Christine Bell - A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

And if he took his tongue to her—

Her soft gasp made him realize he was staring at her chest, which must have given her a pretty good idea what was on his mind, for those nipples he could almost feel against his tongue had come to full alert.

Charlotte might want to reject him, but her body had other ideas.

If he could get her into bed he could get her into the mood to talk. If she’d just talk to him, just listen to what he had to say, they could straighten this whole thing out.

She crossed her arms under her breasts, and if she thought it would hide her pebbled nipples she was sadly mistaken. The gesture lifted her breasts like a silent offering.

Oh, and how he wanted to take the offered dish and taste it, savor it, devour it.

“I’d better get back inside,” she said. Even her voice gave her away. It was as husky as a torch song.

He continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “What made you panic that night, Charlotte? I’ve wondered. I’ve imagined you so many times writing name after name of important people in your life. People you respected. Was it that? Were you so afraid to make a public mistake that you deep-sixed our future together?”

Angry red stained her cheeks until her face almost matched her dress. “I wasn’t the one caught cheating with another woman at two in the morning.”

He couldn’t help his grin. “That’s quite a picture you paint.”

She withered him with a glance. “You know what I mean.”

“You’ve always been the perfect one, and with the history of divorce in your family I think you couldn’t take the chance at failure. So you panicked.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

He eyed her speculatively. “If you weren’t afraid of failure, then…”

The angry flush had died down and he’d caught her interest, as he’d known he would.

Her eyes gleamed like melting chocolate in the moonlight. “Then what?”

“Then you were more afraid of this.” Before she saw his intention, he’d fisted his hand round the elegant French braid at her neck, pulled her to him, and brought his lips down hard over hers.

Giving in to the temptation that had teased him from the instant he saw her again was heaven. And hell.

For a moment he felt her lips quiver open on a startled gasp. Soft and cool, they yielded beneath his.

But only for a second. Just as she started to melt into him, he felt her murmured objection against his lips. Her body went rigid as she pulled away.

“Don’t you dare,” she said, her eyes flashing, hands fisting, her lips wet and luscious from his kiss.

“Looks like I came back too soon,” Sonya said, and he could have cursed his old friend for her untimely entrance.

Glaring at him, Charlotte said, “No. Not at all. I was just leaving. I have a headache—and I feel a little sick to my stomach. Something at the party must have disagreed with me.” She stalked through the French doors without a backward glance.

“Well,” Sonja said on a quiet laugh, coming to his side. “I think kissing me worked. She’s certainly jealous.”

A smug grin tugged at his lips. If Charlotte was jealous, then she still cared. 

Yoga was supposed to be relaxing. Charlotte had been deep-breathing for twenty minutes, curling her body into various positions, working toward the serenity she knew was in her somewhere.

Except she was panting like a marathon runner—and twisting her body into a pretzel only made her feel foolish. And as for the meditation exercises, she no sooner closed her eyes than she began meditating on all the really rotten things she’d like to do to John for breaking her heart.

Her doorbell rang and she gasped, her one-legged Tree position turning into Quaking Aspen Felled by Strong Wind.

Thumping down onto both bare feet, she padded to her door and peered through the peephole.

She felt like pounding her head on the door in frustration. John. Just what she needed when she was trying to relax. She’d ignore him until he left.

“Char, I know you’re on the other side of the door. I saw your car in the garage.”

So much for ignoring him. “Go away.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I can say it privately inside or I can yell the whole spiel through the door. Your call.”

He was just stubborn enough to do it, too. And then she’d feel embarrassed every time she saw one of her neighbors at the elevator. She unlatched the door and let him in.

The minute he crossed her threshold, she wished she’d made him shout at her from the hall. Him, her, and this apartment brought back too many memories. All the times they’d made love in her bed, on the floor in front of the fireplace, in the moonlight out on the balcony. All the plans they’d made curled up on the couch with a bottle of wine.

Like the wine he now held out to her.

Her eyes narrowed. “If you came here to talk me back into our engagement, you’re wasting your time.”

“No,” he said. “I came to say goodbye.”

Her eyes widened and her legs felt more wobbly than when she’d trembled in the Tree position. “Goodbye?”

“Yes. So long as Atlanta’s between us, I know there’s no hope.”

She ushered him into the living area, motioned him to sit anywhere and flopped to the couch. Her heart ached as she took in his meaning. He wouldn’t try to get her back anymore. No more calls. No more emails. No more deliveries from the florist. She was relieved, of course.

Instead of sitting, he moved to the cabinet where she kept wineglasses and removed two. Then he opened the drawer and took out her corkscrew, as assured as though he’d done it hundreds of times. Which, of course, he had.

He handed her a glass and she swirled the ruby liquid absentmindedly and then sipped, fighting an urge to cry. “So, you finally admit you were unfaithful?”

He sat next to her and his eyes resembled gray metal—cold and hard. “I was never unfaithful to you. Sonya was in my room at two in the morning, as I’ve told you, running numbers, trying to save the deal before our final presentation the next morning. You don’t believe me. Fine. I won’t marry someone who doesn’t trust me.”

She couldn’t hold his gaze or she’d do something pathetic, such as sobbing her heart out. Instead she sipped her wine again, then slumped back against the couch cushions. “You could have told me that on the phone.”

He was silent so long she glanced up at his face, so ruggedly handsome, his gaze fixed on hers. “I’m going away for a couple of weeks. I wanted to say goodbye properly.”

This time she gulped her wine so fast it went down the wrong way and she coughed and spluttered as tears came into her eyes.

He patted her back, but so softly it was more of a caress. “We had some wonderful times together. I don’t want our last memory to be that fight and you hurling the ring in my face.”

She shook her head. No. She didn’t want that, either.

Calmly, he reached for her glass and placed it on the glass and marble coffee table along with his. He leaned forward then and touched his palm to her cheek.

That was all. Just his palm touching her cheek, and she felt the warmth of his flesh, the yearning in her belly. She couldn’t stop the movement. Her own hand reached up to cover his.

His gaze still fixed on hers, he moved closer and kissed her.

Oh, it was so sweet. So well remembered. His lips were warm, wine-flavored, and she moaned at the jolt of pleasure as their lips met. He slanted his mouth to the perfect angle, kissing her softly, then increasing the pressure, just the way she liked. Damn him. He knew her too well.

She slipped both arms around his neck and opened her mouth to him.

“I want to make love to you,” he whispered, pulling away from her mouth to study her face.

She should refuse. It was a dangerous idea. A terrible idea. She started to shake her head.

“One last time,” he said softly.

One last time. He was right. They should make their last memory of each other a sweet one. What was the harm? He was the most wonderful lover she’d ever known, and she’d loved him. “One last time,” she agreed softly.

He rose, hooked his arm under her knees and carried her, like a bride, to the bedroom.

She felt suddenly nervous. Even though they’d made love countless times, it had been months and he felt almost like a stranger. With an hour’s notice she could have been ready. As it was, he’d surprised her in cotton sweats and no makeup, her hair pulled off her face in a ponytail.

He laid her on the bed, leaned his palms on either side of her shoulders and kissed her again, taking his slow, sweet time about it.

She pushed gently against his chest until he raised his head. He appeared wary, probably thinking she was going to change her mind. But nothing could relieve the hot ache between her thighs except his loving. She wanted him so much it hurt. “I was exercising, I’m kind of sweaty. Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

“I don’t mind at all if you take a shower,” John said.

Charlotte kissed him lightly. “I’ll be fast.”

“No hurry. Take your time.” He made himself comfortable on the bed and crossed his hands behind his head.

She’d be fast, all right. She was throbbing with excitement. She jogged into the adjoining bathroom, where she stripped then stepped under a pounding stream of hot water.

She shrieked when the shower door opened, then shook her head. She might have known he’d follow her.

Even through the steam billowing around her face, she could see he was naked. Gloriously naked and looking even better than she remembered.

She felt his scrutiny and shivered at the hungry expression on his face as he stepped into her shower without an invitation—or a lame joke about washing her back. Without any words at all.

His hands ran down her glistening, wet body then gripped her wrists, pulling them high above her head and resting them lightly against the steamy white tiles.

In that position the water struck her breasts, bringing her nipples to pulsing attention. With his free hand he picked up her lemon/lime body wash and squeezed some on her loofah. Then he ran the rough, soapy surface over her breasts and belly.

She moaned at the combined sensations of warm water, rough sponge, and slippery soap, then moaned again as he returned the loofah to its spot and, cupping a breast in his hand, bent to nuzzle her tinglingly clean nipple. His mouth was teasing, demanding, making her wild with wanting.

After treating both of her breasts this way, he rose to kiss her mouth. He pressed his body tight up against her tingling breasts and abdomen and she felt his erection, hard and heavy against her belly.

She wanted her hands free so she could touch him, but he either didn’t notice her tugging or chose to ignore it.

Since her hands weren’t free to caress him, she rose on tiptoe and spread her legs until his erection sprang free and she could trap it between her thighs. She began moving her pelvis, rubbing his hardness against the magic spot that ached with need.

He groaned, his kisses growing more demanding. The water pounded against his shoulder, her breasts, splashed against her face. The steam smelled of citrus.

At last he let go of her wrists to stroke both his hands all the way down her sides, to her hips.

“I need you now,” he whispered.

“Yes.”

He cupped her upper thighs and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, opening herself to him as he thrust deep inside her.

Not the pounding spray of the shower, not even his mouth covering hers, could completely muffle her cries as he drove deep within her body to the places that had been so empty without him. When the sweet ache was more than she could bear, she squeezed him even more tightly to her and let herself go. His own groan of satisfaction soon followed.

“So, that was goodbye, then,” she said as calmly as she could as they dried off using the big white fluffy towels she kept in her bathroom.

“Hell, no,” he said. “That was just a warm-up.” 

The phone rang while Charlotte was in the middle of an energetic Sun Salutation. She smiled smugly feeling a sense of euphoria that wasn’t entirely Yoga-related. Her body was warm and limber this morning and completely relaxed from her night of loving.