Strapless. Leigh Riker
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wound her arms around his sturdy neck. With her head tipped back, the Akubra smashed against the glass, she hung on tight. Oh, God, he could kiss. God, he could…
In about five seconds, with his hand flicking open buttons like this down the front of her blouse, then his chambray shirt (he obviously didn’t need practice) Darcie wouldn’t even be breathing.
His hand dropped to his buckle. The belt snapped from the loops. It clanked onto the marble floor. Outside, through the plate glass window wall on the opposite side of the room, the stars—those unidentified constellations—sparkled in the black nighttime sky. Blocks away, down the long slope of King Street, which Darcie couldn’t see from here, at Darling Harbour people danced and drank. It didn’t matter. With his shirt open, her blouse undone, he pressed his chest to her breasts and Darcie whimpered at the low-down ache in her abdomen. They’d never reach the bed.
“Feel good?” He dragged down his zipper. She heard a foil packet tear before he sheathed himself. “I’ll make it better. I promise.”
“Don’t let me down.”
With her request, he whisked her panties off so fast Darcie never felt them fall. He cupped her bottom in both hands. That aching spot down low needed his attention so badly she couldn’t speak—comedy was the last thing on her mind now—and his hardness pushed at the ready opening of her body. He raised his head.
“You’re clean, right?”
She gasped. “I’m clean.”
“Me, too. So let me…show you…my billabong,” he whispered hotly.
Then he slid inside. Deep. Hard. Full. Heaven. Her breath rushed out.
“Ohhh.”
“Unhhh.”
The stars twinkled. The moon shone. The cold beige marble floor made her toes curl—or was that him? His arousal felt velvety hot. The mirror felt slick and cool against her bare bottom. If he opened his eyes, would he see her big behind squashed flatter than his hat to the glass? When his heat engulfed her, Darcie no longer cared about her exposed rear end, about hotel rooms with men who didn’t love her.
His tempo increased. He stroked her, in, out, in, out until they both seemed to lose their minds from the very motion, like the lilting strains of the song she only half remembered.
“You little swag…woman…” he gasped.
“You…big tucker…man…”
She didn’t know how long they lasted. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Not long enough. At some point while the moon still gleamed and the stars still shone and Darcie still wore the Akubra, the climax caught her, swift and shattering.
With one last hard thrust, on a groan he came, too.
When he stopped shuddering and she finally stopped shaking, her head fell back against the mirrored closet. She didn’t mind if he saw her rear now, plastered to the glass, reflected in all its formless, naked glory. When his head dropped to the juncture of her neck, his mouth hot and open on her damp skin, Darcie peeled herself away from the mirror. And the Akubra hat thumped onto the marble floor. She couldn’t tell which of them was breathing in the most ragged rhythm. Or a complete lack of one.
Her heart beat like fury. His thicker, stronger pulse thudded against her breast.
He whispered a low, erotic word, and Darcie cried out, ready to begin all over again what they had just finished…but, like him, not quite finished. When he kissed her, long and sweet and silky, she hoped this one night would never end.
“‘Waltzing Matilda,’” Darcie breathed into his mouth like a prayer.
“Want another beer?” Like a pagan god, hours later he stood naked at the minibar, a perfect sight in the open fridge door that shafted light over his loins, upward along his taut belly to his muscled chest and shoulders, to the renewed glitter in his dark eyes. Darcie wanted him, again, too.
Swathed in the white cotton duvet, she lay on the king-size bed amid big goose down pillows and grinned at him. Even though she didn’t like beer, she said yes.
“And after that…?” she added, hoping for more.
“We’ll rehydrate, then negotiate.”
Like Scarlett O’Hara the morning after Rhett, she couldn’t seem to stop smiling.
I’ll make it better. “I won’t give you a fight.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t.”
“I have to say, I like a man who keeps his promise.”
With a wolfish smile of his own, he slammed the fridge door and walked—strolled in all his male splendor, which Darcie suspected he did on purpose—across the room to her. Darcie lifted the duvet to invite him in. Now the city lights coming through the wide windows illuminated him, too. Gilded his sunbrowned skin. Deepened the interesting creases in his cheeks, the smile lines around his mouth.
“How old are you?” she asked idly, reaching for the beer he held out.
“Thirty-four.” He didn’t ask her the same question. “Why?”
“You’re well preserved.” She trailed a hand over his shoulder. “I’m twenty-nine.”
“Thanks. We’re both old enough.” For what, he didn’t say. He rubbed his bare chest. “Most women don’t like telling, though.”
“Are you always this polite?”
“My mum hopes so.” Oh Lord, a chink in the walls of pleasure. His mother. He had one, maybe just like Janet. He fell onto the bed, held his beer can to one side, and lowered his head to kiss her open mouth. “But no, ma’am. I’m not that polite. Now.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She repeated her earlier words.
He frowned. “Hey. I didn’t really think you were a working girl.”
“Yes, you did.”
He seemed to take most things literally, which Darcie tried not to mind, either. After all, she’d taken Merrick at face value. There was a lesson there but right now she wouldn’t give it any credence.
“Well, I didn’t want to think so,” he said.
“Why not? Other than the fact you don’t pay for sex?”
“I’d never pay for it. Even if I was ugly as a fence post.”
Her gaze wandered over him. “Believe me. You have nothing to worry about.”
“No worries, darling,” he corrected her. “We’re behind on our lessons here.”
“No worries.” Repeating the mantra, Darcie folded him close. Darling. “But on second thought, isn’t this subject too personal for our first date?”
“What, sex? Have another beer,” he said. “Then you won’t care.” He paused. “Is that what this is?” He glanced at the duvet, the pillows, Darcie. “A date?”
“Well. I guess not.” She murmured, “No strings.”
Warm and scented with sex, with each other, they lay close under the covers, drinking tall cans of Foster’s lager. Another, then another. Ugh. Still, beer didn’t taste so bad by the third bottle. Or was it fourth? At some point he’d called room service after they finished the minibar supply to have it restocked.
“For a woman who hates beer,” he finally said, “you’re holding your own here.”
The room spun a little. “It’s cheaper than the hard stuff.”
He kissed her again, tasting of beer and man. “You live where?”
She hadn’t told him. “New York.”
“City?”
He