Nora Roberts - The Hollow

“Your artwork shows off better without the mountain of clutter. Mmm, this is nice,” she said after the first sip when he joined her on the couch. “I wasn’t sure what I’d get, seeing as you’re more of a beer guy.”

"I have deep wells.”

“Yes, you do.” And gorgeous, thick brown hair, wonderful tiger’s eyes. “I didn’t get a chance to ask if you’d read our notes, or the marked-” She swallowed the rest of the words when his mouth met hers again.

“Here’s what we’re not going to talk about. Office work and missions from gods. Tell me what you did in New York for fun.”

Okay, she thought, small talk would be good. She could talk small with the best of them. “Clubs, because I like music. Galleries because I like art. But my job was fun, too. I guess it’s always fun to do what you’re good at.”

“Your parents owned a dress shop.”

“I loved working there, too. Well, playing there when I was a kid. All the colors and textures. I liked putting things together. This jacket with this skirt, this coat with this bag. We thought I’d take over one day, but it just got to be too much for them.”

“So you went to New York, left Philly behind.”

“I thought I’d go where fashion rules, on this side of the Atlantic anyway.” The wine was lovely, just slid over her tongue. “I’d get some polish, some more experience in a more specialized arena, then open my own place.”

“In New York?”

“I flirted with that for about five minutes. I was never going to be able to afford the rent in the city. I thought maybe the suburbs, maybe one day. Then one day became next year, and so on. Plus I liked managing the boutique, and there wasn’t any risk. I stopped taking risks.”

“Until recently.”

She met his eyes. “Apparently.”

He smiled, topped off their wine. “The Hollow doesn’t have a dress shop, or fashion boutique, or whatever you’d call that kind of thing.”

“At the moment, I’m gainfully employed and no longer thinking about opening a boutique. My risk quota’s been reached.”

“What kind of music? Do you like to listen to?” he added when she frowned at him.

“Oh, I’m pretty open there.”

He reached down, slipped off her shoes, then brought her feet up into his lap. “How about art?”

“There, too. I think…” Her whole body sighed when he began rubbing the balls of her feet. “Any art, or music, that gives you pleasure, or makes you think-or better makes you wonder; it’s-it’s what makes us human. The need to create it, to have it.”

“I grew up soaked in it, various forms. Nothing was out-of-bounds.” His thumb, just rough enough to thrill, ran down her arch, back again. “Anything out-of-bounds for you?”

He wasn’t talking about art or music now. Her stomach jittered with lust, fear, anticipation. “I don’t know.”

“You can tell me if I hit any boundaries.” His hand went to work on her calf muscles. “Tell me what you like.”

Flustered, she stared.

“That’s okay. I’ll figure it out. I like the shape of you. The high arch of your feet, the muscles in your calves. They draw my eye especially when you’re wearing heels.”

“That’s the point of heels.” Her throat was dry; her pulses skipping.

“I like the line of your neck and shoulders. I’m planning on spending some time on those later. I like your knees, your thighs.” His hand slid up slowly, barely touching, then again, just a little higher until he found the lacy top of her stocking. “I like this,” he murmured, “this little surprise under a black skirt.” He hooked a finger under the top, eased it down.

“Oh, God.”

“I plan on going slow.” He watched her as he worked the stocking down her leg. “But if you want me to stop-I hope you won’t-just say so.”

His fingers skimmed over the back of her knee, down her calf, her ankle, until her leg was bare, and her skin humming. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Have some more wine,” he suggested. “This is going to take a while.”

SHE ALREADY FELT DRUNK, AND THOUGH SHE considered herself fairly adept, Layla didn’t think she was quite adept enough to casually sip wine while he undressed her. By the time he slipped off the second stocking it was all she could do to set the glass aside without spilling it.

He smiled, and pressed his lips to the arch of her foot. Excitement shot straight up to her belly, and pulsed there like a second agitated heart. He took his time, stirring and seducing, kindling little fires under her skin, exploiting odd and wondrous points of pleasure. When he gripped her ankles, slid her toward him in one smooth motion, she let out a sound of surprise and gratitude.

Now their faces were close, so close the rich, golden brown of his irises mesmerized her. His hand-callused fingertips-glided up her legs, under her rucked-up skirt. Slowly, slowly. And down again while his mouth toyed with hers. A brush, a taste, a bare whisper of torturous contact even when her arms locked around his neck, even when her needy body pressed to his. Once again, the easy touch, the easy taste, left her drained and dazzled.

His hands cupped her hips, lifted her. The quick shock had her gasping, instinct had her wrapping her legs around his waist as he rose with her. This time the kiss was deep and seeking as he stood with her eagerly twined around him.

“My head’s actually spinning,” she managed as he began to walk.

“I plan on keeping it that way awhile.” In the bedroom, he sat on the side of the bed with her straddling him. “I figured candlelight for the first time, but we’ll have to save that.”

He trailed his fingers over her shoulders, over the soft wool of the pretty blue sweater, along the tiny pearl buttons down the front. “You always look just right.” He drew it down her arms to her elbows, left it there. “You’ve got a knack for it.”

With her arms roped in cashmere, he pressed his lips, just a light hint of teeth, to the side of her neck, down her skin to the edge of the little sweater she wore beneath.

He loved the light tremor that ran through her, the sound of her breath quickening, thickening. And the look of her, flushed, just a little anxious. He ran his hands down her arms until both his fingers and the cashmere cuffed her wrists. Then he took her mouth, ravishing it, saturating himself with the taste of her, devouring the quick, helpless sounds she made while her pulse thundered under his hands.

He eased back, a whisper back, and smiled into her dazed eyes. “We’ll save this one for later, too,” he said and released her hands.

He watched her face as he drew the little sweater up and away; he watched her face as he played his fingertips over her warm, bare skin. Then he pleased himself, looked down at breasts clothed in a fancy bra of blue lace. “Yeah, you always look just right.”

Reaching behind her, he eased down the zipper of her skirt.

She felt as if she moved through water, warm, softened with fragrance. Her heart thudded, slow and hard as she unbuttoned his shirt, as she found the hard muscles of his shoulders, his chest, his back. When he kissed her again, when he lowered her to her back, she was the water. Warm, soft, and fluid. His hands, his lips played over her, tirelessly, relentlessly. She had no defense against them, against her own need, and wanted none. When he freed her breasts, she arched to him. Thrilled to the steady greed of his lips, of his tongue.

He worked down her, coating her with pleasure until he drew the matching lace away and exposed her.

Then came the whirlpool. She was caught in it, a mad spin that dragged her under to where the water whirled hot and fast. She cried out, shocked, her hands fisting in the sheets for purchase as the orgasm ripped through her. Even when she sobbed out his name, he didn’t stop. When she came again, it was like going mad.