Her Man Friday(68)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Gently, she removed his hand from her cheek, but not before he brushed his fingertips lightly over her lips. Impulsively, she kissed each as they passed, then knew the folly of her gesture when his pupils expanded with wanting. Hastily, she took a step backward, and retreated once again into the kitchen.

"I’ll just, um… start dinner, shall I?" she asked, her voice faint and uncertain, and none too steady.

"Yes, why don’t you?" he suggested. But he, too, seemed to be interested in something else other than the preparation of a meal.

Which was all the more reason, she told herself, why they needed to slow down.

Feeling more and more awkward with every passing moment, she opened all the cupboards necessary to gather the ingredients for their feast. But even after she’d amassed everything down to the salt shaker, she still felt as if something very important were missing. She glanced down at her clothes, at the very comfortable—but none too formal—shirt and leggings that were her at-home uniform. Then she looked back up at Schuyler.

"I can’t believe you wore a tuxedo," she told him. "I feel horribly underdressed."

His mouth curled into a predatory smile, and his eyes flashed with a predatory fire. "Well, if it makes you uncomfortable, I could take it off," he told her, without hesitation, without batting an eye.

She shook her head quickly. "No. No, that won’t be necessary." She had no idea what possessed her to do it, but she heard herself add, "Not yet, anyway."

He narrowed his eyes at her, then, with only a brief hesitation, reached for his bow tie and rugged it loose. Caroline opened her mouth to object, but something—something totally unmitigated and utterly confusing inside her—halted her from doing so just yet. She watched with what she hoped was only veiled interest as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the kitchen counter beside him, then freed the top two studs of his shirt. His cufflinks followed, each of them clattering onto the counter with finality behind the studs he had already tossed there.

Finally, she found her voice. But all she could manage to utter was, "Schuyler."

Not surprisingly, he ignored her protest and reached for another stud on his shirt. Then again, she supposed what she’d said really hadn’t been much of a protest at all. So she tried again.

"Schuyler."

"What?"

"You shouldn’t… I won’t… We can’t…"

But no matter which way she tried to word it, any objection she might have uttered simply would not come. So Schuyler did. Slowly, as he freed yet another stud and tugged his shirt tail free of his trousers, he drew nearer. With fluid grace and clear intent, he covered the space of the tiny galley kitchen, until he stood in front of her, loosing the last of the studs. That one, he simply tossed over his shoulder without care, and it went sailing to the floor, skittering across the linoleum, right under the refrigerator.

Solid gold, she was certain, had now joined the dust bunnies, the stray cat kibble, and the petrified Froot Loops under her refrigerator. Somehow, the knowledge of that both aroused and comforted her.

"Schuyler," she tried yet again.

But he reached for her hand and tucked it beneath the fabric of his shirt, splaying her fingers open over the smooth, heated skin beneath. Soft coils of hair wound easily about her fingers, as if trying to entrap her, and hold her there against him forever. Every bump and ripple of flesh and muscle that she encountered felt as if it came alive under her touch. It had been so long since she had touched a man this way, so long since she had enjoyed even the most innocent intimacy with another human being. So long since she had wanted to share intimacy with another human being.

Telling herself she was foolish to do so, she closed her eyes and lifted her other hand to join the first, nudging it under his shirt, trailing her fingers over the same path her others had already traveled. He felt so good beneath her hands, so hot, so alive, so… She sighed deeply, then filled her hands with him, stroking, palming, caressing, enjoying.

A rough sound of satisfaction rumbled up from inside him, and Caroline felt it, absorbed it, through her fingers as well as her ears. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he was ravenous, and knew that the hunger blazing in his eyes was nothing more than a reflection of her own.

"We shouldn’t do this," she told him. "It would be a terrible mistake."

"Why?" he demanded. He lifted his hand to her hair, skimming his palm over one long tress before winding it around his finger. "What would be so terrible about the two of us making love? I think we’d rather enjoy it."

"But it wouldn’t mean the same thing for you as it would for me," she told him.

His gaze shot from the hair wound around his finger to her face. "Who says it wouldn’t mean the same thing for me?" he demanded.

"It couldn’t. Schuyler, I—"

"Don’t," he interrupted her. "Don’t try to analyze what this is about. It doesn’t matter where it comes from, or even where it’s going. This is about us, Caroline. You and me, right now, and the way we are when we’re together."

"But—"

"For me, that’s enough," he told her. "Because what’s here right now, between you and me…" He inhaled deeply and released the breath slowly, raggedly. "God knows it’s more than I’ve ever had with anyone else."

She held his gaze for a moment more, then forced herself to look away. Because if she didn’t, she knew she would do something she really shouldn’t do.

"But what’s between us now," he continued, "isn’t enough for you, is it?"

"I don’t know," she told him honestly.

"Caroline, I…"

But whatever he had wanted to tell her, Schuyler halted himself. Instead, slowly, he unwound her hair from his finger and took a step away. When he did, Caroline found herself with her hands still extended toward him, but where a moment ago they had been filled with heat and life, now they groped for cool, empty air. So she dropped them back to her sides.

For a moment, Schuyler only stood there looking at her, and for a moment, she thought everything would be okay. Then a shutter fell over his eyes, and he turned toward the studs and cuff links scattered about her counter. With one swift, fluid gesture, he swept them all into the palm of his hand and dumped them in his trouser pocket. Then he scooped up his jacket and shrugged back into it.

He looked utterly and completely lost, she thought. His black hair hung restlessly over his forehead, and his shirt hung open over his bare chest. His collar was twisted and one of his cuffs stuck out of his jacket at an odd angle. More than anything, Caroline wanted to go to him, wanted to smooth him out and calm him down, but something in his posture forbade it. As if punctuating the image, he straightened then, lifting his chin almost defiantly.