astonished, and he laughed.
“No, they’re not. I just said that to make you happier. And while you’re eulogizing, how’s the coffee?”
“Bliss.”
“What more can a woman want?”
“Not much,” she agreed, leaning comfortably against him, eating the muffin, still clutching the blanket over her breasts.
“Too late for the blanket,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I’ve seen it all.” To his astonishment, she blushed. “Malone, you can’t be
shy
with me now,” he said. “Remember me? I’m Harry, the guy from last night?”
She nodded, blushing. “My date.”
“The guy who brought you to the party,” he murmured, bending to kiss the nape of her neck. “The one you let put his hand down the front of your dress.”
“We’re a little too old for necking in the backseat of the limo, though.” She leaned her neck into his hand, and he massaged it gently.
“Oh, Malone,” he sighed pleasurably, remembering—“that was not mere necking.”
She laughed, then drained her coffee mug, took the last bite of muffin, and put on her glasses. She wrapped the chenille throw around her and got up. “I’m off to take a shower.”
He sat on the sofa, looking at her. She looked back, taking in his broad shoulders, his dark curling chest hair, the bluish stubble in dire need of a razor, the sleek muscles in his arms, and the way the flesh clung to his taut rib cage. Just the way she had clung to him last night, flesh on flesh. She felt hot just remembering.
She gave him a happy smile, then walked sedately away. His eyes followed her. Halfway across the room the chenille throw began to slide. She turned, threw him a sexy look over the top of her glasses, and let it slither down her
back, tantalizingly slowly, lower. And lower. Trailing it behind her, she sashayed naked across the room, turning to give him one last wicked look.
“Like cream over peaches,” Harry marveled, hearing her laughter as she walked unhurriedly up the stairs.
W
HEN
M
AL CAME
downstairs again, Harry was sprawled on the sofa. He had obviously just showered because his hair was still wet. He had on his frayed Levi’s and a white T-shirt, and he was fast asleep.
She watched him affectionately. He looked like a man born to wear jeans and a T-shirt. And he looked exhausted.
He opened his eyes suddenly and looked directly at her. His gaze was so deep, so intimate, it was as though he had touched her. He took her hand, drew her down beside him, and slid his arm along her shoulder.
“You smell delicious,” he murmured, “like all the good things in the world. Fresh-cut grass, or maybe sweet summer hay. A garden after rain. A soft ocean breeze on a tropical island.”
“It’s Bactine,” she said honestly. “On the blisters.”
He laughed. “How many men do you know who could mistake Bactine for a soft ocean breeze on a tropical island?”
“Very few. In fact, probably only you, Harry Jordan.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her soundly.
“Now you’re all lipstick.” She ran a finger across his mouth.
He kissed her fingers, then the palm of her hand, then her mouth again, just as the old grandfather clock in the hall struck twelve, right on cue. He had to work that
night, she had to catch the shuttle back to New York, and the long drive was still ahead of them.
“Why does this have to end,” he murmured, “when I feel it’s only just beginning.”
“Cinderella again,” she whispered regretfully.
He nuzzled her neck. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re adorable? When you’re on your good behavior, that is.”