No Holding Back

“If you say so—oh!” She gasped, let her hips lift and retreat under his talented thrusts, so close to coming so soon that she had to take deep breaths and open her eyes to slow the process down. She wanted him with her. She wanted this to last forever. But, no, she wasn’t going to hold out much longer. “Are you sure this isn’t happening? It really really feels like it is. Any second now.”

“Let it happen, Hannah.”

“I want you with me.”

“I don’t have a condom downstairs.”

“But if this isn’t happening…” She was panting, trying desperately to hold on to some kind of logic. “Then we don’t need…oh!”

He’d moved to kiss her inner thighs, but now settled firmly back on her clit and she was lost. The orgasm started in a dark rush, then boom, steam engine blowing past, making everything rattle and roll in its wake, subsiding eventually to the distance and the past.

“Oh my goodness.” She slowly unclenched her muscles, slumped wearily back on the counter, staring at him with what was certainly a worshipful look as he stood up, smiling male triumph.

Then the impact of what she’d just done hit nearly as hard as the orgasm, creating a serious rupture in her afterglow. Sex with an interviewee who didn’t know yet that he was an interviewee…absolutely not. He’d think she’d slept with him for the story.

Jack Brattle—Jack Brattle—stepped forward and scooped her back to upright, bent and kissed her hard, once, then again and nearly overwhelmed her dismayed and blissful heart by gazing into her eyes and smoothing back what must by now be a rat’s-nest hairdo. “You know they say what happens to you New Year’s Day predicts how you’ll spend your whole year?”

“Does it?” She smiled wistfully up at him, already in love with this perfect, beautiful, incredibly talented-tongued man. “Then this is going to be the best year of my life.”

“I haven’t had a perfect night like this in a long time.”

Something about how he said it made her think that instead of being polite, he meant the words literally. “Me, neither.”

She meant them literally, too.

“I have a brilliant idea.” He held out his hand. “Come upstairs with me and we’ll make more things not happen.”

“That is a brilliant idea.” Hannah accepted his hand, slid off the stool, picked up her panties and took a moment to get her hips working while he supported her. “As soon as I can walk again.”

Up the stairs, then, resting her fingers in his, anticipation mixing with dread, mixing with elation, mixing with sadness. Maybe none of this would have happened by morning as far as he was concerned, but she doubted she’d ever forget a single second.

Not only that, but morning was going to come way too soon. And with it the dismal certainty that once again she’d done plenty of leaping without the slightest bit of looking beforehand. And once again she’d have to pay—this time by having to give up the career opportunity of a lifetime.

Chapter Four

HE WAS SO SCREWED. NO MATTER how he played the rest of this evening, Derek was screwed. Everything had gone as planned, but nothing was working out as it should.

Obviously Dee-Dee had played her role perfectly at Gerard Banks’s party, dangling the Jack Brattle interview in front of Hannah and supplying her with directions to the house. He’d had no doubt she’d take the bait. However, once the weather had changed so dramatically for the worse, he’d never dreamed she’d risk driving out tonight. After his shower earlier in the evening, he’d been about to relock the gate and front door.

Instead, he’d met Hannah for the first time stark naked. That hadn’t been part of the plan. Nor had been his immediate attraction, which only compounded the interest and curiosity that was sparked by the provocative wit she revealed in her Lowbrow column, blogs and occasional features in The Philadelphia Sentinel.

He’d started the Highbrow column as D. G. Jackson when Philly’s restaurant scene began to take off, wanting to indulge his passion for food on the one hand, and on the other, wanting to introduce the average man and woman to dishes, flavors and establishments he or she might otherwise be intimidated by. In his view, good food was one of life’s greatest joys. But once Hannah began countering his “highbrow” suggestions with her “lowbrow” alternatives, he quickly learned that she knew what she was talking about as well as he did. He took great pleasure in going—incognito, of course—to every hole-in-the-wall and mom-and-pop joint she recommended, all of which satisfied as she promised.

His interest only intensified along with their public rivalry. Who was Hannah O’Reilly? What was she like? How could he find out? He wouldn’t call her an obsession, but he certainly thought about her more than was normal, certainly more than any woman he’d met since he’d been forced by circumstances in his early twenties to grow up practically overnight. Okay, maybe obsessed. But not being the kind of man who tolerated unanswered questions, he’d come up with tonight’s plan.

The chance for Hannah to experience the lifestyle of the elusive Jack Brattle was his bait. Lure hungry journalist with promises of the interview of a lifetime, then make her the most “highbrow” meal he could whip up, secretly document her enjoyment, and in his last column before he left Philadelphia for good, skewer her as a closet gourmet. Anyone with taste buds as unerring as hers would be an easy mark.

Hannah had shown up, Derek played the Suspicious Heir act apparently convincingly and she’d gone down without a fight—though he wished he could have captured photographic evidence of her shoving in the foie gras and washing it down ecstatically with Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill 1985.

After the “impromptu” meal, perfectly poised for a wrap to the ultimate checkmate, what did he do? He asked her to dance. Nice one. What did he think, he’d have her gorgeous body pressed against his and remain completely impassive, then Hey, thanks for the dance, I’m off to bed, choose a room, and see you in the morning? He’d immediately started getting ideas involving a lot more than dancing, fueled wilder when it became apparent she was getting the same ones.

Now…with this beautiful, sexy, willing woman stranded in his house, to say that things had gotten out of hand was like saying winter got chilly in Antarctica. Lure her, yes, feed her, yes, dance with her…okay. Kiss her? Bad idea. Succumb to the sexual promise of her blue eyes, rose lips and slender body?

He’d already said he was screwed.

Worse, he was leading her upstairs, unsatisfied lust driving out common sense. Once she got into his bedroom…

Well, she’d be screwed. He didn’t want to think about how low this was for him to go. He might be fascinated by Hannah way beyond the typical male interest in boobs and a great ass, but nothing he could say would convince her of that if she knew who he was and why she was here.

His only hope of going through with the rest of the night without feeling like total scum was to ditch the idea of the article. At least she hadn’t admitted yet that she was a reporter, so he wasn’t the only one holding back truths. Granted, she’d dipped a cautious toe in honesty, but quickly gave up total immersion when he pretended to think she was joking.

What a pair. I’ll lie to you, you lie to me, come into bed, and we’ll lie together.

He got to the end of the hall, pushed open the dark door—so much dark in this house to accompany the dark memories—pulled her into the room and into his arms. She nestled against him; he lowered his chin onto her hair, inhaling her light perfume, more tropical and exotic than he would have expected on a woman whose face could be in an Ivory soap commercial…and whose body could be in an X-rated movie—okay, the perfume made sense.

Either way, Ivory or triple X, she was driving him wild. Watching her come…He was going to have to do some serious soul-searching if he wanted his ego to regain control of his id.

Did he? He wasn’t sure. Because the alternative would be very, very sweet.

“So…” She drew back, keeping her hands linked lightly behind his neck. “What’s not going to happen now?”

Oh, the choice of words. If he had any sense of honor, he’d tell her everything wasn’t going to happen now, he was D. G. Jackson, he’d set her up for this entire evening, though he hadn’t planned the sexual part, and—

“Hmm?” She started rotating her pelvis seductively against his erection.

“Hannah.”

“Ye-e-es?”

“I can’t think while you’re doing that.”