Win had no desire to smack Vincent. She just wanted to love him.
“I’m going to miss you, baby.” Vincent was somehow holding her up with his good arm while undoing his belt, then shoving down his jeans. He lifted her and speared her with his cock, pushing up with his hips so he could give it to her in one slow, deep, complete thrust.
She cried out in rapture and sought out his mouth.
They kissed, their mouths desperate for each other They fucked, Vincent taking Win so thoroughly that he had bottomed out in her and was pushing against her cervix. She had the craziest thought, her mind dark and confused and awash with lust and need, but all she could think of was how badly she wanted to feel him come inside her, splash up into her, be a part of her forever.
“Win, sweetheart—” Vincent moved with her, turned, and lowered himself on a big rock. He kept his hands on her hips. “I’m coming in you, Win.”
“God, yes!” She grabbed his face and kissed him hard, feeling herself tense and jerk and squeeze him just as he let out a joyful roar and exploded inside her.
It was stupid, stupid, stupid. They hadn’t used a condom and she could easily be pregnant. But as Win burrowed her face into the crook of his neck, felt his breath against her cheek, sensed the caress of his hand on her bare back, she didn’t give a damn. That’s how far gone she was.
How much she loved him.
“Uh, Win?” Vincent tapped her on the upper arm.
“I know. But I don’t care.”
“Not the condom oversight, though that is something we definitely need to discuss, but I think Fifi’s gone AWOL.”
After an abrupt untangling of limbs and body parts, they threw on their clothes and began to search for the poodle. Win thought that if anything happened to that sweet little puppy she’d never forgive herself—not to mention that Carly would kill her.
Ten minutes later, Win heard Vincent’s voice boom through the forest, announcing he’d found the dog. Win ran back to the path to see him holding a very alive Fifi—no, Lulu—in his arms. After a quick examination of her white fluff, Win found the dog untouched by her brief brush with the wild.
That evening, Win unplugged the laptop and packed her bags while Vincent grilled chicken and vegetables for dinner. They ate on the back deck, sharing the sunset and Artie’s last bottle of Krug 1990 Blanc de Blanc. At one point, Win used her bare toes to fondle Vincent between his legs.
“Stop, or you’ll regret it,” he said ominously.
“I regret nothing,” Win replied, looking at him over her wineglass.
Vincent’s smile became tender, his eyes held hers and he leaned across the table on folded arms. “You know what, Winifred? I don’t think I’ve ever not regretted something more in my life.”
She liked that. “And you know what else, Vincent?” Win got up, walked behind his chair, and put her arms around his neck. She kissed the top of his dark, thick hair and prepared to finish the witty retort just on the tip of her tongue. But Vincent chose that moment to let his head fall back against her breasts. He stroked her fingers, sighed, and closed his eyes in bliss.
Instead, Winifred blurted out, “I love you.”
The big black limo pulled up the gravel drive right on time, and Mac couldn’t say he was sad about it. Ever since Win dropped the “L-bomb” on him at dinner the night before, things had been strained. He knew she hadn’t intended to say it, that it was a slip, but the instant the words hit the air, he’d closed up.
Yes, he spent the night with her. Yes, they’d made love and it was un-fucking-believable, as always. He’d held her in his arms and told her he’d miss her and wanted badly to see her again—and it was all true. But he couldn’t tell her he loved her. How could he?
He knew that in hours he’d be standing right where he was, in the driveway, saying good-bye. She’d be on her way to Manhattan in just minutes, and he’d start the long drive to D.C., and within days he’d be on a plane to beautiful downtown Peshawar.
She’d been kind enough not to bust him last night, but Mac figured he’d be damn lucky to ever hear from her again.
Mac’s mind zapped back to the present when a tall, cool blonde stepped out of the back of the limo, took one look at him, and screamed.
He watched Win whisper to the woman, release Fifi to her hugs and kisses, and figured it must be Carly. He took a few steps closer to her and held out his hand.
“Hi Carly. I’m—”
Carly’s eyes went huge and she burst out laughing. Then she said, “Wow, Win. This is a little spooky.”
Win rolled her eyes at Carly in a way that made Mac’s insides twist. In just three weeks, he’d gotten used to everything about her. Her facial expressions. The sweet noises she made just before she was about to come. The way she smelled after a shower. How her hair curled into corkscrews on hot afternoons. How sweet her ass looked in her lucky jammy pants.
It suddenly occurred to him that he’d identified and catalogued Win’s six different laughs, and each one indicated something different, from arousal to anger. Mac couldn’t remember ever knowing this much about one woman. Or ever wanting to.
Oh fuck. This was a damn stupid time to realize he loved her back.
Carly was shaking his hand, and Vincent introduced himself, drowning in his sudden awareness.
He loved her. He loved her. She was getting in the limo with Carly and Fifi.
Win turned to him. There were no tears in her eyes. She smiled, and her bravery and levelheadedness made him love her more.
“Good-bye, Mac.”
“Good-bye, Win.”
“Thanks for the keys to the cabin. I’ll keep an eye on it for you.”
She stood on her tiptoes and brought her lips to his. Vincent could tell she intended it to be a quick peck, but he wasn’t letting her get away with that. He swept her up in his arms, gripping her around the waist with one hand and cradling her head with the other. He kissed her like he could never get enough of her, like he’d miss her so much he might die, like he loved her.
She pulled away, blinked in astonishment, and made her little squeaking sound. “Oh,” she said.
“I have your fax, phone, cell, e-mail. You have mine. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“All right.”
“No muse shopping while I’m gone, Winifred.”
She smiled again. “Stay away from bullets, Vincent.” Her eyes suddenly softened and her lips trembled, and with a whisper she added the word, “Please.”
Mac watched the limo turn down the gravel lane. “I love you, Win,” he said aloud, hoping none of the squirrels heard him. “And thank you, Artie.”
Then the car disappeared in a cloud of dust and shade, taking away the most amazing female he’d ever known.
The November rain sliced through the dark city sky in hard sheets, and the pounding was so loud that Win could barely concentrate. She’d transferred the latest version of the screenplay from her desktop to her battery-operated laptop, just in case the power went out. The storm was that bad.
The dogs were causing a ruckus, and Win spun around in her desk chair to make sure they weren’t gnawing at the table leg again. She laughed at the comical sight of Lulu and her own dog rolling on the carpet, the shaggy, eighty-pound Fifi gently cradling his tiny playmate in his oversized front paws. These days, when Carly went out of town for the weekend, Lulu hung with Win and Fifi instead of going to the kennel. Win figured that, with Fifi in her life, what difference would a few additional pounds of dog make?
She returned her attention to her computer screen, grabbing her wayward curls and twisting them into a roll at the back of her head, which she secured with two pencils. She had two days left to finish this last round of revisions on Have Mercy, and she had to say she was pleased with the changes the studio had suggested. Nothing too rash, and even some tidbits she wished she’d thought of herself.
Executive producer Maria Chen said she loved how Win had kept Max Mercy’s razor-sharp edge while making him se
xier, sweeter and more likable than ever. She predicted women were going to cream in their jeans.
Win’s gaze wandered out the dark window to the rain-blurred city lights. It was times like this that her mind wandered to Vincent and the effect he had on her own jeans. The effect he still had. It didn’t escape her that so much of him had gone into this script that he should be mentioned in the credits. She promised herself she’d look into it.
Win smiled, leaning back in her chair with satisfaction. Since Vincent, there’d been no David Bowies in her life. No magazine editors or artists or graphic designers. The only two men who mattered were Fifi, who’d showered her with gratitude since she’d freed him from death row at the animal shelter, and the memory of Vincent.
And the writing had been going great guns. Not only had she tackled the revisions, but she’d started on a new project. It was a straight love story—pure romantic comedy—and unlike anything she’d ever written. When Artie looked over her first few scenes, he winked and said, “Finest stuff you’ve ever done, doll.”
She was startled from her pleasant daydream by Fifi’s wall-shaking bark and Lulu’s earsplitting yip. Under the cacophony, she heard the knock on her door.
“Who is it?” she shouted, rustling the dogs into her bedroom and shutting the door. She hoped it was just her neighbor, Mrs. Fortner, because she sure wasn’t dressed for visitors. Not that she was expecting any.
She squinted through the peephole but couldn’t see a thing. She blinked and looked again, this time seeing a dark brown eyeball staring right back at her.
“Your muse is back, Winifred,” he said.
Two weeks had passed since she’d heard that voice—it had been a rotten connection and she hardly heard a damn thing he’d said, but it had been his voice. It had been something. But now he was here!
Win’s knees shook and her hands fumbled as she unlatched the four locks on her door, trying to steady her breathing, saying to herself over and over, Have mercy! Have mercy!—aware that she wasn’t looking her best that night.
The door opened and there he was—and he wasn’t looking all that hot himself. Vincent was wet as a sewer rat. The left side of his face was bruised. A bandage stretched across his cheek. His upper lip was swollen.
“I do not want to know,” Win said, grabbing his arm and hauling him inside, ripping off his coat and kissing him before he could say anything more.
“Watch the lip, baby,” he mumbled, crushing her against his chest, lifting her off the floor.
It was insanity. The dogs were barking their heads off in the bedroom. Win was laughing and crying and swooning and she loved this man and he was here.
Vincent placed her on her feet, stroked the sides of her face and smiled at her. He let his eyes travel down the front of her red cardigan and her lucky jammy pants, and quirked an eyebrow.
“Rewrite hell?”
She nodded. “Not really hell, though.”
“Good. Just left there.”
He cocked his head and looked over toward her closed bedroom door, which was being thumped from the inside. “Something you want to tell me?”
Win laughed, her mind clearing a bit, then she smacked him in the chest. “Why didn’t you tell me you were fixin’ to come back to the States? Lord, you burn my ass up!”
A crooked smile spread up the right side of his face. “My plans exactly, my little magnolia. But what’s going on in there?”
She walked to the bedroom door, and grabbed the handle. “Prepare yourself,” she warned, then pushed.
Vincent was nearly knocked backward by the big sheepdog mixed breed, and had to hold it aside by the collar in order to pet Lulu.
“Hey Fifi.” He picked up the poodle and rubbed her little pompadour. “Who’s your friend?”
Win walked back to him, relishing this moment. “As you well know, the poodle’s name is Lulu.” She enjoyed the sparkle in Vincent’s eye. “This, however, is Fifi.”
The big dog was now humping Vincent’s right leg, and he laughed. “Fifi’s a boy, Win.”
“Yep.”
“Just wanted to make sure you knew that.” He gently shook the dog off his leg, put Lulu on the floor and stared at Win. She looked good enough to eat in those drawstring pants and that little sweater and no bra and bare toes and flushed cheeks. “You know you got pencils stuck in your hair?”
She raised her arms to remove them, which allowed him to watch her breasts shift under the fuzzy knit. He could see her tight little nipples. Win then shook out those gorgeous curls and looked up at him with a seductive smile.
“The cabin is looking good,” she said.
“So are you.”
“There’s furniture in it now.”
“Is there a bed?”
“A big one.”
“How big’s the one in there?” He nodded toward the bedroom door.
“Barely big enough for you, I’m afraid.”
Vincent stepped close to her. “Don’t be afraid, Win. I’m going to ask you something and I want the truth.”
The tone of his voice startled her. She gazed up at him, nodded, and said, “Fine. Ask away.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“What?”
“I have to know. For two months I’ve been wondering if I got you pregnant that day by the creek. It has been driving me nuts thinking that I was a world away and you were here, pregnant with my baby.”
The pain on his face devastated Win.
“Vincent—”
“I asked you on the phone when we talked, but I don’t think you heard me. You said, ‘Yes, uh huh,’ like I’d asked you about the fucking weather! I’ve been a crazy man.”
“Oh, Mac! I couldn’t hear you! I’m sorry!” She frowned at him. “You came all the way to New York to get your answer?”
He ran a hand through his wet hair and shook some of the rain from his fingertips. “I came here to see you and to watch you answer my question.”
“Come here, Vincent. Come with me.”
She led him by the hand to her bed, got a clean towel from the linen closet and dried his hair, She felt the exhaustion pour off him in waves. There were black circles under his beautiful dark eyes. She fluffed the pillows under his head, straightened his legs, then untied his boots and took off his socks.
She climbed up on top of him, and stretched out along the length of his body. She turned her head to rest her cheek on his chest.
“I’m not pregnant, Mac. If this were a script, I’d be pregnant and you’d be thrilled and you’d tell me you love me and you’d never leave me.” She felt a shudder move through his body, and she didn’t know if it was relief or disappointment. Maybe he’d never tell her which it had been.
“Is that what you wanted?” he asked.
“I don’t know what I want. But it would have been easy to make up my mind if I was pregnant, you know? The decision would have been made for me—I’d be a mother and I’d always have a reason to bump into you.”
He laughed, tightening his hold on her. “I love you, Win.”
She smiled to herself. She already knew that. Both she and Carly had seen him drop the L-bomb as the limo drove off that day. They’d given each other high fives the whole way back to Manhattan.
“I love you too, Vincent.”
“I’m not sure what comes next, though.”
Win pushed up on her hands and smiled down at him. Her real-life hero was battered and bruised and needed sleep. He needed her. It was obvious. And she’d never felt more inspired in her life.
“How about we wing it, Mac?” She kissed him on his stubbled chin. “I have a suspicion that whatever we do, it’ll be better than anything I could have imagined. And that’s saying something.”
He chuckled softly. Then Vincent closed his eyes and let the smile on his lips soften as he fell to sleep.
Reno’s Chance
Lora Leigh
Prologue
It wasn’t a party she wanted to go to, but Raven had promi
sed her best friend Morganna that she would be there. Being there meant she would, of course, run into Reno.
Reno, with the softest gray eyes she had ever seen, the most luscious buff body God had ever given a man. As she left the bathroom, her body washed, scrubbed, lotioned, and perfumed, she assured herself it wasn’t for Reno.
But she knew better.
Her body knew better.
She wanted to come up with an excuse to stay home, but she knew she wouldn’t. It had been weeks since she had seen him and she missed him.
They were friends, she told herself. She was allowed to miss him. It didn’t mean anything. Just because her heart hammered in her chest at the thought of seeing him, her breasts became swollen, her nipples hard and tight, it didn’t mean anything except he could turn her on.
That was all it meant.
She threw herself on the bed, turning on her back to stare at the ceiling overhead. It wasn’t the ceiling she saw, though. She closed her eyes and it was Reno she saw. His head lowering, his lips so full and sensual, taking hers.
She was shocked at the moan that passed her lips, the heaviness that filled her body, the liquid warmth she could feel between her thighs. His hands were broad, callused. How would they feel moving over her naked body, cupping her breasts as his fingers, then his tongue, rasped over her nipples?
She licked her finger and thumb, moving it to her nipple, mimicking what she thought he would do and had to bite her lip to keep from crying out at the pleasure.
“Yes,” she whispered instead. “That’s what I want, only better.”
And it would be better. His fingers would be hotter, rougher, more demanding.
Her legs shifted on the bed as her hand moved down her midriff.
Pathetic, her mind jeered.
She could fantasize, she told herself fiercely. That’s all it was, just a fantasy.
She touched the bare flesh between her thighs and a broken sigh fell from her lips.
God, she wanted him.
And she could have him. She knew she could. He had been chasing her for nearly two years now. Every time he came home, he watched her with a promise swirling in the stormy depths of his gaze. And that didn’t count the stolen kisses, the knowledge that one day soon, he was going to start chasing her in earnest. She knew it was coming. Knew she could fight him only so long.