Trolls in the Hamptons (25 page)

“I . . . I was in the bath. Listening to music. And the Jacuzzi made noise.”

“Yeah, I got that idea.” His gaze drifted down the long terry robe to the puddles under my feet.

My heart was beginning to sink from my throat back to my chest. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Georgia or Florida or wherever?”

“The airports shut down because of the surprise storm. And you sounded so anxious I decided to spend the night here and fly out in the morning. I rented a car and drove through a bloody near hurricane to get here.” His voice rose. “For you, lady. For you! What do I get for it? Two years off my life and a freaking concussion!”

Colin handed him a wet towel from the sink in the bathroom I was using. Grant held it to the side of his head.

“I'm sorry?”

“Yeah. Me, too. I shouldn't have bothered.”

“No, you shouldn't have.” I turned to Colin and Kenneth. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“The sight was worth it, ma'am,” the redheaded Colin said.

“Of Grant on the floor?”

“That, too.”

Colin winked, and I realized I'd never belted the robe. Oh, my God. At least it was dark and he was gentleman enough to keep his flashlight directed on Grant, where Kenneth was checking him for damage. I started to say, “Aren't you supposed to be gay?” But changed it in time to “Aren't you supposed to be clairvoyant or something? Couldn't you have predicted I was all right?”

“That's Kenneth's specialty.”

The younger man said, “And I did tell the boss he wasn't using his head, rushing in here like that.” He smiled. “I guess he took my warning to heart and used his head after all.”

I pulled the robe tighter and put a knot in the belt.

Grant noticed and dragged his own eyes away from what I'd belatedly covered and growled at his men. “Are you done laughing, or are you going to reset the alarm system today, or wait until someone does manage to break in? Who knows, maybe Miss Tate will do the moke a favor and leave the door open next time.”

Kenneth and Colin left, leaving one flashlight behind.

I was almost breathing normally again, or as normally as I ever did, near Grant. He smelled of wet clothes, spicy cologne, and a little sweat, which is to say, virile male animal.

An angry male animal, wounded and unpredictable. I kept my distance. “Are you badly hurt?”

“My pride or my skull?”

I guess he was okay if he could curse in three more languages when he saw blood on the towel. It wasn't a
lot
of blood.

He didn't seem to want my help. He glared at me when I took a step in his direction, as if he figured I'd hit him again, so I picked up the pieces of pitcher before I stepped on them in the dark. Maybe I could glue it together. I sure as hell couldn't afford to commission another one. Who needed a vase to match their towels, anyway?

The lights came back on, thank goodness. I was still seeing spooks in the shadows. “The poor dogs must be frantic.” Even if I couldn't hear them barking anymore, they were still a good excuse to get out of Grant's way.

“You go. I'll wash up in the bathroom here.”

“Are you trying to make me feel guilty?”

“A little pity wouldn't hurt.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I suppose I am sorry I yelled. Not that I wouldn't yell again if you pull another harebrained trick like disappearing off the radar.”

Since he was already shouting, I went downstairs, barefoot, in the borrowed robe. The dogs were fine. One of the agents had tossed them rawhide chews, and they were busy gnawing. I filled the coffeemaker and started it.

Grant came down, his black hair wet and smoothed down.

“Are you okay?”

“No permanent damage,” he said, that steely look gone from his blue eyes. “Everyone always said I was a hardheaded s.o.b. I guess I should be glad.”

“I'm glad, too.” I couldn't help myself. I ran right into his arms. “I was so scared.”

“I know, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. That's why I was angry. I wanted to make you feel safe; instead I terrorized you.”

Suddenly I was crying, like I hardly ever cried, great sobbing gulps and runny-eyed tears. It was all too much. The fear, the aloneness, the incomprehensible situation, the guilt. “I am not a crybaby,” I cried, wetting his blue shirt worse.

“I know, Willy. You are the bravest woman I ever met.”

“Me? I thought I was going to have heart failure in the dark. Even before I heard voices. The storm already had me frazzled, and the driving and the lightning and—”

“Shush,” he soothed, pulling me closer. “You fought back. With good aim, too. That took real courage.”

I had to admit that my eyes were closed when I threw the pitcher.

“Then maybe you have telekinetic powers, too.”

Maybe I did. I could feel something stirring at the front of his jeans, where he was pressed against me. I did that! I moved my hips forward, and he moaned. I definitely had a stirring effect on him, and I liked it, too. Oh, boy, did I. My own temperature was rising—or was that from the steam he was giving off?

Meanwhile he was stroking my back, smoothing my hair, rubbing my neck. “You smell like roses.”

“And fear.”

“No, just roses. Lovely.”

I sniffled. He put his hand down, almost between us, and I thought—He found a handkerchief instead.

I blew my nose and turned my back, knowing I must look horrible, all red and swollen. Grant kissed the back of my neck, under my hair.

“You always look beautiful to me.”

“Are you sure you can't read my mind?”

“Would I have raced in here if I knew you were lolling about in a bubble bath, naked and warm and sweet smelling? Hmm. Damn right I would have. But you'll have to tell me what you want. Should I go to the guesthouse? Sleep on the sofa?”

He kissed me instead of waiting for an answer. Swaying the vote? I was swaying, leaning into him, rocking with the tempo of his tongue dancing with mine. Was I dreaming? Hell, was I breathing?

When he pulled back, he was breathing heavily, too. He raised one expressive eyebrow in question.

I took his hand. “Here. Now.”

I led him toward the bedroom of the housekeeper's apartment, shutting the door behind us so the dogs couldn't see. I turned on the reading lamp next to the bed, but then I hesitated. “I'm not easy, you know.”

“That's all right,” he said. “I'm hard, too.”

H
IS HANDS WERE ON THE belt of the borrowed robe, untying it. He swallowed audibly, then smiled when his view rose from the unwieldy knot that now let the robe fall open. I didn't have time to be embarrassed or modest or insecure. Not when his hands followed his line of sight. I swear he could hear my heart beating when he raised one finger to the tip of one nipple. “Yup, you're hard, sweetheart. Hard as nails, and soft as silk.” Now his whole hand cupped my breast. “You are perfect.”

After that, I stopped thinking. For once, I was there, in the moment, mind and body working together. I didn't have to wonder if my partner was happy, if my reactions were encouraging enough, if I'd come, or if he'd care. That was not an issue.

Grant cared, and I almost climaxed the minute he carefully unfolded the robe off my shoulders and touched his lips to my breasts, each in turn.

Maybe he was a mind reader, no matter what he said, because he knew just what I liked, and when. He definitely had magic in his strong, capable hands, hands that touched me everywhere, as if he was learning me, playing me, worshiping me. And he liked what I was doing with my tongue, my teeth, my exploring hands. He urged me on with murmurs of appreciation, sweet words I'd think about later.

No thinking was allowed here, only feeling. I felt . . . I felt like I was soaring, rising on a wind of passion aiming for the roof of the world. Rising, rising, his fingers gently inside me, his thumb stroking, his mouth on my breasts, his erection hot on my thigh—When had he taken off his clothes?

Rising, his mouth moving to my lips, his hands still busy. Rising, until there was no place to go, but going anyway. Rising until I was desperate to reach . . . to reach . . .

Yes! Oh, yes. I touched the top of the sky, and it was beautiful.

Grant thanked me.

“You are grateful to me? You . . . ” I had no words to describe what I felt, no energy to give him back what he'd given me. I'd used all my adrenaline and emotions during the afternoon, and all my hormones just now. I was limp, wrung out, empty. But then Grant started to trail kisses from my eyelids to my mouth to my neck, tiny kisses and a lick here or there, a nibble, a taste, on my breasts, my nipples, that ticklish spot over the side of my ribs.

I could see where this was going—where I hoped it was going anyway—and dredged up enough resources to show signs of life, like grabbing his shoulders with my fingers and calling his name.

“I am right here, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere.”

But I was, flying again, when his tongue touched my navel, my thighs. I thought,
Hey, you missed somewhere!
But he was teasing, playing with the curls there, and touching and spreading those inner lips. And breathing warmth on me before touching with the tip of his tongue.

Oh, God.

That's what he was, a god from another time, another place, with wondrous powers. I tried to tell him, with what was left of my ensorcelled mind.

He laughed. “I'm just a linguist.”

I found another language his tongue was fluent in.

Then I claimed my turn. I tried to touch him, but Grant pulled away.

“No, I couldn't last a minute that way. Hell, it's all I can do not to embarrass myself now like a school-boy. I want to feel you, all of you, and have you feel me completely.”

He was off the bed and searching for his jeans and cursing. We must have kicked them under the bed or something. I still wasn't certain the whole thing wasn't a disjointed dream or a trance because I couldn't remember getting to the bed at all, that's how moonstruck I'd been.

I told him to stop looking, that I had protection. I'd put the sample packet from the drugstore in the night table drawer.

“Two?” He laughed. “Baby, that won't last long. I've been waiting since the minute I saw you. No, since I knew you existed.”

While he was discreetly turned, I admired his broad back and sculpted muscles that tapered to a firm ass with the tiniest shadow of dark fuzz on it. Then I admired his impressive erection when he faced me again. “Definitely a super power. Or a magician's wand.”

“You're the Enhancer here, Willy, only you hold the magic to do this to me.”

I didn't care if he said the same thing to all his women. Or how many women he said it to. He was mine today, tonight, and until he had to leave tomorrow. All mine, all of him. All of me.

I doubted I could be ready again, but it didn't matter. I decided this was for him, but he refused to travel solo, waiting for me to catch up. His strokes were long and smooth, with no chance of hitting my head on the bed frame, not when my legs were locked around his waist. Every internal muscle was working, too, to hold him, to keep him, to rock with him.

He reached between us to touch my most sensitive spot. So I reached behind him to cup his sac.

“Ah, and I was trying to last.”

Sure, like a race car can go slow. That's not what it's built for. I flexed those inside muscles again and he went deeper, no words now, no gentle, tender, teasing strokes, only power and friction, at just the right tempo. I could feel the pressure building again—had it ever subsided?—and knew I was close to coming again.

This time I wanted him with me. I bit his shoulder.

He ended in a rush, a spasm, a pounding frenzy that sent us both over the edge and nearly off the bed. This was what sex was really about? Why hadn't anyone told me it could be this good, this fulfilling, this absolutely rapturous? I'd never have settled for less if I'd known what I was missing.

Then I developed a new fear, not that I needed another. What if the great sex wasn't because the man had great technique, a well-practiced talent, and a lot of patience? What if it wasn't the sex but the sexual partner? I worried I'd never find this grand passion again. I missed it already, and Grant was still inside me.

“A tear, macushla? Are you sorry for what we did?”

“I am sorry we cannot do it forever.”

“Who says?” And he started to stir again. Again? I didn't think I had the strength. He rolled onto his side, facing me, touching me, still filling me. His caress was like a gossamer touch on my sensitized skin; as if he knew more pressure would be more pain than pleasure. This was lovely. He was lovely. I told him and he laughed, which was loveliest of all. I raised my leg over his, bringing us closer. And we kissed until I was filled with his breath, his strength, his passion, his heat and rapture, too.