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The assurance was good enough.
Giving in to his exhaustion, Lane turned his face against her neck, inhaled her scent, and shut his eyes. His last thought before drifting off was that he couldn’t remember any adrenaline drop being as good as the rush that preceded it—until now.
Morgan lay awake for a long time after Lane’s even breathing told her he was asleep. She was physically spent, her muscles weak and watery, and her entire body cried out for rest. But her mind, her emotions—those were on raging overload.
Something told her she’d just made a huge mistake.
She’d known that getting involved with Lane Montgomery was a risk. Even so, she’d gone into it with her eyes wide open. But what she’d expected was, at worst, a very hot, very satisfying one-night stand, and at best, a torrid affair of some unknown duration that would offer her welcome relief from the turmoil she was going through.
Talk about a miscalculation.
She’d never anticipated the magnitude of what had just happened between them.
It wasn’t just the sex, although that had surpassed even her most erotic fantasies.
It was more. It was deep, it was complex, and it was undeniable.
It was also the last thing she needed right now. Her emotions, her state of mind, her life were on total overdrive. She needed something simple, something uncomplicated, not another emotional avalanche.
God help her, she was in trouble.
THE WIRY MAN ambled down East Eighty-second Street until he reached the address he was looking for. He climbed the steps of the brownstone, glancing around as he hovered at the front door.
It was 3 a.m., pitch-dark, and deserted. He was dressed in black so he blended in with the night. And he was traveling light.
He opened the leather case containing his picks and started on the top lock. He inserted the tension wrench and applied pressure in a counterclockwise direction. The lock was a Schlage. No problem. He selected the particular pick that experience had taught him would be most effective, expertly working each pin until the wrench turned in his hand and the bolt retracted into the door.
One down, one to go.
He repeated the process on the bottom lock.
Mission accomplished.
The front doorknob turned in his gloved hand. He was in.
WARM LIPS BRUSHED Morgan’s shoulder, and gentle fingers threaded through her hair, moved it aside so those same lips could find the curve of her neck.
Her lashes fluttered, then lifted, and for a moment she couldn’t get her bearings. It was nighttime.
The room was dark, other than a pale, flickering glow. And the bed was low to the ground and unfamiliar.
She twisted around toward the source of the kisses—and abruptly her memory returned.
Lane was propped on one elbow, watching her from beneath hooded lids. There were a couple of lit candles on the nearby end table, which explained the soft glow filtering the room. On the floor beside the air mattress, there was a tray containing two glasses of wine, two slices of cheesecake, and two hunks of chocolate layer cake.
A slow, intimate smile curved Lane’s lips. “Hungry?”
“Starved.” Morgan squirmed into a sitting position, tucking the blanket around her. Candles, dessert, and wine. It might be clichéd, but it still did the trick. “What a lovely surprise,” she murmured. “Especially since gestures like this are usually part of the seduction dance. And since that dance has already reached a roaring crescendo…” Her eyes twinkled. “I think this could be described as superfluous.”
“Funny, I’d describe it as sustenance.” Lane’s knuckles grazed her cheek, his intimate gaze still enveloping her. “The dessert—and the dance.”
Morgan swallowed. There was no denying his effect on her. The scary part was that she was having a hard time convincing herself that it was all part of his standard MO. The words rang too true—assuming she had enough objectivity to assess them. “When did you do all this?” she asked.
“A few minutes ago. After I got my fill of watching you sleep.”
“Now that sounds like an enthralling pastime.” She raked a hand through her tousled hair.
“It was.”
