The Driven Snowe Page 18

  She squirmed beneath him. There was only a thin nightgown and boxers and tons of heat between their bodies. She felt him starting to get aroused, and her body started responding characteristically. She focused on the conversation, frowning. “It’s not like you’ll miss me,” she started to point out. “You’ll be with all of your company people, you’ll need to talk to a lot of them…you know, power-mingle or whatever. I don’t see how my being there will do you any good.”

  His eyes were intense. “Don’t you?” He laughed, and it had a ragged little edge. “It’s an important night for me. And if it’s important to me, I instantly think of you.”

  She felt a pang in her heart. How could she argue with logic like that?

  “I can’t…I mean…”

  He started kissing her throat, up behind her ear, and her body made the smallest of writhes before she stopped herself. “You guys haven’t made the reservation for that room yet,” he murmured. His voice against her skin sent a tickling thrill up her back.

  “Well, no.”

  “You could always schedule for another weekend…”

  “Josh, that’s not the point.”

  He retreated again, and there it was—the plea in his eyes, that masculine plea that was not begging or even conceding, but full of need nonetheless. “Angela, please. I promise I’ll make it up to you. But this means a lot to me. Please, please come.”

  His voice positively rang with it.

  This means so much to him.

  “Let me talk it over with the girls, see what I can do.”

  His smile was like winter sunshine—brilliant and warming. “Thank you, Angela,” he said.

  He moved down, with purpose, and kissed her intently. “I said I’d talk it over,” she said, although she figured they both knew she’d agreed.

  “I know,” he said, trailing down her neck, coursing over her shoulders. His fingers turned clever, using the silky nightgown against her, rubbing it across her breasts. “And now I’m thanking you for trying.”

  “Well, then,” she said, then gasped as he edged the nightgown up her body. “As long as we both know that.”

  He tugged the nightgown over her head, smiling as the straps got caught on her arms. “This is why I advocate sleeping in the nude,” he said. He stroked her sides, ignoring the obvious jutting tips of her breasts, kissing the flat of her stomach, around her navel, along the top edge of her panty line. His hands continued to move in long, gliding strokes. It was like being memorized by hand, she thought, as he moved back up, kissing her face gently as his hands ran through her hair. She arched her hips up to meet the hard point of his erection, and felt him back away.

  “Not so fast,” he murmured, and she caught a glimpse of his smile before he nuzzled her breasts and simultaneously started edging her panties down her legs. “I’m not through thanking you.”

  She let him take off her panties, feeling herself go wet before he’d removed them completely. He eased between her legs, moving lower…

  She shot up, her hand going out toward his head. “That’s okay. You don’t have to…”

  He pressed her back down, gently but firmly. “Of course I don’t have to. I do this because I want to.” He moved forward, giving her right breast, then her left breast a quick suckle that had her arching her back and moaning. “There. Now just lie back and let me do what I want.”

  She felt like one big, boneless, shivering mass of nerves as his head retreated down between her legs. She felt his fingers part her, probing tenderly at her entrance, and she moaned and bit her lip to stop from yelling. He was gentle—he seemed to know every single sensitive spot on her. She felt one of his broad fingers enter her as another toyed with her clitoris, and a whimper escaped despite her efforts.

  “That’s it, Angela. Just relax.” She felt as well as heard the words, his breath warming her most sensitive spot.

  “Josh,” she said, half warning, half plea. Before she could go any further, she felt his mouth close on her. His tongue circled where his finger had been playing, moving in loving strokes. “Oh…oh.”

  He was relentless in his attention, and she was pushing up against him insistently, ignoring her previous reluctance as she moved greedily to get more. She was panting now, feeling her body throb and ache. It was just his mouth, but it was full of warmth and tantalizing strokes. She felt the pressure build, and was begging mindlessly for release.

  He obliged her. She felt the orgasm hit her like a fist, and she arched off the bed, screaming his name.

  She was lying there, dazed, when he sat up, grinning. “Like I said. I can’t believe you still wear nightgowns.”

  She felt him move up toward her, vaguely recognized that he was taking his boxers off. Then he was moving on top of her, hovering there for a moment, seeming so big and substantial that he was sure to crush her. “Josh,” she said, breathless.

  He moved inside her easily, her previous orgasm making his entrance a smooth glide. She still felt him, large and insistent, as he pushed in to the hilt. She put her hand up on his shoulder. “Let me get on top. Your turn. I want to make love to you…”

  “I think we’re doing just fine,” he said instead, supporting his own weight so she wasn’t crushed, but rather circled by his arms, again lightly pinned to the bed. “But really…”

  “Shh.” To continue to quiet her, he moved inside her, circling slightly. To her amazement, her body started to feel aroused again, when by all rights she should have been exhausted, wrung out.

  “Oh,” she breathed, and her hands traced the hard muscles of his chest. “Oh, Josh. Right there.”

  He withdrew, slowly, moving his hips just enough so she felt every inch of him. She raised her hips to meet him as he buried himself again. His slowness was delicious, torturing.

  Still, she felt like he was the one calling the shots, from his vantage point above her. His eyes were closed, his face set in fierce concentration. She felt her body taking over, moving against his, feeling the rhythm he set.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, and she felt him moving against her, inside her.

  She moaned as he kept stroking inside of her, moving against her spot unerringly. She murmured incoherently, spreading her legs further, wrapping them around his waist. The corresponding pressure was almost unbearable.

  He lowered his head against her, and his breathing was that of a predator, harsh and fast. She was breathing the same way, she thought, but the combination of his very mass, his animal sexuality, made her feel a moment of excitement just bordering on fear. Her body was jumping with sensation, overloading her system.

  The second orgasm was followed by a third, then a smaller, echoing fourth, all in quick succession. She felt sure she screamed, and clawed her nails down his back—in that moment, just as animal-like as he was.

  He groaned in response, and pumped against her, hard. Then he let out a deep, shuddering breath.

  “It keeps getting better,” she heard him mutter from the tangle of her hair beside her right ear. “How does it keep getting better?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, and she wasn’t humoring him. It had somehow moved past what they’d started with. “I thought maybe you’d get bored with me, after all this time. It’s not the variety you’re used to…”

  He rolled over, putting her on top of him. He put a finger on her lips, gently tracing them. “You’re what I’m used to,” he said, silencing her. “I love you, Angela.”

  She sighed. “I love you, too.”

  She saw a shadow in his eyes, just for a moment. “I’m not just saying that, either. I’ve never said that to any other woman.” He paused. “And if you’re not sure, you shouldn’t say it, either.”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said, stung. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

  He studied her for a moment, then closed his eyes. “Sorry. I…sorry. I guess I’m just a little anxious lately.”

  He didn’t have to say why. He’d all but circled in red: th
eir six month was coming up.

  Italy, she thought, feeling a pang of guilt.

  “Well, you should relax,” she said, nuzzling his chest. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  She immediately regretted the choice of words, and bit her lip.

  “I guess not,” he said, and his voice sounded relieved. “Thanks, Angela. For agreeing to come to the party.”

  She was about to protest, yet again, that she’d only said she’d talk to her friends, but he edged her gently over to the side. She turned over to shut out the light. By the time she’d snuggled against the pillows, he was spooned companionably behind her, his breath warming the nape of her neck. His fingers moved beneath the pillow her head rested on, reaching for and finding the hand she habitually tucked under it. Their fingers laced.

  Within minutes, it seemed, he’d fallen asleep.

  Angela lay awake for a long time afterward, thinking.

  I love this man.

  She’d been living with him for three weeks, seeing him for five and a half months, and she felt like the idea of being apart from him would be like driving a stake through her chest.

  That hadn’t stopped her from seeing a subtle trend.

  She’d only set up three rules: no staying at each other’s houses, no breaking plans for him, and not ever saying “I love you.” Systematically, she’d broken each one. Now, it was as if the floodgate had broken. She couldn’t say no to him. Didn’t want to say no.

  He’d suggested that he wanted to spend more time with her, and somehow, she’d dropped the intermediate stained glass class that she’d recently signed up for. She’d planned to sign up for part two of Chinese cooking, too, but that hadn’t happened. She kept flamenco dancing, but that was it. And she’d spent less time than usual with her friends. Not that they had complained—if anything, Tanya had been encouraging. But she felt it, the distance that was growing steadily.

  Yet every time she went to do something about it, it seemed like he’d come up with some new plan to be with her—and there was something in his eyes that made her want to stay, do anything to make him happy.

  What would I do if I lost him?

  The idea of him unhappy—the idea of him gone—was beyond unpalatable. It was intolerable.

  Italy came back in her mind, sharply. Five weeks, max. That was all the time she could manage away for her trip, after her little “sickness” when she’d vanished for a week.

  She’d been getting happy, buzzing calls from Bethany on her voice mail at the library, and had heard her on her machine at home when she called in to retrieve messages.

  But that would be five weeks away from him.

  Maybe you could bring him with you.

  He couldn’t—she knew that. He had all that business stuff to attend to, things he couldn’t just leave alone while he wandered around somewhere for several weeks on a whim.

  He’d asked you to go to this party, with only a few days’ notice.

  It was different, she justified. Then she felt her grip on his fingers tighten. She deliberately relaxed them.

  What’s happening to me?

  She didn’t know what she would do if she lost him, but at this rate, she was rapidly losing herself.

  JOSH LOOKED AROUND the room. It was dark in the restaurant. The walls were painted a deep midnight blue and covered here and there with exotic-looking tapestries. His salespeople were having a great time, he could tell. Everyone was seated at low tables, sitting on pillows on the floor. They were laughing, talking loudly, nipping various dainty pieces of meat-filled pastry or roasted chicken off of plates with their fingers. Belly dancers would periodically come out. Men and women alike both cheered and caroused in response.

  All of them, he noted, except for Angela.

  He had seated her next to Adam, trusting him to entertain her. She barely cracked a smile, he noticed. And he continually checked for one, as he made his rounds to the crowded tables, exchanging a joke or a word of congratulations.

  She hadn’t gone into specifics, but he got the feeling that her friends had given her a rough time about breaking her plans with them. She had gone tight-lipped, and said that it didn’t matter. In Angela-speak, that meant it had been difficult, painful, but she was blocking it out as best she could. He hated that, and felt guilty that he had been the cause of it.

  In retrospect, maybe this party thing wasn’t such a good idea. But he hadn’t known what else to do, and it was starting to wear him down.

  He’d been ecstatic when she’d admitted that she loved him, in his car that night, now almost four weeks ago. He had insisted on bringing her home, and repeating the experience, several times—first the lovemaking, then the profession of love. He couldn’t get enough of it, or her. And slowly, he’d convinced her to keep staying at his house. Spending more time with him. He would see her toothbrush sitting companionably next to his in the toothbrush holder on his sink, and it would make him smile. There were signs of woman all over his house, now—her pink razor crouched in the shower next to her shampoo, her clothes were hanging tentatively in a corner of his closet. He’d spent almost every night with her, spoke with her every day. She made coming home a welcome relief.

  All of this was marred by only one tiny problem, and he wasn’t even sure if it was in his head or not.

  He would come home, and she would be reading a travel magazine, and look up at him, her face carefully blank. He would nuzzle her, talking of some future plan, and even though she was listening, it seemed like she wasn’t there. She was spending more time with him physically. He just wasn’t sure where her mind was.

  Or her heart, for that matter.

  He realized he was scowling, and carefully schooled his face into a nonetheless strained smile as he got his hand pumped by an eager sales executive. “Congratulations. Great quarter.”

  “Wait till next month!” the man said, already a bit red-faced from the champagne being served.

  Wait till next month.

  Their six-month anniversary was coming up. That was yet another source of tension.

  He couldn’t believe that she would just walk away…she’d acted like she wasn’t, but he couldn’t be sure. And he knew he couldn’t go through with this sick feeling of worrying, wondering if he’d made the cut somehow or not. What was he going to say? That he didn’t want to go month-to-month anymore…he was sick of renting, and now finally wanted to buy? Not temporary anymore, but permanent?

  He paused, midstride, and almost got run over by two enthusiastic dancers.

  He moved to one side, stepping halfway behind a curtain. He studied Angela. She smiled politely at Adam, her eyes darting around the room. Looking for me, he thought, with a surge of warmth.

  Permanent. That was exactly what he wanted. And that was exactly what he’d do. He’d ask her to marry him.

  Suddenly, he felt lighter, as if his tension were a suit of armor that he’d finally been able to remove. He moved toward her, sitting down next to her. The relief was visible on her face.

  “Having a good time?” he asked, taking her hand and kissing the back of it gently.

  He ignored Adam’s amused expression, choosing instead to focus on how her eyes glowed in response. “I am now,” she whispered, leaning closer to his collar. He leaned forward and kissed her, not caring what the rest of the table thought. This was the woman he loved and was going to marry. A few public displays were allowed.

  He rested an arm around her, watching the dancers, not really paying attention. He stroked her shoulders, feeling the tension there. “Thank you, again.”

  She glanced over at him. “For what?”

  “For canceling your San Francisco plans for me.”

  She looked uneasy. “Well, that’s okay.”

  “No, really,” he said, tipping her chin up. “I mean it. It was important to you, and I really, really appreciate it.”

  He didn’t let go until her darting gaze finally focused on him. “You’re welcome,” she said s
lowly, with a small smile.

  “How about I make it up to you?” A plan was starting to take shape in his head. He’d have a whole week to make the arrangements. “I’ll take you into San Francisco next weekend, instead. We’ll do whatever you want.”

  She made a skeptical face. “I don’t know, Josh. It’s not quite the same.”

  He leaned in close to her ear. “Trust me. It’ll be even better.”

  He was satisfied when she shivered. “Okay, Josh.”

  He kissed her again, then turned back to the dinner conversation. His mind wasn’t really on it—it was swarming with ideas. A hotel with a view of the bridge, he thought, top-notch with room service and a deep hot tub. Candles, everywhere, and flowers. Lots of flowers.

  And a ring, he thought. Something unusual, something beautiful, like her.

  It was a perfect plan—in theory. He glanced over at her, once again unplugged from the conversation.

  Now, if only he could guarantee that she would say yes.

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

  Angela was hiding in the rest room of the Moroccan restaurant Josh had persuaded her to go to, dodging the party he’d wanted her to attend…blowing off her friends in the process.

  They had taken it well—that is, Tanya had taken it well. Ginny had simply crossed her arms.

  “You’re getting that in-over-your-head look, Angela. You might want to evaluate why you’re always breaking plans for him these days. And what would happen if you decided not to do it anymore?”

  Ginny had a point there. What would happen, Angela mused?

  He would be hurt. She would hate to see him hurt, she thought. At this point, she hated even seeing him uncomfortable.

  But that wasn’t the real reason, was it?

  He might leave.

  Just the thought made her uneasy enough to fiddle with something, fidget, do anything but dwell on the supposition. She glanced around the bathroom instead. Actually, this wasn’t even the bathroom…it was an adjoining sitting room, away from the stalls and the sinks. There was a large cushioned couch against one wall, and a brightly lit mirror obviously meant for use by women touching up their cosmetics. It looked very much like a boudoir, done in royal blue velvet.