He glanced at her, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth with a confession he’d had no idea he needed to admit until this moment, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell her about his ability.
God help him, he didn’t know if he ever would.
145
Gracie C. McKeever
Their idyll was almost over and Tabitha didn’t know whether to welcome or grieve its upcoming demise, didn’t know where they were supposed to go from here.
She’d come to Colorado on a whim, so unlike her, not knowing what to expect and was leaving with more than she’d bargained for, so much more and less than she’d ever thought.
That’s what life with Eric would be like, never knowing whether you were coming or going, never knowing whether he wanted and needed you the way you wanted and needed him because Eric, if nothing else, was a player. He knew how to talk a good game, she’d seen him in action more than once—with her, with Jade, with his sister, with Cynthia, and she could only imagine how many others—charming the panties off sundry females before the ladies in question even knew their undies were missing.
He slid in and out of character with the ease of a chameleon, at will—the charming client, the dutiful brother, the passionate and teasing lover, the accomplished and poignant speaker—until Tabitha wondered exactly who he was deep down for real.
She’d gotten a glimpse of another side yesterday, one totally unexpected and not exactly appreciated, at the mall when that Zip Code Man had whispered in his ear.
Whatever the man had said had badly disturbed Eric, something that he refused to talk about now almost an entire day later.
She’d tried to get him to open up, knew as she did that she was probably driving him further away coming off as the nagging prying girlfriend instead of a concerned friend and lover. A sure fire way to push away any guy, but she couldn’t help trying to reach him.
He’d looked so out of sorts at the mall, and after when they’d eaten at a nearby sidewalk café—serious, quiet and ill-at-ease, totally un-Eric-like.
At one point, Tabitha had found herself carrying the entire conversation, what there was of it, watching Eric pick at the food on his plate, and after seeing him demolish 146
Beneath the Surface
that Hungry Man-style breakfast the other morning, watching him idly pick at anything edible without any intentions of eating it was reason for concern.
“You about packed?”
Tabitha turned from zipping her bag, stood straight to watch him come into the room from the bathroom. He was clad in a blue-to-match-his-eyes button-down shirt opened at the neck and tucked into a pair of blue jeans. She wanted to throw him down and eat him up right where he stood but restrained herself, just smiled and said, “All packed.” She glanced at the bedside clock and added, “With plenty of time to spare, too.”
“I knew I could count on you to get us up an hour before our wake-up call,” he drawled.
“I never did trust those things.”
He chuckled, sauntered over to her at the luggage rack and draped his arms over her shoulders before leaning in to kiss her lips. “I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.”
“It doesn’t have to end here you know.”
She swallowed, forcing herself not to speak, didn’t want to hope. She hadn’t thought he’d want to translate their little trip into anything long-range, mentally preparing herself for the big don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you kiss-off once they reached New York, and here he was bringing up the future, because she sure as hell wouldn’t have, not to save her and his life would she have said a word.
When she was silent for so long he asked, “So what do you think, Tabitha?”
“About what you said?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged. “I guess it’s something to think about.”
He grimaced and she wanted to take back her cool tone, swallow at least a portion of her stubborn pride and tell him that she wanted to make a go of whatever this was between them.
She just stared back at him, watched his wounded eyes slowly darken with anger.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” he muttered
God, tell him. Tell him you’re sorry, you idiot! Don’t let it end on this note, don’t
let him think you don’t care…
“I’m going to get the rest of the bag—”
She put her hand on his arm to stop him and he froze to look down at her. “We’ve got some time.”
He pointedly glanced at the clock with her. “Ten o’clock. Sure you want to push it?”
“We can do plenty in an hour.”
147
Gracie C. McKeever
He shrugged as if to say her offer in no way excused her insult, but she saw the steadily growing bulge behind the fly of his jeans and it told another story.
“C’mon.” She slid her hand down to catch his hand, motioned towards the bed with a nod of her head. “Let’s live a little dangerously.”
“You know it’s not just about sex, don’t you?”
“What’s not just about sex?”
“You and me,” he stated. “That’s not all I want from you.”
“I don’t know what more I can give you,” she whispered, averting her eyes.
He ground his teeth as if he were dealing with an especially dense student. “Sex is not the answer to everything you know.”
“I never said that it was.”
“But you act like it.”
“You, who’s been trying to get into my panties from the moment I met you, have the nerve to lecture me?”
“I never misled you about what I want.”
“No, you didn’t, and now that I’ve come around to seeing things your way and given it to you, you’re changing your tune.”
He caught her around the shoulders, pulled her close and ground his mouth against hers in a rough kiss meant to show her he’d reached the end of his rope with explaining to her, meant to put her in her place and show her what she had driven him to.
She pushed her tongue out to meet his, slid her hand down to the crotch of his jeans and squeezed his balls none-too-gently.
He jerked back, cursed under his breath, scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, unceremoniously dumped her in the middle of it.
She watched him warily, breathing hard as she backed away until her head bumped against the headboard behind her.
Eric put one knee on the bed, then the other, stalking her. He whipped out his hands to grab her ankles, pulled her back to him across the bed until her legs were dangling over the edge of the mattress.
“Eric don’t—” She whimpered as he flipped her skirt up then gripped the waistband of her hose and thong before pulling both down her legs in one swift easy motion, leaving them bunched at her ankles, effectively imprisoning her legs and exposing her to him.
“You wanted a quickie?” He straddled her, towering above her on his knees as he unbuckled his belt, then unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, watching her watch him.
“I never said—”
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Beneath the Surface
He leaned down and buried her mouth beneath his, searing her lips with brutal intent, thrusting his tongue and rolling it around in her mouth as if demanding she come out and play.
Tabitha’s head spun at the ferocity of his raid, stomach rising and dipping with unquenched desire and liquid heat when he put a knee between her thighs and pushed her legs apart as far as they would go with her clothes fettering her ankles.
She squirmed beneath him, stared up into his eyes like a supplicant desperate for a handout and hated herself because she wanted him enough to sacrifice her conceit for his heated sexual attentions.
He knelt astride her again as if uncertain what he wanted to do to her first, but soon made up his mind when he drove a finger deep into her moist heat. “You’re wet.”
She bit her bottom lip, refused to say a word, just wanted him to do this and get it over with, off his chest and make her come like they both wanted.
That’s all she wanted, she told herself.
Eric slid off the bed and got to his knees between her legs, the submissive posture—a ruse that didn’t fool Tabitha one bit. He grabbed her thighs and pulled her further down the mattress until her legs draped over his shoulders and his lips were right where she needed them to be.
He closed his mouth over her, going to work on her clit, deliberate and determined as a dog sniffing out a buried bone, sucking and nibbling the swollen kernel of flesh until she cried out. Then he transitioned, seamlessly gliding his tongue from her clit to her slit, shoving deeply into her as he stroked her cleft and fingered her pussy in concert with his intimate kiss.
Before long she was arching off the bed, writhing beneath his sensual ministrations, grasping his hair tight and digging her stockinged heels into his back as she came and her juices flowed, copious and earthy, into his mouth.
He lifted his face from her pussy, took a deep breath and glanced up at her with an imperious and vain gleam in his eyes, as if to say his work here was done. Silently, he lifted her legs from his shoulders and got up to go to the bathroom.
Tabitha lay sprawled, spent and ashamed. Though he’d just gotten
her
off, she felt as if he had taken advantage of her, used her for
his
pleasure—because anyone who put that much effort into something must get
some
enjoyment out of it—proving that he could make her come at will.
She closed her eyes and listened to water running in the bathroom sink, seconds later heard him come out of the bathroom and opened her eyes as he sat on the bed beside her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Shouldn’t I be?”
He didn’t answer, simply leaned back on his right elbow and gently cleaned her up with the warm soapy cloth in his left hand.
149
Gracie C. McKeever
She glanced down at his zippered fly, saw that he still had a raging hard-on, then moved her eyes back to his face.
He didn’t speak and she didn’t either. If he wasn’t going to address it, then she certainly wouldn’t. Let him be Mr. Big-Tough-I-Don’t-Need-You-To-Get-Me-Off Man.
See if she cared!
But she couldn’t stop herself from touching him, stroking his hard length through the rough denim as she stared at him.
He finally caught her wrist and held her hand in place, bent his head to kiss her, his lips and tongue now gentle and apologetic as he explored her mouth with slow deep relish.
She curved her fingers around him and he pressed closer to her hand, then jerked up his head and lurched to his feet.
“We’d better get going.”
* * * *
Damn, when he thought about her face, how she’d looked after he’d gone down on her, not like a woman fulfilled, a woman who had been tenderly taken care of, but one who had been mauled and violated to make a point.
He glanced at her now as she stood beside him in line to hand in their boarding passes.
She looked like a little girl, a refugee from parochial school in her white silk blouse, short blue pleated skirt and blue penny loafers. She was as dressed down as he had ever seen her since they’d met except when they had been out shopping yesterday and she had worn jeans, cross-trainers and a sweatshirt with Fashion Institute of Technology emblazoned across the front beneath a short black leather jacket.
He wanted to hold her, feel her slim compact form against him, sink into her generous soft curves again and again. More than that, he wanted to know her. Sadly, it appeared from the way she acted and the things she said that she didn’t want anything to do with him that didn’t involve getting her groove on.
In his heart he knew that was a lie, a façade like her perfect clothes and workaholic persona.
She was hiding God-knew what and it hurt him to know she couldn’t trust him enough to tell him what was really on her mind; hurt him to know she wouldn’t.
“Thank you, Mr. Vega, enjoy your flight with us.” The attendant stamped, separated and handed back his pass, her smile just a little brighter than that which she had bestowed on most of the other passengers, brushing EJ’s fingers as he retrieved his pass.
“I loved your book, by the way.”
He grinned. “Thanks so much. That’s always good to hear.”
150
Beneath the Surface
EJ stepped to the side and waited for her to process Tabitha, noticed her smile disappeared, the sunny warm attitude she’d lavished on him non-existent, her tone cool when she addressed Tabitha.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Tabitha took her pass, smiled and said, “Thank you so much, I will.”
The attendant frowned. “Will what?”
“Enjoy my flight with you.”
EJ chuckled as she preceded him down the accordion corridor to their flight, past the gauntlet of airport security, attendants and other assorted airport employees until they finally made it onto the plane and to their seats.
Tabitha was silent as he stowed their carry-on bags into the overhead. Nor did she say a word as they sat down, put on their seatbelts or prepared for take-off.
Damn, he guessed that meant he was going to have to break the ice. Normally it wouldn’t have been a problem for him, but when the ice was in fact a gigantic berg to rival the one that had taken out the Titanic, slow consideration had to be given as to how to make his approach.
Tabitha finally let him off the hook when she turned on him, arms folded across her chest and spat, “Did you have to flirt so obviously with that attendant?”
“Flirt? All I did was thank her.”
“I saw the way you were smiling at her.”
“She smiled at me first.”
“And treated me like chopped liver.”
“How is that my fault?”
“Why there you are, little missy!”
Tabitha and EJ both froze and glanced to their left where a small elderly white-haired woman was grinning at them.
“Oh, hello, Miss Stanford. Funny meeting you here.”
“Did you enjoy your stay?”
Tabitha cut her eyes back at EJ before turning back to Miss Stanford to answer.
“For the most part.”
“Oh, don’t you let a little tiff with your boyfriend cloud your memories of the city now.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”