Читать книгу Beyond Breathless - Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 7

IT WAS A SMALL HALF-INCH of flesh. Not golden tan, more like pale peach. Andrew valiantly attempted to keep up with the back and forth of the conference call, but failed. Instead he was mesmerized by the lure of naked skin.

It wasn’t cleavage or thigh. It was nothing but an uncovered throat.

God, he was losing it.

He dragged his eyes away from the sight of temptation and studied the lined paper in his lap, but the words blurred together. The voices in his ear buzzed like a mosquito on a summer’s day and he struggled to make out the words: “a marketing strategy to focus on old-fashioned honesty in our financial dealings.”

Okay, that made sense.

“Dave, do you think traders will really buy into that?” he asked, rather proud of himself for coming up with a halfway lucid contribution.

Even better, he could ignore her. He could ignore the raging hard-on that had blood streaming down from his brain to his cock. He could ignore the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in eight months.

Okay, that one he couldn’t ignore.

It explained much of his current situation.

He’d never been a New York playboy like his younger brother, Jeff, who chased after supermodels and party girls. Most of the women who Andrew dated were classy, but not clingy. Never clingy. The idiosyncrasies of a relationship took too much time, so by default the ones who lasted were the ones who made few demands.

Whatever worked.

His gaze traveled upward, leaving the relative security of the legal pad to skim over nicely turned breasts, past the lurid throat, and finally coming to rest on her face.

Jamie of No Last Name looked to be hell on wheels. A woman who threw you down on the bed, and…

No, no, no…

He’d seen guys in the office succumb to the lure of the velvet power of the p-whip, but not Andrew. Too many people were counting on him.

That thought helped gird the loins that were currently raging with lust.

But she was cute, although he suspected she’d kill him if he said it aloud. Certainly not cute in a kitten and babies sense—thankfully. Her brown hair was pulled back in an elegant ponytail, her light blue eyes were never still, blinking to one side then another…

…blinking mindlessly while he was pounding inside her.

The loins came ungirded.

Damn.

“Drew, do you have anything to add?” asked the voice in his ear.

He cleared his throat. “No, I think we’ve covered it. Thanks, everyone, for dialing in. It’s been a productive meeting.”

It was all bullshit, and Andrew didn’t usually go for bullshit, but there was a time and place for it, and when you’re currently having Technicolor fantasies about the woman sitting across from you in a tank of a limo—well, bullshit didn’t seem out of the question.

He snapped his briefcase closed with a bang that seemed obscenely loud. She looked up at him, and he saw a quick flash of panic. Somebody else was nervous, too.

Andrew stared out the window, away from the cold sweat of her gaze, and watched the cars inch forward at a snail’s pace.

Distraction. He needed a distraction.

He pounded on the speaker button. “Driver, how’re we doing?” he asked, like he couldn’t tell.

“Two hours to Connecticut. We’ve almost made it across the Whitestone, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said politely, and then heaved a breath. While he obsessed over the currently unclothed throat of the mono-monikered Jamie, the oxygen was turning thin—all at one hundred feet over sea level.

He needed to label her, use the brand like a wedge, because it was obvious that the three feet between the car seats wasn’t going to do it.

Urges, when unchecked, were a dangerous thing, leading to forgotten responsibilities, sloppily completed tasks, and poor credit scores. Andrew had deferred gratification his entire life; there were other things more important, namely food and rent.

Drew looked over at the object of his current urge, while considering extremely inappropriate behaviors. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and frankly, the state of his hard-on was about as desperate as he’d ever been.

“Sound Design. Gross receipts last year over forty-seven billion.”

“I beg your pardon?” she asked, quirking one brow.

“The speaker company,” he answered in his flattest, most monotonous voice.

“Forty-seven billion?”

He nodded. “Price per earnings of nine point seven. Low. Hold recommendation.”

“You’re a broker, I assume,” she said, eyes sparkling, one lip curling up in that cocky half smile that was going to haunt him for days.

“Sort of,” he answered, omitting that he actually managed a half-billion-dollar hedge fund that he turned a neat twenty-one percent annual profit for the last five years, beating the market average three times over.

“Fascinating,” she replied, the mischievous light dimming from her eyes. Definite progress.

One of Andrew’s most valuable skills in the fight against ties that bind was the ability to bore a date to death when he wanted to dump ’em.

Worked every time.

“Sergei Brand,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Your suit. Sergei Brand. Number one maker of semi-custom. Breakout sales in the late nineties when they limited their inventory to only smaller, boutique-type tailors and cut off the big department store chains altogether. Sales climbed thirty-seven percent in the first year, and then tapered off to a blazing twenty-three percent for the next three years.”

Andrew’s heart stopped. Cardiac arrest at the age of thirty-six. “Are you in fashion?” he asked helplessly.

“Wall Street,” she told him, casually studying her nails.

Holy, Alan Greenspan.

“Oh,” was all his razor-sharp wit could come up with.

Then she looked up, her face poker-steady, but the light blue eyes were saying something entirely different. “Next year’s market outlook?” she asked coolly. The words were a gauntlet, a threat…a turn-on.

So this was a game to her? Two could play at that, and Andrew’s smile turned predatory. “Slow in the first quarter, but gaining speed in the second, and third, and then a slight downturn in the fourth.”

She licked her lips, and he followed the provocative movement with his eyes. “Nope. First quarter is fast out of the gate.”

“What about the January affect?” he asked, his voice huskier than normal.

“Not a factor. Gains in the entertainment sector will outpace all others,” she said, one flirtatious thumb absently caressing her throat, a slow up and down motion that his whole body was following with avid attention.

His mouth opened, a high school caliber proposition sat on his tongue. And then he remembered his age, his college degrees, his supposed maturity. “What makes you say that?”

“The American consumer is ready to play.”

She was wrong, and he knew it. “Disagree,” he argued.

Furiously she shook her head until one wayward lock of hair fell loose from its rigid confine. The minx was toying with him, until his instincts honed in for the kill.

“The burgeoning consumer market is too crowded,” he continued. “Everywhere there’s distraction. More, more, more, everything pounding at the brain like a hammer. Eventually there’s steam, billowing smoke. Before the year is out it’s gonna implode because a consumer can only take so much before he erupts. It’s Krakatau, Vesuvius, Mt. St. Helens. Mark my words, it’ll blow.”

She leaned forward in her seat, one stocking-clad knee inches from his own. Her cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. “That same stress will force the consumer to increasingly turn to things to take their mind off economics, politics, foreign affairs, and the price of oil. They’ll need to wind down, relax. TV, movies, gaming, the Net, those are the only things large enough to fill the void,” she said, her gaze locked with his, and his brain flickered off. His hands itched to pull the ponytail loose. His fingers curled, aching to follow the line of her throat, finding out what lay beneath the demure suit jacket. And his cock, well, his cock didn’t need an instruction manual. No, all current thinking was going on below the waist.

God in heaven, she was seducing him.

JAMIE PERCHED ON THE EDGE of her seat, waiting. She loved to debate, any excuse to argue, and Andrew was her biggest challenge yet. She felt primitive, carnal and exquisitely female.

Yeah, okay, admit it.

She was turned on.

She’d never felt this pull of animal attraction. The hard, dark eyes were no longer hard. The spark was definitely there. And that firm mouth kept luring her gaze, the pounding of her heart matching the telling pulse between her thighs. The soft cotton of her bra rubbed unbearably against her breasts. It was exhilarating, freeing…

Titillating.

All because he was indulging in a little monetary give and take. The electric shock was zooming straight to her head, among other places. She felt invincible, Xena, modern-day warrior princess, ready to turn Newhouse and his cow of a secretary into toast. With only a snap of her fingers, Jamie would have the poor man down on his knees, begging to sign on with her firm. But first things first.

There was another man she wanted down on his knees.

And she was looking right at him.

“CAN I ASK YOU SOMETHING?” Andrew said, although he didn’t know what he would ask.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Jamie…” he started.

“Yes,” she said again, leaning in closer, until he could smell her. The last lingering of her perfume, the fibrous aroma of summer wool, and the hint of musky desire.

He closed his eyes, breathing her in.

“Jamie,” he tried again, but then suddenly he didn’t care anymore. All he cared about was touching her, exploring her. Andrew pulled her over and into his lap. He had a tremendous need to kiss that crooked mouth, and so he did.

He usually had more finesse, but his quick wits had slowed to a drugging crawl, and his body moved with a will of its own. Her lips were soft, pliable, open for him, and his tongue shot inside. She climbed closer into his lap, her hips toying with his cock, until he was ready to beg for mercy. His hand flew to the buttons on her blouse, working one, breaking two, and exposing a wonderfully proper, cotton bra.

“We shouldn’t,” she murmured in a voice that only egged him on, and then she sighed against his neck, pressing warm kisses there, her tongue playing in his ear.

“We should,” he answered. His hand moved to the fastening on the back of her bra, and he unclasped it in one try, which was a new record for him, last made in eighth grade at PS 117, when Erica Haberman cornered him in the boy’s bathroom.

He pulled the white cotton fabric to one side, exposing a pert, rosy nipple. He took it in his mouth, pulling, tasting, feasting. She moaned again, her head falling back, exposing the creamy white throat that had started it all.

His erection pulsed and strained against her. He wanted to touch flesh. He had to touch.

His hand reached down between her legs, finding a silky set of panty hose and he broke through easily, pushing one finger inside her.

She bucked on his lap, and he heard another moan. Deeper, longer. His.

Her hands clasped his shirt, first for support, and then her fingers worked to release the buttons, and she pulled it free, running her hands up and down his chest.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said.

He pushed her back against the long, bench seat, and slid the sensible dark skirt down her legs.

“I know,” he murmured against the creamy skin of her stomach. “You have beautiful legs,” he continued, not because he thought she had beautiful legs, but because he had never been so taken over by a woman before. He didn’t act on urges, he was the master of steely self-restraint. However, the close confines with her were killing him. He met her eyes, expecting to see the same odd, reckless urgency, but instead he found something that could have been nerves.

Nerves.

Cold reality intruded. What the hell was he doing? Andrew stopped the skirt-sliding because they were in a Hummer limo. Relative strangers.

For God sakes, they were in the financial industry.

“I’m sorry,” he said, removing his hands from her skirt, but he wasn’t a complete fool. They hovered nearby—just in case.

He waited, perched like a lion guarding his prey, his breath uneven. If he had more scruples, he would have moved back to his seat, but he couldn’t. Her look, half tailored, more than half mussed, entranced him. The jacket loose on her shoulders, the blouse pulled aside, exposing the firm swell of her breasts, one nipple coyly poking out, just to tempt his fingers, his mouth.

In a Hummer, for God’s sake…

JAMIE COULDN’T SPEAK even if she wanted to because her heart was pumping too fast. She wasn’t impulsive, she was strategic, but she’d never considered sex like this before.

Fast, furious. If he wanted her to fling her bra out of the roof, she was just turned on enough to do it. Anything to bring that taut mouth back to her breasts, anything to keep those glorious hands between her thighs.

And there he was, his dark eyes glazed with lust.

For her.

In that moment, she considered the wisdom of having a one-morning stand with a man she’d just met.

But he had gallantly offered her a ride to Connecticut.

“Ride” being the key concept, prompted her more cautious self.

He’s no Casanova, she argued back. He was either an award-winning actor, or he was as appalled by what was happening as she was. Overcome with passion, she thought with a romantic sigh. She’d never overcome Todd with passion before; their matings were planned, scheduled, and scripted. This exuberance of passion from her was new. Maybe this was a rebound response?

She studied his face. Anxious dark eyes were watching her, not forcing her into something she didn’t want to do, not even coaxing her into something she didn’t want to do. Damn.

Dark, crisp hair coated his chest, tempting her fingers. He tempted her. His mind was sharp as a tack, yet he was chivalrous, and okay, built.

On the other hand, he was a man. A man who belonged to that rare three percent of the gender who would never coax. Instead he would let the woman choose her own poison, relieving him of all conscience and responsibility.

God, that meant he was probably in upper management.

The scintilating thought was enough to push her one step closer to the edge.

Slut, screamed her proper side.

Delicious, said the other.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked him, preparing to forsake the whole experience if he wasn’t prepared. If he said, “yes,” it would be fate, because he didn’t look like a man who carried a condom in his wallet.

Anxiety pulled at her nerves while she waited for his response. Behind her back, her fingers were crossed, because deep in her heart, she wanted her sensible half to lose.

“UH,”HE ANSWERED.

“That’s a ‘no,’” she announced with regret in her voice, raising herself on her elbows, the shirt lapels sliding closed.

Sadly he shook his head, but then he remembered something. A mere figment in the back of his mind. The night of Kevin’s wedding reception.

Did he still have it?

He fished out his wallet, and snapped it open, and there he found the gold coin inscribed with “Kevin and Marlene, 6/15/2005.”

He blessed his old college roommate in that moment. “A wedding souvenir.”

“Fate,” she murmured.

“Indubitably,” he said, and ripped the top off his salvation. “You’re sure?” he asked one more time because he wanted her to be.

She gave one definite nod, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

In less than two heartbeats he was inside her.

Damn.

Andrew froze, reliving the thrill of being surrounded by woman. His whole body burned with pleasure, and he took a moment just to feel. She was tight, wet, fitting him like a glove. Her eyes clouded with emotion, soft and welcoming. Then her thighs moved, tightened around him, and all the softness disappeared. This was fire, heat, the same hot flame he was feeling.

Slowly he began to move inside her, testing her depths, seeing what she liked, discovering what she loved. There was only one condom, so this was a one-time offer, and he wanted to make it last forever—or at least the two hours that it took to make it to Connecticut.