Pursued. Tracy Wolff
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