The Touch of Magic Series, page 59
“Tristan?” She asked again, since he was unable to operate his basic functions such as speaking a single syllable.
Somehow, he managed it, breathing out the single word of a gush of bone deep lust. “Yes.”
CHAPTER 7
Jesus, it felt good to have a man want her like that.
Megan could read him like a book. She didn’t even have to touch him; he was broadcasting all over the place. For a moment she wondered if there was anyone else nearby who might overhear his thoughts. Then again, she’d never met anyone who could hear other voices in her head like she could. Tristan’s voice was simply clearer than the rest.
He wanted her. His feelings gave her power and fed a need to be touched. She hadn’t been touched in so long. Over a year. Since the last time she’d gone off her rocker and done something like this.
Standing and turning to face him, Megan let her shirt slide down her arms and fall to the floor. His breathing kicked up. He was considering turning her down and being a gentleman, despite the fact he was nearly in pain. She could feel it radiating from him.
She knew what to say. She knew exactly how to be his fantasy—at least as best as she could. So she waylaid him. “If you want me, this is your one chance.”
“One chance?” He asked.
He wanted to know why only one. Megan wasn’t going to explain. She walked slowly around the chair, turning it aside and giving her room to stand in front of him where he still leaned back against the desk. He was in a t-shirt and old jeans, less professional than the first time she’d seen him. And sexier.
She stood so close, rose on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Now or never.” Then she ran her hands around the sides of his waist, fisted them into his shirt and began pulling upward.
Immediately, Tristan complied. He chose ‘now.’ Not shocking.
She understood that she wasn’t his usual type. It came through loud and clear that he didn’t understand his attraction to her, but it was there all the same. She caught snapshots of his thoughts. Visions of the two of them on the couch behind him, naked, joined, writhing. She saw another quick flash of her undoing her skirt, unhooking her bra, peeling her panties. She could do that, too. He wanted to make her scream in pleasure. Which was exactly why she’d picked him.
With his shirt off, he braced his hands against the edge of the desk as though stopping himself from doing something. Megan couldn’t tell what. Still she knew what he wanted.
She reached to the side, catching the zipper on her skirt and slowly lowered it exactly as he’d imagined, before dropping it in a puddle around her ankles. Her underwear was pink and didn’t really match the red bra. Tristan did not care.
He was having trouble breathing.
For a woman who spent much of her life afraid of what people would think of her, this moment was heady.
Though he wanted her naked, she wasn’t quite ready. He hadn’t even kissed her yet. She hadn’t pushed it. Between the flashes of images Tristan was inadvertently sending her, Megan felt her own nerves. He’d shocked her when he touched her the first time. Kissing him concerned her, but she wasn’t going to do the deed without it.
Make it or break it time, she thought and stepped back in close. “Kiss me, Tristan.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. He didn’t even think it before he did it, so she had no warning. His arms were around her, skin on skin. His mouth covered hers, primal, needy, and demanding before she even saw it coming.
It was like a thousand volts coursing through her.
Her brain fried.
Her body melted.
She was a live wire, arcing whichever way the current took her. His hands held her while his mouth explored, hot and vivid. The images he unwittingly showed her lost form and substance, unraveling into a nebulous but overwhelming feeling of need.
Or was that her?
Striving for something she couldn’t define, she moved with him. She was no longer anticipating his moves, just reacting. Megan reached for him, not realizing until now just how starved she’d been for someone to touch her, want her, need her in any way.
His hands roved her back while their mouths fused and fused again. His fingers found their way into her hair, which she was self-conscious about. Pulling back a second, she looked into his eyes and saw that he loved the feel of it. He was fascinated by her, and she had to admit she was fascinated by him, too. His hands tugged her close, not demanding but asking, and Megan didn’t say no. She pressed against him, her mouth on his again, reveling in the sensation of his hands on her shoulders, splayed broad across the bare skin on her back, tugging her closer and closer still.
With one hand in her hair, cupping her head, Tristan moved the other to her waist. Then up. Then he was testing the weight of her breast and brushing his thumb across her nipple, making both their mouths open in a soft gasp.
He did it again before she realized her bra was missing. He was touching her, fondling her, sending bolts of lightning through her, but she hadn’t peeled her bra like he wanted her to.
It took effort, but she refocused on him. He wanted her hands on him.
So she gave him that. First, she stroked his chest, then his back. When she arrived at his jeans-clad ass, she stuck her hands in the back pockets and curled her fingers. His muscles clenched involuntarily. She loved that it jerked his hips forward, into hers. That it shot another bolt of lust through the already clouded corners of his mind.
Megan moved her hands and pushed his hips back, enjoying the disappointment in his thoughts. He worried, was she pushing him away?
No, she thought. Not that, and she reached for the button, snapping his thoughts back to where she was going. She slid the zipper down and let her hands slip inside, trailing over his boxers and along the hard length of him.
His mouth fell open. He stopped moving and stared at her.
She was in control again.
He didn’t just like it, he was completely unable to move.
His voice came to her in her thoughts, harsh but desperate rather than demanding. Again.
She acquiesced.
This time his voice did escape his mouth, a guttural groan of pure pleasure. Megan touched him a third time, only this time she pushed her hands down farther, pushing his jeans down with them. Time to get him out of his pants.
As if he had read her thoughts, Tristan hooked the waistband on his boxers and managed to kick his shoes off as he peeled the last of his clothing. It couldn’t have taken him a whole second; he was a man on a mission. When he stood back upright, his clothes were tangled on the floor beside him and he was completely, gloriously naked. Fully erect and breathing hard.
Megan stepped back and Tristan simply stared at her for a moment. His mind didn’t—couldn’t—form actual words for her, but he was asking again, yes or no?
She hooked her thumbs in the sides of her underwear and slowly peeled them down while watching his face. He was mesmerized. His breathing somehow managed to become more labored.
Suddenly, he dove for his pants, scrambling in them with one thought slashing through all the others. Condom. Megan fought a smile.
He emerged with a foil pack and tossed the pants aside. One pant leg was now inside out. His wallet was out and open, a twenty and a credit card scattered in his haste. He didn’t care.
Knowing what he wanted, she took his wrist, shocked again that he could jolt her still, and led him to the couch. She saw his eyes widen with recognition and a flash of him being grateful he’d cleaned all the crap off it earlier. She was grateful, too, but she reached for his shoulders and pushed him gently down to sitting. Then she carefully straddled his lap, his nostrils flaring at the scent of her and with surprised that she’d put them exactly in his fantasy position.
Tearing open the condom, she situated it, lined it up, then kissed him hard while she rolled it down and he bucked upward into her hand. She kept kissing him while she positioned herself and slid onto him. But then she couldn’t kiss him any longer. Her mouth opened on a forced sigh at the feel of him inside her. Her head fell back at the need racing through her, both hers and his.
Tristan rocked up, watching her through his own hazy gaze, watching for her reaction. That sweet, sexy boy wanted to know if she liked it.
Megan nodded at him. Then when he didn’t move, she breathed out, “Again.”
Tristan complied. And complied again.
His hands found her breasts and shot more arcs through her. He kissed her, and she let her head fall back the way he wanted. Then she was glad she did it. He ravaged her neck, sucked on her earlobe, and traveled his mouth down to the peak of her breast. He didn’t stop moving inside her the whole time.
She heard him every step of the way. He wanted to do those things. He wanted to lick her and suckle on her and touch her. And he wanted to please her. Still wanted to make her scream with pleasure.
She couldn’t stop the mews and whimpers that fell from her mouth.
He lavished one breast then the other. Then he joined his mouth to hers, his arms anchoring her flush against him, rubbing her nipples against the soft smattering of hair on his chest, against the hard pecs beneath that, with every thrust. He tripped something in her, building the tension in her, until he pulled back and looked her in the eyes.
For one lust-shot second she thought he could read her, that he knew what she was doing. But he thrust into her again and again, until he gritted his teeth and she knew he was getting close.
Something in him bloomed open to her and she felt everything. Overlaying her own heat and lust was his. The exquisite feel of her wrapped around him, of the electrifying rub of her skin on his, and she lost it.
Her head fell back, breaking the eye contact if not the connection. He waited her out, pulse after pulse, while she lost herself, not sure if she screamed as he wished or not. She felt him tense as she finished and finally let go himself. He held her in a vise grip while he reveled in his own release even as she slowly came back around.
They sat that way, his arms around her. Hers were around him, too, in a death grip she’d had no idea she’d done. She didn’t know how long they lay against each other. His skin was slick with sweat and so was hers. His breath a steady rasp in her ear, the smell of him a taste in the air where her mouth lingered so close to his neck. She was languid, almost liquid. She’d needed the release.
Slowly, her breathing headed back toward normal. Clearly exhausted, Tristan started to lean back against the couch, his rigid position finally melting away. He tried to bring her with him, to get her to relax over him, still joined, but that was definitely her cue.
Pulling back, Megan carefully moved her legs and extracted herself delicately. His face was shocked for a moment that she’d stood up, separated herself from him. She heard as he searched for a plausible explanation. She needed a drink? She was uncomfortable?
He was reaching out with his hands and his voice, despite his sapped energy, trying to figure out what she needed. “Megan, can I get you—”
She held her hand up to him and grinned. The grin seemed to help him feel better, but she felt the tide turn when she reached for first her underwear then her bra. The undies slid right on before he got his thoughts together. But her bra was a work of architectural genius. For a buxom woman like her, it had to be. It took her a moment to shimmy in and get everything in place.
He was almost enjoying the show, but she felt the worry running in from every side as he started to stand, still naked. “Megan, you don’t have to go. Please, don’t.”
She nodded at him as she pulled her shirt on and only hooked every other button. She was tucking it into her skirt before she realized what to do. She stepped into her sandals, wiggling the straps into place then stood on tiptoe against his still-naked form. She kissed him on the mouth. It was intended as a thank-you, but Tristan was having none of that.
He grabbed her, pulled her against him, pushed her mouth open with his and joined them almost as intimately as they had been during sex.
She slipped under the tidal wash of feelings between them again. Kissing him back, she clung, not controlling her own thoughts or worrying about reading his.
Don’t go.
His voice was clear as a bell in her mind. A big, big cue it was definitely time to go.
She pushed against him, stepping back and out of the kiss. Then back a little farther and out of the office.
He followed her, naked and unconcerned. She’d already grabbed her purse and bag of goodies from Yasmin and was at the back door by the time he appeared in the lit doorway. “You don’t have to go.”
“Yeah, I do.” She smiled and turned the lock, letting herself out to the sound of his voice calling behind her.
“Where do I find you? Megan? Megan?”
CHAPTER 8
The next morning Tristan was in his office before time to open the shop. He was in earlier than usual because he knew Yasmin was opening. Sitting in his office, he waited in the big comfy chair he’d put back in place behind his desk.
He’d fixed it last night. While he was more than perplexed about Megan’s screw-and-dash, he was not perplexed about Yasmin’s powers of deduction. So he put everything back exactly as it was, including the crap on the love seat. He did leave out the piles of files he’d purged, he wasn’t going to undo that work, but if she saw the big chair out of place, the love seat cleared, she’d figure everything out. Real fast.
Last night, he’d headed home for not enough hours of confused and relatively useless sleep. Now, he managed to purge more files before he finally heard the click of the back door and squashed the urge to attack his employee for information.
Just barely, he held it in check. She usually came in and said hello to him if he was in here. He’d hold out for a bit. Besides, he knew Yasmin once had a crush on him. It had taken his sister Delilah telling him flat out about it for him to see it, but he finally had. Was it wrong to ask her now for information about the woman who’d caught his eye?
No, he decided. Yasmin had Luke. She’d left any feelings for Tristan far in the dust. She’d smiled at him about Megan, made fun of him with her expression and her laughter. No, things were okay with Yasmin. Now could he get them squared away with Megan?
He pulled another file and didn’t even recognize the name of the vendor. The writing was his mother’s feathery scrawl, and the folder a shade of manila that either wasn’t produced anymore or had colored over the years. He was setting it on the ‘toss’ pile when the small knock came at his open door.
“Morning, Tristan. How goes?” Yasmin’s voice held a hint of curiosity.
“It’s good.”
“You’re in early. I thought you might be sleeping in, all snuggled up at home with your cell phone and Megan’s number on speed dial.” Her grin told him she harbored no remaining feelings for him that way.
Now, what to tell her? “Um, no.”
She was surprised. “Did you help her with her headache?”
“Yes.” He wouldn’t tell her the details. It took a moment to work around what to say and what not to say. “She said she felt better. We talked a little—” Okay, that was a lie. Talking was not what they had done. “—then she ran out the door and . . .”
“What? You ran her off?”
“No!” It wasn’t like that. He knew because Megan had screamed her head off. Even after she was dressed, she’d smiled at him and kissed him like there was no tomorrow. “No. But I didn’t get her number.”
“Oh.” She seemed genuinely surprised. “What did you talk about?”
“Um.” He shouldn’t have said that. “Stuff.” Goddess, she had to see right through him! He was a terrible liar.
She nodded thoughtfully. “Oh. Then . . . no number? You asked?”
“Kindof.” He shrugged. This hurt worse than Megan dashing out the back door last night. He desperately wanted to find her. “She was already out the door. I asked, but she didn’t answer at all. No yes, no no.”
“Well, she lives in Santa Monica. Use her last name to do an internet search.” Yasmin smiled for a moment, then saw his expression, then sighed at him. “You don’t know her last name, do you?”
He had to shake his head. When had he ever slept with a woman whose last name he didn’t know? Never. Not before last night, that was for certain. Then again, he did know the last names of the last several women he’d slept with and he still couldn’t tell who’d hexed his store. Crap.
Pity shone in Yasmin’s eyes. She could tell he really liked Megan, and honestly, he more than ‘really liked her’ now. He craved her. Wanted her body naked next to his like she was heat or air or food. He wanted a full night, in a big bed, moonlight in the window and no cares in the world. Instead, Yasmin was staring at him sadly, because despite how much he wanted that, she was going to make him ask. He bucked up and did it.
“Will you please tell me her last name?”
“I can’t.”
He blinked at her. Had Megan told her not to tell him? Had she planned to seduce him and bolt? Had she—
“I don’t know it.” Yasmin confessed before the train of his thoughts completely derailed.
“But you talked to her. You . . .” didn’t ring her up, didn’t get her last name. Double crap! “So what do I do?”
He was thinking a compel—make her come back. Get her to call the store, her number would be captured. He could scry for her apartment . . .
“Leave her be.” Yasmin offered the terrible idea with a kind look on her face.
He couldn’t just sit back and wait. For some reason he felt a need to find her.
“Maybe she actually didn’t want you to find her.” Yasmin offered with a wry twist of her lips and a shrug.
He had to consider that possibility. He’d asked and she’d been out the door. Tristan told himself that was because she hadn’t heard him, but probably she had. She peeled her shirt and came onto him. When he thought hard about it—without letting his breath catch in his chest or his imagination run wild—last night couldn’t have been the first time she’d done that. She was too smooth. Too much his fantasy. She must have done it before. Known what every guy wanted. And left on purpose.
