"Pretty confident, aren't you?" she asked, her breathless voice reassuring him that he didn't have to worry about being invited in for the evening.
"That we'll have a nightcap together? Yes."
"Why, Mr. Alexander, are you trying to get me drunk?"
"I think you already are."
She put up a good show of being offended.
"Moi?
No, no, no. I'm just a little tipsy." She leaned forward, crooking her finger to draw him nearer. "If I were drunk, then I'd do what I've been thinking about all evening."
Devin's heart skipped a beat. "Yeah? What's that?"
A mischievous smile lit up her eyes, and he wondered what he was in for. In a quick movement,
Paris
slid out of the booth, and joined him on his side of the table. She sat close, her hip and thigh soft and feminine against him. Devin steeled himself against an instinctive, physical reaction. She was so close, so sweet. He wanted her so naked, so willing.
"What have you been wanting to do?" he asked, amazed and relieved that he was able to form words despite the effect of her proximity on him.
Her lips brushed his ear, her scent more intoxicating than their drink. "Can't you guess?"
"Tell me," he whispered, even as he struggled to keep from grabbing her shoulders and claiming her mouth with his.
Her tongue flicked across the top of his ear. He grabbed the edge of the table and squeezed, willing himself to stay sane.
"I want you to tell me something first," she whispered.
"Vixen," he teased.
She eased forward so he could see more of her face, more of her eyes, dark with passion. Her finger dipped into the drink, and she moved it to her mouth, parting her lips, sucking the liquid from her own finger. Then she dragged her finger casually over her full lower lip, her eyes never leaving his face. Teasing eyes and tempting lips. He wanted to lose himself in those lips. Wanted to lose himself in her.
Devin heard a moan, realized it came from him, and knew the world was reeling beneath him.
Paris
slipped her finger back into the drink, but this time, instead of raising it to her own lips, she gently grazed his mouth with her moist fingertip. So tender. So inviting.
Craving a deeper taste, Devin drew her finger into his mouth, rolling his tongue over her flesh, reveling in her sweet flavor.
Paris
shut her eyes, but Devin didn't need to see those liquid brown pools to know she was aroused.
Just as Devin closed his own eyes,
Paris
withdrew her finger and shifted so their hips no longer touched. His body lamented as he opened his eyes and saw that she'd slid away. Now she leaned against the table, her gaze locked on him, one finger in her mouth. This time the gesture wasn't seductive. Instead, she was nibbling on a fingernail.
Basic, primal need crashed over him.
Was she having second thoughts? Please, no. She'd already taken him to the brink, and the thought of not having her, not touching her was unbearable. He wanted to keep them in this moment with a desperation he'd never felt before. He needed to let the feeling grow, to explore her finger until he knew every taste, every crevice. And then to do the same with every soft, perfect inch of her.
"What did you want to ask me?" He kept his voice low, willing her back to him.
Her smile was fragile. "I shouldn't … we shouldn't…"
Paris
took a deep breath,
then
looked down at the table.
Devin could tell she was torn, and he stiffened, waiting for her to decide. Everything he wanted in the universe hinged on which way she would come down.
When she lifted her eyes to meet his, he thought he saw an invitation. Devin relaxed, and the earth continued to spin.
"I wanted to know if you really just wanted to run your hands through my hair." She looked away as she spoke, and his heart swelled at her sudden shyness.
Devin held on to the moment for as long as he dared. He wanted to burn that instant into his memory. The way she looked, magnetic, electric, blazing. Her voice, husky with lust. Her scent, flowers and musk.
He stroked her cheek, his fingertips light enough to feel the fine hairs on her perfect skin.
Paris
closed her eyes again, her lips slightly parted. He caressed her face, outlined her mouth with his fingertips, stopping finally to cup her chin. When he had taken as much as he could from the moment, he brushed his lips over hers.
"Is that what you've been wanting to do?" he asked.
A sparkle in her eyes. A hint of a smile. She shook her head,
no.
Before Devin could register confusion, she continued. "No. I wanted to do this."
In one movement, she caught his mouth with her kiss. Bold and deep, the kiss was hungry, devouring, nothing like Devin's sensual tease. This was a full-blown kiss. Torrid, lustful, enthusiastic and unmistakably sexy.
Devin returned her ardor. Her mouth was moist and ready for him, and he explored her with his tongue, even as his hands glided over the curve of her neck and the arch of her back. Despite the awkward position, their bodies fit perfectly.
More. He needed to know the rest of her.
"Maybe it's time I walk you to your room," he said, pulling away just enough to look at her. It was a strain for him to get the words out.
Paris
's eyes told him what he wanted to know. "Yeah. Maybe it is."
Hours seemed to pass before they settled the bill and caught the elevator. During that eternity they held hands, not saying a word, electricity arcing between them. "What floor are you on?"
"Thirty-five," she said, punching the number.
"You should have taken a room in the single digits. This elevator's horribly slow. I'm not sure I can wait until thirty-five."
With a gleam in her eye, she looked down at the obvious bulge in the front of his slacks. "No, maybe you can't."
Devin pulled her in front of him, his erection pressing against the thin dress and her soft flesh underneath. "Do you have any idea how much I want you?"
She wriggled against him, her unexpected response thrilling him and almost sending him tumbling over the edge. "I've got a pretty good idea," she said.
He groaned into her hair. "Vicious flirt," he murmured.
The elevator stopped at the sixth floor, and
Paris
straightened up, placing a safe strip of air between them, as a gray-haired woman stepped on and punched the button for the thirty-second floor. She smiled at Devin and Paris, then turned to face the closed elevator doors.
Devin moved closer behind
Paris
, clasping her around the waist to keep her from pulling away. He peered at their companion. She seemed unconcerned.
When he felt
Paris
relax in his arms, Devin conjured a fake cough, and, with cough and motion working together, managed to maneuver
Paris
's zipper down to her waist without their elevator guest noticing.
Paris
stiffened but didn't say a word.
Devin laid the palm of his hand against her bare back, fearful that
Paris
would step away. He'd never done anything this bold, but he felt compelled. Desire controlled him. He felt a hunger to know her completely, body, mind, soul. And a need to be the man she wanted, the type of man who was confident enough to seduce a beautiful woman in an elevator.
For her, he could be that man.
Paris
held her back rigid and faced forward like a soldier. But she didn't try to move away, and Devin let his fingers glide up and down the path left by her zipper. She shivered, then leaned back into him, her sigh almost inaudible.
Trailing his fingers up her back, Devin kept his eyes on the gray-haired lady, ready to drop his mission if need be, but still tantalized by the prospect of discovery. He felt the pattern of
Paris
's spine, traced the gentle curve of her shoulder blade, and found the soft skin under her arm. Her body rose and fell as her breathing became more labored. She was forcing herself to stay in control. He knew, because so was he.
With slow, easy strokes, he caressed her side, up and down under her arm, delighting in her soft skin under his fingers. With each upward stroke, he moved his fingers closer to her front.
Paris
leaned back, the soft grinding movement of her hips against his groin making him harder than he'd ever been.
When his index finger stroked the soft flesh of her breast, his efforts were rewarded with a small spasm. Was she going crazy? He knew he'd go mad if they didn't soon reach her room.
The elevator stopped at thirty-two, and their impromptu chaperone stepped off. As soon as the elevator doors closed, Paris spun around in his arms, her face flushed.
"Kiss me."
It was an order Devin wouldn't dream of ignoring, and he lost himself in the kiss for the next three floors, lost to everything except the throbbing of his own body and the delicious ambrosia of her mouth under his own.
When they reached
Paris
's floor, Devin felt a twinge of regret that this woman he was seducing, that was seducing him right back, had absolutely no idea of his name. He started to tell her, then stopped. What was the point? He was from his world, and she was from hers, and never the twain shall meet. She didn't want a Devin O'Malley. Wasn't that obvious? After all, she'd never pressed him for his real name.
Paris
wanted Alexander, and Devin had no idea how to change that, how to make her see that he could be everything she wanted.
She wanted Montgomery Alexander, and fortunately for Devin, tonight that's who he was. He wanted tonight with her.
Tomorrow was soon enough to figure out how to get the money, keep
Paris
and still be Devin O'Malley.
Chapter 4
"
T
his is it."
Paris
indicated her hotel room door with a wave of her hand. She tried to keep her voice normal, casual, but she doubted she succeeded.
Alexander nodded. "So it is."
He stood only inches away, not touching her, but close enough to tease her with the possibility of contact. Part of her wanted him to touch her again, like he had in the elevator, but if he did that,
Paris
didn't think she could summon the strength not to touch him back. Every part of him. With her fingers, her lips, her tongue. And not just kisses…
After all, wasn't that what she really wanted? Wasn't that why they were standing here in the hallway in front of a room furnished with little more than a bed? She'd been foolishly trying to trick herself into thinking she could survive on only his kisses. But in truth, she wanted all of him. Maybe it was only chemistry between them, but that was okay. After all, she didn't want or need any ties to this man. Just one night of passion to savor forever.
She imagined Alexander, stretched out naked on that king-size bed, holding his hand out, beckoning her to come to him. Urging her to make love to him all night. Just like he did in her fantasies.
The possibility sent her blood rushing.
Anticipation.
An old ketchup commercial skittered through her head.
I'm giddy, smitten and starstruck.
"Are you going to invite me in?" His soft words brought her back to the moment. From the husky tone of his voice,
Paris
knew he wasn't worried the answer would be "no."
"Sure," she said, then slipped the card key through the slot and watched as the light turned from red to green. Green for go. Green for no holds barred, damn the torpedoes, and all that jazz.
As her hand paused on the door handle, she realized that the etiquette of the situation eluded her. The Fates willing, she was about to sleep with a man she
technically
didn't know all that well—not a normal happening for her.
But he was Alexander. And with Alexander,
Paris
had no qualms. She may have only met him a few hours ago, but she'd known him all her life.
Girl, you are so losing it.
She ran her free hand through her hair, pulling the curls up and away from her face. What on earth was she doing? He
wasn't
Alexander, and she wasn't going to sleep with him. Adventure in fiction was fine and dandy. But it had no place in her real life.
You are not going to make love with him.
She needed to keep reminding herself of that. For some reason, she kept forgetting.
For some reason? Please. She had good reasons. Lots of them. Like that he was hotter than sin and so very close.
Still, no matter how much she wanted it to be true, he wasn't the man she'd imagined so many times when she was alone in her bed. He couldn't be.
She stressed the point, trying to mentally drive it home. He couldn't be Alexander, because Alexander didn't exist. And this man, the one standing behind her who had almost burned up the elevator with her, was not—repeat, not—her dream man.
She needed to call this
off,
run for shelter, before it was too late.
Unfortunately, her body wasn't really keen on this new call-it-off plan. Her body wanted to do the kinds of things people did behind hotel room doors.
Her body didn't even care that she didn't know his real name. But what was in a name, really? Especially when the chemistry was so potent. When she melted at his touch. When every thought in her head evaporated under the spell of him.
She sighed. Maybe he really was Alexander.
Or maybe she was trying really hard to think up a justification for sleeping with him.
"
Paris
?"
She looked up, taking in his bad-boy-turned-corporate-exec good looks that practically oozed sex. The silk tie was loose and his first two buttons were undone, revealing a smattering of gold hair. His eyes glittered, intent on watching her. A smile played at his lips, and
Paris
thought of the wolf and Red Riding Hood.
The better to eat you with.
Oh my.
Paris
was having a hard time remembering why they were still standing in the doorway. "Um?"
His gaze darted to the partially opened door. "Do I need to guess the password?"
"What?"
Paris
said, then realized she was blocking his path. "Oh. Sorry."
She stepped into the narrow hallway leading to the main area of the room, then stopped cold. The bed loomed about nine feet away, illuminated by the one reading lamp the maid had left on.
The course of the evening suddenly seemed more real.
And appealing?
She paused to consider, but her hormones rushed to answer.
You bet.
Common sense stepped up to the plate. Just because the room had a bed did not mean they had to put it to good use.
Alexander must have picked up on her hesitation. "Second thoughts?"
"No," she blurted, her hormones beating her pesky common sense into submission. Then she felt herself blush, embarrassed by her quick response. "I mean, please, come in."
Paris
wanted to roll her eyes at her awkward eagerness. She couldn't have been any less subtle if she'd ripped her dress off and thrown herself into his arms right then and there. That might be what she wanted to do, but such bold tactics lacked the proper panache. Besides, she was too much of a chicken.
And you're not sleeping with him anyway, remember?
She sighed. Somehow, she kept forgetting that tiny detail.
As he stepped past her toward the bed, their arms brushed, sending enough current surging between them to set the building on fire. Could have, but didn't. Instead, all that energy, all that heat, centered in her stomach and her knees. Just one touch and he'd made her go weak.
Feigning nonchalance, she leaned gratefully against the wall. Her bare back pressed against the smooth, cool paint that didn't even begin to lessen the red-hot passion pounding through her.
He was standing there, right in front of her, so hot he should be burning a hole in the floor. So close
Paris
could feel his breath, could almost hear his heartbeat.
This amazing hunk of fantasy material was there for her. What a coup. She was privy to a sexual coup. But she was pretty sure she wasn't the one calling the shots. He'd turned her on, mixed her up when she needed to concentrate. She needed to keep her head on straight, needed to strengthen her resolve before he destroyed her defenses without even saying a word.
"I'm not going to make love with you," she blurted, as she sat back on the bed. Immediately she wanted to take it back, but couldn't very well do that. Not without admitting how much his nearness was messing with her head. And with the rest of her.
She looked up at him, expecting to see shock or disappointment. Instead, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for letting me know." He looked amused, damn him. Well, he wouldn't look nearly so confident when he realized how determined she was.
"I mean it. No sex."
"I believe you."
"You do?" She frowned. She knew she shouldn't be disappointed with his easy agreement, but she couldn't help it. Alexander wouldn't give up so easily, not if he really wanted her. Alexander was too much of a rogue.
Unless this man was just playing it cool, planning to lower her defenses for a sneak attack.
That
would be very Alexanderish.
He kneeled casually in front of the minibar. "Nightcap?"
"I'm … yes. Please."
Then again, perhaps he was a gentleman and not a rogue at all. She shook her head to clear her muddled thoughts. This man and Alexander were all mixed up in her head.
He popped the cork on a miniature bottle of champagne and poured them both a glass. "How about talking? Is that safe territory?"
Talking? Talking was fine. Kissing would be even better. Kissing fell within her boundaries. But she couldn't really say so without sounding desperate. "What do you want to talk about?"
"You're a writer, right?"
She nodded, wary.
He moved closer and passed her a glass of champagne. His fingers grazed over hers, intimate and purposeful, and any remaining doubts about his desire for her vanished in a puff.
"I thought maybe you'd be interested in an intellectual evening. We could discuss literature."
"Literature?" She didn't believe him for a second, but neither could she guess what he was up to.
"Maybe Victorian-era erotic literature?" His voice had changed, it was lower, rougher. Suggestive.
A trill coursed up her spine. How easy for him to reduce her to quakes and quivers. "I … I don't really know anything about it."
"No? Too bad. How about kissing?" His eyes bore into her without blinking, his desire obvious but still unspoken. She licked her dry lips and looked at the floor.
"Kissing?" she repeated stupidly, unable to think of anything else to say. What had seemed like safe territory only a moment ago suddenly seemed dangerous. Wonderfully appealing, but undeniably dangerous.
Her legs wobbled and the wall no longer seemed capable of holding her up. She stumbled to the bed and sat on the edge, her hands folded primly in her lap, a reminder of what she wasn't going to do with him.
"I thought we could talk about kissing. Is that okay?"
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. But he could talk all night about kissing if he wanted. That wouldn't break any rules.
Talk? Hell, he could kiss her all night.
He lowered himself onto the bed next to her, close enough that his taut thigh muscles pressed against her. She focused on taking nice, normal breaths. But the more she tried to ignore his heat against her, the more flustered she became.
When he leaned back on the bed, she hesitated to look at him. "It's too hard to talk sitting up next to each other. I promise I don't bite."
She drew a steadying breath and turned her head. He was lounging behind her, propped up on one elbow. He patted the space in front of him. "Come on." Then he grinned, slow and self-assured. "Unless you don't trust yourself with me."
As a matter of fact, she didn't. Not one bit. But she probably shouldn't mention that. She leaned back and scooted up the bed until her face was even with his. She had to admit it was a much better position for talking. It was a much better position for kissing, too. How convenient.
"Now, about kissing." With one fingertip, he traced her lower lip. Her pulse throbbed and she tried to steady her breathing. "Did you know that some people think kissing is more intimate than sex?"
A small sound of interest was the most she could manage.
"There are times when I think that's right," he said, flashing her a lazy grin. His finger teased her lip, then slid inside her mouth to graze the top of her teeth. She closed her eyes, fighting to keep from closing her lips around his finger.
"Not that I'm knocking sex, mind you," he murmured. "I certainly can't deny the intimacy of being naked next to a woman who makes your heart pound as it's never done before, sheathing yourself in her, filling her up, taking her places she's never been and watching her skin flush when she finds satisfaction."
Paris
squirmed on the bed, her thighs pressed tight together to try and forestall the liquid urgency that he was creating inside her. She lost the battle with his finger, and closed her lips over him, suckling, hoping that giving in just a little bit would douse the flames that were beginning to consume her.
Gently, he pulled his finger from her mouth. She heard herself whimper.
"But a kiss, a kiss can be sweet and gentle. Or hard and desperate. A kiss is fast and hot and deep, or slow and lingering. A kiss is sharing breath and soul."
Something soft brushed her lips. When his evening beard tickled her cheek, she realized he'd brushed her mouth with a kiss. "Tell me what you think about kissing," he whispered.
She quaked, imagining his lips on hers, his breath mixed with hers. A piece of his soul. And she so wanted to see into his core. She needed to know if he could really be the man she'd dreamed of.
"
Paris
?"
She opened her eyes. "Just one kiss." Her voice sounded thick, more sultry than she could ever remember.
His eyes darkened. Then
Paris
saw the hint of a smile. She heard his breath coming as uneven as her own. With a low groan, he pulled her across the satiny bedspread into his arms.
Her breasts pressed hard against his chest, her nipples painfully tight. He took her bottom lip in his mouth and sucked, drawing her blood through her veins with every infinitesimal increase in pressure.
Wriggling closer, she maneuvered her leg over his thigh, needing to feel him pressed tight against her, wanting to feel the evidence of his arousal against her belly.