Midnight Man Read online

  “Suzanne,” he said again and she couldn’t tell what was in his deep voice—regret, smugness, desire—he was still hard inside her, after all—it didn’t make any difference. The fact that she had no idea what he was going to say made things worse.

  She didn’t know what his reaction would be because she didn’t know him at all. She’d only met him this morning.

  He was a complete stranger.

  Who she had just let make explosive love to her against a wall. Let? She’d practically begged for it.

  She had to get out of here, fast.

  She dropped her legs and pushed against his chest, hard.

  John’s head came up and he moved back a fraction of an inch. “Are you all right—“ he began, and she slithered past him. She couldn’t answer him, simply couldn’t.

  Miraculously, she still held her key in her hand. He was holding himself up against the wall with one hand, breathing hard, head turned toward her, watching her.

  A twist of her wrist, and she was able to slip inside the door and close it behind her. She leaned against it, panting, eyes filled with tears.

  “Hey!” His deep voice set up a vibration in her stomach and then another vibration set up—his fist against the door.

  “Suzanne! Suzanne! Open up!”

  Good thing she’d used top-grade lumber for those doors.

  “Suzanne!” he bellowed. “Let me in!”

  Suzanne tested her legs. For an instant, she thought they wouldn’t bear her weight. Her legs were sore from having been opened so wide and she was sore between them from the hard rough strokes he’d used.

  She stepped forward gingerly thankful her legs were holding. Passing a mirror she stopped, transfixed at the reflection. Her eyes widened.

  Naked except for sheer black thigh-high stockings and heels, hair flying around her face, eyes rimmed with smudged mascara and puffy, red lips, she looked like something ordered up from Sex Kittens ‘R Us.

  Another thud made the door rattle in its frame.

  “Suzanne! Tell me you’re okay or I’m coming in! I’ll give you three seconds. One…”

  She shook with shock. Okay?

  How could she say she was okay?

  “Two!”

  She’d just had wild sex. With a stranger. Up against a wall. And had had the most explosive orgasm of her life.

  “Three!” Metallic sounds. He was picking the lock.

  “I’m—“ She could barely get any sound out through her tight throat. She coughed. “I’m okay. I’m, um, all right.” She breathed deeply and raised her voice. “I’m fine. Now go away.”

  This was definitely a Scarlett O’Hara moment, she thought as she moved into the bathroom. She’d think about this tomorrow.

  * * * * *

  Damn!

  John stood with his fist raised. He lowered it, and then lowered his forehead against the door.

  Which put him in a position to look down at himself, wet with come, still fiercely erect and so hard he could have used his cock to knock her door down. He still wanted her, ferociously, but he’d completely blown it.

  He’d been doing so well, working so hard to kiss her gently. A perfect gentleman’s kiss, even though it cost him what felt like a year’s supply of self control. And then she’d moaned, and moved and he’d…lost it.

  Her clothes were pooled on the floor. Coat, pretty blouse with all the buttons ripped off, skirt, torn bra and ripped panties. Bending, he picked her clothes up and hung them, one by one, on the doorknob. Then he reached down to tuck himself back in his pants. He zipped up, wincing.

  He’d lost the battle tonight.

  But not the war.

  Chapter Four

  Finally, at seven the next morning Suzanne gave up any pretence of sleeping. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, angry and embarrassed at herself for how she’d behaved and even more angry and embarrassed at herself for turning red hot at the memory.

  She tried to wipe John Huntington from her mind, and it almost worked, but she couldn’t do anything to wipe the memory of him from her body.

  All night, the ghost of his mouth on hers, the memory of his strong fingers clenched tightly around her back, his body thrusting hard into hers, kept roaring back into life, her senses feeling it as sharply as the first time.

  No, sleep hadn’t been an option.

  She rose to the window and opened the drapes.

  It was still dark outside. Though it wasn’t raining now, it must have rained all night, because the snow had melted, leaving enormous puddles in the middle of the pot-holed street.

  Suddenly, the street lamps that weren’t broken winked off. She could see a car crossing Stuart street and could see the columns around the door of the St. Regis, a run-down turn-of-the-century building that was a flop house for the local drunks and a rent-by-the-hour place for men desperate enough to pay fifteen dollars an hour to the twin geriatric streetwalkers who ran their business out of the corner of Lucern and 15th.

  If she could see the St. Regis, that meant daylight was coming.

  It was already tomorrow, the day she was going to have to face the most difficult client she’d ever had, Marissa Carson, and—worse—establish some kind of relationship with her new tenant that didn't—absolutely did not—include sex.

  It could be done. Sure it could.

  She’d worked hard to design a home for Mrs. Carson, the Client from Hell, who changed her mind hourly. In today’s scheduled meeting with Mrs. Impossible, she was going to keep her cool no matter how many fits the spoiled rich matron threw.

  And she could face John Huntington The Day After like an adult, and put their relationship on a landlady/tenant basis, completely forgetting wild sex that made her hot just thinking about it.

  Sure she could. Absolutely.

  She passed the mirror on her way to the bathroom and winced at the view. Her hair waved wildly around her face and her eyes were ringed with dark circles. She had a red love bite on her neck. A round brush and a hairdryer would take care of the sex-and-bedhead and Erace would take care of the eyes and the hickey. But nothing was going to help the still-swollen lips and the just-out-of-bed-after-a-hot-night look. Nothing but a lot of time and space between her and John Huntington.

  First a shower and some serious grooming. At some point today she was going to have to face the warrior and she needed some heavy-duty female weaponry on her side.

  An hour later, she waited behind the door of her office, dressed, accessorized and perfumed, feeling like her old self. Cool, calm Suzanne Barron, staid interior decorator whose idea of excitement was matching plaid and stripes. And not Suzanne Barron, out of control sexpot.

  She felt perfectly capable of dealing with John Huntington now, but she listened carefully at the door, just the same. It’s not like she was trying to avoid him or anything, but eight o’clock was pretty early for anyone to start moving into a new office, wasn’t it? He’d said his former office was off Pioneer Square, which wasn’t close. He’d probably start moving in around ten, when she had an appointment with Todd Armstrong, her sometime partner, and before that she had an appointment with a new fabric designer to look at swatches, so she was probably off the hook for this morning. And Marissa Carson would take all afternoon, so she wouldn’t be home until late.

  Maybe she wouldn’t see John at all until tomorrow. Tomorrow would be better. Oh, yes. Tomorrow she’d be all rested up and feeling normal and not like—like she was going to jump out of her skin.

  Yes, she’d talk to John tomorrow.

  Her shoulders relaxed at the thought as she put her ear to the door again to listen for noises. She listened for another minute to the complete silence on the other side of the door and with a sigh of relief pulled the door open. And froze.

  The door to the rental apartment was wide open and the big room across the hallway was already stacked with what looked like a depot’s worth of electronic gear. Four large men—four very large men—were marching in single file with bi
g cardboard boxes balanced on one shoulder. John Huntington followed them, carrying a computer monitor, one of those fancy flat ones.

  None of them was making a sound. Not even a whisper.

  John turned at the sound of the door opening and stopped. Just stopped in his tracks and looked at her, face set. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

  The effects of that pep talk to herself about how she was going to be cool, calm and collected when meeting John Huntington disappeared in a tidal wave of heat coursing through her.

  God, please don’t let me blush. She desperately sent up a silent prayer, but knew it was too late. She could feel the blush all the way down to her breasts, the blood pumping from her suddenly pounding heart. It rattled against her rib cage.

  How could she be calm and collected when the mere sight of the man sent the blood in a hot rush through her veins?

  This wasn’t the first time her heart had ever pounded. Her heart rate increased nicely after a hard workout at the gym. She loved horror movies and even the twenty-fourth viewing of Night of the Living Dead could get her heart knocking.

  But this was different.

  The instant she’d seen John, her whole system started throbbing. Her heart set up a jungle beat. Hot and hard. Primeval, primitive. It would have been almost…exciting if it didn’t scare her so much.

  Her clothes, ripped and torn, hung from the doorknob and Suzanne felt her face flame even harder. Remnants of her pretty pink lace La Perla bra hung limply on top. She snatched the clothes, bundled them quickly and tossed them back into her office, shutting the door firmly behind her. But her cool resolve was gone completely.

  John advanced as quietly as he always did, dark eyes inspecting her carefully. The odd color gleamed as his eyes narrowed, the color of an ancient sword reflecting sunlight.

  He was just as tall, just as broad as she remembered. The effect he had on her was worse then the first time she’d seen him, because now she knew how he kissed, how rough the skin of his hands was, how it felt to have his…

  No! Don’t think like that or you’ll implode.

  “Good morning.” She tried to keep her voice remote and businesslike. Landlady to tenant. Completely impersonal. She tilted her head up, aware all over again of how tall he was, how big. “You’re starting early.”

  “Yeah. I don’t like to waste time.” His eyes never left hers. She was the one to look away.

  The four men had deposited their burdens in the first room, gone outside, and come back in with more boxes. Still without making a sound.

  “Men.” John’s deep voice was soft but it got results. He had his back to them, but the four men stopped in their tracks, put down their burdens, and stood stiffly to attention. “Meet our new landlady, Suzanne Barron.”

  “Ma’am,” four bass voices said in unison.

  John clamped a big hand around her upper arm, turned around and nudged her forward. Not particularly gently.

  “Suzanne, let me introduce my men. You’ll be seeing them around a lot. Pete, Steve, Les and Jacko.” As he said their names, each man stepped forward, took her hand in his much larger one and squeezed, very carefully, for two seconds. Through all of it, John didn’t release her left arm.

  How foolish she’d been to think that John looked like a biker. These men looked like bikers, with torn jeans, earrings and sweatshirts with the sleeves ripped off. The last one—Jacko?—was truly frightening, larger even than John, with a shaved head—probably to make up for Les, with his waist-length French braid—sloping weight-lifter shoulders, biceps as big as footballs, pierced nostrils, and a snake tattoo from forearm to powerful shoulder. But he said “ma’am” politely, just like the others, and gently squeezed her hand with a shy smile.

  “Inside, men.” John said, never taking his eyes or his hand from her. “Door locked.”

  Just like that, they picked up their burdens and disappeared silently into John’s office. The sound of the lock engaging was loud in the silent, empty hallway.

  John immediately moved forward, invading her personal space. Lover-close. She stepped back, alarmed.

  That was supposed to be his cue to back off, but he didn’t take it. She retreated and he advanced until her back hit the wall. She closed her eyes for a second, remembering that wall. What he had done to her against that wall. How much she had loved it while he was doing it to her and how much she hoped it wouldn’t happen again.

  Once was quite enough.

  Closing her eyes wasn’t much help because she could smell him. Rain and leather and man, a smell that would forever be etched into the deepest recesses of her brain, the reptilian animal part of the brain that never, ever forgets. That smell would be associated until the end of time with the kind of wild sex no woman should ever have, for her own peace of mind. His scent enveloped her and her entire body quivered.

  “Look at me. Talk to me. Are you all right?” John’s voice was harsh, his hand shaking her a little, as if she’d fallen asleep. “Did I hurt you last night?”

  Her eyes popped open. If she breathed deeply, her breasts would touch his chest. She laid a hand against his leather jacket. It was wet from outdoors. She pushed slightly and he stepped back just enough for her to feel a little less crowded.

  “Of course I’m all right.” She bit her lip. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because I was rough, and you were tight,” he answered bluntly.

  She blinked, his hard words evoking memories she couldn’t handle. I can’t do this, she thought, slithering sideways.

  “No, um, no, I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’m…fine. Just fine. Don’t worry about it, I was…I’m…” if she said fine again she’d scream. He was looking down at her intently. How to deal with this man? She had no idea and started walking briskly toward the door, hoping to make a quick escape. He fell right into step beside her.

  This wasn’t going at all like the scenario she’d imagined in her head—the one where they politely said hello, how are you, wished each other good day and went their separate ways—though it very much felt like a John Huntington scenario. The one where she was kept off her guard constantly.

  “I didn’t use a rubber last night,” he said and she stopped and closed her eyes again.

  The feel of him hard and hot inside her, erupting. Afterwards, the unmistakable wetness.

  Her thighs quivered. She might be trying to erase the memory of the rough, exciting sex from her mind but her body remembered. Oh, how it remembered.

  “No,” she said tightly, “you didn’t.”

  “I never do that. I’m always careful. I would have told you that right away if you’d stuck around last night instead of locking yourself in your apartment to avoid me.”

  Suzanne bit her lip and said nothing.

  “We were given constant checkups in the Navy and I never had any problems. And anyway I have a rare blood type,” he continued. “I donate blood every three months and they test the blood every time. I’m clean and I haven’t had sex for six months so there’s no chance at all of you catching something from me.”

  She opened her mouth then closed it. Where was the nearest door so she could beat her head against it? She hadn’t thought of disease, not once. How crazy was that, in this day and age? The man clearly messed with her head. “I’m…okay, too.”

  “Yes, you surely are,” he said, his voice low and husky, a trace of… something in his voice. Was that a slight southern accent? “Except maybe here.”

  He reached out with a big hand and touched her gently on the neck, where he’d given her a love bite.

  “I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I’m not. Not about any of it.” He stroked her neck as she tried really, really hard not to shiver in delight, and then dropped his hand.

  So much for makeup, she thought. She’d reached the front door and had her hand on the door handle. Blessed relief lay on the other side of that door and she looked at the handle longingly.

  John laid a large palm against the door, holding
it shut. “I want to know the second your period is late.” It was said in such a commanding tone, she almost instinctively replied Aye aye, sir.

  At least she had an answer for that one.

  “Oh no, um, I had some…problems. I wasn’t—“ Suzanne drew in a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts and the few shreds of dignity left to her. “I take the Pill,” she said finally. “So that’s not a problem.”

  “The Pill? Jesus.“ A slow smile stole across his hard face. “That’s great news. Next time we have sex I can come inside you again.”