he promised.
Because this time he knew what she wanted. What made her sing. What made her explode. What made her soar within his arms. And he’d do everything within his power to give her all that and more.
As much as he wanted to take her fast and hard, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He needed that slow build, to experience that climb every inch of the way. To absorb her breathless moans with his every kiss and have that soft, soft flesh brushing against his. To savor the sweet scent of desire gathering in the air and taste it on her mouth and skin.
He sampled first her lips, then her breasts. And he moved with her, a slow, gliding waltz. He caught her hands in his and locked them over her head, their fingers entwined. Her legs slid along his, her toes pressing into his calves in joyous welcome, then wrapping around his hips, anchoring him tight. The tempo increased, moving from waltz to tango.
Sighs turned to murmurs of demand. Control escaped his grasp. How was that possible? He never lost control with women. Always maintained a safe distance even in the most intimate of situations. Never allowed anyone to glimpse his raw emotions in case they were used against him. But with Emma … The dance grew ever faster and he surrendered to the drive, to the magical music the two of them made whenever they came together. She arched beneath him, bowing upward as her climax slammed through her. He couldn’t help himself. He followed her up and over, leaping with her into that glittering place of rapture met and fantasy realized.
Silence reigned for endless seconds afterward, while they both struggled to catch their breath. “How do you do that?” Emma asked at last, gasping for air. “How do you take us so much further than I ever believed possible?”
Her heartbeat thundered against his, a perfect counterpoint to his own. “It’s a skill.”
“One you have down pat, apparently.” She spared him a speaking glance. “Lots of practice?”
“Some. But with you—” He broke off before he revealed too much.
“With me … what?”
“It’s different.” And that’s all he intended to say.
She slipped out from beneath him and curled tight against his side, one leg thrown across his. “Different how?”
How the hell had he gotten into this? He decided to take the manly way out. “Why ruin the moment by picking it apart?”
She simply laughed. “Oh, please. You can’t get out of explaining yourself with that old dodge. You’re the one who brought it up.”
“You know it’s different without my explaining how or why,” he insisted gruffly.
“I just wanted to hear you admit it.” She relaxed against him. “And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t understand why we’re like this together, either.”
Chase had always been good at analyzing disparate elements and organizing them into a recognizable shape. It was one of the factors that made him such an outstanding investor. The instant Emma admitted that her reaction to him didn’t mirror what she experienced with other men, a puzzle piece clicked into place, causing that night in New York to assume a new and fascinating shape.
“You realized it the first time we were together, didn’t you?” he asked. “You realized that what we feel when we’re together is different somehow.”
She reluctantly nodded. “Yes.”
He dropped the other shoe. Hell, a closet full of shoes. “And that knowledge scared you.”
She hesitated for another telling moment before asking, “Doesn’t it scare you?”
“Anything I can’t control scares me,” he admitted.
“So what now?”
“Now we go to sleep.”
She didn’t speak for a brief moment, then remarked, “Wait until the cold light of day when we’re both running scared before discussing what happens next?”
His mouth twitched. Her sense of humor always took him by surprise. It was something he was learning to appreciate about her. “Better than making rash or stupid decisions in the post-heat of passion.”
“Okay.”
He slid his fingers into her hair and turned her toward him. “You’re still going to be here when morning comes, right?”
“As you pointed out, I don’t have a car. Plus, you know where I live.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’d just as soon you not come pounding on my father’s front door demanding to know why I’m not still in your bed.”
“Fair enough. Tomorrow we’ll discuss this rationally over breakfast like two mature adults.”
Chase woke to an empty bed and shot upright. Son of a bitch! So much for discussing their situation like two mature adults. He touched the sheet beside him, expecting to find it stone cold. To his relief it was still warm, which meant Emma couldn’t have gotten far. He escaped the bed, and almost tripped over her dress. It rested in the middle of the floor in a crumpled pearl-gray heap of silk where he vaguely remembered tossing it.
He checked the nightstand table for his car keys. They were there, right beside his BlackBerry. Okay. Chances were Emma hadn’t taken off naked and hitchhiked home. That meant she was around here, someplace. He noticed the bathroom door was closed and smiled.
Gotcha.
He padded across the room naked and rapped lightly on the door. “Why don’t I get the coffee going?” he offered.
“Fine.”
Chase paused. Her voice sounded odd, tight and almost pained. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
There it was again, that underlying edge of despair. It didn’t take much thought to figure out what caused it. Morning-After Regret. Well, tough. She’d have to deal with it because he didn’t regret what happened one little bit. And he intended it to happen again at their earliest convenience … like immediately after breakfast.
He snagged a pair of jeans and yanked them on before heading toward the kitchen. At the last second he pocketed the car keys, just to be on the safe side. He wished he’d remembered to add beans and water to the coffeemaker last night. If he had he’d be enjoying his first hit of caffeine right this minute—the most crucial part of his morning—instead of waiting the endless five minutes it would take to percolate.
But he’d had more important matters on his mind the previous evening. Like Emma. He made short work of the coffee and opened the refrigerator to rummage through the contents, not that it offered up much in the way of real food. He spent most mealtimes in a restaurant entertaining clients or, occasionally, a woman. So what did he have that qualified as breakfast?
Beer. Okay, he considered that real food, at least it was in his world. Still, probably not the best option to offer Emma for breakfast. He shoved the beer aside and pulled out a carton of eggs. That would work. Bread and butter. He still had some left over from last night. And a pint of half-and-half. Fair enough, he decided. It could be worse.
He
