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The air stirred with the breath of the Bay. An instant chill surrounded her, penetrating her clothing and dampening her hair. Her clothes drank in the moisture, making the cotton cool and clingy. Her nipples puckered beneath her turtleneck, rasping tight against her satin bra. She thought of Max, nearly passed out in the living room. Dizzy. Flirtatious. Sexy and charming and more potent than 120-proof rum.
Too bad he wasn’t here when she needed him, when she just might be tempted to surrender to desire.
Tiny red lights blinked to the west, indicating the span of the Golden Gate. She strolled through the wispy fog until she approached the wall, surprisingly low—maybe three feet tall—that enclosed the patio. She kept a safe distance from the edge and closed her eyes, remembering the image in the magazine of the lovers on the bridge, right up against the railing. She superimposed her face on the woman again. And this time she did the same to the man, giving him Max’s thick, dark hair, rugged square chin and gentle, probing fingers.
She saw them clearly. A man—Max. A woman—her. An undeniable desire, hidden by just a touch of fog. Tonight’s mist was particularly thick for such a late hour—San Francisco fog usually rolled over the city around four o’clock and dissipated by midnight.
Yet nothing about this night was usual. Definitely not her. Not her uncontrollable desire for Max. Not the circumstances that brought her here or the consequences she’d face in the morning if she stayed.
She pursed her lips, realizing the consequences—a little embarrassment, perhaps a dose of discomfort in the morning light—were more than worth the price of living her fantasy, grabbing her dream with both hands and saying, “Yes! Now!” That strategy had paid off once when she’d taken over the operations at the restaurant. Had she not succumbed to her youth and married the first man she met at the airport, she might have been able to say the same about the day she bought her ticket to San Francisco and left her loving, but stifling, family behind.
“Yes. Now,” she repeated aloud, trying the words on for size.
“Just tell me what you want.”
His voice rolled over the tiles and through the thick fog like a warm blast of summer air. The contrast spawned a ripple of gooseflesh up the back of Ariana’s neck, then crept beneath her turtleneck and played havoc with her skin.
She squeezed her eyelids tighter as the sensations rocked her balance, nearly unraveling her completely when Max’s breath mixed with the fog and whispered into her ear.
“Tell me what you want. Anything, Ariana. Anything goes.”
4
“IS THAT A FACT?”
Her tone was saucy, despite the whimper begging to erupt from the back of her throat. She tamped down the sound of surrender with a thick-throated swallow and willed herself to remain in control. Acquiescence to the night—the passion, the mood, the man—should be resisted. She had to keep her wits. But she couldn’t deny that this liaison would be more than a fantasy come true, more than a living dream.
The night. The fog. The man. The desire. Ariana knew without a doubt that what swirled around her at the ledge of the balcony was a gift, a once-in-a-lifetime twist of fate that she’d be a damn fool to refuse. If only he was thinking clearly!
Max stepped around, taking her hand and leading her to the ledge. His bare arm brushed against hers as he reached for the round, brass railing that edged the thigh-high brick wall enclosing his patio. Tan skin stretched tight over powerful arms and sinuous shoulders.
He’d removed his shirt. The sprinkle of tawny hair over his arms and across his chest prickled in the cool air. When the fog shifted, she realized he’d shed his pants on the way upstairs as well. He wore nothing but a thin pair of midnight-blue boxers, damp from the mist.
She tried not to allow her gaze to linger, but found her quest impossible. The shape of his erection, swathed in silk and taut with want, ignited a throbbing heat between her legs. A thrill skittered straight to the center of her chest.
She swallowed and rubbed her arms to ward off a shiver that had little to with the temperature. “Aren’t you cold?”
He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding impressively. His muscles were distinct and smooth, honed from running and perhaps some weight lifting or rowing—the kinds of exercise a rich man used to mold his body for the torture of women like her.
“I like the cold. It’s invigorating.” He turned and sat on the low railing, his legs stretched leisurely outward. Plucking her sleeve with his fingers, he snapped the clingy material against her skin. “You should experience it for yourself.”
A zing of awareness shot through her arm, but she found it hard to enjoy with him poised so precariously on the ledge. Her stomach clenched. A threatening whirl of dizziness danced at the edges of her eyes. God, she hated heights!
“That railing is awfully low, you should be…”
Max smiled and leaned completely backward. Ariana screamed and shot forward, grabbing both his arms and fully expecting both of them to tumble over. But a wall of clear, thick Plexiglas caught him before he rolled them off the three-story building. The shield vibrated from their combined weight.
The wall of his chest caught her, vibrations of a sensual kind rocked her to her core.
“Cool feature, huh? Lower wall, better view,” he explained, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her between his thighs and onto his lap. He was hard beneath her, hard all around her. Hard and male and dangerous. “But still completely safe.”
Ariana decided then and there that men like Max Forrester shouldn’t be allowed to use the word safe in any form. She shivered from the cold, from the pure, unadulterated lust coursing through her bloodstream and firing her every nerve ending. She panted to catch her breath.
“That was a cruel trick,” she answered, forcing herself to look him in the eye.
His grin faded. “The cruel trick is you coming out here without me and leaving one of these on my bed for me to find when I came looking for you.” He held the foil packet aloft. “An invitation?”
She arched an eyebrow. “A friendly reminder.”
“I do remember that I promised to show you this view myself.” He tugged her closer. The scent of sandalwood, enhanced by his body heat and diffused into the fog, assailed her. The result was a light-headed euphoria that made her hold him tight.
“And I promised to touch you wherever you wanted me to. Put those two promises together,” he said, grinning at her impassioned grip on his arm, “and the experience will be absolutely unforgettable.”
He swallowed deeply, and Ariana watched the bobbing of his Adam’s apple and the undulation of his throat, fascinated.
“You say that now. But that drug can alter your memory.”
“I don’t feel drugged by anything but you.”
Her chest tightened in response to his declaration. She couldn’t see clearly in the dim lighting on the balcony, but Max certainly seemed to have control of his balance now, something he hadn’t had earlier. Maybe the Mickey had lost some of its effect.
Anticipation warred with her uncertainties—sexual excitement battled with a lifetime’s worth of repression and regret. She had every reason to believe that Max’s desire was honest—true in a way that was elemental to a man and ideal for a woman like her. She could have him tonight, love him tonight, knowing they were both sating a desire born long ago and hidden for reasons that, right now, simply didn’t matter.
What did matter was that in the morning she’d have an adventure to remember, a sensual liaison that would erase the erotic pictures from the magazine with images of delight so much more personal and real.
She grazed her hands upward from his elbows to his shoulders, kneading the thick sinew as she worked inward to his neck. For a man who reportedly wielded great power during the day, his muscles were now completely relaxed and pliant to her touch. His eyes, half-shut as she threaded her fingers into his hair, were focused entirely on her, seeming to see something fascinating, something no other man ever had.
She moved forward to kiss him, but his hands snaked from her waist to her elbows and stopped her.
“Wait,” he ordered.
Confused, she instinctively pulled back from his grip. He released her, but stood and stepped immediately back into her personal space. She gasped and retreated. He shadowed her move.
“Don’t bolt, Ariana.”
“Why’d you stop me? This isn’t a good idea.”
“You were going to kiss me,” he answered simply.
She bit her lower lip before replying. “And?”
“And you were touching me.” He did as she did earlier, sliding his hands from her elbows to her shoulders, then massaging inward to her neck until his thumb teased the lobes of her ears.
“You didn’t like it?” she murmured. She couldn’t imagine how he wouldn’t have. She was having a damn hard time keeping her eyes open and her moan of pleasure contained in her throat.
“I loved it, but that’s not what tonight is going to be about.”
“Huh?”
If a more intelligent response existed, Ariana couldn’t summon it. Not with his scent, hot and male and potent, assailing her nostrils and his body heat defeating the night’s chill like fire against ice.
“My brain has defogged. My balance is back. And if I remember correctly, I promised that if you stayed, tonight would be about you. Me pleasing you. Not necessarily the other way around.”
She barely had time to register that he had just voiced her ultimate fantasy, when he lowered his head and brushed her lips with a teasing sweep. The sensation unleashed that imprisoned whimper, then several more as the kiss deepened, mouths opened, tongues danced. Before she realized it, Max untucked her shirt from her jeans and skimmed her belly with a light, exploratory touch.
Electric need surged through her. She jumped, startled and thrilled and excited, then grabbed his cheeks and pressed closer to force herself past her panic. Max wouldn’t hurt her. Max would stop if she asked.
And she definitely didn’t want to stop.
His lips stretched tight as he grinned beneath the kiss. He unbuttoned her jeans and released the zipper, barely touching her in the process, which only stoked her hunger for more. She broke the kiss long enough to whip off her turtleneck, tossing it aside to disappear in the soupy mist swirling around them, then kissed him again. He led her backward until her calves bumped against an outdoor chaise lounge.
Pressing his hands on her shoulders, he guided her into the chair, following her down so that he knelt beside her. With intimate slowness, he eased her fully against the cushion, altering his kisses from bold and insistent to soft and scattered, touching her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin, lulling her into an anticipatory state where she held her breath and waited for his next touch.
When she finally opened her eyes, his grin was pure sin.
“Do you feel it?” he asked, his green eyes twinkling with some untold secret.
“Feel what? You stopped.”
“Oh, honey—” he smiled as he removed her jeans, the denim rasping over the sensitive skin of her legs, leaving her wispy panties askew “—I’ve only just started. I meant the anticipation. Do you feel that?”
She nodded, rubbing her tongue-dampened lips together tightly. The fog kissed her bare legs. The chill made her shiver, but the sensation was nothing compared to the waves of want rocking her from the inside out.
“It’ll only get better, I promise.”
He tugged the denim off her ankles, then straddled the chair so he could attend to her bare feet. He massaged her arches and toes with a strong pressure that at first made her wince, then he kneaded softly until she sighed. She hadn’t realized how tired her feet were. But with each press and swirl, his hands erased the ache of the workday and enhanced the bittersweet torment of unsatisfied need.
He inched upward, lifting her left leg and placing an anklet of wet-tongued kisses on her skin, followed by a seam of laving up her calf and behind her knee. She started to slip down the fog-slickened cushion. The plunging sensation made her grab the arms of the chair.
“Relax, Ariana. I won’t hurt you.”
“It’s not that. I feel like I’m falling.”
“You are. You’re falling for me.”
She shook her head, smiling at his sweet sentiment, but not surprised that he didn’t understand.
“I’m afraid of heights,” she admitted.
“Heights of passion?” His teasing tone and sparkling eyes drew her into his double entendre. He scooted forward another few inches, then draped her knee over his shoulder. She held her breath, watching, fascinated and vulnerable and thrilled, as he smoothed his hand from beneath her lifted thigh, down to her nearly bare bottom. Wordlessly, he grabbed an elongated cushion from a nearby chair and placed it behind her hips, securing her in the semi-lifted position. She grabbed the neck roll and slid it behind her head, assisting him as he arranged her body for his full view and complete attention.
“I wouldn’t know about the heights of passion, Max,” she admitted. She’d avoided them the same way she’d avoided climbing Coit Tower or walking the span of the Golden Gate. The possibility of plunging down, losing herself, was a real one she’d always meant to avoid. “Never really climbed them.”
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