Running Blind (11 page)

18

Rhonda stood in her doorway, watching Cooper walk down the hall, not believing what had just happened.

After a perfectly congenial dinner, he'd walked her to her door, shaken her hand, and told her he'd see her at 6:00 a.m.

If he was playing a game, he was damn good at it. If he was actually sorry about all the crap he'd pulled, he was damn good at apologizing, too.

She closed the door behind her, flipped the safety bolt, then walked slowly to the bed.

She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Of
course
, she was relieved. This was exactly what she wanted—for him to stop acting like a teenager, one minute hating girls, the next minute trying to back them up against a wall and cop a feel.

She took a quick shower, slipped on her short nightgown, and went to bed with her tablet to finish up reports from today and tweak the testing she had set up for tomorrow.

For a while, she half-expected a knock on the door, Cooper wanting to know if his apology and good behavior had earned him enough points to have a fun little romp in her bed, the leopard showing his true spots.

She glanced toward the door, wondering what she'd do if he did show up. All sleepy bedroom eyes and mussed hair, barefoot, shirtless . . .

There went that “girl parts” zing again.

She looked away from the door. She liked this new Jamie Cooper.
If
that was really him, a little voice warned. Could he be a nice guy after all? Or had an alien invaded his body? Was he really repentant, or was this just another way of angling to get into her bed? And if it wasn't, was she relieved or disappointed?

Or
had
she
been invaded by an alien and . . .

Crap.

Her head started to pound again, and her brain was clearly running low on functioning cells.

Disgusted, she scrolled through the documents on her tablet, found the one she was looking for, and got back to work.

She looked at her door three more times before she finally shut down her tablet in frustration and turned off the light. At nine freaking thirty.

She was still awake an hour later. And an hour after that.

Frustrated, she tossed back the covers, turned on the bedside light, and searched for the TV remote. Maybe an old movie would put her to sleep.

She stopped searching when she landed on a rerun of
True Blood
, mesmerized as a very naked and aroused Sookie got it on with a very naked and very, very buff Alcide, the werewolf. His dark, smoldering eyes and thick black hair made her think of the man just down the hall, and instead of Sookie and Alcide naked and wrapped around each other in sweaty, sensual knots, she saw herself and Cooper.

She quickly punched the off button, headed straight for the bathroom, and turned on the tap. The water was lukewarm. She needed something cold to drink, and the minibar was off limits; it would only make things worse.

After grabbing the ice bucket and her key card, she undid the dead bolt, opened the door, and peeked outside. The hall was empty. Counting on everyone being asleep, she quietly shut the door and made a beeline for the ice machine just down the hall.

She didn't even look as she hotfooted it by Cooper's room. She got her ice, stepped back into the hall—and ran straight into the solid wall of his bare chest.

“Sorry,” he said, then stopped dead when he realized it was her.

He, too, carried an ice bucket.

He, however, had had the good sense to get dressed. Sort of. He was barefoot and shirtless, in his jeans. And just as she'd imagined, his hair was bed-mussed and beautiful.

Long moments passed as he stared at her, his gaze slowly sweeping from her own bed-mussed hair, to her bare shoulders, to the thin strap of her pale pink nightie that had slipped down one arm . . . then to her nipples, which had stood at full attention the moment she'd laid eyes on his bare, muscled chest. And finally, down to her legs, bare from mid-thigh down to her feet. There was a lot of bare going on here.

Oh, God.

“Couldn't sleep?” His voice sounded like it scraped across gravel.

“Um.” She reached up to tuck a strand of hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. “Guess that would make two of us?”

His gaze was now riveted on her lips. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“Well.” She curved her shoulders in so her nightgown didn't showcase her ridiculously erect nipples. “Good luck with that.”

Then she all but ran back to her room.

She was breathing hard when she leaned against her closed door, clutching the ice bucket. And she almost dropped it when she heard his door slam across the hall.

Yikes. Couldn't mistake the anger in
that
sound.

When his door slammed again only a few seconds later, followed by the solid rap of a knuckle on her own door, she jumped.

“Open the door, Rhonda.”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, considering ignoring him.

“You want me to wake up the entire floor?”

When her heart had settled back down, she opened the door a crack and peeked outside.

There he stood. Still barefoot. Still shirtless. As tempting as an apple in Eden.

“I want to come in.” The smoky darkness in his voice and eyes left no doubt about what he planned to do once he got there. The packet of condoms in his fist cinched it.

An electric bolt sizzled through her body, yet she tried. “I don't think this is a good idea.”

“That's not what your nipples said.”

She almost laughed. Yes, the thought of him in her bed made her that stupid.

“I was cold,” she lied, so weakly that even she didn't buy it.

“You were hot.” The sensual grit in his voice rivaled the heat in his eyes. “You
are
hot.”

She pressed her forehead against the door frame, wanting to give in, knowing she'd be sorry if she did, sorry if she didn't.

“We've tried, Rhonda.” His voice softened. No less sexual. No less frustrated. “We've both tried damn hard. We've sniped, we've made nice, we've tried to ignore it. But it's not working.”

No, it wasn't.

“If you tell me to go back to my room, I'm gone. But ask yourself this question first. Do you really want to keep fighting this?”

She
should
fight it.

She didn't
want
to.

She
should
be smart enough and strong enough.

She didn't
want
to be either right now.

So when she finally raised her head and saw the hot desire in his eyes, saw all that glorious golden skin covering solid muscle, she knew the fight was over.

19

When she unhooked the chain and then stepped back, Coop was the one who hesitated.

In this moment, he wanted her more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life. More than he'd wanted his name cleared after Operation Slam Dunk. More than he wanted his next breath.

This could be life-altering, and he didn't want to screw it up. So he stood there, his fist wrapped tight around the condoms, his gaze riveted on her eyes—eyes that spoke of desire and surrender and that irresistible vulnerability.

“Now?” She backed into the room, a look of utter confusion on her face. “After all that door slamming and demanding that I let you in,
now
you're going to stand out there and give me a chance to regret my decision?”

Hell, no.

He stepped inside and, never taking his eyes off hers, shut the door and turned the lock. In the dimness, the bedside lamp made her thin nightgown translucent, leaving very little to the imagination.

In two steps, he had her in his arms. Two more, and he'd backed her against the foot of the bed. Two deep breaths, and his heart slammed against hers, his bare chest pressed against the fullness of her breasts and the erect wonder of her nipples.

Then two words stopped him cold.

“Ground rules.” She pressed her palm against his lips just as he went to kiss her.

“
What
?”

If she wanted him on his knees, it was a pretty sure bet it would happen. Very little blood remained in his head; most had gone south, where it pulsed and demanded relief.

“We need to establish ground rules.” She sounded as aroused as he felt.

“Okay. Fine. Pick a safe word.” He groaned, pressing his erection against her taut, concave belly. He wasn't into kinky sex, but if she—

“That's not what I meant.” She pushed him inches away.

He felt like weeping. “Then what?
Please
. Just tell me what you want.”

He drew her back against him. Filled his palms with the sweet, fleshy roundness of her ass and ground her hard against the aching length of him. He knew what
he
wanted. He wanted that filmy pink silk on the floor, her legs wrapped around his waist, and his mind blown like a fried circuit as he buried himself deep inside her.

“We keep this real, okay?”

He arched his hips against hers again, bent his head, and nuzzled the soft spot beneath her ear. “This is as real as it gets.”

“This . . . tonight,” she said, sounding breathless but committed as he nipped her earlobe, tugged, then nipped again. “It's just about sex. All right? That's all.”

Her words registered in his brain, but his body was in charge. And his body was about to go up in flames.

“Just sex. Whatever you want.”

She gripped his face in her hands, pulled his head up, and made him look at her. “No commitments. No looking back when it's over. We're just scratching an itch here.”

The intense emotion in her eyes told him she wasn't fooling around. This was important to her.

And while something about her fiery insistence didn't feel right, in this moment, whatever she wanted was fine with him. He wasn't looking for long-term, either.

“Whatever you want,” he repeated. “Can we please quit talking now? I promise I'll make it worthwhile.”

Apparently, she'd reached her limit, too, because when he lifted his hands, wrapped them around hers, and guided them down to touch him, to show her what she'd done to him, her eyelids fluttered shut, and her entire body trembled. Her sharp intake of breath told him she was done talking, all right. And after the initial hesitance of her fingers on his hard flesh, she enclosed him, stroked him, then rose to her tiptoes to slip her tongue into his mouth, confirming that she wasn't turning back now.

On a groan born of six long months of frustration, he wrapped one arm around the backs of her thighs, the other around her shoulders, and lifted her off her feet.

Digging one knee into the bed, he lowered her onto her back. Resisting the raging need to shuck his pants and pound into her until they were both seeing stars, he leaned back and looked his fill of the woman who had tied him up like a dozen sailor's knots.

“Take it off.” His throat muscles were so tight the words barely came out as a whisper. “I want
you
to take it off.”

Her muscles tensed all over, like a silky, sexy cat anticipating that she was about to be petted and rubbed in all the ways she liked best.

He felt the anticipation as keenly as she must have when she gripped the hem of her gown and worked it up over her hips, then sat up. Crossing her arms in front of her, she pulled the pink silk over her head.

He barely managed to stay still, not entirely believing that the reality exceeded his very vivid imagination.

She was so stunningly beautiful that for a moment, he lost his breath.

He'd been with a lot of women, a lot of them models with beautiful faces and bodies. But none of them had ever made him feel what he felt when he looked at her.

Her blue eyes were full of yearning. Her hair trailed down one shoulder, over skin that was as pale and creamy as porcelain. And her lush breasts, round and firm, were topped with the prettiest pale pink nipples. Knowing he was finally going to touch them and taste them sent a fire shooting through his groin and dropped him to his knees on the floor.

He wanted them in his mouth. He wanted all of her in his mouth.

He leaned forward and drew her to the foot of the bed, where he buried his face between her breasts. Silken hair fell over his shoulders; impatient hands caressed his head as he nuzzled her.

She gasped as he nipped her with his teeth, then soothed the velvet tip with his tongue before sucking her deeper into his mouth. He pressed her breasts together against his face, drowning him in tactile pleasure.

She arched her back when he sucked her harder, and she spread her legs until the damp crotch of her black lace panties pulsed against his throat. He could smell her arousal and her impatience.

His lips felt swollen as he reluctantly pulled away. Her nipples were engorged from his sucking, the tender flesh around them reddened by his stubble.

“Lie back,” he whispered, gently guiding her down on the bed.

Still on his knees, he locked his eyes on hers and slowly peeled the black lace down her legs.

She'd hiked herself up on her elbows and looked down her body at him. For as long as he lived, he'd remember that sight. Her hair trailing down to the bed, her pink nipples pointed upward, her flat abdomen rising and falling with her shallow breaths.

He leaned forward and worked his tongue over her belly, a promise of what was in store.

She dropped back onto the bed and groaned. “Hurry.”

That
wasn't happening. Not when he finally had her where he wanted her and how he wanted her. Kissing his way down her stomach, he lifted her thighs and draped them over his shoulders. Only then did he raise his head and look at the heart of her.

She was as open and vulnerable as a woman could be, soft and pink and bare there. He lowered his head and kissed her, once, twice. Then, as her fingers clutched the sheets, he slipped his tongue into her secret folds.

Her sharp intake of breath was all he needed to delve deeper into her sweet, slick core. And as kitten-soft noises transitioned to sounds of aching pleasure and finally to desperate demands, she fueled his own desperation.

“
Pleeease
 . . .”

The scent and taste of her, the delicious wild sounds she couldn't hold back, triggered the loss of his own control.

He cupped her hips in his hands, tipped her toward his mouth, and annihilated them both.