Kathleen O'Brien - The Daddy Deal

The muscle in his forearm shifted and grew brick hard under her fingers. She looked up at him, confused. The look in his green eyes was equally hard. “If I come in, Brooke,” he said with a flat monotone, “it won’t be for coffee. We both know that.”

“I...” She licked her dry lips and tried to think of the right answer. But her mind wasn’t working. He was going to leave her here with this empty loneliness that had suddenly become unbearable—that was all she knew clearly. “I just don’t want to be alone,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word stupidly, pitifully. She felt a flare of embarrassment at the sound. What must he think? If he didn’t want to come in, then she was making herself ridiculous.

But suddenly, in spite of her efforts, her eyes were full of tears, and he was just a blurred outline in the lantern light. Mortified, she pulled her hand from his arm and pressed her fingers on either side of her nose, trying to hold the tears back. Oh, what a fool she was! What had she thought? That just because he had been kind to her, because she had absurdly imagined some sense of inexplicable familiarity, because she found him, his body, his face, his touch, somehow deeply moving... Had she really believed that he felt the same way?

“I’m sorry,” she said, turning away. She fumbled for the living-room light, but everything was wet and glimmering, and she gave up quickly. “Thank you for all your help—”

“Damn it—Brooke...” He grabbed her arm, his voice a harsh, urgent whisper. With two rough steps he was beside her in the darkness, pulling her against him, his hands hard on her back. The door swung shut behind them, and everything went black. “Brooke,” he said again, more gently, and he kissed the edge of her lips. She felt herself softening, sinking into him, like rain disappearing into the earth. His mouth slanted over hers, poised and warm, grazing her as he whispered, “Brooke, why are you crying? Don’t you know how much I want you?”

She shook her head once, a half movement that barely stirred the darkness. But he must have seen, because suddenly, with a low groan, he dragged her up against him and kissed her again, but deeply this time, as if he could pour into her his proof, as if she could drink understanding from his lips.

And she did. She did. With a half-smothered cry of joy, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. Though the room was dark, she shut her eyes so that nothing was real except his kiss. It was sweet, but with a burning, like an exotic liqueur. It spread through her limbs, hot and potent, washing her, melting her, until she was limp and clinging, liquid in his arms.

Finally, Taylor drew back, but only an inch. His breath was still sweet and warm on her cheeks. “Where is your son?”

The question was clear, and she didn’t pretend she didn’t understand. “He sleeps upstairs, next to his nurse.” She swallowed. “My room is downstairs. I’m not usually...not usually home at night.”

He didn’t answer. Suddenly, the darkness spun, shadows moving on shadows, as he scooped her up and carried her through the living room, deeper into the house. It was a small home, with few options for privacy. He paused at the only shut door, the door to her bedroom, and somehow she knew this silent hesitation would be his last question. Her heart pounding in her throat, she minutely nodded her head, trying not to think of the implications of that tiny movement. She felt his pectoral muscles shift under her cheek as he shouldered the door open with the smooth assurance of a man who didn’t give a damn for implications.

The room smelled of roses as it always did—she kept cut blooms in a vase by her bed. But never before had the fragrance seemed so heavy, red and sensual. Still without speaking, he laid her on the cool satin tufts of her quilted bedspread, and she could feel herself sinking, sinking endlessly into its perfumed softness. Opening her eyes, she focused on the dark, featureless silhouette of his head, clutching the edges of his jacket in trembling fingers, afraid that she might lose him in this slow, bottomless descent.

Kneeling in front of her, he kissed her again, and again and again, his mouth moving on hers with infinite variety—soft, then harder, angling from corner to corner, then coming full center, feathering lightly, then plundering deeply. It was, in some wonderful way, like talking—he was telling her things she’d never guessed, promising her things she’d always wanted. But it was better than words because she didn’t have to think, didn’t have to struggle to find the right reply. She could simply give herself over to feeling. It was so beautifully simple. She opened her lips and met his urgent questions with equally primal answers.

When he lifted her, reaching beneath her shoulders to slide open the zipper of her dress, that seemed simple, too. She nuzzled the hollow of his shoulder, kissing the pulse that beat there, and then lay back obediently as he slipped the cool silk down her arms, dragging a trail of goose bumps along her skin. When she was free, he touched her naked breasts with his lips, and she moaned softly, a low, quavering sound that purled through the darkness like the ripple of a harp.

He suckled her, the act so intimate, so powerful that she cried out at the piercing beauty of it and pressed his head to her with trembling fingers, needing more, begging for more.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered as he took her deeper. It felt so miraculously natural, his teeth grazing her nipple, his quick breath warm against her breast, his hair a silken tickle against her skin. He seemed to pull some mysterious female essence from her soul.

Strangely, she felt no shame, though it had been such a long, frozen time since any man had touched her. Ten years... And it hadn’t been a man, not back then. It had been a boy. A sweet boy, who would have liked to please her, who had tried for long, awkward minutes to coax out of her untutored body even a hint of this melting pleasure.

And she had been only a girl, a lonely, ignorant girl. Working so hard, tense and straining, wanting to make it easy for him, knowing there should be more but unable to find the key that would unlock the magic. She thought she would cry now, thinking of that girl who had never felt like this.

It was so sublimely different here, in this swirling darkness that smelled of her bedside roses, with this sensual man whose presence in her bedroom was so inexplicably right. No effort was needed, no clumsy straining. It was as if she were floating on some hot, bucking current, swept forcefully along toward a final, shattering perfection that waited just beyond the darkness. Taylor’s mouth was everywhere, rising to claim her tingling lips again, then back down to her swollen, aching breasts, feathering kisses along the path of sensitive skin between. And his hands, his hands...

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