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Lane’s entire body tensed. Where they were, who they were, what they were talking about—all of it ceased to matter. Now there was just now.
“I’ll have them wrap the food,” he said in a low, urgent tone. “We’ll take it with us.”
She nodded, already reaching for her jacket. “Don’t forget my cheesecake,” she managed.
“I won’t. Or my chocolate layer cake. I have a feeling we’ll both need the energy boost.”
He’d signaled the waiter and was halfway out of the booth, when Morgan stopped him, capturing his forearm. “Lane?”
Turning, he shot her a questioning look. Questioning? More like imploring. He felt like a horny teenager who was praying his date hadn’t gotten cold feet.
Morgan smiled, reading his expression. “Not a chance,” she assured him softly. “My jacket will be zipped and I’ll be at the door by the time you get our doggy bags. It’s just that…” She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue, pushing out her next words with an effort. “I realize my place is only four blocks away. It’s close. It’s empty. It’s the logical choice. But…”
“But you don’t want to go back there tonight.”
“No, I don’t. I want to shut out everything. I want to think about only tonight. Better yet, I don’t want to think at all.”
“Then don’t. My place is only seven or eight blocks farther. We’ll make up the time by grabbing a taxi instead of walking.” He snatched up his own jacket, yanking it on as he spoke to the waiter.
In a minute flat, he’d ordered their dessert to go and whipped out the money to pay their check. While the waiter totaled everything up, Lane angled his head in Morgan’s direction, gave her an intimate wink. “Meet you at the door in five.”
“Nope,” she countered, zipping up her jacket and plucking her purse off the seat. “Meet me outside. I’ll have a cab ready and waiting.”
TWENTY-TWO
Fifteen minutes later they were inside Lane’s apartment.
Morgan got a fleeting glimpse of the first floor, bathed in the entranceway light, as Lane threw the dead bolt behind them.
The place was very relaxed, very homey, very male. A living room with caramel leather sofas and chairs, a hearth and fireplace, and, off of that, a media room with a big-screen TV and lots of high-tech audio equipment. Beyond that, she could see a room with a ceramic-tile floor and stainless-steel appliances—obviously the kitchen. In the opposite corner was a dead-bolted door that had to lead to Lane’s digital photo lab. It was probably very impressive, as was the rest of the place, but Morgan didn’t—couldn’t—concentrate on asking for a tour. Not now.
“The second floor’s my home gym,” Lane said in a low, husky voice, pulling off her jacket and his and tossing them aside. “Want to see it?”
“I want to see the whole apartment—later.” Morgan shook a few snowflakes off her hair, her mind and body wired. “Unless you’re dying to show it to me now.”
“Uh-uh.” Lane walked over to her, rubbing his palms up and down the cashmere sleeves of her sweater. “What I’m dying to show you now is my bedroom.”
She tipped back her head, gazed up at him with undisguised desire glittering in her eyes. “My thoughts exactly.”
“The problem is, it’s on the third floor, two flights up.” His fingers glided through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “Both bedrooms are.” He lowered his head, his lips grazing the side of her neck.
“So far away,” she whispered, her voice and body trembling.
“I’ve got a perfect solution.” His lips shifted to the hollow at the base of her throat. “I spend hours in my photo lab.” He kissed his way up to her jaw. “I crash in the media room. It’s got a cushioned air mattress—king-size. We could—”
“Yes.”
He lifted her arms around his neck, nibbling at the corner of her mouth as he backed her toward the media room. “I’m being a lousy host,” he murmured. “Can I offer you something—a drink? A glass of wine?”
“A kiss,” she replied, turning her head until her lips brushed his. “I’ve fantasized about that all week.”
“So have I…and a lot more.” He stopped in his tracks, his hand sliding under her hair, anchoring her for what was to come. “Let’s start with this.”
His mouth opened on hers. Hers opened under his. The kiss was hot, penetrating, openly carnal. Their lips fused, parted, then fused again, his tongue pressing deep, rubbing against hers in a blatant overture of what was to come.
Morgan whimpered—an aroused, impatient sound—and pressed closer, molding her body to his. Even through their layers of clothes, the contact was electrifying.
Lifting Morgan’s feet off the floor, Lane half carried her the rest of the way to the media room, covering the remaining distance in long, uncompromising strides.
