moaned softly in response to his touch, smiling a very tempting smile, but she still didn’t open her eyes. So Marcus drew his finger higher, up over her knee and along her thigh. She gasped a little this time, then uttered a low, erotic sound that seemed to come from deep inside her. But she still didn’t open her eyes.
So Marcus leaned over the bed, moving his finger to the inside of her thigh, closer to the juncture of her legs. Della, in turn, opened her legs wider. Now Marcus smiled, too, and drove his hand into the silky thatch of curls hiding the feminine core of her. For long seconds, he furrowed her with light, slow, measured movements, pushing his fingers through the hot, damp folds of flesh. Deliberately, he avoided the sweet little spot that would drive her over the edge, but he skirted close a time or two, just to hear her swift intake of breath and ensuing groan of pleasure. When he pulled away again, he slipped a finger inside her, gently, since he knew she must still be tender from the night before. When she lifted her hips from the mattress to pull him deeper, he withdrew his finger, then inserted it slowly again. And again. And again.
When he knew she was at the verge of coming apart, he brought his thumb into the action, this time settling it resolutely on her now-drenched skin. It was easy for him to rub the pad of his thumb over her sweet spot, even when she began bucking her hips wildly at the onslaught. His fingers were covered with her essence now, making his manipulations come more quickly, more insistently. With one final push, he brought her to climax, making her cry out at the sensations that rocked her. She arched one last time, then slowly came back down to the bed. Marcus drew his hand up along her naked torso, leaving a trail of her own satisfaction in his wake, circling first one nipple, then the other, before moving his hand to the delicate lines of her neck.
“Good morning,” he said softly, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.
She was still breathing raggedly and trembling from his touch, but she managed to whisper, “Oh, yes. It is a very good morning. I could wake up that way every morning.”
The words should have had panic racing through Marcus. The last thing he wanted to hear was a woman including him in her everyday life. Instead, he found himself warming to the idea of waking her that way each day. Doubtless because any man who started his day knowing he’d brought a woman to climax took with him a sense of power and well-being. Not to mention smugness. It made a man feel as if he could do just about anything.
It had nothing to do with simply enjoying an intimate moment with an exceptional woman.
“There’s coffee,” he said. “And breakfast. I didn’t know what you’d like, so I ordered some of everything.”
“Coffee,” she said, still a little breathless. “Black,” she added as he was about to ask how she took it—almost as if she were reading his mind.
That, too, should have made him bristle. He didn’t want women understanding the workings of his brain. Mostly because few of them would approve of his thoughts, since they generally consisted of: A) women other than the one he was with, B) work, C) women other than the one he was with, D) how well the Cubs, Bears or Blackhawks were performing, depending on the season or E) women other than the one he was with.
But he kind of liked the connection with Della and, strangely, didn’t want to think of anyone or anything other than her. So he only said, “Coming right up.”
By the time he finished pouring two cups and removing the lids from the cold dishes the steward had brought up, Della was out of bed and wrapped in a robe identical to his own—except that hers swallowed her—and was standing at the window the same way he had been earlier. The snow was still coming down as opaquely as it had been then, and he thought he saw her shake her head.
“It’s like a blizzard out there,” she murmured incredulously.
“No, it is a blizzard out there,” Marcus corrected as he came to a halt beside her and extended a cup of coffee, black like his own, toward her.
She took it automatically with one hand, still holding open the curtain with the other. “How are we going to get … home?”
He noted her hesitation on the last word, as if home for her were a somewhat tentative state. Another clue that she really was only visiting here. Nevertheless, she’d assured Marcus that no one would miss her—at least not until today. Both thoughts bothered him a lot more than they should. For one thing, it shouldn’t matter if Della was tied to another man, since Marcus didn’t want to stake a claim on her anyway. For another thing, they’d both only wanted and promised one night, that should have been more than enough to satisfy their desire to enjoy each other for a little while. The fact that she was only in Chicago temporarily or might be involved with someone else should be of no consequence. In fact, it should reassure him that there would indeed be no strings attached.
For some reason, though, Marcus didn’t like the idea of her being only a visitor to Chicago. He liked even less that she might be involved with someone else.
Too much thinking, he told himself, and way too early in the day for it. It was the weekend. He was snowbound with a gorgeous, incredibly sexy woman. Why was he thinking at all?
“No one is going anywhere today,” he said before sipping his coffee. “Not even the snowplows will be able to get out until this lets up.”
Della turned to look at him, and that strange, panicked look he’d seen for a few moments last night was back in her eyes. “But I can’t stay here all day,” she told him, the panic present in her voice now, too. “I have to get … home.”
Again the hesitation before the final word, he noted. Again, he didn’t like it.
“Is there someplace you absolutely have to be today?” When she didn’t reply right away, only arrowed her eyebrows in even more concern, he amended, “Or should I ask, is there someone who’s expecting you to be someplace today?”
She dropped her gaze at that. Pretty much the only reaction he needed. So there was indeed someone else in her life. Someone she’d have to answer to for any kind of prolonged absence.
“Is it a husband?” he asked, amazed at how casual the question sounded, when he was suddenly feeling anything but.
Her gaze snapped up to his, flashing with anger. Good. Anger was better than panic. Anger stemmed from passion, not fear. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I had a husband waiting for me.”
Marcus had no idea why he liked that answer so much.
“What about you?” she countered. “Is there a wife somewhere waiting for you? Or has she come to expect this kind of behavior from you? ”
He chuckled at that. “The day I have a wife waiting for me somewhere is the day they put me in a padded cell.” When she still didn’t seem satisfied by the answer—he couldn’t imagine why not—he told her bluntly, “I’m not married, Della.” Not sure why he bothered to add it, he said, “There’s no one waiting anywhere for me.” Then, after only a small hesitation, he added, “But there is someone who will be worried about you if you don’t come … home … today, isn’t there?” He deliberately paused before the word home, too, to let her know he’d noticed her own hesitation.
She inhaled a deep breath and released it slowly, then dropped the curtain and curled both hands around the white china coffee cup. She gazed into its depths instead of at Marcus when she spoke. “Home is something of a fluid concept for me at the moment.”
Fluid.
