“So have I…and a lot more.” He stopped in his tracks, his hand sliding under her hair, anchoring her for what was to come. “Let’s start with this.”
His mouth opened on hers. Hers opened under his. The kiss was hot, penetrating, openly carnal. Their lips fused, parted, then fused again, his tongue pressing deep, rubbing against hers in a blatant overture of what was to come.
Morgan whimpered—an aroused, impatient sound—and pressed closer, molding her body to his. Even through their layers of clothes, the contact was electrifying.
Lifting Morgan’s feet off the floor, Lane half carried her the rest of the way to the media room, covering the remaining distance in long, uncompromising strides.
Together, they dropped down on the air mattress, the fleece blanket that covered it a warm, soft nest beneath them. They tugged at each other’s clothes, pulling sweaters over heads, unsnapping and unzipping jeans, and struggling with socks and boots. Lane unclasped her bra, and Morgan shrugged out of it, her progress slowed by Lane hooking his arm under her back, arching her up to his mouth to give him free access to her breasts. His lips closed around each taut nipple, tugging with his lips, lashing with his tongue, until Morgan cried out in frustration. She shoved at his shoulders until he released her. Then she wriggled free of the impeding bra, tossed it to the floor.
Lane’s hot gaze burned over her, through her, and he drew a rough breath, reaching down to make quick work of her thong. His fingers lingered for a moment, caressing her thighs, between her thighs, slipping up and inside her.
It was good—too damned good.
Neither of them could stand it another minute.
Lane dragged himself away just long enough to shed his briefs and kick them aside. Then he leaned down, lifted Morgan slightly so he could peel back the blanket, place her on the flannel sheet beneath it.
Then he was on her, covering her, his body pressing hers into the mattress.
The world stopped at the first contact of their naked skin.
Morgan made an inarticulate sound of pleasure, instinctively lifting herself closer, rubbing her breasts against his chest, creating exquisite friction as his crisp hair rasped across her nipples.
Lane went rigid, a hard tremor vibrating through him, and he forced out his words in a rough, unsteady voice. “Keep that up and this is going to be over way too fast.”
Her fingertips traced his spine. “I can’t wait for slow.”
“Morgan.” He caught her head between his hands, his mouth plundering hers in a scalding kiss. He kept kissing her, but his hands shifted, slid over the curves of her body until they reached her thighs. His fingers curled around them, and his fingertips trailed lightly over the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, absorbing the tiny quivers he created.
Restlessly, she squirmed, parting her thighs wider, and his erection slid lower, pulsing against her core, finding the opening of her body and probing.
She arched to accommodate him. He hooked his arms under her knees, angling her for the deepest penetration possible. He tore his mouth from hers, and their gazes met, fiery and urgent.
“Now,” she breathed.
“Now’s not soon enough.” He was already pushing into her, stretching her as he did, creating a friction that was so complete, so utterly perfect, that she moaned, her head tossing on the pillow.
Lane paused, the muscles in his arms trembling with the effort of holding back. “Is it too much?”
“No. God…no.” She pushed at the base of his spine.
“You’re tight,” he ground out.
“I’m dying,” she gasped back. “Lane…” Her inner muscles clenching around him.
“Damn.” He gave it up. “I’ve got to get inside you.” In one inexorable push, he was all the way there.
They both sucked in their breath.
Then Lane began to move, ignoring the screaming dictates of his body. He was determined to prolong the experience, to make every sensation last, and he paced himself, thrusting into her in deep, slow strokes.
Morgan understood, and her body met and matched his rhythm. Everything inside her was clamoring for release, but she tamped down on her own urgency, equally intent on sustaining this incredible feeling for as long as possible.
It built, escalated, until restraint was no longer an option.
Lane let it go, giving in to what he needed, what they both needed. He said her name, first in a guttural whisper, then in a shout as he pounded into her, felt the clenching spasms of her climax begin, heightening as he pushed deeper, farther inside her.
She cried out—a wild, shocked cry of completion—and totally unraveled, her inner muscles contracting again and again. Lane poured into her, coming in hard spasms that shook him to the core, drained every drop of him.
Utterly spent, he collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in shallow rasps, his body drenched in sweat. He was fairly sure he’d never move again. Beneath him, Morgan went limp, her arms and legs going slack, sliding to the mattress. She was still quivering with tiny aftershocks, and her heart was racing as she dragged air into her lungs.
Lane knew he was too heavy for her, that he should shift his weight, but his body just wouldn’t comply.
“I’m hurting you,” he managed hoarsely, his lips in her hair.
“No.” The word was barely a whisper, but she punctuated it with a slight shake of her head so Lane knew he hadn’t imagined it.
The assurance was good enough.
Giving in to his exhaustion, Lane turned his face against her neck, inhaled her scent, and shut his eyes. His last thought before drifting off was that he couldn’t remember any adrenaline drop being as good as the rush that preceded it—until now.
Morgan lay awake for a long time after Lane’s even breathing told her he was asleep. She was physically spent, her muscles weak and watery, and her entire body cried out for rest. But her mind, her emotions—those were on raging overload.
Something told her she’d just made a huge mistake.
She’d known that getting involved with Lane Montgomery was a risk. Even so, she’d gone into it with her eyes wide open. But what she’d expected was, at worst, a very hot, very satisfying one-night stand, and at best, a torrid affair of some unknown duration that would offer her welcome relief from the turmoil she was going through.
Talk about a miscalculation.
She’d never anticipated the magnitude of what had just happened between them.
It wasn’t just the sex, although that had surpassed even her most erotic fantasies.
It was more. It was deep, it was complex, and it was undeniable.
It was also the last thing she needed right now. Her emotions, her state of mind, her life were on total overdrive. She needed something simple, something uncomplicated, not another emotional avalanche.
God help her, she was in trouble.
THE WIRY MAN ambled down East Eighty-second Street until he reached the address he was looking for. He climbed the steps of the brownstone, glancing around as he hovered at the front door.
It was 3 a.m., pitch-dark, and deserted. He was dressed in black so he blended in with the night. And he was traveling light.
He opened the leather case containing his picks and started on the top lock. He inserted the tension wrench and applied pressure in a counterclockwise direction. The lock was a Schlage. No problem. He selected the particular pick that experience had taught him would be most effective, expertly working each pin until the wrench turned in his hand and the bolt retracted into the door.
One down, one to go.
He repeated the process on the bottom lock.
Mission accomplished.
The front doorknob turned in his gloved hand. He was in.
WARM LIPS BRUSHED Morgan’s shoulder, and gentle fingers threaded through her hair, moved it aside so those same lips could find the curve of her neck.
Her lashes fluttered, then lifted, and for a moment she couldn’t get her bearings. It was nighttime.
The room was dark, other than a pale, flickering glow. And the bed was low to the ground and unfamiliar.
She twisted around toward the source of the kisses—and abruptly her memory returned.
Lane was propped on one elbow, watching her from beneath hooded lids. There were a couple of lit candles on the nearby end table, which explained the soft glow filtering the room. On the floor beside the air mattress, there was a tray containing two glasses of wine, two slices of cheesecake, and two hunks of chocolate layer cake.
A slow, intimate smile curved Lane’s lips. “Hungry?”
“Starved.” Morgan squirmed into a sitting position, tucking the blanket around her. Candles, dessert, and wine. It might be clichéd, but it still did the trick. “What a lovely surprise,” she murmured. “Especially since gestures like this are usually part of the seduction dance. And since that dance has already reached a roaring crescendo…” Her eyes twinkled. “I think this could be described as superfluous.”
“Funny, I’d describe it as sustenance.” Lane’s knuckles grazed her cheek, his intimate gaze still enveloping her. “The dessert—and the dance.”
Morgan swallowed. There was no denying his effect on her. The scary part was that she was having a hard time convincing herself that it was all part of his standard MO. The words rang too true—assuming she had enough objectivity to assess them. “When did you do all this?” she asked.
“A few minutes ago. After I got my fill of watching you sleep.”
“Now that sounds like an enthralling pastime.” She raked a hand through her tousled hair.
“It was.”
“I hope I didn’t snore.”
“You didn’t. In fact, except for an occasional murmur, you were out cold.” Lane’s humor vanished. “I got the feeling it was the first decent sleep you’ve had in weeks.”
“It was.” Morgan saw his concern, recognized its basis, and nipped it in the bud. “Lane, please, let’s not go there—not tonight. For tonight…”
“For tonight, there’s just indulgence, spontaneity, and pleasure.”
“Is that okay?”
“It’s better than okay. It’s essential.” Lane brought a lock of her hair to his lips.
“Speaking of tonight…” Morgan peered around, looking for a clock and not spotting one. “There’s not much of it left, is there?”
“No. But we’ll make the most of what there is.”
“Do you happen to know what time it is?”
“More or less. I glanced at the kitchen clock when I left with our dessert. It was just after three. It must be three-thirty by now. Perfect time for our next indulgence.” Lane rolled to his opposite side, reaching over and plucking the two goblets of wine off the tray. He handed one to Morgan, following it with her plate of cheesecake and a fork. “Dig in.”
She did, savoring the creamy mouthfuls and smiling as she watched Lane scarf down his first hunk of chocolate cake. “You really were hungry.”
“I worked up an appetite.”
“Enough for two hunks of that cake?”
“Nope. Just one.” He used his thumb to wipe a bit of cheesecake off her lower lip. “But I’m hoping for an encore workout session—one that’s just as consuming as the last, but even more creative.”
“Are you now?” Grinning, Morgan licked her fork. “I’m impressed. You either have enormous stamina or a hugely overinflated ego.”
“I’ll let you be the judge. But first, let’s finish our dessert.” He raised his goblet. “Shall I make the toast?”
“Please do.”
He tipped the glass in her direction. “Here’s to similarities and differences. Here’s to exploring every adventure life has to offer. And here’s to being all we can be.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
They clinked glasses, and Morgan took a slow, appreciative sip. Sauvignon Blanc—the perfect complement to cheesecake.
She glanced from the half-eaten cake to the rapidly disappearing wine to the heated gleam in Lane’s eyes.
Dessert was nearing an end. The sparks between them were already crackling to life.
She could say no, get out while she still had a fighting chance.
Problem was, she didn’t want to.
CONFIDENT THAT THE street was deserted, the intruder stepped outside the brownstone, the necessary implements clutched in his gloved hands.
Things had gone like clockwork. He’d followed orders, and even added a few touches of his own. The fact that the place had no burglar-alarm system had afforded him the time and the freedom to do that. No sirens, silent or otherwise, to alert the cops. No motion detectors to pick him off.
He inserted his wrench in the lock and twisted clockwise. Then he manipulated the pick until all the pins were in place, and with a twist of his wrist, the bolt reengaged into the jamb.
Job done. Everything was as it had been when he arrived.
Or so it seemed from the outside.
AN ICY DAWN was about to make its presence known when Morgan fished out her keys and scurried up to her front door.
“Hurry,” Lane urged, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her down-clad waist. “It’s freezing out here. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since last night.”
“You don’t fool me,” Morgan retorted, sliding the key into the top lock. “You just want a cup of latte from my Impressa. Well, forget it. That baby’s for clients only.”
Lane chuckled, nuzzling her hair as she moved on to the bottom lock. “I’m an espresso man myself. And you’re damned right. In fact, if you refuse, I’ll be forced to tell Congressman Shore where you spent the night.”
Morgan tossed a grin over her shoulder. “I have a feeling he knows.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Besides, if I wanted to keep Arthur in the dark about my sex life, I’d have cut the night short by an hour, and asked you to take me over to his and Elyse’s place. Everyone would have been asleep. I could have slipped into the guest room unnoticed.”
“True. But think what you’d have missed out on—what we’d both have missed out on.” Lane’s voice was husky, his lips warm against her ear. “Remember what we were doing an hour ago? Would respectability really have been worth sacrificing that?”
“No.” Morgan swallowed, her memories of what Lane was referring to vividly alive. Too alive.
She was about to respond with some lighthearted quip, when a gust of wind kicked up, swirling fine particles of snow around them and sending a torn sheet of paper tucked beneath the corner of her doormat flying directly at her.
Instinctively, Morgan’s hand came up, her gloved fingers closing around the tattered page. She pulled it away and glanced down at it, her brows knitting as she saw what it was. “Where did this come from?”
“What is it?” Lane peered over her shoulder.
“A photo of Arthur and Elyse. An old one. Elyse hasn’t worn her hair like that in years.” She pointed. “See? It’s dated November tenth, 1998.”
“Yeah, but it was printed yesterday. The date’s down here.” Lane indicated the lower-right-hand corner, which had survived the diagonal tear that had eliminated half the page. “Who printed this and why is it on your doorstep?”
“I have no idea.” Morgan turned the knob and pushed open the door, flipping on the light so Lane could see his way in. “Maybe Jill’s compiling a scrapbook of Arthur’s postelection…” Her words died in her throat as she gazed around. “What the…?” Her eyes widened with shock. “Oh my God.”
TWENTY-THREE
The office was trashed.
Papers were strewn everywhere. File cabinets were overturned, the folders in them dumped with their documents tossed around helter-skelter. Morgan’s desk was a disaster area, drawers pulled out and turned upside down, everything that had been in them scattered on the carpet. Ditto for the desktop, which had been swept clean.
Newspapers and magazines were tossed randomly about, pages ripped out, some shredded, some j
ust strewn around the ground floor like confetti.
“Shit.” Lane got a glimpse of the damage. He grabbed Morgan’s arm, stopping her from continuing into the building. “Don’t.”
“What?” She looked and sounded as dazed as she felt.
“Don’t go in there.”
“Why? Do you think someone’s still inside?”
“I doubt it. But you’re not going to be the one to find out. Plus, it’s a crime scene. You don’t want to contaminate it. Come on.” He pulled her outside.
Morgan’s teeth started chattering, whether from the cold or shock, she wasn’t sure. “Who would…? How could this…?”
Lane had already whipped out his cell and was punching in a number on speed dial. He plunged in without preliminaries. “Monty, someone broke into Morgan’s place and wrecked it. The ground floor, at the very least. No, I don’t know about the rest of the place. I didn’t let Morgan get that far. No, she wasn’t inside. She was with me. Yeah, all night. We arrived together, just now. Uh-uh, no one was home. Jill was at her parents’. She still is.” A pause. “Not yet. I called you first. Yeah, okay.”
He punched the off button on the phone. “As usual, one of my father’s gut feelings paid off. He spent the night in his office. So he’s in Queens, not upstate. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Let’s give him a ten-minute head start. Then we’ll call the cops.”
Morgan’s brain was starting to function again. “He wants to be here when they go inside to check things out.”
“Right.” Lane frowned at the hollow look in Morgan’s eyes, the fierce chattering of her teeth. “Come here.” He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her face against him and rubbing his gloved hands up and down her back, in a gesture meant to comfort as much as to warm.
“I guess down jackets aren’t what they used to be,” she mumbled into his coat, a feeble attempt at humor.
“They’re meant to withstand cold, not the trauma of seeing your home violated.”
“My home.” Morgan tilted back her head, gazed up at Lane. “God knows what they did to it. All we’ve seen so far is part of the office.” Her jaw set. “I can’t just stand here doing nothing. Not even for ten minutes.”