Jacquie D’Alessandro - A Sure Thing?

And now that Monday had arrived, their interlude was over.

This was the last time Matt would ever hold her like this. The last time she'd ever feel his skin next to hers. An aching, heavy loss filled her. Did he feel that loss, too? Her throat tightened at the prospect of pretending he meant nothing to her when she saw him at work tomorrow. Was he dreading it as well? Or would he be able to forget the intimacies that had passed between them and be "business as usual" at the office? She somehow doubted it. The way he'd looked at her, touched her, and made love to her, indicated he, too, felt some of this regret-or whatever this thing she was experiencing was called. He hadn't said so, but the emotion was there. In his eyes. In his touch. Wasn't it?

She hadn't asked. Was afraid to know. Was afraid his answer might be no, and then she'd feel like an idiot who'd let a weekend fling touch her heart instead of just her body. And if he said yes, he did feel the same things she did, well, that was just as frightening and unacceptable and definitely better left unsaid, for there was nowhere for such feelings to go. Nothing had changed. Once Jack Witherspoon made his decision, either Matt would be her boss, or she'd be Matt's boss. An interoffice affair under such circumstances was out of the question. Besides, their personalities just didn't mesh. Matt was definitely a take-charge guy, and she wasn't about to let any man have that power over her. What hope was there for two people equally determined to win the same prize? None. No, this was it. The end.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Matt stirred behind her. His fingers kneaded her breast, hardening her nipples. She arched back, pressing more fully against him, and a purr of pleasure vibrated in her throat.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he whispered. His breath chased across her ear, shooting shivers of delight down her spine.

"Right back atcha," she murmured, reaching up and back to sift her fingers through his thick, dark hair. "Although it's almost noon." And check-out time is one o'clock…

Matt buried his face in her fragrant hair and ignored the mantra pumping through his brain, this is the last time you'll touch her… the last time . Well, he intended to make the most of it.

His hand cruised slowly down her torso, his mind visualizing the creamy skin beneath his fingers. The smattering of freckles decorating her chest. The tiny beauty mark just below her left breast. The shallow indent of her navel. He lightly bit her neck, then laved the spot with his tongue, absorbing the delicate shudder that ran through her. "Have I told you how delicious you taste?" he asked.

"Hmmmm. Not in the last several hours."

He nuzzled the skin behind her ear and breathed deep. "Or how incredible you smell? Or how soft your skin is?" His hand skimmed lower, and with a low moan, she shifted, her buttocks brushing against his erection as she spread her legs. He lightly teased her swollen, feminine folds, then slipped two fingers inside her. "How wet and tight, silky and hot you are?"

She undulated against him, and he gritted his teeth against the pleasure of her firm buttocks cradling his erection. When he slipped his fingers from her, she groaned in protest. Grabbing a condom from the stash on the nightstand, he quickly sheathed himself, then eased into her velvety heat from behind. He made leisurely love to her, savoring each slow thrust, each of her sighs, the sensation of her back pressed to his front. Her orgasm gripped him like a pulsing, velvet fist, and holding her tight against him, he buried his face against the curve of her neck and surrendered to his release. And the instant his shudders stopped, the mantra began again. That was the last time. The last time.

Matt stepped from the shower half an hour later and swallowed his disappointment that Jilly hadn't joined him. Feeling let down was ridiculous, especially given that she'd showered first. Their interlude was over.

Pushing aside the ache that thought brought, he quickly shaved, then packed up his toiletries, noting that Jilly's were already gone from the counter. He opened the bathroom door, and halted. Dressed in jeans, her sturdy boots, black turtleneck, her hair pulled back into its usual chignon, she looked neat, remote, sexy as hell, and he wanted nothing more than to get her undressed. Her overnight bag, laptop, and the box of flowers he'd given her all sat at her feet.

"I'm ready to leave," she said.

He swallowed to locate his voice. "Okay. I only need a few minutes-"

"I called a cab to bring me to the train station. The next train leaves in twenty minutes."

He raked his hands through his wet hair and stood there, dressed in nothing but a towel, a dozen confusing, conflicting things he wanted to say buzzing through his mind, but not knowing how to express any of them. Afraid to say anything for fear of not saying enough. Or of saying way too much.

"I'd be happy to drive you home, Jilly. In fact, I'd sort of planned, or rather hoped, to do so."

"Thank you, but I've already made my arrangements."

She didn't say I don't need or want you making plans for me , but she might as well have. He suppressed the urge to yank on his hair in frustration.

"I… I think it's better this way, Matt."

His common sense knew she was right. A quick, clean goodbye here at the hotel, no messy farewells. So why did he feel so… miserable?

"It was a great weekend," she said.

"Yeah, it was."

The shadow of a smile flitted across her lips-lips whose texture and taste were permanently embedded in his brain. "So I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he agreed.

She hesitated for a second, and he tensed, wondering if she was going to say something more. But what else was there to say? Nothing except-

"Goodbye, Matt."

Yeah, that's all there was left to say. And she'd said it. She reached down and picked up her things, then leaned toward him and lightly brushed her mouth across his. The scent of clean laundry wafted over him. She opened the door, and a second later she was gone, leaving him with nothing but an elusive trail of her scent, a three-day weekend filled with indelible memories, and a hollow ache around his heart.

Tuesday morning, Jilly walked into Maxximum Advertising, her professional armor firmly welded in place. Hair pulled back into her sleekest chignon, dressed in her chocolate-brown, pinstripe, "don't mess with me" suit, her black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, she was ready to face anything. Including Matt Davidson.

Sure, her heart was pounding, but only because she'd sprinted for the elevator. And yes, her nerves jittered, but only because she'd indulged in an extra-large coffee on the train, and all that caffeine on an empty stomach was kicking in. She just needed something to eat. Cruising by her cubicle, she plopped her briefcase on her leather chair, turned on her computer, then headed for the break room, ready to warm up the blueberry muffin she'd purchased from the corner market. Bakery bag in hand, she entered the brightly lit break room. And halted as if she'd walked into a wall.

Matt leaned against the counter, drinking from a blue, New York Mets ceramic coffee mug, perusing a folded-over page of the Wall Street Journal . He looked up, over the rim of his mug, and stilled. For several long seconds they stared at each other in silence. A myriad of images flashed through her mind. Matt smiling at her. Laughing with her. Kissing her. Touching her. Buried deep inside her.

Gripping her bakery bag, Jilly banished the images and forced her feet to move and her lips to curve upward, praying her smile didn't appear as tight as it felt.