“Oh, they're my favorite.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That's good. Very good.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm going to kiss you and it will be a whole lot more enjoyable if you like the taste of pecan chocolate chip.”
“Oh!”
And that was the last she got to say before he let go of her strand of hair, turned her toward him, and took possession of her mouth.
The first time he'd kissed her had been a masterful seduction. The second had been gentle persuasion.
This was sheer bliss. He seemed familiar now with how to touch her. Seamlessly, they moved together from gentle nibble to the deep, soul-searching quest of mouth on mouth.
Liz shuddered. Her hands moved through his hair, bringing him closer, seeking more of the pleasure he gave, the sexual knowledge he possessed, the comforting familiarity he harbored.
Quentin's brain clouded. He'd intended to give her only a light, teasing kiss tonight, to ease their way into a more intimate relationship. He'd underestimated their need, their desperate desire for each other. The one or two kisses they'd shared up till now had done nothing to dampen that.
The sweet lavender scent of her seduced his senses. Her skin was so soft and smooth, he had an uncontrollable desire to touch it, expose more of it.
His hand propped up her chin to deepen the kiss, then touched the side of her face before wandering to stroke her arm, her midriff, the line of her hip.
He urged her backward until she felt the arm of the sofa under her head. Her mind clouded as his lips left hers to run a line of moist kisses across her soft cheek, nibble at her earlobe, and then trail down her neck.
She shifted restlessly.
“Shh,” he coaxed. “Easy. Nice and slow and easy.”
He sounded more in control than he felt. His hand shook slightly as he unclasped the back of her halter-top dress.
Lord, but she had a powerful effect on him. He wondered now how he'd been able to keep his hands off her for so long. Frankly, if he'd had any idea of how easily she'd be able to get under his skin, he didn't think he'd have had a hope in hell of staying away from her.
Her eyes flew open when he eased the dress and its built-in support from her, exposing her br**sts.
He looked into her incredible golden green eyes. “Beautiful.” His voice sounded hoarse with desire. Reverently, he reached out and caressed her br**sts.
Liz closed her eyes again. The feel of his hands—strong and slightly callused against her ni**les—was incredible.
When his mouth replaced his hands, she jerked at the unexpectedness of it and then shuddered with pleasure. She tangled her fingers in his hair, holding him to her. The steady, rhythmic pressure of his mouth sent waves of electric sensation through her.
Just when she thought she couldn't bear it any longer, however, he moved to the other breast, replacing his hand at the first, where the nipple was now wet and distended from his attention.
Again he brought her to the brink. When she thought she couldn't bear his attention any longer, his lips finally came back to hers. Mouths met, hands roamed, bodies shifted. She wanted him so much. Why wait?
And with that thought, she pushed until his jacket came off his shoulders and down his arms and then set to work on the buttons of his shirt.
He lifted his mouth from hers and gave a husky chuckle, looking down at his suit jacket bunched around his wrists.
“Please…” She felt as if she'd only been dreaming of the possibilities up till now and he'd awakened her to real emotion, real sensation, real desire.
Leaning back, he finished off his jacket and shirt with a couple of quick, efficient movements. He was lean with strong shoulders and fine ebony hair on his chest. She trailed her fingertips over him and his eyes closed, seeming to savor the moment. Then he raised her hands above her head and leaned back down toward her.
Cold replaced by hot. Lips replacing air. His hands and mouth played over her body.
She felt the evidence of his need for her and instinctively reached down between their bodies to touch him.
Groaning, he pressed himself into her palm for a moment and then tore his mouth from hers and sat back.
His eyes were hot, his breathing a bit labored.
Her first instinct was to sit up and press her mouth to his and move his hands back to her br**sts, where they could continue to do wonderful, wicked things to her. But then she read the look in his eyes. The look that said, stop me now or I won't be able to stop at all.
As he reached out to pull up her dress to cover her, realization dawned about how far they'd gone—and how fast.
She felt herself redden, embarrassed because he'd been the one to stop. She moved to get her dress back on without revealing her br**sts again, refusing to look at Quentin—which was ridiculous really, since he was sitting on the sofa, right next to her, half dressed.
“Do you need a hand?” he asked, his voice deep and still a little thick from the effects of their lovemaking.
“I believe your hands are what, ahh, caused this predicament to begin with,” she muttered half to herself, still refusing to meet his gaze.
He held his offending hands out in front of him. “Okay, guys, now cut it out.” He knitted his brows. “How many times do I have to tell you not to wander off?”
She looked up, having hooked the halter-top back into place. “What? Oh.” She planted her hands on her h*ps and decided to play along. Anything, anything to diffuse the situation. “The old the-hands-did-it routine.”
He gave her a serious look. “Hanky and Panky apologize.”
She tried desperately and unsuccessfully to school her face.
“I'd suggest handcuffs, but they'd just consider that kinky.”
A chuckle escaped her.
He gave her an amused look, then picked his shirt up off the floor and stood to shrug into it before grabbing his jacket. Bending, he gave her a firm peck on the lips and filched another cookie. “Thanks for a wonderful evening.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and cocked his head toward the door. “Come lock me out, so I'll know you're safe.”
The flowers arrived the next day. A dozen, long-stemmed white roses with reddish tips interspersed with lilacs. The note said simply, “Thanks for a special night. Will call soon. Quentin.”
The next week passed quickly for Liz.
On Tuesday, she was at Whittaker headquarters to speak with potential contractors for the day care and was almost limp with relief, knowing Quentin was traveling and not in the building.
The brochures from the fertility clinic continued to lie in her desk drawer where she had placed them. They beckoned to her, telling her she was crazy to have even entertained Quentin's scheme.