Just Fooling Around(25)

No. He wasn’t that much of a fool.

Or maybe he was a fool. Either way, he wasn’t letting go, and as soon as his mind got to that point, his body shifted into full throttle, and he pressed tight against her, the world seeming to sparkle with sunshine and sweetness despite the shabby surroundings, the battered mailboxes and the peeling paint.

The dusty air blanketed them, crackling with a raw energy that was surrounding them and penetrating them and pressing them together. With one hand, he pulled her close at the small of her back, bringing her hips up against him, wanting her to feel his erection. Wanting her to know how much he wanted—had always wanted—her.

His other hand tangled in her curls, keeping her head firmly in the palm of his hand. She was right there, and he didn’t want to let go, afraid that if he did—if he stopped kissing her or touching her—she’d disappear. Or worse, he’d find his pride again and change his mind.

Pride, however, was nothing next to the power of this woman. He’d wanted her for years. And now—false pretenses though they might be—she wanted him, too.

He was going for it.

She made a sweet, desperate noise—a cross between a moan and a cry—and the sound of it made him harder, if that were even possible. Because he recognized that sound. It was the aural representation of need, and it was washing over both of them, filling them and teasing them, the sound both a plea and a promise.

It was, however, another sound that startled him. A harsh, gutteral sound—the clearing of a male throat—and he reluctantly broke the kiss long enough to turn his head and stare up into the pockmarked face of an elderly man with kindly eyes. “You should perhaps get a room, eh? The hall, it is not so comfortable for what I think you two have in mind.”

“My apartment,” he said, barely able to get the words out past his need.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He touched her face, then drew his thumb across her lower lip. Her mouth, once so off-limits to him, now felt familiar. Like home. Like sweetness and perfection and danger and delight all rolled up in one package.

Part of him wanted to rip off her clothes and drive himself into her, claiming her, making her his and only his.

Another part wanted nothing more than to keep this moment safe in his heart forever. He was desperately afraid that reality would come shattering around him all too soon, and he would have to face the fact that it wasn’t him she wanted, but the illusion of the high-school hero. That was why she’d kept the photo, after all. Because he’d rescued her brother.

To Darcy, that made him a true hero, and damn him all to hell for not walking away despite realizing that.

But he wasn’t walking. Instead, he was taking. Taking her to his apartment. Taking her in his arms.

Taking her.

Lord help him, he didn’t have a choice. How could he, when his body and soul were demanding, shutting out the protests of his mind?

They caught a taxi to his place, and it jerked as the driver pulled to a stop, then rattled off the fare. They paid and got out of the cab on the proper side, thus avoiding being mowed down by traffic. No one mugged them, and Darcy didn’t fall on her face while exiting the vehicle.

Neither of them tripped on slick stones or stepped in dog dirt as they entered the building.

“See?” she said, her smile wide with promise. “I told you there was nothing cursed about this day.” She squeezed his hand. “In fact, I’d say it’s all about good luck, just like Bella said.”

Right then, he had to agree.

He pulled her close again, his hands sliding over her waist, his mouth angling over hers, and his body tightening in such a way that he knew he needed to get inside right then, or get kicked out of the building for improper conduct in the hallways.

“Inside,” he said, his voice as rough as gravel as he stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the fifth floor.

“Hurry,” she said, following him from the elevator to his door. The fact that she wasn’t even trying to hide her desperation made him even more crazily desperate for her than he’d been half a moment before.

“I am,” he said, shoving his hand into his right pocket. He frowned, then released her hand to free his left, and shoved that in deep, too.

“What?” she asked, her voice shifting from dreamy to alarmed.

“Bad luck after all,” he said, slamming his palm flat against the wood of the door, his body tight with protest at the knowledge that they weren’t going to be tumbling inside, tangled up with each other. Not anytime soon. “I’ve lost my damn keys.”



DARCY PEERED THROUGH the window at the end of the hallway, looking down at the metal grating of the fire escape. No way—no way—was she letting something as ridiculous as being locked out destroy what she’d managed so far.