Pipe Dreams(7)

"Michael," she whispered. "Hey, now."

Shit. He rubbed his temples and tried to breathe.

Lauren chewed her lip. "Want a beer?"

"Am I breathing?" he tried, but the joke came out sounding strangled.

She stepped around him, and he got a whiff of the lilac scent that  always seemed to follow her. It must be her shampoo or body lotion, or  something. He'd always been tortured by it. Tonight it was like an  actual pain in the center of his chest.

"Have a seat," she said over her shoulder.

His eyes tracked her across the room, but when he found his gaze  attached to the slim, kissable line of her neck, he shook his head and  looked around instead. Lauren lived in one big room, with a peaked  ceiling overhead. It was cuter than a room over a garage really should  be, and all because of her handiwork. The walls were painted wood, which  lent the place a cottage feeling. She'd decorated with floor-to-ceiling  bookcases and framed art prints.

On the coffee table sat a vase with a couple of cut hydrangeas arranged  in it. Of course. "It's that color of blue," she'd said once. "I've  never seen it anywhere but on a hydrangea."

After years of knowing Lauren, there were scads of details he had  memorized about her. Yet now it hit him that she worked in an office  with several other women who'd been with the team for the same length of  time. And he didn't have any idea which were their favorite flowers, or  why.

He was way too far inside his own head.

"Nice place," he said. But she'd disappeared into what had to be a tiny  kitchen in the corner. Lauren had told him once that she lived here rent  free so that she could save all her money for college. Her asshole  father probably made seven figures every year, and he hadn't given his  only daughter a penny of tuition money.

When he'd met her eight years ago that had sounded crazy. And now that  he knew Bill Williams better, it only seemed mean. Williams was a  narcissist. He'd grown up poor and made sure everyone knew it. "Get off  your ass and make it happen," was his favorite saying.

By his logic, you shouldn't give your kid college money because that  wasn't letting her make it happen. But it was fine to give her a job in  your office and work her to death. Nobody worked harder in the  organization than Lauren, and everyone knew it.

Lauren reappeared with two bottles of Dos Equis, a lime wedge in each  one. She gave him a curious look, and he realized he was still standing  by the door like an idiot.

"Thank you," he said, taking one. He pushed the lime into the bottle,  his eyes sweeping the room until they landed on her bed against the far  wall. It was made up with a white comforter and a million throw pillows.

Hell. Don't look at the bed.

Beacon followed her to the sofa and sat down, his back to the bed. He  would not allow himself to think about pushing her down into that white  cloud and learning the answers to all his fantasy questions.

Then, for the first time ever, they had thirty minutes of awkward  conversation. She asked where he was staying and he answered in halting  sentences. "I feel like I'm house-sitting, you know? Maybe it won't be  so weird once we start traveling."

She made sympathetic noises, and he got tired of hearing himself talk.  All the funny things he'd wanted to tell her deserted him. There was  only the strain of the shitty month he'd been having and the tension of  whether or not their friendship would still be the same.

It was unbearable. He needed to go to what passed for his home and have a nice tall pour of whiskey.

"You were studying," he said, standing up to ferry his beer bottle into her kitchen. "I should go."

"Okay," she said quietly. "Just . . . leave it."

It took him a beat too long to realize she meant the bottle. "Thanks,"  he stammered, overwhelmed by how close they were, and how alone. Her bra  strap peeked from underneath the tank top. Hot pink. Her skin looked  buttery soft. He wanted to taste it.                       
       
           



       

She took both bottles and set them onto her coffee table. "I'll see you at work."

"Right." He needed to get the hell out of there before he did something stupid.

She frowned up at him. "Sit down, just for another minute." She studied  him carefully. "Are you really okay? Would you tell me if you weren't?"

"Yeah." His voice was a raw scrape. He sat down on the couch, suddenly too aware of his hands. He rubbed them on his bare knees.

"Okay," she said. "I worry about you. I hope you're taking care of yourself." Then she scooted closer and folded him into a hug.

And it was sudden sensory overload. Soft, lilac-scented hair brushed his  face. Long, tanned arms wrapped around his back. She was saying  something more-telling him she was sorry, or not to worry. He couldn't  make sense of the words because his pulse kicked up four notches.  Unbidden, his arms clamped around her back. He stuck his nose in her  hair and took a deep, forbidden breath.

That's when everything got quiet. She stopped talking and just held him.  His worried brain went still, because this right here was everything he  needed. He drew a dozen peaceful breaths while the fingers of his right  hand traced absently up the centerline of her back. She fit perfectly  in his arms, just like he'd always known she would.

Lauren shivered in his embrace, and it brought his brain back online. He  felt her exhale a careful, shaky breath against his shoulder. A deep,  achy sound came from his own chest. He lowered his head to sweep a soft  kiss across her forehead.

She gasped, her hands bracing his back.

Now he had to know. Was he crazy, or were they both fighting the same battle?

"Lo," he whispered. "Hey."

She didn't move.

"Look at me."

She turned her chin away.

Beacon palmed it, turning her face toward his. And the heat in her gaze could have melted all the ice in the NHL.

He cursed under his breath, his hand still trapping her face. He lifted  her chin another inch and dropped his lips to the soft skin of her neck.  One soft, open-mouthed kiss and he was hooked. It was the first taste  of her he'd ever permitted himself. Heavenly.

Lauren first went rigid in his arms, then just as rapidly melted against  him. "Fuck," she whispered, and the sound of that dirty word on her  pristine lips made him hard. Or maybe he was already there. Logic and  rational thinking had left the building the minute she leaned into his  arms.

He actually felt drunk, which was ridiculous. But his head was swimming as he tongued his way across her jaw to her ear.

"Mike," she gasped, the sound both shocked and needy. He turned his head and their mouths found each other, finally.

Finally.

He kissed her softly at first, his senses a little stunned that this was  real. But it was really Lauren's soft body pressed against his chest,  and Lauren's arms around him. He pressed the tip of his tongue gently  forward, seeking entrance to her mouth. And when she opened for him he  tasted summer ale and temptation.

Even then, he had a last, split-second moment of clarity. Will I regret  this, later? He asked himself the question as his lips slid across her  softer ones. No, he decided. Maybe weakness led him here, but the  strength of his feelings for her would not be denied.

Their gazes locked, and he moaned into her mouth. She gripped his  biceps. Hard. The moment combusted like a brush fire-scorching heat and  loud disorder. He leaned over her body, pressing her into the back of  the couch, deepening the kiss. And suddenly their hands were everywhere.  He palmed her hip, her thigh. Lauren's fingertips swept his ribcage,  leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Their kisses were so fast and desperate that it was impossible to mark  where one ended and the next one began. Every urgent kiss demanded  another. Every taste was intoxicating. And everywhere his hands landed  he found sun-warmed skin. His fingers slid unbidden beneath her tank  top, and she whimpered as he palmed her lower belly just above the  waistband of her shorts.

Her helpless sound made his balls tighten dangerously. He'd never needed  anything as badly as he needed to touch her right now, and to hear that  sound again. With a tug, he raised her tiny shirt up off her body.

She lifted her arms and let him shrug it over her head. That broke their  kisses, of course, so he got a look at the expression on her face.  There was no reluctance, only molten heat in her bright blue eyes. She  grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and lifted it, tossing it to the floor.

"Fuck," he heard himself say as his gaze wandered south, down her  delicate neck, to the creamy skin of her chest. She wore a lacy hot pink  bra, and rosy nipples peeked through it. He had to lower his mouth to  one of them, tonguing her nipple through the fabric. She gasped and  arched into him.