One Spring Night

Chapter Twelve

Wrapping the towel around his waist after Kara had left to take his clothes to the washer, he heard a faint whoosh sound come from the bathroom door. Ben bent down and retrieved the paper that had been slipped beneath the door.

Stay naked, get in bed, be hungry.

"Yes, ma'am," he said as he removed the towel, hung it on the towel bar—thanks to Abigail's training—and strolled out into the bedroom, then climbed beneath the comforter.

The twin lights on either side of the bed glowed from beneath gray lampshades, illuminating the clean lines and elegant craftsmanship of the room. Dark teal—or was that turquoise, he wondered, not knowing a bit of difference between teal, turquoise, and a whole bevy of other similar colors—accentuated the classic gray.

It was cozy, he decided. And it was very Kara. There were times he'd wondered what her bedroom would look like, and this was it. He was in her bedroom, in her bed, he thought with a hard punch of lust. And while he didn't know what kind of hunger she'd intended, he was ready for whatever came his way. And he hoped to God devouring Kara was on the menu.

He was giving her time, he reminded himself. While his brother charmed his way into the pants (and skirts) of many a woman, he didn't want to coerce or convince anyone to love him, or make love with him. It wasn't his way. He wanted more.

But when Kara appeared in the bedroom holding two plates full of food, he changed his mind and decided he would do anything in his power to make love to the woman who'd cooked for him.

"You did as you were told," she said, pleased.

"Once in a while. What's all this?"

She climbed onto the bed beside him then handed over one of the plates. "Grilled cheese with bacon, and a small cup of tomato soup as a sandwich dip."

"You cooked for me."

"Of course I did. It's a rainy night—understatement—and it's the least I can do to repay you."

He dunked a corner of the sandwich triangle into the tomato soup and tore into it.

"How is it?" she asked, swallowing a bite of her own sandwich.

"Really good. Damn good."

"Well you serve dinner for me almost every night of the week. I figured I'd make dinner for you this time."

Polishing off the first half of the grilled cheese and moving on to the second, he couldn't have described nearly how pleased he was.

"You like Banger's N' Mash best, when it's cold out," he told her. "And once in a while you order the Pub Nachos, but it's almost like you're celebrating something when you do. Like it's a treat."

"How on earth do you know that?"

"Like you said, I serve you dinner most nights, and when I hand over your nachos, you look like a kid handed a puff of cotton candy as big as their head."

She let out a laugh. "I do not."

"You do. It's adorable."

"All right, I can play this game," she began as she licked crumbs from her lips. "You have this way of calming people down when they're riled up. Like that guy from New Haven who almost started a fight? I don't remember who he was mad at. But you stepped in, and managed to simmer down his temper instead of piss him off even more. It was like magic. If I'd written the scene into a book, it would've been a superpower that you used. Like Jedi mind tricks."

He chuckled as he finished the last of his sandwich. Apparently he'd needed little instruction to be hungry. "I like it. I like that the fictional me has superpowers."

She took his plate, set it on top of hers and placed the stack on the nightstand. "Get enough to eat?"

"Not nearly," he told her as he pulled her close. "But you're clothed and I'm not."

"I think we can fix that."

Within moments she tossed away her clothes and slipped naked under the duvet.

"Cold, Cold," she said, scooting closer to him. "I always forget it's cold when you first get in. It looks so cozy, the squishy covers, the fluffy pillows, then wham! Classic bait and switch."

"Yes, beds are conniving, aren't they?"

"The connivingest. I don't know if you know this about me," she told him as his head dipped beneath the covers. "But as a writer, I feel it is my duty to invent new words. My editor hates me. She thinks I do it just to test her. Oh God." A moan slipped from between her lips.

Because she couldn't see him, she could only feel what he was doing. The sensations webbed on top of one another—small strokes, playful swipes, his tongue plunging into the heat, his lips trailing kisses. He explored her and played with her, making her skin tingle to life with fast sparks of wanting.

He used his hands, his mouth, his tongue to send her soaring beyond that realm of control, her hips pressing for more. On a gasp, she said his name, reached down and grabbed a fistful of his gloriously wavy hair. "Don't stop," she breathed out. Then, her breath catching, she exploded, her body pulsing with glorious waves of intense heat.

When he surfaced for air from beneath the thick comforter, he tossed the covers back—off and away.

And she pounced on him. "Well, that's one way to warm a woman up."

With him now lying on his back, she straddled him, craving more, and more of the heat. Wasting no time to touch, she slid, slowly closing over him, enjoying the silky, torturous glide just as much as she enjoyed watching his face fill with pleasure.

It was endless, the desire for more, she knew. Like sumptuous waves of glorious satin, she wanted to feel more, and more still.

The blend of smooth and hard, heat and tingles, had her taking her time as she dipped down then up the length of him. They were feelings she wanted to know every part of, every intimate, shuddering ripple.

Filled with him, she felt the strength of him, the utter strength of a man who'd been scarred by his past. A man who was offering his heart to her.

She'd known. Of course she'd known, that she would feel this way while sharing a bed with him. He'd given her so much already—the ups and downs of her days had never failed to steady again in his presence.

And now she knew him, beyond the casual, beyond the clothed pleasantries and chitchat.

They were naked—beyond the physical—together. Both of them raw from the past, but neither calloused over, each of them shared their world with the other.

And, dear God, the man was also physically naked, she thought in gratitude, pressing her palms against his hardened, stable chest. His body was beautiful beneath hers. And somehow, without wanting to question it, their bodies just fit together.

She rode, abandoning to that ripe power, leaving behind all that had hindered her. Fear of anything finite slipped into a sweet field of forever, and she raced over that field, roaring, as she revved harder, faster.

There were no wells of tenderness now, no gentle hills of exploration. His hands gripped her hips, his eyes scanning the lean, petite body before him, and she bathed in the power that came from the magnificent ride.

Kicking up the pace, softness on hard, slick skin on skin, her body rode toward release.

Rampant with passion, with heat, she raced unbridled toward that mysterious place. Her body clenched as he gripped, racing with her. And they both dove forward, into that glorious abyss. Each pulsing with life, with desire, with something grander than simple satisfaction that neither could put words to.

But even as a writer, she didn't need words. It was all feeling, and she was seeped in it.