Pursued(5)

"It's not a no."

He laughed again. "Damn, I like you, Desi."

"I certainly hope you do, considering what we've spent the last  forty-five minutes doing." She had to bite her tongue, but somehow she  managed to resist adding that she liked him, too. A lot. She hadn't been  with that many men-only two before Nic-but neither of them had ever  made her laugh. Not out of bed and certainly not while making love to  her. Until him, until now, she hadn't even known that she'd been missing  something.

He bent his head, licking his way over first one nipple and then the  other. "Come home with me," he urged when she was even more of a  trembling, needy mess, "and I'll spend the rest of the night showing you  just how much I like you."

She didn't want to give in-not because she didn't like him, but because  she did. Too much. And the last thing she needed right now was to fall  for a sexy, charismatic rich guy who would break her heart if she let  him.

And yet … and yet, like him, she wasn't quite ready for this night to  end. Wasn't quite ready to walk away from Nic with his bright green eyes  and ready smile, his quick wit and gentle hands. And she sure as hell  wasn't ready to walk away from the pleasure he brought her so  effortlessly.

"Please, Desi," he murmured against her cheek, and for the first time  she heard the strain in his voice, felt it in the way he trembled  against her. "I want you," he said. "If you just want it to be tonight,  that's okay with me. But please-"

"Okay." In one desperate, vulnerable moment, she threw caution to the wind.

"Okay?"

"I'll come home with you."

His eyes shot up to hers. "You will?"

"I will." She grinned a little wickedly herself. "That is, if you make  me come in the next sixty seconds." This might be her first-and probably  her last-one-night stand, but that didn't mean she couldn't make the  best of it …

"I thought you'd never ask." His answering smile was blinding, and it  caught her right in the gut. Which probably would have made her nervous  if her body hadn't been on a collision course with its third orgasm of  the night.

Nic bent down and took her mouth with his. Less than thirty seconds  later he was muffling her screams as she came and came and came.



His house was gorgeous. Worse, it was perfect. Which, she was growing  desperately afraid, was simply a reflection of its owner. And while most  women would jump at the shot to start something with a gorgeous, rich,  perfect man, Desi wasn't most women. The thought of falling for Nic made  her itch, so much so that she couldn't help casting a few surreptitious  glances down at her bare legs to make sure she wasn't actually breaking  out in hives.                       
       
           



       

Which was why it made absolutely no sense that she was sitting at the  bar in the middle of Nic's (still didn't know his last name and still  didn't want to) gorgeously designed arts-and-crafts kitchen at two in  the morning, watching as he made her homemade blueberry pancakes. Simply  because he'd asked what her favorite food was and that was what she had  answered.

"So, what's your favorite TV show?" he questioned as he expertly  flipped the first batch of pancakes. Watching him made her a little  crazy, especially since all he had on was a pair of well-worn jeans. No  man should be allowed to look that good outside the pages of a fashion  magazine.

And no man should be able to make pancakes that perfect after three  rounds of the best, most earth-shattering sex she had ever engaged in.  It went against the laws of nature.

"Desi?" he prompted, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at her.

She tried to look as if she hadn't spent the past ten minutes ogling  his perfectly defined back. Judging from the smirk on his face, she  didn't succeed nearly as well as she'd hoped to.

So she cleared her throat and focused on answering his question as a  means of distraction from the fact that she was more than a little  afraid that she was turning into a sex addict. "I don't watch TV."

"What do you mean you don't watch TV?" He turned to stare at her incredulously. "Everyone watches TV."

She quirked a brow at him. "Not everyone. Obviously."

He named a few popular shows, but when she just shook her head, Nic  sighed heavily. "Okay, fine. How about your favorite movie, then? Or do  you not watch movies, either?"

"I watch movies. But it's hard to pick just one, isn't it?" She did her best to keep from smiling at his obvious frustration.

"Not necessarily."

"Oh, yeah? What's your favorite then?"

"Titanic."

It was her turn to stare at him incredulously. "You don't really mean  that, right? You're just messing with me. You have to be."

"Why wouldn't I mean it?" He looked completely disgruntled now. "It's a  fantastic movie. Love, passion, danger, excitement. What's not to  like?"

"Oh, I don't know. Betrayal, maybe? Attempted suicide, attempted  murder, poverty, icebergs, death. Not to mention the world's most  infamous sinking ship." She paused as if considering. "You're right.  What was I thinking? It's a barrel of laughs. Obviously."

He made a disgusted sound. "You're a real party pooper. Did anyone ever tell you that?"

"No."

"Well, then, let me be the first. You're a real party pooper."

"I'm a realist."

He snorted. "You're a nihilist."

She started to argue on general principle, but stopped before she could  do more than utter a few incoherent sounds. After all, whom was she  kidding? He was totally right. "Just call me Camus," she quipped with a  shrug.

"Is that a movie?" he asked as he poured more batter on the griddle.

"Are you serious?" she demanded, watching him like a hawk as she tried  to find some kind of tell to prove he was messing with her. But the look  he sent her was utterly guileless. Not too guileless, mind you. Just  guileless enough, as if he really had no idea what she was talking  about.

Huh. Maybe he wasn't so perfect, after all. The thought made her  inexplicably happy, though she refused to delve too deeply into why that  was.

"Albert Camus was a French writer," she told him after a second.

"Oh." He shrugged. "Never heard of him."

That knowledge made her infinitely more relaxed. "Oh, well, a lot of people would say you weren't missing much."

"But not you."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

He grinned as he slid a plate piled high with perfect, golden, fluffy  pancakes in front of her. "But you still didn't tell me what your  favorite movie is."

"I told you I couldn't choose just one. Not all of us can wax poetic over a sinking boat, after all."

"More's the pity." He cast her a mischievous look that she immediately  mistrusted. "But you know what? I think you're right. I don't think I  can choose just one favorite movie. Now that I'm thinking about it, a  few more come to mind."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"The Stranger, definitely. And maybe The Guest. And-"

"You suck!" she told him, breaking off a piece of pancake and throwing  it at him. He caught it, of course. In his mouth. Without even trying.  "Those are two of Albert Camus's most famous works."                       
       
           



       

"Are they?" he asked, his face a mask of complete and total innocence. "I had no idea."

She studied him closely, looking for his tell. He was lying to her,  obviously, but the fact that she couldn't tell was odd. She could always  tell-she prided herself on it. It's what made her such a good  investigative journalist. And such a lousy society columnist.

The fact that he didn't seem to have a tell fascinated her. And made her very, very nervous all at the same time.

When she didn't say anything else, he nodded at her untouched plate. "Eat your pancakes before they get cold."

"Maybe I like cold pancakes."

"Do you?"

"I don't know. Do I?"

He didn't answer. Instead he grabbed the bottle of maple syrup and  drizzled it over the top of her pancakes. Then he cut into them and  lifted a forkful to her mouth.

He waited patiently for a few seconds, but when she just looked at him  instead of taking the proffered bite, he rolled his eyes. "My pancakes  don't taste good cold. Trust me."

Trust him. The idea was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed out loud.  Only the knowledge that he definitely wouldn't get the joke kept her  from making one wisecrack or another. But there was no way in hell she  was ever going to trust him. Mr. Perfect. No, thank you. Been there,  done that, still had the T-shirt as a not-so-pleasant memento.