One-Click Buy: June 2009 Harlequin Blaze Page 25

  His heart did a rogue flip, making him all hers once again.

  “Just like a geisha, as you were talking about earlier,” he said, finally pouring that damned tea into its mug. “You could be one of them with the way you’re working that fan.”

  “Geisha,” she said, as if putting the word through the dream factory of her mind. She sighed. “A long time ago I was on a kick about them. I went on mental benders about lots of things—Egypt, medieval Europe, ghost-hunting… In high school I’d spend days combing through the libraries and the used-book section of our store, grabbing any story I could find about all of them.”

  “I remember,” he said.

  She seemed surprised, then pleased. “You paid that much attention, even before we got together?”

  “You knew that.”

  “No, you never told me. You’d said you were always aware of me, but… Heck, thinking about you keeping an eye on me in the halls and remembering the books I read… That’s different.”

  “You had to know how crazy I was about you. That I wasn’t just sweet-talking you, Juliana.”

  She took a step nearer to him, then set the fan against his bare arm. A flock of shivers swept over his skin, then dove below, digging and burrowing on the way to his core.

  “How crazy were you about me?” she asked, smiling a little as she traveled the fan from his arm to his chest.

  “Crazy enough to picture you as my geisha back then.”

  That seemed to inject some of that pesky reality into the moment, and she traced the fan back to his arm.

  “Are you asking if I’ll be your geisha now?”

  He used his finger to tip her chin, making her look into his eyes.

  But before he could say anything else, she stepped away from him, and he got the feeling that she was trying to keep everything on rendezvous footing, that she didn’t want to get serious during this one night they had left.

  “I read in my guidebooks that the geisha are different all over Japan,” she said, inspecting the fan, “but unfailingly, a real geisha isn’t a mere sexual object.”

  “I know—they’re not prostitutes or sex slaves.” He set down the tea mug. “It’s hard to say what they are, because their lives are complex. Westerners have a perception that they exist just to please men, but it sounds like they actually know how to make men think that their world revolves around them instead. As they get older, the successful ones can have financial independence and respect in their own worlds. They can even choose who they entertain, and if they want to take a patron—a danna— they do.”

  Like him, she must’ve read in her guidebooks about danna, and she must’ve known where he was going with this.

  He couldn’t even believe he was approaching the subject of mistresses. Hadn’t he already decided that he wouldn’t ask Juliana to live that kind of life with him?

  Get a hold of yourself, he thought. What was he doing? Wasn’t it too soon even to be thinking about a future?

  But, deep inside, he knew that he’d waited long enough.

  He came to stand in front of her, near the bed, and rested his hands on the sash of her robe.

  “Geisha could be mistresses,” she said. “But if they wanted to stay with the lives they’d trained so hard for, they wouldn’t get married. You can’t be a geisha and a wife at the same time. It would ruin their purpose—the reason men come to them in the first place.”

  “To get away from the real world.” Just as the two of them had been doing.

  She could only be his geisha for the time being, no matter how long he wanted her.

  Juliana sketched the fan down his chest, stopping just above his sweats’ drawstring, and the shivers below his skin turned to tremors.

  “I couldn’t ever be a mistress,” she said. “I can’t ever be an Emelie.”

  Something inside his chest seemed to crumble. But why? Asking her to live in secrecy would’ve been cowardly. He didn’t want that for her.

  Then again, wouldn’t it be just as cowardly to go back to his garage when they got home and resumed a life of could-have-been?

  She closed the fan, then placed it on the nearby desk, and he had no idea where they stood with each other as the rain tapped on the window.

  Her chest rose and fell, as if she were controlling her breathing, trying to tame the pace of it.

  Then, as if she’d made some choice right here, right now, she stood on her tiptoes, sliding her hands to the back of his neck, where she brushed her fingers, creating the shape of a W.

  The butterfly sensation tore him up, and his blood tumbled to his groin, pumping, insistent.

  And when she spoke, he knew that there’d be no more serious talk for now. That once they left his room, this would really be it, because tomorrow would bring the negotiations.

  Tomorrow would burst this bubble of fantasy they’d managed to build around themselves—temporary and fragile and made to be broken.

  “At their napes,” she whispered as she pressed her fingers to the back of his neck, “the geisha leave the skin bare of pale makeup, creating a W or a V.” She retraced the shape. “I read that the naked skin emphasizes the erotic slope back here.”

  Her touch was too much, and as she lowered from her tiptoes, he used the leverage to pull at her robe ties. The cotton whisked as it came undone.

  “And underneath the kimono?” he asked, his tone strained, because it didn’t help to be talking about this. Not this.

  “No underpants.” Her robe slumped open as she added, “They want to avoid panty lines, so they wear a thin silk cloth instead.”

  The robe gaped all the way, revealing Juliana’s pale, slim body.

  And she wasn’t wearing underpants, either.

  Heartbeat churning, Tristan slid his hands inside the opening, his fingers poised at her waist, his thumbs brushing the sleek lines of her stomach.

  She leaned back her head, as if losing her willpower, then gathered herself, facing front again, her lips parted.

  He listened to the primal beat of his blood, gave in to it.

  Surrendered to the fantasy before it disappeared altogether.

  A MISTRESS? Juliana thought.

  Just like Emelie, who’d gotten her heart and spirit crushed because she wouldn’t settle for being one after the man she’d loved decided to marry “properly”?

  Was that all Tristan believed she could be, too?

  As she took in the fervor in Tristan’s gaze while he traced his fingers up to guide her robe over her shoulders then down her arms, she couldn’t forget any of it.

  But what other option would they have back in Parisville?

  Tristan had swept her away here in Japan, even during the few hours they’d been together, and she knew in her heart that he could offer so much more. He was still the boy who’d talked about his dreams of owning a big vintage-car business one day—large enough to give him some independence. He was the same Tristan Cole she’d been smitten with, and this intimacy made her feel there was even more to come.

  Yet how could Tristan and Juliana just ignore all the history and ill will between their families?

  The robe deserted her body, rustling to the floor while the rain continued to knock softly at the window like a reminder.

  Enjoy it while you can….

  He held one of her hands as he led her to the bed and climbed onto it. Then, with his back against the high, smooth wooden headboard, he pulled her to him, her spine to his muscled chest, his legs bent on either side of her.

  He’d positioned them so that they were directly in front of a vanity mirror near the television, and in its reflection, she saw herself, pale and naked, cradled.

  Blood throbbed between her legs.

  Coasting her hair back from her face, he whispered into her ear. “What’re we going to do?”

  Tristan rested one hand on her belly, tracing his fingers over it, creating a dangerous, swirling heat.

  She winced, already under his spell. “For right now, just ke
ep going.”

  He left his mouth against her, and she could almost feel his disappointment.

  But what did he want her to do? Come up with some kind of plan that would magically please everyone?

  She’d been a people-pleaser for her family, and it’d robbed her of Tristan in high school. It’d taken her from the tour business she’d hoped to raise to great heights someday.

  She was tired of pleasing others.

  When he insinuated his hand between her legs, she opened for him, intent on making this about what she wanted now. At least for the time being.

  He slipped a finger between her already damp folds, then pressed on her clit, and she rolled her head to the side, pressure rising inside her like a roaring furnace.

  Yet the guilt was still there, too. Although she’d decided to brush it aside, it wouldn’t leave.

  Even so, her heartbeat was choppy, and she felt every ba-bump echoing through her body, her center.

  He slowly worked her with his fingers, gently seeking a way to bring her to the heights of passion. And he liked it as much as she did; she knew because she could feel him getting hard through his sweatpants.

  “Homecoming,” he murmured.

  Her mind was so fuzzy that she didn’t register what he’d said at first. “Homecoming?”

  She sounded drunk—on him.

  He swept his fingers around her, over her…then into her.

  She gasped, her body arcing, and without thinking, she laid one of her hands over his, urging him on.

  “Sophomore year,” he said, his mouth against her ear. “You went with Pete Stosser, and you wore a blue dress that made you look like a princess. That was the first time I really wanted you. My crush turned into something a man—not a boy—would feel for any woman.”

  She got wetter as the nostalgia flowed through her, down and down. “I didn’t know you were even there.”

  He slid his fingers in, out, wet and slow, and her clit went so stiff that she moaned, thinking it could never be assuaged.

  By this time, his voice sounded like a growl in her ear, his mouth gnawing at her lobe as he spoke. “I didn’t stay for long, but the more I did, the more I wanted to come up to you, show you what I tried to hide until that night we finally got together.”

  He thrust up into her, and she groaned, golden agony rising even higher.

  The pressure… It was unbearable.

  But so was the thought of giving all of herself to him when she should be holding back.

  Yet she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

  Not until she had to.

  Short of breath, she gripped his wrist, pulled his hand away from her and got to all fours, facing him while crawling backward, her hair over half her face.

  Then she grabbed at his sweats, tugged, brought them over his waistline, over the trail of hair that started at his belly.

  Just looking at it made Juliana’s sex clench.

  And when she looked into his gaze, she saw that he was about to come unhinged, too.

  Before she knew what was happening, he’d sprung away from the headboard to gather her against his hard chest, her breasts smashed against him as they fought for breath, face-to-face.

  He smiled against her mouth, lethal, taunting. “What’s going through your head, Juliana?”

  “Having you inside me again.”

  He smoothed a hand over her rear, and she closed her eyes without even knowing it.

  “Is that all?” he continued.

  No. There was so much more—so much that she couldn’t imagine facing.

  Instead she said, “Yes—”

  As he stroked under the cheek of her ass, she groaned.

  He spoke, more serious than ever.

  “I’m thinking of more than just sex, too,” he said.

  But they shouldn’t be thinking that way, she wanted to tell him as he rubbed his finger back and forth through her slit. She didn’t want to repeat Emelie and Terrence’s heartbreak, because if there was one thing history had taught them, it was that love could be unforgiving.

  Then Tristan did something that suspended Juliana’s heartbeat.

  Tenderly, he eased her to the mattress, looking into her eyes the entire way, shattering all her thoughts until nothing made sense at all.

  He touched his knuckle to her clit, adding pressure, and she bucked.

  “Tell me what’s going to happen from now on,” he said, his tone scratchy.

  There was a need in him—a raw openness.

  A flare of panic flashed through Juliana as he ground those knuckles against her, and she swiveled her hips, bracing one arm over her head.

  “Tell me, Juliana,” he repeated.

  “Why?” she asked on a gasp. “Nothing can happen.”

  “Are you so sure about that?”

  He removed his fingers from her, then went back on his haunches to strip off his sweats. Then he came back to her, stretching out his legs and maneuvering her onto his lap so that they both faced the mirror again.

  “Are you so sure,” he said, “that you can go without this now that you know you can have it?”

  She was sitting on his thighs, her sex wet against his flesh as he held her by the hips, and she knew what was coming next.

  Her clit pounded, ready, slippery for him.

  She took the initiative, leaning forward, bracing her hands on his legs, then hovering over his erection until it nudged at her.

  Moaning in blissful anguish, he gripped her harder, and she sat on his arousal, let it slide into her, making her cry out. In the mirror, she saw the slick, thick root of his cock in her, and the sight added even more pressure to her escalating passion.

  This doesn’t have to be the last time, she thought, circling her hips, taking him in as deeply as she could while she leaned forward for leverage, pushing, working.

  You could have this every night if you just had the guts.

  It felt as if blinding steam was hissing in her belly, rising, expanding, and she lowered her head, unable to watch in the mirror anymore because it revealed everything.

  Her ecstasy.

  Her emotions, laid bare for a man she couldn’t have.

  But…no. No emotions, she thought, the steam beginning to knock around inside of her till she felt like a container about to blow. No…

  Out of sheer desperation, she slid off him, bending down to his cock and taking it into her mouth to lave him and bring him to a climax that would keep him happy with what they had now.

  She sucked, caressed, slowly yet emphatically showing him how she felt without letting it go beyond that until he came to a shuddering series of releases. Then, gradually, as she swallowed, pressing her hand against her sex, trying to make the ache go away, his breathing evened out.

  While he leveled off, she nuzzled up next to him, pushing her own lust down and resting her head against his chest, just for a few moments.

  Just until she forced herself to kiss him goodbye and leave this affair that had always been stamped with an expiration date.

  8

  CHAD AND SASHA had spent about a half hour at the hotel bar, talking around and around what they really needed to say, but Chad hadn’t pushed it.

  Not even once, although he’d gotten a strong feeling that Sasha had a lot on her mind, and she would get around to telling him all about it in her own time.

  So, as he’d waited, she’d talked about her research, laughing almost shyly when she’d admitted that it was supposed to center around “woo-woo” things to do around Tokyo. He’d been surprised to hear that, too, based on how Sasha used to be.

  Exotic and erotic?

  She’d gone on to explain that she was really behind in her endeavors, so she’d have to start hitting hot-stuff establishments soon.

  And that’s when Chad finally sucked it up and risked suggesting that he could go out with her tonight if she wanted, just so she would have company in a country she was still hesitant to explore on her own.

  The last thing he e
xpected was for her to accept his offer without even a pause.

  But was that because she needed to get her book going?

  Or because it was an excuse to be with him?

  Now, as they wandered a silent, rain-sheened neighborhood away from the more touristy section of Roppongi, Chad couldn’t stop hoping it was the second option.

  He’d picked the most romantic bar he could find in the guidebook, and the hushed streets made him think of a topsy-turvy edition of Singing in the Rain, when Gene Kelly had danced over the wet sidewalks, in love and wanting to announce it from here to there.

  Chad glanced at the paper where the hotel concierge had written directions in the artful symbols of his language, followed by a translation in English. Chad had then shown the directions to their cab driver, who’d dropped them off here and offered what were probably more directions in Japanese.

  Not that this had helped, but it had been a nice gesture.

  Chad had thought bringing Sasha to the fringes of the Roppongi District was a decent idea, because from what she’d said over their cocktails, he knew it would feel fairly familiar and comfortable to her; she’d mentioned that she and Juliana had come to the tourist-heavy district last night, and she’d intended to return in order to check out more of the nightlife.

  Rain popped on Chad’s umbrella, sounding a lot like Gene Kelly’s shoes. “The bar should be close.”

  Sasha, under the cover of her own umbrella, was inspecting the upscale homes around them, where BMWs were parked in Beverly Hills–type affluence.

  “I’m not in a hurry,” she said, smiling. Her serene expression went well with the surrounding foliage nodding under the raindrops, the slants of concrete architecture sloping in graceful angles.

  Chad had noticed that she seemed far more relaxed tonight than she’d been at the castle, as if she’d thought things out in her complex Sasha way and she’d come to some kind of decision.

  Maybe, just maybe, meeting him for that drink had been a big first step for her?

  His veins tightened as he wondered what the next step might be.

  Then the next.

  His heart bumped in his chest while he took a long look around for any sign of the bar. The concierge had said in private to Chad that the best ones around these parts—the most romantic—were nearly hidden.