Messing With Mac

15

MAC STOOD THERE out front of Taylor’s building, envelope in hand, watching the woman he’d rushed over to show it to hug and kiss another man.

That he knew and respected that man and his work didn’t help. He didn’t care if Ty Patrick O’Grady was her architect or her trash guy, the impact of seeing them cozying up was the same.

God, he felt like an ass standing there, when only a moment ago he’d been giddy, and hot as hell. He had figured he’d tell her the news, then start off by kissing her senseless, and from there talk his way right up the stairs to her apartment and her very frilly bed.

They’d make good use out of all those ridiculous pillows she had, and burn off some badly needed tension while they were at it.

And then afterwards, they’d go on their merry way as they had before, sated and relaxed, until the next time the tension got to be too much.

In which case he’d gallantly offer his body yet again.

It was a system that would work well for both of them, he had decided, and no one need get hurt. In fact, the only regret he had was wasting the past few days thinking instead of doing.

Bottom line, Taylor had been hurt, too, and she, more than any other woman, understood not wanting to get hurt again. They could be together without really being together.

All parties happy.

Or so he’d thought. But that was before she’d moved on, and had climbed into another man’s arms.

He understood, they hadn’t had anything exclusive. Hell, he’d made it crystal clear he hadn’t wanted exclusive, but damn, his bed was barely cold from the night they’d spent in it.

He remembered everything. No doubt he still had the fingernail marks on his butt from her eager, demanding hands. She’d mewled and clung and cried out his name, and if memory served right-and he knew damn well it did-she’d woken him up, twice, with her own hungry demands for more.

So it hadn’t been all him, damn it.

Screw it. Since Taylor was still hugging Ty, Mac spun on his heel and went back to his truck. He got caught in traffic, which really topped off his mood, then stalked through his dark house and stared down at his bed.

Unmade and lit by the moon, all he could remember when he looked at it was tangled limbs, breathless pleas and a pleasure so great it had been painful, physically painful, to let her go.

It was still painful.

HE WAS GONE. Taylor couldn’t believe it. By the time she crossed the street, Mac had left. She calmly finished her business with Ty, then went upstairs, because this was going to require a clothing change. She prepared herself with a sort of adrenaline rush she didn’t think she should be proud of. Amusement and fury.

Fury and amusement.

She would wear siren red because it suited her. The matching do-me shoes with the five-inch spiked heels were a bonus because she figured she could always take them off and hit the stubborn, idiotic lug over the head with them to make herself feel better.

Oh, he had some nerve, shooting her that scathing look and then vanishing.

She washed up, waxed, shined and polished, all the silly female rituals that usually made her feel better. Calmer.

And pictured him suffering the entire time. She really shouldn’t be proud of the fact she wanted him to suffer.

The sight of his truck in his driveway made her giddy with relief. He was home, and he would listen to her while she told him all the reasons she was mad at him, and then she’d walk back out to her car in her sexy little dress, picturing him cross-eyed with lust behind her, solid in the knowledge that she drove him as crazy as he drove her.

She’d sleep well knowing he was lying awake staring at his ceiling, calling himself every kind of name for letting her walk out of his life.

That’s right, she’d sleep well. Then she would wake up tomorrow and move on. And now that she knew her heart worked again, she’d go find a man who could appreciate that.

And her.

He didn’t answer her knock. The fury built back up. Ignoring her, was he? She knocked again, harder, determined to see this out.

She simply had to share this anger, or she was going to blow up.

She lifted her fist again, but the door opened so unexpectedly she almost solidly rapped him on the nose.

He didn’t even flinch, not this man with nerves of steel. No, he just cocked a brow and propped the doorway open with his shoulder.

His naked shoulder, because all he wore was a… She gulped hard and struggled to maintain eye con tract.

A damn towel. His entire body was pebbled with water drops. Given that, and the fact his hair was wet, too, and she realized she’d gotten him out of the shower.

Her traitorous body quivered at the thought of his long, leanly muscled body in the steam, water cascading down his tanned, sleek skin, his head back, his eyes closed in ecstasy as the hot water beaded over him.

Oh good Lord, now she could hardly breathe.

His eyes, those light, light eyes, traveled slowly up her body. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said.

“Fancy that.”

“What is it you need?”

“It’s…rather complicated.”

“Is it? That’s a shame then, as I’m running a bit late.”

“This can’t wait, Mac.”

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. “But I’m going to get dressed.”

She followed him down the hall to the very bedroom where he’d once upon a time rocked her entire world.

Casual as he pleased, he dropped his towel.

“What are you doing?” she croaked, but didn’t look away, not even to blink as he shoved those long, long legs and mouthwatering ass into a pair of pants.

Turning to her as he zipped them up, she had a moment to wish he’d shifted around just a second sooner-

“I’m dressing for my parents’ anniversary party.”

A white dress shirt came next, covering that wide chest that hadn’t come from any gym, but years of hard labor.

She struggled to maintain her composure and sauntered over to him, telling herself now, give it to him now, trying desperately to remember all the reasons why she was so angry. But instead of wrapping her fingers around his neck and squeezing, she slid them into his wet hair and pressed her body to his.

He jerked, proving he was not immune. “What are you doing?”

“I came over here to yell at you, but apparently I’m going to kiss you instead.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Before she could move, he grabbed her, whipped them both around and captured her between the hard wall and his harder body.

Trapped, she gave one startled yelp before his mouth slammed down on hers. His body was like iron, his hands hard and hot as they slid from her hips to her back. And his mouth…oh, his mouth. All of her fantasies of a down and dirty, knock-out-fight paled in significance against the reality of what was happening between them now. Nothing, nothing could have prepared her for the ruthless, ravenous, reckless, unrestrained, raw sexuality of the man holding her to the wall, or her own ruthless, ravenous, reckless, unrestrained response.

His hands molded her body, sculptured her, and only when they were both shuddering, sighing, lost in the driving, pulsing need, did he pull back. Chest heaving, he lifted his head enough to look into her eyes and grate out, “Who are you kissing?”

Stunned by the overwhelming emotions rocketing through her, she could only blink.

His hands held her jaw, his thumbs teasing the lips that wanted his back on them. “Say my name, Taylor. Say it so I know you’re right here, with me and no one else.”

Oh, but if that didn’t remind her she was furious at him! Shoving him away, she straightened her shoulders and glared at him. “I know who I kiss. And if you think I don’t, then you don’t know me near well enough for me to see this through.”

With her pride on her shoulders like a ball and chain, she stalked right out of his bedroom, back down the hall and out to her car. It took her shaking fingers a few tries to get the key into the ignition, but she succeeded, and peeled away from the curb with a satisfactory screech.

It was the only satisfaction she had that entire night.

SHE WAS WOKEN at six in the morning by the sound of a power tool, which really fried her, because she’d only just managed to fall asleep an hour ago.

Furious all over again, that he would dare to interrupt her beauty sleep-and she made no mistake, she knew exactly who was down there making the racket-she stalked out of her apartment and down the stairs.

The first thing she saw when she entered the storefront was the antique hat stand, all dark oak and brass. It stood in the center of the room that was empty except for a makeshift work table.

Unable to help from touching the beautiful thing, she ran a finger down the unusual stand, guessing it was over a hundred years old.

“Incredible, isn’t it?”

Turning, she faced Mac, who stood in the doorway covered in sawdust. Hanging from his hand was the offending noisemaker, a saw of some kind. “Suzanne told me you’re not selling off your entire antique collection,” he said. “That you’re hoping to open a store right here.” He lifted a broad shoulder. “My grandmother left me a few pieces of furniture, most of which I’ve sold, but this piece I kept because of the beauty of the wood.”

“So it’s yours.”

“No, it’s yours. I’m giving it to you.”

He was giving it to her. No one gave her anything, or hadn’t since Jeff. She braced herself for the sharp pain from the thought of him, but all she felt was a nice warm fuzzy. She’d thought about that a lot lately. Somewhere along the line, she’d stopped comparing the two men, stopped putting Jeff on a pedestal. As for where she’d put this man, she didn’t yet know. “Why are you giving it to me?” Her voice wasn’t the angry one she’d imagined on the walk downstairs, but she felt sucker punched at the look in his eyes as he set down the saw, dusted himself off and moved closer.

There wasn’t any matching anger in his eyes. None. Instead, what she saw was a deep brooding that came from sorrow and regret.

He cared. He cared deeply.

Yes, he thought that caring was strictly physical. He thought that caring could be set on the back burner until it boiled over, and then with one night of amazing sex, it could be taken care of.

Until the next time it boiled over.

But he was wrong, dead wrong, and she was going to prove it to him. She ran her hands up his tense, hot, slightly damp arms.

“What are you doing?” he asked hoarsely.

“Touching you.”

“Don’t,” he grated out through clenched teeth when she danced her fingers over his chest. His hands fisted at his sides. “I’ve had a really shitty morning.”

She would have said the same of herself only a few moments ago. “So you’d say you’re…worked up?”

“Yes.” His jaw bunched. “I’d definitely say that.”

“Well, that would make two of us, Mac.” She smiled at him beneath her half-closed eyes and squirmed against him, just a little, just enough to have the breath hissing out from between his teeth. “I’m worked up over you.”

“Well, that’s convenient. I’m worked up over you. I got approval from the town council. I’m renovating two of their projects in the next phase.”

“Oh, Mac!” She knew how much it meant to him, and her heart hitched. “Let’s celebrate.”

His eyes raked over her, hands still at his sides. “You’re wearing my T-shirt.”

“You left it here. I’ve claimed it as my own.” Backing away from him, she shimmied in a little circle to ensure he caught the full effect of his T-shirt on her body.

Mac caught the full effect all right. He caught the way the torn neck made one sleeve fall off her creamy shoulder, exposing the top of one breast. He caught the way the hem lifted, revealing a peekaboo hint of tantalizing twin cheeks, making him wonder what the hell, if anything, she had on beneath.

She did another circle and his eyes glazed. She ran her own hands down her body. Her breasts beaded beneath the cotton. Then she turned her back to him again, running her hands through her hair. As she did, the hem of the shirt slipped up another inch, showing another flash of her tight, rounded cheeks.

No panties.

With a low growl that reverberated in his chest, he lunged forward, pressing her between the makeshift work table and his own body.

Trapped, she let out a low hum and bent forward, gliding her hands up the table, thrusting her butt against his crotch. “Mac,” she murmured. “Mac…”

The sound of his name murmured in that helpless little pant on her lips spurred him on, even as it soothed. She was here, with him, not with anyone but him.

“Yeah.” His hands slid up her spine, then back to her hips, grinding her against the hard-on to beat all hard-ons.

“Mac…”

“I know.” Gripping the cotton of the shirt she wore, he shoved it up to her waist.

And groaned at the sight of her bare, sweet ass rubbing against his jeans. He could feel the heat of her through the denim, and imagined her soft, bare flesh getting more and more aroused at the friction. Groaning again he reached around her to cup her breasts.

Thrusting back against him, her hands fisted on the edge of the wood table, gasping as he rasped his fingers over her nipples, capturing them, stroking, pulling, stroking again until she was chanting his name over and over, her hips pumping in a rhythm old as time.

He was as close to coming in his jeans as a horny teen with his first erection, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to see her face, taste her mouth, watch her go over for him, only him.

Pulling back, he heard her sound of protest and smiled grimly as he whipped her around. “I’m not going anywhere, Princess, and neither are you.”

“Thank God,” she panted, and when he lifted her up to the table, she spread her legs for him, sighing when he stepped between them and gripped her bare ass in his hands to hold her in place. Her head fell back on her shoulders, her eyes closed, her mouth open.

“Look at me,” he demanded, giving her a little shake until she blinked huge, desire-slumberous eyes at him. He rocked his hips, watching those eyes go opaque with need. “Can anyone else make you feel this way, Taylor? Anyone?” Another slow rock of his hips, and another moan tumbled from her lips. “Like you’d rather have this than breathe? Can they?”

“Mac…” She tried pulling him down to her, tried to wrap her legs around his waist, which would have pressed the hottest, wettest part of her against the neediest part of him.

But he’d have lost it on the spot. Instead, he held her still and whipped the T-shirt off her. Then bent to a gloriously full, high breast, whispering her name as he rubbed his jaw along the plump curve.

In response, she fisted her fingers in his hair and did her best to make him prematurely bald.

“Answer me,” he said, and ran his tongue over her nipple. “Can anyone else make you feel this way?”

Taylor tried to respond, honest to God she did, even though her body was tightening, tightening, tightening, lost in desperate need. “No.” She tried to concentrate even as he drove her toward the very edge. “No one else makes me feel like this.” She gasped as he swirled his tongue over her other pebbled nipple. “N-no one. Ty is just…”

He sucked her into his mouth at the same time he slid a finger into her, and Taylor cried out, her thoughts scattering into nothing.

“Ty is just…” he repeated for her, doing something with his finger that made her just about swallow her tongue.

“He’s…” She struggled to concentrate. “I…” He added another finger to the first, and then his thumb got into the action, slowly skimming over her swollen, wet flesh. Her entire body quivered, so close-

“You…what, Taylor?”

Oh, those fingers! “He’s like my brother!”

He went utterly still. “Your…brother?”

“He’s marrying my best friend.” Licking her dry lips, she stared up at the man who had two fingers inside her, his mouth on her breast and held her on the very edge of an orgasm in a way no one had ever dared.

She wanted that orgasm!

She was also falling in love with him. Damn it, damn it, not all the way in love, just a little tiny bit. But even a little tiny bit was bad. There would be no one else for her, she knew in a moment of clarity, it was this man, and as he pressed down with his thumb and wriggled those amazingly talented fingers inside her, it hit her as hard and fast as the explosive orgasm did.

When her breath finally shuddered back into her lungs, when she could breathe again, she released her death grip on Mac’s shirt and fell back on the table.

“More?” he asked.

“Lots more.” She waited while his gaze met hers, knowing that if she couldn’t tell him how she really felt, she could at least tell him this. “No one else makes me feel this way, Mac.” Her breathing still hadn’t returned to normal, and he ran a finger over the pulse she knew raced at the base of her neck. She caught his fingers in hers. “I never let them.” With a slow roll of her hips, she smiled, determined to keep this light, determined not to let him see she’d started the fall. “Now tell me you have a condom in your pocket.”

“I have a condom in my pocket.” He reached into said pocket and let out a grim smile. “This time I have three.”

There was something deliciously distracting and sinfully wicked about having the rough wood at her back and Mac, still fully dressed at her front. Just as there was something incredibly touching about the way he drew his fingers down her torso, followed by his mouth, his eyes closed as he worshipped her body with everything he had. It tightened her throat and brought her back around to the terrifying thoughts of forever, watching him make love to her slowly, thoroughly…and yet she couldn’t refuse him, not when he reared up and stripped off his shirt, undid his jeans, then tenderly sank into her, not when he started a devastating rhythm matched with a kiss so sweet and deep she never wanted it to end, and not when he finally nudged them both over so that they exploded together.

When it was over, he fell on her, pressing her into the wood. He was hot, heavy, and she held on to him, wanting his weight, wanting his heat, and wanting it so much she clung, just a little, when she never clung. And right then, still gasping for breath, legs still hooked around his thighs, she realized the truth.

She wasn’t just a little bit in love.

There was no such thing as a little bit in love.

Nope, she’d gone and fallen all the way.