As if he could read her thoughts. So like Cameron and yet so different. At least she could hide from Nickie when she needed to.
She took her lip between her teeth, not because she was afraid, but because she knew it would draw his attention, make him think of what her mouth could do. “This is sort of like asking Wendy to meet you early that first day.”
“It’s very different. I’m divorced. You’re widowed.”
She winced inwardly at the term. She’d never thought of herself as widowed. Until tonight. When Cameron left. Her fingers clenched in the folds of her robe. Nick Drake thought he could soothe that pain. He had no idea what he was up against.
“Your divorce isn’t final. You have to sign the papers, you know, before it’s legal.”
“That’s just a technicality. Does that matter?”
“I suppose not. Do you have dreams of going down on me?”
His eyes glittered. His fingers tested her flesh on the underside of her thigh. “Yes.”
“Making love to a ghost, Nickie?” Not that Max minded ghosts. She’d had two years of furtive wet dreams with her own ghostly husband.
Oh God, Cameron. Cameron who was gone. Forever and ever. She wanted to scream in agony, in need.
Cameron had left her to this. Deserted her. She looked at Nick, and with Wendy egging her on, she took the plunge. “I’m not like Wendy. I don’t need someone to take care of me. I like orgasms. And I don’t cry.”
“You were crying when I got here.”
The man could scent a needy woman on the wind, but she sure as hell didn’t need to confirm it. “You don’t know what you were looking at. And don’t expect to see it again.”
He came up on his knees one step below her, put his hands on her calves, slid them up to the backs of her knees. “I’ve seen you at the Round Up. You don’t need that. Let me help—”
“Don’t help me. Just fuck me.”
She grabbed him then, put her hands on his face, pulled him in.
He tugged the tie to her robe, untangled it until her lapels fell open. She watched his gaze track the lines of her breasts. Her knees parted. His hands slipped along her thighs beneath the terry robe, and he pushed his body between her legs.
His jeans were rough against her skin. She pulsed in secret places only Cameron’d had access to, despite the number of men she’d been to bed with since.
She closed her eyes and felt Cameron’s lips on her breasts, Cameron’s teeth on her nipples, Cameron’s hands on her hips as he pulled her flush against the rigid bulge in his pants.
She went back on her elbows. Nick trailed kisses down her stomach. His tongue delved into her belly button. She shoved her fingers through his hair, getting caught on the snarls left over from the rain. She knew what he wanted, knew exactly where he was headed, knew she’d let him do it despite the frightening intimacy.
His hands cupped her bottom, then his fingers tugged at the elastic waist of her thong. “Christ, I love these panties.”
“Kinky. Bet your wife never wore anything like these.”
He looked up, and she expected something dark, something menacing, in his eyes. Instead he gave her a lady-killer smile. “Neither did Wendy.”
She lifted her hips as he pulled her panties down past her knees, watched as he threw them into the alcove. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. It was the last chance to stop.
But Cameron wasn’t with her anymore, and she felt Nick’s warm breath on her pubic hair.
With the first moan that left her lips as his tongue touched her clitoris, she bound him to her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on, and she ensnared him. She bit her lip, moved her hips against him, cried out despite herself. His grip tightened on her butt as he held her relentlessly against his mouth and his probing tongue.
An image of Witt suddenly flashed across her mind, and she swore as she came, flexed her legs, held the man between them to her. She claimed him with every shudder that racked her body, marked him with her fingernails, but with her eyes closed, she saw Witt’s blue gaze impaling her.
Nick raised his head, gaze darkened by the fury of possession, then pulled away. She tugged at his button fly, the material popping, and with his help, dragged his jeans and underwear down his thighs. He braced his arms, and plunged inside her.
She almost climaxed, held it off with effort, waited for his mouth, his lips on hers. The edge of the step dug into her spine as he pushed into her. Her head fell back, bumping against the stair above. Then he kissed her. She tasted herself on his tongue. The eroticism of it sent her over the edge, and she cried out against his mouth. She bit down on her own lip because the name she wanted to scream wasn’t his. Moments later, he followed, his semen filling her with power, driving her higher, taking her places she never usually went.
Except with Cameron. And in that morphmare with the detective.