The Good Chase (19 page)

His gaze slowly meandered over her naked body. She'd never felt so exposed and so beautiful at the same time. He looked huge and unbearably hot above her, his jeans-clad thighs bracing hers, his shirt pulled tight over a pumping chest. She deliberately stretched her arms above her head, making her back arch and her legs part.

“I learned something else,” he murmured. “You like me to look at you.”

Yes, she did. Very much. Because to be that wanted, to know she was that desirable and that attractive to another person, was the greatest turn-on she'd ever experienced.

Then he leaned forward again but didn't give her his weight, didn't cover her. Supporting himself on one arm, hand planted on the mattress by her shoulder, he slipped his other hand between her legs. No warning, no pausing. Just a quick, easy slide into where she wanted him most.

His gorgeous blue eyes squeezed shut. He turned his face away. “
Fuck
.”

She opened her legs a little more and he went in a little more, then dragged his fingers out, bringing her wetness with him. Over her.

His eyes shot open and he faced her again. Came down a little closer. His fingers slid up and down, over and inside her. So easily, so perfectly.

“My God,” he kept whispering in what she could only categorize as awe. “My God.”

He was making her twitch, her whole body spasming, and it wasn't even an orgasm. Like she was a marionette, and every tiny, wonderful movement of his fingers created a greater, more exaggerated movement somewhere else inside her.

Had he figured it out yet? That all he had to do to make her come was touch her and look at her as he did it?

He must have, because he kept doing what he was doing, rubbing her with increasing intensity. And she kept opening for him, kept rocking her hips, encouraging. Showing him that she loved it all.

And when she did come, a spiraling crescendo that seemed to take forever to rise, he was still staring at her, whispering, “There it is. There it is.”

Keeping her eyes open was nearly impossible, her eyelids heavy, wanting to close under the weight of the pleasure shuddering through her center, but she wanted to look at him more. Wanted to see how her orgasm looked through his eyes. And just when she thought it was over, that she'd reached the top of the wave and that the pulse inside her couldn't get any more intense, Byrne's lips parted, he increased the pressure and speed of his hand, and she exploded.

No keeping her eyes open anymore. But the second they fluttered shut, her cries got louder. She felt him cover her again, and then his mouth swallowed her sounds. She let her screams go, releasing them into the kiss, and her throat went raw from the force.

When she finally came back down, finally fell over the back side of the wave and into the gentle lull of the dip, he removed his hand and his mouth, and she opened her eyes.

He was smiling, his eyes brilliant. The more crooked his smile, she was learning, the happier he was. And, baby, that thing was cocked so far to the left it was practically in his ear.

Her thighs shook as she lowered her ass to the bedspread, her quads tightening up.

“Oh my
God
,” she said, and then laughed, because that's what you did sometimes when you were too overwhelmed to say or do anything else.

He kissed her again, still wearing the smile, and laughed against her mouth. “Never been called anyone's god before.”

“Was that slow enough for you?”

He pretended to consider it, pursing his lips. “Not sure. The real test comes now.”

Impossible that she still didn't feel fulfilled, but sometimes fingers just weren't enough. Sometimes you needed a much bigger part of a man than his hand and his grin and his ultrasexy words.

She stretched up to kiss the column of his throat at the same time she reached down for his belt buckle.
Slow
, she had to remind herself.
Painfully slow.
As she tugged the leather out of the buckle and let the faint clink of metal upon metal fill the room, he pushed back up to his hands and knees above her, staring her down. The smile gradually faded.

Shea pulled the buckle loose and wrapped the metal square in her fist. Byrne's shirt hung down, ballooning off his chest, and the knuckles of her free hand grazed his bare belly. The touch made him suck in a breath, his stomach muscles contracting. Flipping her hand over, she pressed her palm to all that smooth skin over hard rugby muscle. She pushed her hand up his chest as she pulled out his belt from his jeans.

One plodding, prolonged belt loop after another.

Throwing the belt to the side, she took fistfuls of his soft cotton shirt and pulled him down against her. When she kissed him, opening her mouth and giving him her tongue, she made sure it was nice and unbearably slow.

The erection that rose behind a wall of denim and a too-cold zipper called her name. A deep undulation of his hips made her a wordless promise.

First, he needed to get naked. Releasing his mouth, she pushed his shirt higher, toward his chin.

In a movement that definitely couldn't be considered as “taking his time,” he shoved off her. Knees on either side of her thighs, rising above her like the dark god he was, he stripped off his shirt and threw it down to keep his belt company.

Before, in the other
hotel room, she hadn't taken the time to appreciate how he looked without a shirt. That night had been about satiating a driving need, about finishing something that had been building between them for days and days. Now, however, she was starting to understand what he meant by taking it slowly. If it weren't for the wet emptiness between her legs, she could've lain there all night, just staring up at the round, strong shoulders, the sculpted shape of his pecs, and the firm lines of his waist.

Taking her hand, he pulled her out from under him to join him in kneeling on the bed. When he slid a hand around her head again, fingers pushing into her hair, she could feel how tangled he'd made the fine mess, and she couldn't care less. The sensation of the gentle tugs against her scalp, mixing with the careful, soft strokes of his lips on hers and the feel of his jeans' snap and zipper in her fingers was . . . well, worth it.

Making it last, drawing everything out so she didn't miss a sensation or a sigh, ensured that she would remember absolutely every detail about right now tomorrow or next week or, hell, when she was eighty. She couldn't ever recall another sexual experience like this—when she wasn't so much as interested in the end, the big finish, as all the little tiny stuff in between.

She couldn't recall ever having a partner with whom she'd
wanted
to.

She opened Byrne's fly and skimmed his jeans down and around his ass.

She'd always loved guys' underwear, how their pants had give and bagginess to them, but that they sometimes wore those ass-hugging boxer briefs underneath that showed everything. She wondered if this was what men liked so much about seeing women in little underthings—peeling off that tiny, last barrier for a perfect revelation.

The tightness of his ass as she shoved down his underwear—
slowly, Shea, slowly
—elicited her own smile. And when she moved her hands to the front and finally felt him, enveloped him, knowing that incredibly smooth, iron length was all for her, she felt her own smile go crooked.

His breath stuttered. Though she adored the feel of him in and against her palm, she knew she'd adore it even more someplace else. So she folded her legs beneath her and lay back down, slipping her legs on the outside of his this time, opening herself up. He looked away from her face, all the way down her body, and the sound he made was like he'd been punched in the chest.

The flurry of movement that followed—the awkward shifting of his body as he tried to roll off the bed and shuck his pants and underwear, and then get back on the bed with grace, taking out a small square of “stuff” from his bag, no less—had her smiling with satisfaction and amusement and pure joy.

“Patience, patience,” she murmured as he inserted his knees between hers again.

He glanced over at his hurriedly discarded clothing. “That doesn't count. I wasn't touching you.”

“Hmmm. You owe me a striptease. A nice, long one.”

He came down over her again. “You really want that?” he asked.

“No.” Again, she reached between them, taking his cock and giving it a nice, long pull. “I want this. I just want you.”

All teasing dissipated, just left the room on silent feet. Shea lay there, staring up at a suddenly very serious but always exceptionally gorgeous Byrne. A breathtaking want filled her, pouring from her heart and streaming into every available space in her body, digging in to make room where there wasn't before.

She reached up to skim fingers across his cheek and around his chin, then raked her nails through his hair. It was a powerfully intimate caress, and he closed his eyes against it.

Then he rocked forward, the bed releasing a creak underneath them that echoed the deep, gradual movement of his body. The tip of his cock grazed her wetness and they both gasped, eyes locking with the meaning of what was to come. And there was definitely meaning. Something far beyond just getting off. Something more than scratching an itch.

She let him see that on her face, tried to let him know how much further than fucking he'd taken her, and hoped that he would understand.

He reached down between them, fitted himself into the perfect, slippery spot, and . . . pushed. Not even all the way in, just the beginning, but he was staring deep into her eyes, and then she saw it, too, what he was feeling.

All that this could be.

Another push, a longer thrust, and then another and another, until he found a stroke that was utter perfection in fluidity, in timing, in the way it filled her. And then she had to close her eyes and just feel. Just let it all go.

Her arms dropped from Byrne's shoulders, going limp at her sides. She dug her heels into the bedspread and lifted her hips, angling them in a way that had him voicing his appreciation. God, he was going sooooo slowly, and the desire for more—more power, a faster pace, no concentration whatsoever—made her absolutely insane for the want of him.

She wrapped the bedspread around her hands, holding on like it was rope. She cracked an eye, caught a glimpse of his gritted teeth and shadowed eyes, and knew that his vow to take it slow was wearing him down.

With a groan and a little sag of his torso, he bent down to slam his mouth against hers. Such a brief, powerful kiss, and it broke something in him. Pushing back, he took her legs over each of his arms and pushed her knees up into her chest. The power of him inside her pulled a sharp cry out of her throat and sent her hands flying involuntarily above her head.

He was really moving now, a crazy, driving rhythm and force dragging deliciously inside her, and she needed something to hold on to. Something better than sheets or pillows. Something she could
grab
.

Her fingers scraped along the underside of the fake headboard that was attached to the hotel wall. There was a little bit of lip to the wood, like it had been made for this exact purpose, for women like her who were being driven out of their minds with pleasure. She grabbed the wood, fingers curling under it, held on tightly, and just
felt.

It seemed impossible that anyone could be fucking her this well, but then all she had to do was slit open her eyes, watch Byrne's body move in and out of hers, watch the serious ecstasy turn his face flushed and intense, and then she was lost all over again. When she looked at him, her physical pleasure slammed into her emotions and they got all tangled up. And yes, it was more than a little scary, but it was also, hands down, the greatest feeling in the world.

He shifted a little, just a nudge of his knees closer, just a slight change in angle, and then he hit some phenomenal spot inside her. She gasped, a great sucking in of air that made her lungs ache. He pulled out, did it again, and her hands clenched on the headboard, her arms bursting with a brand-new strength. She yanked hard on the board, an involuntary reflex, holding on for dear life.

And then the headboard came off the wall.

With a crack of cheap wood, it just peeled off. One whole side of the thing thumped down onto the mattress, which at sometime had been swept clean of pillows.

Startled, she craned her neck backward toward it and laughed. “Whoa. That's never happened before.”

Byrne was grinning again, still inside her. “Love it. That's the way it should be.”

Slapping a hand to his shoulder, she dug in her fingernails. “Don't stop. Keep going.”

The smile took on an impish curve, and he began to move again. Slowly at first, working back up to his previous pace. The little break did wonders for her ability to feel, and it was like the first thrust all over again.

When he moved, the mattress jiggled the broken headboard against the wall, and the soundtrack couldn't have been more perfect.

She watched in awe as he came, realizing she'd never seen it before. He'd been behind her the last time. She loved the clench of his teeth, the deep lines that gouged between his eyebrows. But she especially loved the way he said, “Oh,
fuck
,” like he'd been thrown from a cliff and was falling into nothing, elated and excited and terrified about what was to come.

Because she knew exactly how that felt.

15

T
he whole week after Philadelphia, Byrne kept trying to find the perfect word to describe the connection between him and Shea, but the best he could come up with was
awesome
. He was a numbers guy, so he didn't sweat it too much. Because everything about it had, indeed, been awesome.

He'd even stopped covering up his emotions when he thought about her and just let the shit-eating grin take over whenever it felt like it. Sometimes it appeared in the office, and he didn't even care. Sometimes the laughter that came out of him during client dinners or on conference calls was actually genuine. Even Dan called him out on it, but Byrne wasn't about to open up to him.

Erik, however, had just clapped him on the shoulder and gave him an encouraging nod. No mention of beef jerky at all.

Byrne and Shea had returned separately to New York from Philadelphia on a Sunday. Monday night he begged her to come over to his apartment after she'd finished closing up and he was done with an overseas call. And in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, long after normal people went to bed—and just hours until he was to depart for the Caribbean—he tried his damnedest to get her to destroy his headboard, too.

The shakes and shivers of her body, and the gorgeous sounds she made during orgasm, turned out to be enough.

But then he'd left for Grand Cayman Islands for four days to entertain two different clients and meet with three different banks. Still, every day he found a way to call her. She told him about her schooling with her parents, and the Christian girls' college she attended, and how Scotland had started her rebellion, but the divorce from Marco had finished it off.

He told her the basics about his full-ride football scholarship to Boston College, and his Wharton years. It was hard to tell the story without mentioning money, but he did it.

Her favorite movie was
Being John Malkovich
. His was
The Terminator
. She even sang him some more Sinéad O'Connor.

If someone had told him a decade ago that he'd like talking to a woman as much as, or possibly more than, fucking her, he would've laughed in their face. But Shea was different in almost every way.

Now he was back in New York after a flight that had been delayed twice, making him nearly five hours late. He was utterly beat, tired of talking, tired of being Bespoke Byrne, and yet all he wanted to do was see Shea in person, talk to her face-to-face, and curl his hand around a fine glass of bourbon.

Stripping out of his suit and tossing the whole thing into the hamper for Frances to take care of, along with the rest of his dirty travel clothes, he dove into the shower.

Beneath the spray, he recalled his second-favorite moment in that Philadelphia hotel room. After he'd managed to reattach the headboard, he admitted to her that that was about the extent of his handyman skills. He didn't even know how to use a power drill. Hearing that, she'd pretended to get out of bed, disgusted. He pulled her back down, and then he stretched out beside a naked Shea to learn every curve of her body with his fingers.

She'd laughed and kissed him and said, “I like this Byrne a lot.”

And as he'd gazed into her face he remembered thinking,
Funny. I love this Shea
.

Really, he should learn that smiling in the shower got you a mouthful of hot water.

All clean, towel wrapped around his waist and skin still damp, he dialed her cell. She didn't pick up and he left a message.

“I'm home. I really want to see you. I'm coming to the Amber. I hope it's okay. Call back if it's not.”

It was ten o'clock on a Thursday and she'd definitely be at the Amber. He just couldn't wait until she was off, and since he still didn't know where she lived, a good old-fashioned stalking wasn't possible.

He chose to believe that showing up at the Amber would be okay. So many things had changed between them since their first meeting. Not-first-dates and long conversations and mind-blowing sex. Encouraging words with hidden meanings and other little things that told him he was different to her. Special. Not a—what was that term she put on men who came into the Amber and thought she was entertainment? A Coyote Drunkly.

He padded into his closet and hit the light switch, illuminating the rows of Bespoke Byrne's stupidly expensive uniforms.

He couldn't be Bespoke Byrne tonight, not when he knew Shea liked Rugby Byrne. But he couldn't walk into the Amber in a holey frat T-shirt and ratty jeans, either. Yet that was the only other kind of clothing he owned. It seemed those were the only two lives he lived, and one was clearly so much larger than the other.

With a sigh he reached for the silk shirt with the wider stripes because it felt more casual, grimacing the whole time at how that sounded in his head, even to himself. He made a mental note to go shopping.

Snagging his wallet and keys, he hurried down to the lobby of his building. The doorman called him a cab, which dropped him off in front of the Amber.

It was a hot, sticky night, and some brave customers were hanging out in the narrow, fenced-off sidewalk garden. The windows were tinted, but the lights inside backlit a sizable crowd. When the door opened to let out a couple holding hands, a blur of voices and the low, sexy thump of music streamed out.

Byrne entered and was instantly impressed. The feel of the place was hip without being exclusionary, comfortable without being overly casual. The seating was strategically placed groups of cream-colored leather chairs around stone tables, and the bar was made of gleaming glass set with rows upon rows of bottles.

The lighting made everyone beautiful. Or maybe it was that everyone inside actually
was
beautiful.

The pretty hostess asked if he had a reservation.

For a bar? “No, but can I grab that last chair at the end of the bar?”

She tucked a Bible-sized menu under her arm and led him to the chair in question.

Shea was standing behind the bar three chairs down, hands spread out in that way that gave the impression she was listening to every word, that you were the center of her attention.

He'd been on that end before, and he understood why she insisted on keeping those strict boundaries between her and her customers. The men in suits at the bar—and they were all men, only a scant few women were scattered around the main room—were all watching Shea talk as she lifted a bottle and pointed to something on the label.

None of those guys knew what she looked like with her hair down, all messy on the sheets. None of those guys knew that sometimes she snorted when she laughed, that she had a mouth like a sailor on occasion. That she could sing like nobody's business.

That she was into Byrne.

Smiling to himself, he edged his way along the wall, following the hostess to the very last bar seat, getting all warm and excited the closer he got to her.

As he slid onto the leather chair, Shea said automatically, without looking over at him, “Be with you in a second.”

“Hi,” he said.

She stopped midsentence—something about the peat smoke process—then did a double take as she finally noticed him sitting there. Her eyes went wide, her gorgeous lips parted. Then she gathered herself, cleared her throat, and threw Byrne the most genial, most bland, most universal smile possible.

But her hot eyes shot him a look all their own—one he knew very, very well.

“Excuse me.” She nodded to the four other men she'd been talking to and sidled over to Byrne. “Hello there.”

She was good. There was definite playfulness behind her eyes, but her posture and her expression were incredibly cool and disaffected.

She flipped over a silver napkin in front of him. “Can I help you pick something out?”

“Not sure.” He, on the other hand, couldn't keep the smile from his face. The very telling, very excited smile. “Looking for something wet.”

Next to Byrne, two of her previous customers whipped their heads toward him. Another coughed into his whisky and the fourth had to clap his buddy on the back.

The glint in Shea's eye hardened. Her ears turned pink. Uh-oh.

She pursed her lips, pulled the whiskey Bible around, and flipped open to a specific page. She swiveled it back to face Byrne, one fingernail tapping a listing in the middle of the page. “How about this one?”

Seventy-five dollars for a single glass. Probably not even all that big a pour, either.

Ah, shit. He didn't know which had pissed her off more. The surprise visit? (Didn't she check her phone? He never got word from her to not come.) Or was it the joke he'd meant for her ears only?

Suddenly he felt like he should be the one being wrangled by a border collie. Nice and sheepish.

He slid a finger down the page even farther, to the one-hundred-and-twenty-dollar glass. “How about this one instead?”

I'm sorry
, he told her silently.

The man at his elbow leaned over, saw where Byrne was pointing, and let out a high whistle, his bushy eyebrows shooting for the ceiling. Byrne realized that his conciliatory move had made it look like he was showing off for her. Or showing off for other men he didn't even know.

Double shit.

Shea blinked at him, then her eyes narrowed. “Gladly,” she said. Her flat voice smacked of the tone she gave every other one of her customers. The men he wasn't anything like. “An excellent choice. Let me go get the bottle from the back.”

As she turned without a glance in his direction, Byrne refused to slump. That had backfired. Big-time. How had his genuinely good intentions gone wrong in the span of thirty minutes?

Now she thought he was back to being Bespoke Byrne. In her own bar. She probably assumed that he'd come in here intent on planting his flag in her territory, thinking he could break her rules, that he was different. He was, yes—at least, he wanted to believe he was—but this wasn't going at all the way he'd intended.

He'd just wanted to see her face. He'd wanted to show her how much he missed her, how much he wanted to spend time with her. Waiting one more night just wasn't going to cut it.

And he couldn't tell her that now, not here. He couldn't try to pull her away—that would make it exponentially worse. He couldn't try to explain or backtrack or apologize—not with the rapt attention of the guys to his right.

So he'd wait it out. Have his expensive drink, and not try to chat her up again. He'd leave quietly and call her later. Maybe leave a message that would make her smile. Something about ripping headboards off walls.

A big hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Thought that was you, Byrne.”

Byrne startled and looked up into the shrewd but affable face of Pierce Whitten. Byrne rose and shook the man's hand. “Pierce. Good to see you. What a surprise.”

“I can say the same. How've you been since Yellin's party?”

“Can't complain. You spending time in Hawaii this year?”

But Pierce didn't get a chance to respond, because Shea was back, setting a gorgeous bottle of Scotch next to Byrne's elbow. The label was decorated with curly script and all sorts of numbers that didn't make any sense to him. Only a third of it was gone.

“Hey now.” Pierce pointed at the bottle, puffing out his cheeks.

Shea finally noticed Pierce standing there, and her gaze darted back and forth between the two men. If Byrne didn't know better, he'd say she was shocked to see them talking. Like she already knew Pierce or something.

Eyes widening, she said, “Mr. Whitten. Hello.”

“Pierce. Please.” He leaned a hand on the bar. “I came back hoping for a word with you.”

She swept an almost nervous look around the packed bar. “Um . . .”

“Okay, maybe fifteen words.”

Her grip on the neck of the expensive bottle tightened. “I may have a minute in a little while.”

Pierce patted the bar. “Great.”

Byrne was still trying to decipher Shea's odd expression and ramrod-straight posture when he realized she still hadn't poured his drink, and that the man standing next to him was not only one of the most powerful men in entertainment but also one of the most decent.

Byrne tapped the lip of his empty glass and asked Shea, “Can you pour one more of those for my friend?”

“Sure,” Shea replied after a moment. “Absolutely.”

As she slid another glass in front of Pierce, the media magnate eyed Byrne. “You came here alone?”

Byrne cleared his throat, shifted on his seat, and made a specific point
not
to look at Shea. “I did. But I'd love it if you joined me in this. I felt the need to celebrate coming home after a long trip. Got anything you want to drink to?”

Pierce glanced at Shea. “Not yet. But hopefully soon.”

Now Byrne was really curious.

Shea popped out the cork stopper on the bottle and carefully splashed two hundred and forty dollars' worth of whisky into two heavy-footed glasses.