A Match for Celia

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you were.”

His fingers tightened again on her forearms, and for a moment she thought he was going to give in to his obvious urge to shake her. To his credit, he resisted.

“We were talking about you,” he repeated much too evenly. “I told her that I had fallen for you. She wished me luck. Then offered condolences.”

Celia wasn’t quite sure why he’d been talking about his feelings for her with a woman who was supposedly little more than a total stranger to him. And she still didn’t understand that all-too-friendly-looking hug. But she couldn’t resist asking, “Why did she offer condolences?”

Reed’s smile was lopsided. “She said it was obvious that I’m no longer a free man. Said I might as well be wearing a sign saying I was taken. I don’t even want to look at another woman. Damn it, Celia, you’ve got me all but hog-tied and branded. I’m yours—if you still want me.”

Her knees went weak. She clung to his shirt for balance.

It hadn’t been the most romantic speech she’d ever heard. Damien would have phrased it much more smoothly, much more poetically. But he wouldn’t have said it with Reed’s gruff, painfully frank sincerity.

“Oh, Reed,” she whispered, her eyes misting. “Of course I still want you. I’ve wanted you from the beginning, even when I didn’t want to want you. Why do you think it hurt me so much to see you with someone else?”

“Celia.” He drew her slowly into his arms, his evening-roughened cheek resting gently against her softer one. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Don’t you know I’d rip out my own tongue before I’d hurt you?”

She managed a shaky laugh. “There’s no need to be quite so graphic about it. I guess I overreacted when I saw you. It’s been a very stressful week.”

He chuckled, his lips hovering only an inch above hers. “Tell me about it,” he murmured, his breath warm on her skin.

He kissed her then, and this kiss wasn’t an angry one. His lips were gentle, caressing, his movements slow, tender. Rather than resisting this time, Celia wrapped her arms around his neck and melted into him.

Almost immediately, the kiss grew heated, the flames fueled not by anger now, but by desire. A hunger that was getting harder for both of them to deny.

Celia pressed tightly against him, craving his touch, his warmth. He gripped her hips and pulled her into him, letting her know without doubt that he wanted her. That he ached as badly as she did.

“Reed,” she whispered, her fingers buried deep in his thick hair, her lips moving against his. “Make love with me. Now. Please.”

He groaned. “I can’t. There isn’t time.”

She didn’t know what he meant—and she didn’t want to know. She was tired of waiting, tired of being cautious—tired of being afraid. She knew what she wanted now, and she had somehow found the courage to ask for it. “Make love to me, Reed,” she whispered, rubbing her lips slowly, savoringly across his mouth.

A hard tremor went through him. He wanted her. She smiled and kissed him again.

“Celia.” His voice was hoarse. “I wanted to wait. We need to talk.” The words were broken, interspersed with hot, greedy kisses.

She returned kiss for kiss. “I don’t want to talk,” she murmured, then moved boldly against him.

He gasped, and she smiled in satisfaction, sensing victory. “Make love to me, Reed,” she demanded again.

This time he didn’t even try to resist. He swept her into his arms, and it was she who gasped as her feet dangled several inches above the floor.

The phone started ringing when he carried her swiftly into the bedroom. Reed grunted a curse and paused in the middle of the room.

She nestled her head into his shoulder. “Let it ring,” she murmured, suspecting that it was Damien, asking about dinner.

Reed seemed torn for a moment. Celia settled the matter by reaching up to kiss him, her tongue sliding between his lips.

They let the phone ring. Neither of them even noticed when it stopped.

Reed removed Celia’s clothing with unsteady fingers. Her cheeks were hot when she stood naked in front of him, but she lifted her chin proudly. The open admiration in his gaze boosted her ego as nothing ever had before.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, then shook his head impatiently. “I wish I could think of something more original to say. I’m afraid I’m not very good with flowery words.”

She touched his face. “You’re doing fine,” she assured him, her throat thick with emotion. And then she reached for the buttons of his shirt. It made her feel too vulnerable to be nude while he was fully clothed. And, besides, she wanted very badly to touch him.

His chest was as broad, as tanned and firm as she remembered. She stroked her hands slowly, reverently over his skin, testing the muscles beneath, the light dusting of hair tickling her palm. She’d thought before that he seemed to be in awfully good shape for someone with a desk job. The solidness of the muscles beneath her hands made her repeat that observation. “Do you lift weights?” she asked, touching her lips to his right nipple.