Rules of Negotiation (11 page)

“Oh.” he closed his eyes. “Be gentle. That’s all I ask.”

She lowered herself to the bed by his side. “Gentle, nothing. I’m the one paying the forfeit. Sometimes when I lose a bet I get a little,” she kissed the side of his knee, “frustrated.”

He made a strangled noise. “Frustrated?”

She brushed her mouth against his thigh. With firm hands, she pushed his legs apart to give herself more room. Straddling one leg, she slid her hands up, teasing herself with the touch of his wiry hair between her thighs, lingering at the edges of his sex with the barest scratch of her fingernails.

“I have a lot of energy. I need to release that energy somehow.”

He sucked in a breath. “No argument here.”

“I didn’t think so.” Her lips followed the path of her hands and she reveled in his quick, indrawn breath. This man made her feel so gloriously wanton, sexier than she’d ever been before. And she was going to enjoy every minute. She explored him slowly, refusing to hurry. The soft skin of his scrotum yielded easily to her touch, his penis leaping the moment she brushed against it with her hair.

“Mmmm,” she sighed, cupping his balls in one hand as she ran her fingers over the length of him.

He touched her head with one hand, the gentle motion affirming his appreciation for her efforts. His soft skin pulsed under her fingers. Reveling in the desire already throbbing between her legs, Tori flicked her tongue around the head of his cock, lingering at the tiny scar at the base where he had been circumcised. Then, letting her teeth bump gently against him, she finally took him into her mouth, stopping for a moment to let him throb and harden even more. When he buried his other hand in her hair and urged her on, she let him slide the rest of the way into her mouth, until he reached the back of her throat.

Glorying in the feel of him, she sucked hard and moved her mouth up and down his length. When he moaned she felt an answering tug of desire and rode his thigh hard, grinding against him as she pulled and sucked deep, then retreated to run her tongue up and down the dark, throbbing vein.

She tasted a sweet, salty flavor as he bucked against her and retreated, took one of her breasts in her hand, and rubbed the nipple against him instead. That, apparently, was all he could take, because his strong hands suddenly found their way to her waist.

“No more,” he groaned, lifting her away from him.

Tori rolled onto her back. She realized that Brit was sheathing himself in a condom, and she whimpered as an unexpected wave of desire hit her. He touched her gently, his long fingers probing her as if to make sure she was ready. She spread her thighs and moved her hips, suddenly desperate to feel him deep inside.

Brit drove into Tori with hard, powerful thrusts that seemed to reach her very core. The tension in her built to a second, equally powerful crescendo, and she pulled back her legs to welcome him as deeply as possible. Brit took one of her knees in his hand and pushed it higher, toward her shoulder, leaning into her as he thrust. Feeling vulnerable and powerful at the same time, Tori moved against him, rising to meet his thrusts. When the moment of surrender came she let it overwhelm her body and mind, and screamed at the pleasure, dizzy with the force of her release. Seconds later, Brit uttered a hoarse cry, buried his face in her neck, and shuddered to stillness.

Chapter Eleven

Tori awoke to the sound of Brit’s heavy breathing, the warmth of an arm flung over her shoulder, and the urgent press of her bladder. With cautious fingers, she peeled Brit’s arm off her body and squirmed her way out of the covers. Tori smothered a groan as she pushed herself to standing, and then looked around the room for something to wear. She had intended to be back home last night, and hadn’t brought anything with her other than her briefcase and the clothes on her back.

“You aren’t running away, are you?” came a gravelly voice. Brit had opened one eye, and was considering her in a hazy, unfocused sort of way.

“No. I need a bathroom.”

“First door on the left. You better be here when I wake up.”

He closed the eye and resumed snoring a moment later. Hopping around the house naked didn’t sound appealing, so Tori examined her clothes. Strewn about the room were her silk shirt, skirt, and thong. Not exactly the sort of outfit she was looking for.

Feeling a bit like a thief, she padded quietly over to the imposing, dark mahogany unit across from the bed. She pulled the top drawer open and found neatly folded boxer briefs and carefully matched socks. The next two drawers held perfectly arranged white undershirts. The fourth drawer had colored T-shirts, sorted by shade, and the fifth, a collection of wrinkleless gym shorts. Unless he was obsessive-compulsive, Brit neither did his own laundry nor put it away.

She looked back over to the man stretched out at an angle on the bed, mouth open as he snored, hair a tousled mess. No, she smiled, definitely not obsessive-compulsive. Rich, but not compulsive.

She pulled out a blue T-shirt and slipped it over her head, and then found a pair of cotton shorts that hung low on her hips, but didn’t fall off. The scent of sandalwood tickled her nose, and she buried her face in the shirt for a moment. Though she no longer had any excuse, she continued her stealthy examination. An open door to the left revealed a walk-in closet, with rows of suits, shirts, and pants, all hung on identical hangers approximately an inch apart. Neat birch shelves held a collection of sweaters and polos.

Was it wrong to envy a man for his closet? Or perhaps simply for the maid and laundry service that kept it so well organized?

She backed out of the closet and headed out the door to find the bathroom. After relieving her very full bladder—and examining another impeccably cleaned and organized room—she continued down the hall toward the kitchen. Along the way she stopped at the open door of what appeared to be Brit’s office. Looking around guiltily, she stepped across the threshold, clasping her arms around her like a cloak.

Once inside, she took in the appearance of the room with wide-eyed approval. The rest of the house smacked of some vaguely pretentious, wealthy yuppie who didn’t like kids, messes, or clutter. But this room was different. This room was Brit.

She slid her index finger along the edge of a 1950s-style walnut desk and was enormously relieved to find a trail of dust. The desk held an assortment of papers, reports, open books, and even a few half-empty coffee cups. A laptop sat on a table opposite the desk, surrounded by more papers. On one wall hung a framed poster of Sean Connery in
Goldfinger
. Another wall held a picture of the New York skyline that Tori guessed had been taken from a helicopter. A series of black and white photographs of children decorated the space by the door—nieces and nephews, perhaps. Under a tall window sat a glass box with a baseball inside. A close examination revealed the name Roger something—Earis? Waris?—scrawled across the ball.

Tori nibbled her lip as she stared at the ball. Maris! Roger Maris. That was it. She congratulated herself for coming up with the name. She wasn’t entirely sure where she’d heard it, but she suspected, based on the programs sitting on top of the case, that he played for the Yankees. She’d have to Google him when she got home. Brit would be impressed when she—

In the middle of the thought, she smacked herself on the forehead and backed away from the case as if it were radioactive. Once she got home, she was never going to have anything to do with Brit Bencher ever again. How could she have forgotten?

She hurried out of the study and made a beeline for the kitchen.

This is a one-night—no, make that two-night—stand. He’s out of your league, dates women for nanoseconds, enjoys the company of supermodels, and is absolutely not interested in a relationship, and neither are you.

And she was okay with that.

She found the kitchen, which even Martha Stewart couldn’t complain about, and started rifling through glass-doored cabinets. She needed coffee. Now. This very instant. Dark, strong, bitter coffee that would restore the mental faculties that had apparently been melted away by Brit’s smoldering kisses.

Remember Fritzy? The damn cat who abandoned you? You can’t even keep an animal happy, let alone another human being. Brit is heartache in a pretty wrapper. Enjoy this weekend for what it is—rampant sexual pleasure with no emotional ties.

“Third cabinet to the left for the beans. The grinder’s next to the sink.”

She jumped at the sound of a voice and spun around. Long and lean, Brit stood behind her, his sculpted torso bare, a pair of striped cotton pajama bottoms covering his lower half.

“Thanks. I’m useless until I get that first cup.”
Play it cool,
she warned herself.
Remember, no emotions. No emotions…

“Depends on how you define useless.” He wagged an eyebrow at her outfit. “You look like you’re ready to shoot some hoops. There’s big bucks in that, you know.”

She allowed herself to laugh. Laughing wasn’t emotional, was it? “Hoops? I assume that means basketball?”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “I can see this is going to be a problem. I can accept that you never played any sports yourself, but didn’t you say you were engaged once? I assume that was to a man, right?”

“I suppose you could call him that.”

“Clearly, not man enough.”

A wide smile broke across her face. “Phil was, well…he played a lot of golf.”

Brit nodded sagely. “I knew it. Obviously, his leaving was for the best.”

Talking about her ex-fiancé this way was highly enjoyable, but risked becoming emotional, so Tori decided to change the subject. “So, what about those pancakes you were talking about? Does a girl have to starve around here?”

He put his hands on his hips. “No one is going to be doing any starving. Not on my watch. The flour is in the corner cabinet. You can be my sous chef.”

“You actually use this kitchen?” Tori turned to open the cabinet and found a revolving lazy Susan filled with neat glass containers. She pulled out the one that said “FLOUR” and set it on the counter. “I thought maybe you had a full-time maid and cook.”

“Why would you assume I’m helpless? Are you a sexist, Tori Anderson?”

Brit opened a drawer in the wide, granite-topped island in the center of the room. He pulled out a stack of recipe cards and flipped through them. Setting one dog-eared index card on the counter, he threw the others back in the drawer, and closed it.

“Yes, I am a sexist, but no, that’s not why I assumed you are helpless. Using my keen lawyer’s brain, I deduced that were you actually a functioning chef, there would at least one coffee stain on the coffeemaker, a scratch on the snowy-white sink, or a spot on the counter. Seeing none of those things, I assumed not much cooking gets done in here.”

He hummed as he moved around the kitchen. Tori leaned against the counter and watched as he pulled buttermilk and an egg from the enormous Sub-Zero fridge. The muscles in his back flexed and rippled.

“We will come back to your sexism in a moment. But in answer to your question, I have a very good cleaning service.”

Tori wrinkled her nose. “Cleaning service, laundry service…you had someone come in here and organize your closet, too, didn’t you?”

“Maybe. Does that bother you? I need the sugar, baking soda, salt, and baking powder, by the way.” He had pulled out a large mixing bowl and measuring cups from the cabinet under the island and began to scoop out the flour.

“It’s a touch, well,
sterile
in here, don’t you think?”

“Most women like it.”

“Who’s being sexist now? Are you suggesting that women are shallow creatures who like your sterile apartment because it shows off how rich you are?” She found baking soda and powder and added them to the counter.

“I said nothing of the sort. Unlike you, I am not a sexist. My sister, Melissa, organized this place for me. She said I wasn’t using my space very well. My brother Joe’s wife, Allison, did the decorating. The women I know seem to like things that are organized and decorated. And frankly, I spend my time in my office, unless I’m entertaining, so I don’t really care what the rest of the house looks like.”

Great, now she had managed to insult both his sister and sister-in-law. Still, he looked more amused than annoyed. “Sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t know your sisters had done the decorating. I happened to notice that your office is the only thing in this house that looks like you. That’s all.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think I’m—how did you put it—sterile?”

“I suppose
tidy
would be a better word.”

A smile broke across his face. “You don’t think I’m tidy?”

Tori spun the lazy Susan until she found the salt and set it down on the counter with a thump, suddenly annoyed with the conversation and her reaction to it. Brit was too damn charming and she was enjoying this banter far too much. She had to put a stop to it. “I have no idea if you’re tidy or not. Forget I mentioned it.”

“So now I’m helpless and untidy. And this after one date.” He rustled through the contents of another drawer until he found measuring spoons.

“Dinner,” she corrected him. “Sex. No dates. We’re not dating, remember?”

It had become crucially important to remind herself of that fact. They were not dating.

“Of course,” he agreed. “We are not dating.”

“As long as we’re clear about that.” Tori cleared her throat, and turned around to retrieve the sugar. He could tease her all she wanted. She was getting out of this weekend with her sanity and dignity intact. Even if she had to die trying.

…

Brit carefully measured the ingredients and handed them back to Tori. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she put them away. When she reached up, the soft knit fabric of the shorts outlined her round bottom, and he felt a tug at his groin. He should be exhausted after that incredible night, but having her only seemed to make him want her more.

When he first set out to convince Tori to give him Solen’s number, he never guessed how enjoyable that task would be. He had imagined a slightly unpleasant night of trying to create sympathy in the heart of a barracuda. Instead, he found a sexy, funny, tough-on-the-outside woman with a painfully obvious vulnerability underneath.

Whoa there, cowboy. Keep talking like that and people will think you like her.

Brit forced himself to shrug off the moment, as if the thought hadn’t hit him somewhere between the gut and the solar plexus.

So what if I do like her? I like her breasts, her legs, her mouth…what’s wrong with that? Besides, she doesn’t want to date me any more than I want to date her.

Strangely enough, her insistence on treating this like a one-night stand irritated him. What was wrong with dating him? He wasn’t malformed, old, or poor. He didn’t have a wart on the end of his nose or an unfortunate habit of burping at dinner. They had shared a night of mind-blowing sex. There were legions of women who would be ecstatic at the thought of dating Brit Bencher. What made her so special?

He turned to the stove and prepared the griddle. He had put aside any thought of Melissa and Solen last night, but he couldn’t ignore his task forever. Today would be the day. He’d do it subtly, and cleverly. He’d get her to fall in love with Melissa. He’d get her to
want
to give him the phone number.

Tori opened the cabinet with the coffee beans and threw some in the grinder. She pushed the button and filled the kitchen with noise, her face relishing the physical act of pulverizing the beans. Her mood had changed again. Was she pissed that he’d mentioned dating? Did she not like pancakes? It was hard to say, but he found it fascinating to watch the emotions flit across her face.

When the crunch of the grinder turned to a softer whir, he took it gently from her hands. “I think they’re done. Why don’t you let me handle this? You can get the newspaper. It should be at the front door by now.”

Without a word, she marched out of the kitchen and over to the front door. After playing for a moment with the locks, she opened the door and retrieved the
Wall Street Journal
. She stalked back over to the dining room table and buried her face in the newsprint.

After starting the coffee, Brit turned to the griddle, glancing back at Tori every few seconds. It seemed risky, given her current mood, but if he was going to win her sympathy, he needed to start laying it on.