Leigh Riker - Strapless

With one last hard thrust, on a groan he came, too.

When he stopped shuddering and she finally stopped shaking, her head fell back against the mirrored closet. She didn’t mind if he saw her rear now, plastered to the glass, reflected in all its formless, naked glory. When his head dropped to the juncture of her neck, his mouth hot and open on her damp skin, Darcie peeled herself away from the mirror. And the Akubra hat thumped onto the marble floor. She couldn’t tell which of them was breathing in the most ragged rhythm. Or a complete lack of one.

Her heart beat like fury. His thicker, stronger pulse thudded against her breast.

He whispered a low, erotic word, and Darcie cried out, ready to begin all over again what they had just finished…but, like him, not quite finished. When he kissed her, long and sweet and silky, she hoped this one night would never end.

“‘Waltzing Matilda,’” Darcie breathed into his mouth like a prayer.

“Want another beer?” Like a pagan god, hours later he stood naked at the minibar, a perfect sight in the open fridge door that shafted light over his loins, upward along his taut belly to his muscled chest and shoulders, to the renewed glitter in his dark eyes. Darcie wanted him, again, too.

Swathed in the white cotton duvet, she lay on the king-size bed amid big goose down pillows and grinned at him. Even though she didn’t like beer, she said yes.

“And after that…?” she added, hoping for more.

“We’ll rehydrate, then negotiate.”

Like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after Rhett, she couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

I’ll make it better. “I won’t give you a fight.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“I have to say, I like a man who keeps his promise.”

With a wolfish smile of his own, he slammed the fridge door and walked—strolled in all his male splendor, which Darcie suspected he did on purpose—across the room to her. Darcie lifted the duvet to invite him in. Now the city lights coming through the wide windows illuminated him, too. Gilded his sunbrowned skin. Deepened the interesting creases in his cheeks, the smile lines around his mouth.

“How old are you?” she asked idly, reaching for the beer he held out.

“Thirty-four.” He didn’t ask her the same question. “Why?”

“You’re well preserved.” She trailed a hand over his shoulder. “I’m twenty-nine.”

“Thanks. We’re both old enough.” For what, he didn’t say. He rubbed his bare chest. “Most women don’t like telling, though.”

“Are you always this polite?”

“My mum hopes so.” Oh Lord, a chink in the walls of pleasure. His mother. He had one, maybe just like Janet. He fell onto the bed, held his beer can to one side, and lowered his head to kiss her open mouth. “But no, ma’am. I’m not that polite. Now.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She repeated her earlier words.

He frowned. “Hey. I didn’t really think you were a working girl.”

“Yes, you did.”

He seemed to take most things literally, which Darcie tried not to mind, either. After all, she’d taken Merrick at face value. There was a lesson there but right now she wouldn’t give it any credence.

“Well, I didn’t want to think so,” he said.

“Why not? Other than the fact you don’t pay for sex?”

“I’d never pay for it. Even if I was ugly as a fence post.”

Her gaze wandered over him. “Believe me. You have nothing to worry about.”

“No worries, darling,” he corrected her. “We’re behind on our lessons here.”

“No worries.” Repeating the mantra, Darcie folded him close. Darling. “But on second thought, isn’t this subject too personal for our first date?”

“What, sex? Have another beer,” he said. “Then you won’t care.” He paused. “Is that what this is?” He glanced at the duvet, the pillows, Darcie. “A date?”

“Well. I guess not.” She murmured, “No strings.”

Warm and scented with sex, with each other, they lay close under the covers, drinking tall cans of Foster’s lager. Another, then another. Ugh. Still, beer didn’t taste so bad by the third bottle. Or was it fourth? At some point he’d called room service after they finished the minibar supply to have it restocked.

“For a woman who hates beer,” he finally said, “you’re holding your own here.”

The room spun a little. “It’s cheaper than the hard stuff.”

He kissed her again, tasting of beer and man. “You live where?”

She hadn’t told him. “New York.”

“City?”

He sounded horrified. She took another swallow. “Uh-huh. Right outside of Manhattan. You know, the island the Native Americans sold to the Dutch.”

“By yourself?”

No, with my grandmother. She couldn’t say that, either. Didn’t want him to know too much about her. Darcie pushed away the memory of home, even of Gran, who would appreciate more than anyone else this little tryst, and of course banished any thought of her mother. Tonight was tonight. Her one-time, one-night stand. Tomorrow was…

“No way. I have a roommate.”

“Male or female?”

“Uh…female.” Two actually. Eden Baxter and Sweet Baby Jane, the devil’s spawn. Nearly a week later Darcie’s punctured calf still hurt. She tried to recall her last tetanus shot but couldn’t.

He frowned again. It made him look totally endearing, even if he did show signs—serious ones—of being too much like her family. “If I was your father,” he said, proving the point, “I wouldn’t let you live in such a big city. Too dangerous.”

“Let me? You’re not my father.” Darcie ran one finger down his belly, then lower. “This is too dangerous.”

That distracted him. All over again. Just as she hoped, he reached for another packet on the night table. “What happens when I run out of condoms?”

“We’ll…renegotiate.” She took him in her hand to help. Silk and velvet, strength and vulnerability. “We’ll improvise.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He made it sound like a question, but Darcie agreed. All she would let herself think about was this: lovemaking, long and lazy, to be relished, the likes of which she’d never known before—take that, Merrick—or perhaps ever would again. They shared the last of the beer…five, or was it six? And over and over Darcie indulged herself, her fantasies, the tug of need low inside, for the rest of the night.

In his arms, she dreaded the dawn—and ignored the first flutters of nausea.

Until a few faint fingers of light finally penetrated the wall of windows in room 3101 of the upscale Westin Sydney. Then Darcie Elizabeth Baxter startled awake, hot bile in her throat—and bolted for the bathroom.

Darcie gave one last gasp, swallowed twice, and straightened. Resting back on her heels on the marble floor, in the doorway of the toilet stall, she swiped the moistened washcloth over her face again, her parched lips, then drew long, deep breaths to steady her stomach.

There. She would live now. Worse luck.

Then she realized she was no longer alone.

Without looking up, Darcie knew he was there, leaning a strong, broad shoulder against the green frosted glass of the bathroom door—and shirtless of course. A quick glance in the vanity mirror confirmed his naked chest. Darcie shuddered while her heart did a little tap dance of appreciation. All that expanse of sunbrowned skin over sleek muscle, warm and smooth under her fingers during the only half-remembered night of casual sex and talk…the feel of the silky dark hair that swept across his breast-bone…the lure of tight, dark twin male nipples…

“Hi. How’s it going?” he said.

Deep, throaty morning voice. Hint of amusement.

“It’s not. I hope.”