A Bird Without Wings Page 7

  Maybe, he thought wryly as he splashed cold water on his face, some of that will rub off on the family tomorrow.

  Tomorrow . . .

  Head still bowed as he reassessed, both hands gripped the edges of the vanity tightly, feeling the rough edges of the unfinished pressboard against his fingers.

  He had to get out of here before he did something stupid with an employee who would be spending time with the family and get all sorts of ideas about relationships and commitments. After all, what sweet innocent wouldn’t get the wrong idea if she brunched with the family after a night of sex?

  “I should—” Flicking out the light, the words died as he stepped out of the bathroom, seeing her in the dormer alcove of the front windows, her hair limned in the soft light, her shapely body silhouetted against the panes. His body hardened all over again, protesting the confines of his jeans.

  He crossed to her slowly, silently reciting all of the reasons he was not going to initiate sex with her; the list was long, and not the least of which was the hard, cold fact that she had been drinking.

  “Here.” She handed him a glass of ice-cold water, and he drank gratefully. “Sorry I don’t have anything else. I don’t have many guests.”

  He would suspect none. Acclimatising to the muggy atmosphere, he felt less sticky, and his head started to clear. “Nice space,” he commented politely.

  She shrugged. “It’s awful, actually. But I’m very happy with the fan.” An admiring look was cast on the appliance, as if it were a magical new invention. “I just bought it today.”

  The atmosphere must have been unimaginably oppressive before that.

  “Did you move in recently?”

  “Six years ago. Almost.”

  “Where did you live before?”

  A complicated expression of nostalgia, fierce anger, and defensive pride flashed over her delicate features, then was gone. “A rather nice one-bedroom on the Danny. Greektown. But my life was cluttered,” she said, as if excusing her current choice of residence. “I downsized.”

  The streetlamp cast half of her face in shadow, one eye a bright gray in the light, the other a mysterious, silvery gleam in the dark. Innocent and open; assured and inexplicable—her duality pulled at him, and he wanted to ask a thousand more questions.

  “You kissed me in the bar,” she said, the assured and inexplicable side vocalised.

  “Yes.” That event did stand out clearly in his memory.

  “Were you . . . was it to make fun of me?” Innocent and open now.

  Make fun? “No, Cal. It was to stop a fight.”

  That wasn’t strictly true, yet there was no way to explain that feral need to claim her. It was momentary (wasn’t it?), and she wouldn’t understand it even if he could explain it.

  Those quizzical brows knitted. “I don’t understand.”

  “I know. It’s all right. You’d no idea of the commotion you were causing. If it upset you—”

  “No,” she said slowly. “I wasn’t upset.”

  The ringing of a cell phone intruded as they stared at each other. Taking her glass from her, he set both on the window sill. “Are you going to get that?” he asked huskily.

  “No.” She made a nearly imperceptible move toward him.

  Stop. But he couldn’t resist her one more second.

  Sliding fingers of both hands into her magnificent fall of hair, his thumbs urged her jaw upward as he tugged her forward, bringing her mouth to his, lips meeting, but only lightly; briefly. Her grey eyes went to pitch and the little moan vibrating in her throat sent tremors through his thumbs, and did nothing for his control as his tongue swept across her lips, seeking entry.

  As her jaw relaxed and her mouth opened, her tongue slid into his mouth eagerly. Tentative and adorable, she explored, and he allowed it, though his entire body clamoured to take control. So sweet . . . He would scare the hell out of her—

  Arching against him, her arms wrapping around his neck, fingers slipping through his crisp hair, pressing her breasts up against his chest, a slim thigh rubbing against his groin—she snapped his restraint as if it were nothing. An inarticulate murmur of saner argument died a hasty death in his chest as the alpha she had accused him of being took over, and he backed her toward the futon.

  ***

  You can sleep it off, he had said. How did one sleep off months of infatuation?

  And now, every fantasy about him was coming true. Unfortunately, only because she had thrown herself at him most of the evening, and he, knowing that she had this terrible crush on him, was doing one of two things: taking advantage of a guaranteed sexual opportunity, or acting out of pity for the frump.

  Either way? Not good.

  Not one thing had gone well tonight. The surprise of seeing him, the mockery he splashed all over her first moment of feeling normal in years, the consumption of a shade too much alcohol, the hiccups that convinced him she was drunk. She was pretty sure she had called him Luscious at least once. And the worst: he seeing the conditions in which she lived.

  When he had said he was taking her home, she imagined for one joyfully insane moment that he meant his home. Broadcasting her desperation clearly made him angry; she had wanted to apologise for her obvious infatuation, but when she tried, the words in her head sounded embarrassing and useless. Yet somehow, despite every disaster tonight, he was here—but the why of it kicked back only negative reasons.

  Pressing her into the softness of the futon, the hard weight of his body on hers provided great compensation. She wanted him; his motives for being here were incidental. It was time for Callie Dahl to live a little, even if just for one day; one night. Tomorrow, she would behave again, start thinking again. Tonight, there was only Lucius.

  Unhurried were his kisses; almost lazy, yet full of purpose that liquefied. If only his hands would explore; but one tangled in her hair holding her head still and the other stayed almost motionless on her hip, the grip there firm, fingers occasionally flexing, digging into her flesh through the fabric as if he sought control.

  Never had she felt quite like this with any other man. It had been awhile since she had last been kissed, but it felt like the first time.

  Actually, not at all like the first time. These were seductive, wet kisses tempting her, driving her wild. If any man she had dated had kissed her like this, she’d have six kids by now.

  His scent filled her nostrils, warm and musky and slightly exotic. Wanting closer, wanting to feel him, her hand splayed on his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart—but she wanted skin. Wanted naked Lucius. She fumbled with a button; as soon as it popped out of its hole, she slid her hand inside, stroking hair-roughened muscle. Not enough access, she released another button, digging in again, this time finding a hard male nipple cresting a well-defined pec.

  Groaning faintly, he glided the hand on her hip up over the exposed skin of her waist, slipping under the snug fabric of her tank.

  And then he stopped. Stopped everything.

  Pulling back, his breath harsh in the quiet room, his eyes glittering in the gloom, he bit out, “Callie, this is not a good idea. You’ve been drinking and—”

  “I. Am. Not. Drunk.” Swallowing, she suppressed the temper, but the residual frustration made her voice raspingly unrecognisable. “It’s all right. Please, I need—” Needed to have one night where she was not alone—but that was an ugly confession, and she bit it back.

  He cupped her face, his gaze softening. “I know, lovely.” He kissed her again. “I know exactly what you need.”

  The hand on her face slid over her body, leaving a trail of flame that sparked nerve endings as if setting off firecrackers. Down her thigh, coming back up to burrow under her skirt, cupping her heat at the juncture of her legs, the heel of his hand applying firm pressure. Her hips arched off the futon as she gasped, and she tugged at his shirt, anxious to feel everything that touch promised.

  “Wait,” he murmured, amused but ragged, removing his hand. “Calm down, doll
.”

  She blushed furiously, and he smiled down at her. Hooking a finger through the ring tab on the zipper of her top, he slid it down so slowly she could almost feel each set of teeth coming apart. She expected to be so dazed by his attentions that everything would be a blur of sensation, but the reality was so much better—every sense heightened; every touch, taste, scent, and sound amplified to overwhelming clarity. It was better, so much better, than the vague impressions her fantasies of him had conjured.

  Exposing breasts only barely contained in a lace demi-bra, he spread the two halves of the top, his large hand grazing over every bit of revealed flesh; she trembled violently. As she plucked again at his shirt, he caught both of her wrists in one hand, stretching her arms over her head.

  “Honestly, doll, if you touch me again, I’ll be finished. Just be a good girl for a few minutes. Let me,” his sapphire eyes charted her body, and his breath hitched, “give you what you need.” And he dipped his head to where a nipple peeked out over the edge of the bra, slipping the fat, swollen bud into his mouth.

  The groan that left her body was a low, moaning cry of pure pleasure as his tongue and teeth made nonsense of her every sexual experience, turning her whole body into raw flame.

  He moved down; his tongue investigated her navel as he pushed her skirt up to slide his fingers into her panties. She should be embarrassed, she thought distantly, but she was not. Excited and turned on high, but not embarrassed. Oh, how she wanted to touch him as he was touching her. Wanted him inside her.

  Practicality briefly outweighed lust: Patience. It’s just a matter of time. Enjoy this first.

  Enjoyment was a weak word for what she experienced at his hand and mouth. There were no words, only deep moans, as her panties were stripped off, giving him better access to the moist furnace hidden beneath the curls. Strong fingers parted her gently, delved smoothly, boldly into her, his thumb caressing her with steady, deliberate, experienced strokes. Dewy paths marked her abdomen as he applied slow, open-mouth kisses to her skin, tasting his way back to her breasts.

  “Just relax, doll,” he vibrated against her. “Make it last.”

  Relax! Obviously the man was insane. There was no relaxing.

  Breaths on her skin were hot, damp, and short, but otherwise there was no hint that he was anywhere near as turned on as she. That made sense . . . but then a shudder ran through him and he nipped rather hard.

  “Oh, god,” she whimpered, her back arching. For the first time in her life, she merely felt.

  Tension coiled in her belly, restless energy ran through her thighs—

  She came hard, a strangled cry leaving her throat, but his mouth captured it, swallowing it in a passionate kiss before it gained volume. Her entire body twisted up on waves of ecstatic joy.

  It only lasted seconds at the peak; violent tremors rattled through her as she descended from the height. The aftermath kept her shaking for long, delicious moments.

  He continued kissing her softly, easing the way into calm.

  But something was wrong. As he retreated from those languorous kisses, so too did his talented fingers. He released her hands and re-zipped her top, tugging her skirt more or less back into place. What was he doing?

  He was not making love to her. That much was clear as he sat up, swinging his long legs off the futon, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands running over his thick, dark hair. His broad shoulders were tense; muscles rippled as his shirt tightened across the expanse.

  Maybe she should thank him at any rate, for giving her the orgasm of her life. She had never experienced one like that before—that was very clear now. “I’ve never . . .” she began the embarrassing confession hesitantly.

  He cast a heated glance back at her. “Do you think I don’t know that?” he ground out, and then softly cursed at whatever expression crossed her face. “Don’t look at me like that. We can’t—I can’t have sex with you.”

  “Why not?” she asked, truly puzzled.

  Pushing to his feet, he crossed to the dormer. “Let’s start with the practical. To all appearances, you’re a practical woman. Do you have a stash of condoms I don’t know about?”

  Condoms! Oh, that was important. “No,” she finally managed. “Don’t you—? A man like you carries one, right?”

  “A man like me,” he muttered. “God, there’s a loaded descriptor.” He sighed tiredly, leaning his forehead against the glass. “I shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have taken advantage of you in your state—”

  “I am not drunk. I’m not.” She scrambled to her feet, the width of the futon separating her from him—that was dumb! She should totally be on the other side, closer and within reach. “I was a little tipsy earlier, but I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  He turned to her, shrugging as if to cast off whatever was weighing on him. “All right. But I’m your boss, Callie. That’s it. I can’t take advantage of my position.”

  Oh, he had to stay! This night could turn into many nights; he could love her, perhaps—

  That thought crashed against a brick wall, and fell limply into a pit where all dead sentiment lived. She did not want love—not his, not anyone’s. Liking? Sure. Desire and companionship? Definitely—but temporarily. It was crushing, the thought of spending this night alone after being teased into thinking she might not have to. Ah, the dangers of tasting temptation!

  Desperation was not attractive; a more sophisticated tact was needed for this man. “It isn’t advantage if it’s reciprocated,” she said dryly. “It’s only a night, you know.”

  He hissed; actually hissed, she had made him so angry. “Thanks for the compliment, doll,” he said, his voice thick with icy sarcasm. “But I think you’d be better finding someone your own speed with whom to shed your—hm, how shall I phrase it? Your burden of innocence.”

  The ice and implication hit her at the same time. He thought she was a virgin so desperate to lose it that she would have taken any man who offered. What was it he had suggested earlier? That she flaunted her innocent aura—whatever that was—for free drinks, allowing men to paw her.

  Even though he knew she was infatuated with him, he thought so little of her that he could say such things. He didn’t take into account her somewhat tender feelings; they meant so little to him. And why should they mean more? Why would the feelings of someone of her insignificance matter to a Ransome?

  She almost laughed aloud at her own foolishness. He had just called her a slut. A virgin slut, but a slut nonetheless.

  Just like that, her infatuation died. Gone, as if it had never existed.

  She looked at him curiously, wondering what she had ever seen in him outside of his exceptional good looks and fantastic body—well, he was highly intelligent, too, this boneheaded moment aside.

  “Huh,” she grunted. Expecting a moment of pain to mourn the loss of her entertaining delusions, she was surprised to find only indifference. “All right, then. So, I’ll see you in the morning? Around ten?”

  He stared in confusion, as if she had just morphed into something alien. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” It was true. She felt fine. So, she’d be alone. Better that than being with a man who held her in such contempt. “Sorry for, well, for being such a troublemaker. And thanks for—”

  What did she want to thank him for? The orgasm, but she had already sort of done that. But she was glad that he had stripped away the veneer of worth in which her infatuation had cloaked him.

  “For teaching me how things are,” she finally settled ironically.

  He swore violently and actually staggered slightly, as if she had reached out and slapped him. And then, silently, he crossed to the stairs and left her alone.

  ***

  He cranked the air conditioning as he started the Porsche, resting his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment as the frosty blast cooled his skin. Something had happened there. All right, a lot of Somethings had happened in Callie’s apartment,
but there was that moment when he was being a particular ass, when his stinging ego was telling her to find someone else with whom to lose her virginity . . .

  Something changed in her, in her face. As if something in her had been lost.

  For all that didn’t make any sense, there was no denying that as she was calmly confirming plans for tomorrow, he felt as if he were facing someone he had never met. Someone who never stuttered; never got nervous. Someone serene and adult, but still with that inexplicable glow of innocent allure.

  Thanks for teaching me how things are.

  How were things? Boss drives intoxicated employee home, practically forces his way into her apartment, gets her into bed, gives her an orgasm (wasn’t she beautiful in that moment?), and then rejects her when the sheer sweetness of her casts a dark pall on him, reminding him of how callously he dismissed her not more than three hours ago and how he hungered for her now.

  How were things? Things were . . . reprehensible.

  Men like you. Only a night. She had learned all of that. Of course she assumed the existence of a condom, and it didn’t help that he did indeed have one—he always had one. But it had struck him, right around the time he was taking inventory of her life, that he had seen the inside of too many women’s apartments. And to have that girl so bluntly lay it on the line how she perceived him—casual sex, one-night stands—hurt him and his surprisingly tender ego. He wasn’t that promiscuous and such assumptions from women had never bothered him before; at times he even had encouraged that opinion. But it bothered him tonight.

  Somehow over the last few hours, it had become paramount that she think highly of him. He only realised that when it became patently obvious that she did not. It had actually physically hurt to see in her face and hear in her voice that dash of contempt.