Inner Harbor
Page 64
He thanked God for her practical mind.
"Sybill, I love what goes on under your clothes."
He moved his mouth to her belly, tasted heat and woman, felt her muscles quiver. She made a helpless little sound in her throat as her body shifted under him.
He could take her anywhere. The power of knowing that flooded him like wine. As he took her, slowly now, wanting them both to linger at each stage, he let himself sink.
He peeled those stockings down those lovely, long thighs, following the path with his mouth all the way to her toes. Her skin was creamy, smooth, fragrant. Perfect. And only more alluring when it quivered lightly under his.
He slipped fingertips and tongue beneath that silky fantasy snug over her hips in teasing strokes so that she arched, shuddered, and moaned. Heat was there. Centered just there. Wet, arousing heat.
And when the teasing drove them both mad, he stripped that barrier aside and plunged into the hot taste of her. She cried out, her body rising, her hands fisting in his hair as he spun her to peak. When she was limp and gasping he took more.
And showed her more.
He could have anything. Everything. She was powerless to deny him, to stem the tidal wave of sensations that swamped her. The world had become him, only him. The flavor of his skin in her mouth, the texture of his hair against her flesh or in her hands, the movement of his muscle beneath her fingers.
Murmurs, his murmurs, echoed in her spinning head. The sound of her own name, a whisper of pleasure. Her breath sobbed out as she found his mouth with hers, poured everything she was into that hot flood of emotion.
Again, again, again. The urgent demand circled in her head, as she clung and gave, gave, gave.
Now it was his hands that fisted, on either side of her head as the shock of feeling slammed into him, flashing against desire, melting into a need so urgent it was pain.
She opened for him, a breathless invitation. And filling her, sinking inside her, he lifted his head and watched her face in the golden shaft of candlelight.
Her eyes were on his, her lips parted as the breath trembled through them. Something clicked, a lock opening, a connection made. He found his hands groping for hers, fingers twining together.
Slow, smooth, with each movement a fresh shock of pleasure. Soft, silky, a promise in the dark. He saw her eyes glaze, felt the tension, the ripple, and closed his mouth over hers to capture the gasp as she climaxed.
"Stay with me." He murmured it as his lips roamed her face, as his body moved in hers. "Stay with me."
What choice did she have? She was defenseless against what he brought to her, helpless to refuse what he demanded in return.
The pressure built again, an internal demand that refused to be denied. When she tumbled free, he gathered her close and fell with her.
"i was going to cook," he said sometime later when she lay over him, limp and speechless. "But I think we'll order in. And eat in bed."
"All right." She kept her eyes closed, commanding herself to listen to the beat of his heart and pay no attention to the voice of her own.
"You can sleep in tomorrow." Idly he toyed with her hair. He wanted her there in the morning, badly wanted her there in the morning. It was something to think about later. "Maybe do some sight-seeing or shopping. If you hang around for most of the day, you can follow me home."
"All right." She simply didn't have the strength to assert herself. Besides, she told herself, it made sense. The Baltimore Beltway was confusing, unfamiliar ground. She would enjoy spending a few hours exploring the city. It was certainly foolish to drive all the way back tonight, in the rain, in the dark.
"You're awfully agreeable."
"You caught me in a weak moment. I'm hungry, and I don't want to face driving tonight. And I miss the city, any city."
"Ah, so it's not my irresistible charm and awesome sexual prowess."
She couldn't stop the smile. "No, but they don't hurt."
"I'll make you an egg-white omelet in the morning, and you'll be my slave."
She managed to laugh. "We'll see about that."
She was afraid she was entirely too close to a slavish condition now. The heart she was desperately trying to ignore continued to insist that she'd fallen in love with him.
That, she warned herself, would be a much bigger, more permanent mistake, than knocking on his door on a rainy evening.
Chapter Sixteen
when a twenty-nine-year-old woman changed her clothes three times before attending an eleven-year-old boy's birthday party, she was in trouble.
Sybill lectured herself on this simple fact even as she stripped off a white silk blouse--white silk, for Lord's sake, what had she been thinking of--and exchanged it for a teal turtleneck.
She was going to a simple, informal family dinner party, she reminded herself, not a diplomatic reception. Which, she admitted with a sigh, wouldn't have posed nearly as much of a social or fashion dilemma. She knew exactly what to wear, how to behave, and what was expected of her at a formal reception, a state dinner, a gala, a charity ball.
It was a pathetic statement on her narrow social experience, she concluded, that she knew neither how to dress nor how to behave at her own nephew's birthday dinner.
She slipped a long chain of silver beads over her head, took it off, cursed herself and put it on again. Underdressed, overdressed, what did it matter? She wouldn't fit in anyway. She would pretend she did, the Quinns would pretend she did, and everyone would be desperately relieved when she said her good-byes and went away.
Two hours, she told herself. She would only stay two hours. Surely she could survive that. Everyone would be polite, would avoid awkward or nasty scenes for Seth's sake.
She picked up her brush to smooth her hair back, then secured it with a clip at the nape of her neck before critically studying herself in the mirror. She looked confident, she decided. Pleasant, nonthreatening.
Except… maybe the color of the sweater was too vivid, too bold. Gray might be better, or brown.
Good God.
The ringing of the phone was such a welcome diversion, she all but leapt on it. "Yes, hello, Dr. Griffin."
"Syb, you're still there. I was afraid you'd taken off."
"Gloria." Her stomach plummeted to her unsteady knees. Very carefully she lowered herself to the side of the bed. "Where are you?"
"Oh, I'm around. Hey, I'm sorry I ditched you the other night. I was messed up."
"Sybill, I love what goes on under your clothes."
He moved his mouth to her belly, tasted heat and woman, felt her muscles quiver. She made a helpless little sound in her throat as her body shifted under him.
He could take her anywhere. The power of knowing that flooded him like wine. As he took her, slowly now, wanting them both to linger at each stage, he let himself sink.
He peeled those stockings down those lovely, long thighs, following the path with his mouth all the way to her toes. Her skin was creamy, smooth, fragrant. Perfect. And only more alluring when it quivered lightly under his.
He slipped fingertips and tongue beneath that silky fantasy snug over her hips in teasing strokes so that she arched, shuddered, and moaned. Heat was there. Centered just there. Wet, arousing heat.
And when the teasing drove them both mad, he stripped that barrier aside and plunged into the hot taste of her. She cried out, her body rising, her hands fisting in his hair as he spun her to peak. When she was limp and gasping he took more.
And showed her more.
He could have anything. Everything. She was powerless to deny him, to stem the tidal wave of sensations that swamped her. The world had become him, only him. The flavor of his skin in her mouth, the texture of his hair against her flesh or in her hands, the movement of his muscle beneath her fingers.
Murmurs, his murmurs, echoed in her spinning head. The sound of her own name, a whisper of pleasure. Her breath sobbed out as she found his mouth with hers, poured everything she was into that hot flood of emotion.
Again, again, again. The urgent demand circled in her head, as she clung and gave, gave, gave.
Now it was his hands that fisted, on either side of her head as the shock of feeling slammed into him, flashing against desire, melting into a need so urgent it was pain.
She opened for him, a breathless invitation. And filling her, sinking inside her, he lifted his head and watched her face in the golden shaft of candlelight.
Her eyes were on his, her lips parted as the breath trembled through them. Something clicked, a lock opening, a connection made. He found his hands groping for hers, fingers twining together.
Slow, smooth, with each movement a fresh shock of pleasure. Soft, silky, a promise in the dark. He saw her eyes glaze, felt the tension, the ripple, and closed his mouth over hers to capture the gasp as she climaxed.
"Stay with me." He murmured it as his lips roamed her face, as his body moved in hers. "Stay with me."
What choice did she have? She was defenseless against what he brought to her, helpless to refuse what he demanded in return.
The pressure built again, an internal demand that refused to be denied. When she tumbled free, he gathered her close and fell with her.
"i was going to cook," he said sometime later when she lay over him, limp and speechless. "But I think we'll order in. And eat in bed."
"All right." She kept her eyes closed, commanding herself to listen to the beat of his heart and pay no attention to the voice of her own.
"You can sleep in tomorrow." Idly he toyed with her hair. He wanted her there in the morning, badly wanted her there in the morning. It was something to think about later. "Maybe do some sight-seeing or shopping. If you hang around for most of the day, you can follow me home."
"All right." She simply didn't have the strength to assert herself. Besides, she told herself, it made sense. The Baltimore Beltway was confusing, unfamiliar ground. She would enjoy spending a few hours exploring the city. It was certainly foolish to drive all the way back tonight, in the rain, in the dark.
"You're awfully agreeable."
"You caught me in a weak moment. I'm hungry, and I don't want to face driving tonight. And I miss the city, any city."
"Ah, so it's not my irresistible charm and awesome sexual prowess."
She couldn't stop the smile. "No, but they don't hurt."
"I'll make you an egg-white omelet in the morning, and you'll be my slave."
She managed to laugh. "We'll see about that."
She was afraid she was entirely too close to a slavish condition now. The heart she was desperately trying to ignore continued to insist that she'd fallen in love with him.
That, she warned herself, would be a much bigger, more permanent mistake, than knocking on his door on a rainy evening.
Chapter Sixteen
when a twenty-nine-year-old woman changed her clothes three times before attending an eleven-year-old boy's birthday party, she was in trouble.
Sybill lectured herself on this simple fact even as she stripped off a white silk blouse--white silk, for Lord's sake, what had she been thinking of--and exchanged it for a teal turtleneck.
She was going to a simple, informal family dinner party, she reminded herself, not a diplomatic reception. Which, she admitted with a sigh, wouldn't have posed nearly as much of a social or fashion dilemma. She knew exactly what to wear, how to behave, and what was expected of her at a formal reception, a state dinner, a gala, a charity ball.
It was a pathetic statement on her narrow social experience, she concluded, that she knew neither how to dress nor how to behave at her own nephew's birthday dinner.
She slipped a long chain of silver beads over her head, took it off, cursed herself and put it on again. Underdressed, overdressed, what did it matter? She wouldn't fit in anyway. She would pretend she did, the Quinns would pretend she did, and everyone would be desperately relieved when she said her good-byes and went away.
Two hours, she told herself. She would only stay two hours. Surely she could survive that. Everyone would be polite, would avoid awkward or nasty scenes for Seth's sake.
She picked up her brush to smooth her hair back, then secured it with a clip at the nape of her neck before critically studying herself in the mirror. She looked confident, she decided. Pleasant, nonthreatening.
Except… maybe the color of the sweater was too vivid, too bold. Gray might be better, or brown.
Good God.
The ringing of the phone was such a welcome diversion, she all but leapt on it. "Yes, hello, Dr. Griffin."
"Syb, you're still there. I was afraid you'd taken off."
"Gloria." Her stomach plummeted to her unsteady knees. Very carefully she lowered herself to the side of the bed. "Where are you?"
"Oh, I'm around. Hey, I'm sorry I ditched you the other night. I was messed up."
