Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“I don't want to hear about everyone, Carey Fersten.” Molly's lush lapis eyes began smoldering with flashes of heat.

How disarming, he thought, and sweetly cruel to be reminded a portion of the world practiced sincerity. “Retracted love,” he replied, intent on accord, his sensibilities attuned to every nuance, every desire, every whim she might fancy. “The world of sycophants and glitter have jaded my more whole-some instincts. It's been too many years. I forget there are people who aren't always expecting something.”

The incipient anger faded in Molly's eyes, and she saw Carey in a different light. Although he'd meant it as a simple declaration of fact, she hated the thought that people had always demanded something of him. “Let me,” Molly murmured, brushing the strong line of his jaw with one finger, “give you something instead.”

“You have already,” he replied with a quiet intensity. “I need you passionately, desperately.” He inhaled deeply. “Without reason or pride.”

“You have me,” she whispered, touched by his admission. A veil of restless moodiness seemed to descend immediately after his disclosure. He was a man of both reason and pride, formerly untouched by love, and disquieted by this new vulnerability. “And you have Pooh, too.”

He smiled then, the hint of melancholy erased by the sound of his daughter's name.

“And maybe a son next time, so think of it as not only having me to drive you mad on a daily basis, but two more hungry mouths to feed.”

He grinned. “In that case, I'll buy another cow and plow up the north forty.”

“Somehow I can't picture you milking a cow.”

“Perhaps I should do what I do best then. Have my steward hire a couple of nannies, a decorator for the children's rooms, one governess for Pooh,” he looked at her quizzically, read her expression correctly and said, “no governess, right. We'll hire a trainer for Pooh's riding, instead. What have I forgotten?”

“Don't ask me, I've never seen a nanny in my life. I was thinking more along the lines of leaving our schedules open enough to take care of the children ourselves.”

“Children.” He said the simple word with reverence, and his hands were trembling when he pulled her close. “Do you know how far away that word makes the jungles of Vietnam?” He looked down at her but really didn't see her for a moment, transfixed by memories. She could see him returning to the present, and his hands closed more tightly on her shoulders. “And whether the baby's a boy or girl, Honeybear, it doesn't matter. So you have to marry me now. I knew I'd get you one way or another.” He grinned.

“Scheming villain.”

“Right.” He lifted one dark brow in a leer. “And you're the pure and innocent young milkmaid. A very hot one, I might add.”

“We try to please the villains of our choice.”

“How nice. I look forward to act two. Is that the wedding?” He smiled then, a faint, teasing curve of his mouth. “You say the word, darling, large, small, extravagant, simple-whatever kind milkmaids prefer-it's yours.”

“And what about the milkmaid's business,” Molly asked quietly. It was her second thought after realizing she'd marry Carey anywhere, anytime.

“Let's not talk about it now,” he replied, bending down to kiss the tip of her nose, “and spoil all this grand, undiluted joy.”

T hey should have food sent up, he said, scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast maybe, something light for her stomach, and champagne to celebrate. He added with a grin, “I'll drink yours.”

And he ordered flowers, baskets of white roses.

Too many flowers, she anxiously said, watching a parade of young men carry in the white wicker baskets. But Carey only shrugged, took off his jacket, pulled off his tie, and asked, “Would you like mousse for dessert? I'm trying to think of digestible foods. Or a sorbet or maybe a fruit… strawberries?”

“Okay,” she said, and he knew she was feeling better.

“All three,” he told the waiter, who stood at attention, his pen poised. “And maybe some ribs, for me,” he ordered, with a smile at Molly. “And steamed fish for you?” He looked at her for confirmation and nodded. Dropping into the chair beside her, he leaned over to kiss her lightly on her cheek. “I'm going to adore watching you get fat,” he murmured. “We need a vegetable,” he asserted, as if remembering the additional food group like a dutiful father, “for junior or juniorette,” he whispered in Molly's ear.

“Do you have asparagus?” he asked the waiter.

“Green or white; sir?”

“Green, we're trying to be healthy.”

“That's enough,” Molly cautioned. “You're beginning to sound like a nutritionist. I can't eat all that.”

“Humor me,” he said, his voice low, cheer radiating like sunbeams from his eyes. “This is my first baby.” And he kissed her again.

“The waiter,” Molly murmured, not accustomed to living her life as Carey did, with servants continually around.

“He doesn't mind.”

“Please?”

“That'll be it,” Carey said to the waiter. He smiled then, to mitigate his crisp dismissal and said, “Thanks a lot… appreciate your patience.” Rising from his chair, he followed the man out into the small hallway. “She's having my baby,” he quietly told the waiter, holding the door open, “so she's a little touchy.”

“Congratulations, sir,” the young man said. “I understand.”

“Oh, and bring up some rice pudding. She likes it.”

“Yes, sir, right away, sir.”

“No rush… really.”

“Yes, sir, I understand, sir,” the waiter immediately interpreted. “We won't hurry.”

“Thanks. It's a great day, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir, I know what you mean, sir. It certainly is.”

“Now let's get your dress off,” Carey said as he reentered the sitting room. “Hey, altruistic motives only,” he went on, his arms out, his smile wide. “I just thought you might like to-ah, send that to the cleaners.”

They showered. Wrapped in the hotel robes, they lay on the satin-covered bed and smiled and talked and lightly kissed. Carey apologized for the decor; Molly said it didn't matter a bit. He promised her the real thing-rococo palaces in France and Bavaria-as soon as they left on their honeymoon. She said a tent in the backyard would be palatial, if he were beside her.

He said he'd be happy to arrange it. Her backyard or his? He didn't mention, cautious to keep the dialogue discreetly removed from controversial facts, that his backyards were in California, Tahiti, London, and Greece.

She only wrapped her arms around his neck and languorously murmured, “Mmmm.” The literal translation was hazy, but her meaning was clear. He smiled into her warm blue eyes and whispered his undying love for her.

When the food came, the very first thing Molly said was, “Rice pudding? How did you know?” Her eyes were wide in wonder.

“My gypsy blood,” he teased, but in truth he'd remembered she'd mentioned it once years ago and it had come to him like some flashback as he was standing in the hall talking to the waiter. She'd always eaten it at her grandmother's, she'd told him then.

“I love you,” she said, her heart filled with inexpressible affection.

Carey arranged the food on the bed, and they tasted everything, kissing between bites, feeding each other a spoonful or forkful if a flavor particularly appealed to them.

Carey stopped eating first and lounged on one elbow, watching her. The whiteness of her robe heightened the fairness of her hair, its simplicity enhanced the clarity of her beauty-her small, straight nose, the pink opulence of her well-formed mouth, the Scandinavian classic purity of her cheekbones and her eyes, heavily lashed and blue as a summer sky. If he wasn't so selfish, he'd put her in one of his movies; but he was, and he had no intention of sharing her with the world.

She reached over for a strawberry, and her robe fell open slightly, the fullness of her breasts briefly revealed; the creamy texture of her skin a subtle contrast to the immaculate whiteness of her robe. White but not white, warm and soft and touched with rosy iridescence. He felt his erection rise. When she put the strawberry in her mouth whole, he experienced a rush of heat racing through his veins.

“Are they good?” he asked, content and happy, knowing he would touch her lush creamy skin, feel its smooth warmth, and feel himself inside her.

Molly turned to him and nodded, her mouth still filled with strawberry. Her smile was an upcurving of red lips damp with strawberry juice.

He couldn't resist. Stretching up, he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. “They are good,” he agreed a moment later. He returned to his lazy sprawl, the pulsing of his arousal keeping time with his heartbeat.

“Aren't you hungry anymore?” Molly asked, tiny flutters of desire distracting her own appetite.

“Depends.” His entire body, lean and tanned and minimally covered by a robe made for a much smaller man, was invitation.

“On?” She knew the game, and relished the soft promise of the sound on her lips.

“What you have to eat.”

His dark eyes were half-closed, and she wondered if that seductive glance was intrinsic or learned in bedrooms all over the world.

She moved her hand in the minutest gesture, indicating the trays of food spread on the bed. Her own seductive smile was indeed inherent and natural. Without the virtuoso practice of his.

“We always did get along,” he murmured. He could feel the heat rising through his body.

“At least in bed,” she replied in a husky contralto.

He glanced at the food, then at her. “Was the sorbet good?”

“It was cold,” she softly said.

“Did you like the chocolate mousse?” The rich resonance of his voice stirred all her nerve endings to life.

“It was too dark.”

They weren't talking about food; they were talking about unhurried intoxication… heedless of the world around them. Their world had narrowed dramatically to two people, very close, on a small portion of a large bed.

“I've never eaten rice pudding.” He hadn't moved, not a muscle, not an eyelash, and then one dark brow lifted in query.

“You'll like it,” she said.

He moved then with a swift, fluid grace, and cleared off the bed of trays and dishes. Almost cleared off the bed… except for the pudding.

His bronzed skin seemed darker against the white terry-cloth robe, his hair more golden in the half-light of evening. His eyes were the midnight black of velvet dreams. They were her tiger eyes, their tempestuous beauty mixed with a moody restlessness mirroring his mercurial nature. And they were smiling for her.

When he untied his robe, shrugged it off, and dropped it to the floor, her pulse responded with its own internal storm. His wide muscular shoulders exaggerated his height, and he was solid strength and lithe elegance in such perfect balance, the symmetry of nature deserved blushing honors. He was much too beautiful.

And when he moved toward her and lowered himself to the bed, a rush of flickering shocks trembled through her body. She felt defenseless in a splendid, flaunting way, waiting for him to touch her.

He picked up the silver bowl of pudding and handed it to her. “Hold this,” he said, placing the small ornate dish in her hands and closing her fingers around it with a gentle pressure of his large hands. “And then I don't have to reach for it.”

Her body reacted instantly to the scented tenor of his voice and the intimate suggestion of his words, and her hands trembled slightly holding the bowl.

“Don't drop it,” he murmured, steadying her arms with his palms. “I need that.”

The rice pudding was prepared more elaborately than her grandmother's, folded into rich whipped cream and then frothed into a smooth, fluffy cloud. A faint fragrance of cinnamon drifted up from the bowl.

“Am I going to like it?” Carey asked, observing the direction of her gaze.

Her thick lashes lifted, and the intensity of her blue eyes held his for a moment before she said, “I'm sure you will.”

“You have some first,” he said softly, scooping his index finger into the fluff and bringing it to her mouth.

He waited the merest fraction of a second until she opened her lips as though yielding to his silent directive, and then he slid his finger into her mouth. She felt the small invasion with a responding heated flame deep in her stomach, and he shut his eyes for a brief moment of pleasure when her lips closed over his finger. “You're warm and wet,” he murmured, sliding his finger out again and dipping it once more into the pudding. And he rubbed the sweet whiteness over her lips this time, then bent to lick it off. He sucked on her bottom lip first, and then her top while she sat very still and let the throbbing between her legs inundate her mind.