Friendly Persuasion Read online

  Ever since Thursday, when she’d been unable to make a date with Baylor Jones, she’d struggled with what to say to Ross about quitting. I’m getting too attached to you. That should do it. If she knew Ross, he’d leave so fast she’d feel a breeze.

  The idea made her sad. Like giving up Christmas. She had a feeling she should talk about it before they started on the fantasy. Ride bareback on something wild. How could she pass up that? No one had that kind of self-control.

  She’d looked up Bucky’s in the phone book and arrived just before the designated hour—five o’clock—where she found they were giving free lessons in country swing. Not very sexy, really. Maybe Ross had a private room reserved in the back with one of those mechanical bulls they could set on a slow rock. There might be a lasso involved.

  She’d joined the dancing lessons to pass the time until Mickey Blue arrived. By six, she’d worked up an unsexy sweat, had blisters from the cheap cowboy boots she’d had from an old Halloween costume, and there was no sign of her erotic urban wrangler.

  By six-thirty she was upset. The Love Thief had been late, but only seventeen minutes. This was an hour and a half. She called Ross’s apartment and left a message. On the off chance he’d left her one, she called her machine. “Where are you?” Ross asked impatiently in his message. “We can’t ride horses this late and the champagne’s getting warm.”

  Horses? What was he talking about? She borrowed a phone book and discovered there were two Bucky’s—one a bar, the other a riding stable on the opposite side of the Valley. Damn. When she brought back the phone-book, the bartender had a call for her. It was Ross, who’d picked up her message.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No biggie. I was just afraid you’d chickened out on me.” He sounded so relieved her heart ached. She had chickened out. She just hadn’t told him yet. “Come over to my place and we’ll go with Plan B.”

  Plan B. Plan B should be goodbye. The crossed signals were a sign they should stop. By the time Kara got to his apartment, she’d convinced herself. She no longer felt like Miss Kitty, the bareback cowgirl, anyway. She was Kara in too-tight jeans and blisters going to her buddy Ross’s apartment.

  Ross answered the door in jersey shorts, damp from the shower, his chest sparkling with water drops, his sleek hair smelling of masculine soap and coconut shampoo. Very sexy, but very Ross. His cowboy boots, Stetson, jeans and plaid shirt lay in a pile in the middle of the living room. His Plan B must not involve any lassos or spurs.

  “You sh-showered?” she stuttered.

  “Had to ditch the horse sweat,” he said.

  “If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t have been any fun. I’m afraid of horses.” She had to make this sound less and less desirable—let them both down gently.

  “Wouldn’t have mattered,” Ross said, low and intimate, pulling her close so he could grip her backside and rock her against him. He was already erect. “We were only riding far enough down the trail so they couldn’t hear us moan, then we were going to lay out a blanket and drink champagne off our naked bodies.”

  “Oh,” she said. If only she’d gone to the right Bucky’s so they could have had that farewell fantasy. Tell him, she ordered herself. But he felt so good against her body.

  “So, about Plan B,” Ross murmured. “You left that almond oil from the massage session here. We could try a little more physical therapy. Every time I smell that stuff I go nuts remembering.”

  “You do?” she said, desire swamping her good sense.

  “Yeah. I rub some on and think of you.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, heat flaring in his eyes. “My skin is as soft as a baby’s behind. Feel.” He took her hand and moved it across his chest, warm and wet, the hair soft. His heart thudded under her hand and his ribs expanded with an unsteady breath. He lowered her hand to his muscled stomach and then pressed it against his erection through his shorts. “But I need you to rub out some, um, kinks.”

  “M-maybe,” she said. What was her plan again?

  Before her sluggish brain could rustle it up, Ross’s hands had slipped into her jeans and gripped her butt. That pulled the crotch seam tight against her hot spot. If he kept on, she knew she’d melt right here. She went for ground rule number two. “This feels weird,” she managed.

  “That’s because your jeans are so tight. Let’s get you out of them and it will feel great.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she said. With aching regret, she reached behind her and extracted his hands from her pants.

  “You mean because we’ve already done the massage thing?” He seemed to be in a sexual haze.

  “No. Because we’re Ross and Kara in your apartment,” she said. “Remember? We tried this before and fell off the couch laughing.”

  “But things are different now,” he said. He reached for her and she couldn’t quite pull away.

  Things were different, all right. Because now she wanted Ross. Not Miguel, not Mike, not even Mickey Blue. Ross. As he looked right now, with his hair wet, chest bare, face shining. Everything about him invited her touch, her taste, her nibble.

  Danger, danger, a robot voice repeated in her head and she said, “I think we should—”

  “What? Get naked? Give me a sec.” He started on her blouse buttons. “No bra,” he murmured, flinging open her blouse to cup her breasts. She sagged against him and liquid gushed from her. Touch me down here, her body was saying. She leaned into him, helpless against the rush of lust. She wasn’t addicted. She could quit anytime. Just, please, not now.

  Spoken like a true addict. Digging deep where what resolve she had was dissolving, Kara pulled away from those fabulous fingers and croaked out, “We should stop.”

  Ross shook his head, looking confused. “Did you say stop?”

  She nodded and clutched her blouse closed. “I’m getting addicted to this…to us.” To you.

  “But we’re just having fun,” he said, his eyes searching her face, looking hopeful.

  “And all I think about is having more.”

  “So let’s add Friday nights. Fine with me.”

  “No. That’s a bad sign. Don’t you see? Plus, I’m not interested in anyone else but you and this…this…what we’re doing,” she finished in a rush.

  “Oh.” Realization dawned on his face, along with alarm. “You mean you’re getting serious? Like with one of your squash guys?”

  “Close enough.” She wasn’t window-shopping at bridal stores, exactly, but not wanting Baylor Jones was an indication that she was headed there.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Kind of.

  His face just sank and he looked so lost and sad that she almost took it back. But he quickly collected himself—Ross bounced back fast. “Well, it’s good you said something. This was an experiment, after all.”

  “Right. And it worked.” Too well.

  “It was great while it lasted.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment.

  “I should go,” she said finally, glancing around Ross’s cluttered apartment, her eyes falling on the discarded cowboy clothes. Their last fantasy in a pile of laundry.

  When she looked up, she saw Ross was staring at the clothes, too. “So much for Mickey Blue,” he said, shaking his head. “Looks like it’s Mickey Blue balls tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve got a date with Mr. Hand as soon as you leave.”

  “You’ll, uh, touch yourself?”

  “Touch? It’ll be more like assault. You turned me into rebar.”

  She thought of his hand on the glorious velvet length of him, stroking himself as he thought of her and ached with arousal. “I’ve never been able to do that,” she said softly.

  “Are you kidding? You almost take my head off with your touch.”

  “No, I mean, um, to myself.” Heat rose to her cheeks.

  “You can’t br
ing yourself off?”

  She shook her head, embarrassed.

  “I could help you with that.” His eyes twinkled wickedly.

  “You could?” She was so swollen she felt as if she held a softball between her legs.

  “Yeah. It’s a shame we’re quitting. That would have been a great date. A few tips from someone who knows what works for you. But…” He let the word hang as an offer.

  “But we can’t,” she finished.

  “You’re right, I guess.” He reached to tenderly cup her cheek. “You are an amazingly sexual woman. I hope you know that now.”

  “I do. Thanks to you,” she said. “You’re a great teacher.” Her heart ached, remembering everything.

  “I didn’t teach you anything you didn’t already know. I just helped you explore a little.”

  Emotions crossed Ross’s face—softness, regret, affection, desire. She could see herself turning those looks into love and commitment and Sunday mornings reading the paper in bed before they walked their dog and did some work in the garden. Any day now, she’d do her thing to him—make him into her future. Ending it now was best.

  “Like when you took over Love Thief,” Ross continued wistfully. “I didn’t teach you that. When you rubbed me—tortured me, really—with your breasts, I thought I would explode.”

  “I loved it in the airplane, when you reached under my skirt so fast.”

  “You were nervous and I thought that might calm you down.”

  “Calm me down? I almost passed out.”

  He smiled. “And I loved that.”

  “And Miguel.” She sighed. “Miguel was…fantástico.”

  They laughed lightly at the Spanish word. “Katherine was a dream,” Ross said. “Except I was awake. Very awake.”

  She swayed toward him, feeling fond and nostalgic and itchy. She had to stop before she made that roller-coaster climb of lust and tipped over the top into insanity. “I’d better go.”

  Ross nodded, then leaned in to kiss her. At the last minute, he sighed and planted his lips on her forehead. “Get out of here before I try to make you my love slave.” Then, much softer, “And become yours.”

  For just a moment, there was nothing in the world she wanted more.

  AN HOUR LATER, Kara was in bed, wide-awake, full of regret. Why couldn’t they have one last farewell fantasy to memorize? If they knew it was the last one, what could it hurt? They practically owed it to themselves. She reached for the phone, then lost her nerve. Why postpone the inevitable?

  Her fingers strayed to the swollen part of her, remembering that Ross had said he’d like to show her how to please herself. She began to stroke the spot, thinking of him. How did he do that thing that was just enough pressure, just enough tickle to make her surge closer to orgasm with each stroke? She moved her finger like he had, then slipped one finger inside herself.

  But it wasn’t the same without Ross.

  She removed her finger and rolled onto her side, determined to fall asleep but throbbing with need. Then she heard a noise from the front of her apartment. Someone was pounding on her door. At ten o’clock at night? Could it be Tina? Or maybe, just maybe, Ross?

  She threw on a robe—she’d been sleeping in the nude lately—and ran to the peephole, hoping against hope that her late-night visitor wasn’t Tina.

  She got her wish. She yanked open the door. “Ross! What are you—?’

  “Hear me out,” he said, pushing past her. “I know we’re stopping, but I think I should show you how to get to climax on your own. So you’ll have something for later?” His smile was sheepish with an edge of desperation.

  “I don’t know…” she said, her body throbbing out Morse code for Yes, oh yes.

  “One last lesson?” he said. “I’ll be your sex therapist. Dr., um, Dr. Michaels. Yeah. Imagine me in a lab coat with a clipboard.”

  One more lesson? Just one. And she would put it to good use after he was gone. She managed a shaky smile and let Ross lead her down the hall to her bedroom.

  He stopped in the doorway. “I always thought this room looked like you. Neat and trim and not too girlie.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” she said, trying to sound wry, but she was aroused and nervous and afraid to let one sensible thought escape. “Where do you want me, Dr. Michaels?” she said, trying to get into character.

  “There’s nowhere I don’t want you,” he said in his own voice. “On the bed,” he added more clinically. “For now.” He fluffed two pillows, then braced them against the headboard and motioned for her to recline there. Once she was in position, he sat beside her.

  “I understand, Ms. Collier, that you’re experiencing some, uh, self-pleasuring dysfunction.” A half smile appeared—he’d liked his word choice.

  “Um, yes, Dr. Michaels,” she said, getting more comfortable in the role, “and it’s a persistent problem.” She, too, fought a smile.

  “Persistent, eh? How fortunate that you called,” he said, gently tugging the tie of her robe free. “Persistent problems are my specialty.” Slowly he parted her robe, exposing her naked body to his gaze. She felt vulnerable until his ragged breath told her how aroused he was. Her insides liquefied.

  “For a persistent problem like this, we’ll have to keep trying—” he looked very deliberately at her breasts “—and trying—” then her stomach “—and trying.” Then he honed in on the juncture of her thighs so intently she felt as if he’d brushed the thin folds of flesh and teased her at her core. “Until we get it right.”

  His words and intimate look made her swell so fully she thought she’d hardly need to touch herself to explode.

  “What should I do, Doctor?” she managed to say, her voice shaky.

  “What do you want to do?” he murmured.

  “I’m not certain.” What she wanted was him to touch her, be inside her, all over her.

  “If I were you, I’d start here.” He cupped one of her hands with his own and placed it on the underside of her right breast. “How does that feel?”

  “Soft,” she said, loving the fact that his hand guided hers.

  “Touch the nipple,” he said, and moved one of her index fingers onto the delicate skin there.

  “It’s like butter,” she marveled. She’d had her breasts all her life. Why had she never noticed how great they felt?

  “I know. Now watch what happens when you stroke it.” He pushed her index finger, then released her hand.

  The nipple tightened under her finger, becoming a knot that vibrated with sensation. “Oh,” she said as electricity shot from her breast to her core.

  “When your nipples get hard, I know I’ve excited you,” Ross murmured. His lust-roughened voice made her other nipple tighten.

  “Oh,” she said again, the word almost a cry. She made little circles on her nipple. Her clitoris tightened unbearably in response. Ross pushed one of her feet so her knee bent, then slid the bent leg to the side, so she was fully exposed to him. Embarrassment rushed through her and she started to close her leg.

  Ross stopped her, held her leg open. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “I love how you look. And I need to see everything you’re doing.”

  Her awkwardness melted away.

  Then he led her other hand to the soft hair between her legs. “Explore,” he instructed. “Find out what feels good.”

  She slid one finger into the cleft and gasped.

  “That’s the way,” he said. “Show me what feels best. Show me how to please you.”

  She bit her lip, then slid her finger farther between the soft folds of flesh, creating pressure on the aching nub of herself.

  “You’re making yourself more hot, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, then closed her eyes to concentrate, focusing on the sound of Ross’s voice and the sensations she was giving herself. She moved her finger forward and back, forward and back.

  “You’re getting more wet, more tight,” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered, rubbing faster.<
br />
  “Now, go deep into yourself. The way you like me to be.”

  She did what he told her, marveling at how she felt inside, strong and ribbed and muscular, warm and smooth and soft.

  “Push farther,” he said. “Add another finger. Fill yourself up. Give yourself more and more.”

  “Oh,” she said, adding a finger and moving faster. “It’s…so…good.”

  “I know. I can see that in your face. And I can see how wet you are where you’re rubbing yourself. Don’t forget your nipple. Pinch it. See how that feels.”

  She did that and felt more tightness. She remembered how in the plane fantasy Ross had put his thumb onto the knot of her clitoris, while still moving his fingers inside her. She did that now and loved the electric jolt it gave her. She kept moving her fingers in and out. She was panting and letting out strange cries and gasps, her mouth open, not caring, only wanting to come, to make it to her goal. Her climax was very close. Her skin began to prickle with heat and urgency.

  She was almost there. She couldn’t believe it. This was so great.

  Then she went numb—she’d scared herself—and the climax slipped away. Panicked, she stopped moving and looked at Ross.

  “You can do it. You can bring yourself over the edge. I know you can. Trust yourself.”

  She started up again. Watching Ross watching her, seeing his faith in her, she stroked herself steadily until the surge struck so abruptly and with such intensity, she cried out and doubled over, writhing and twisting on the sheets.

  The spasms hadn’t quite subsided when Ross joined her on the bed. “I’ve got to be in you,” he said, kissing her, his hands all over her. He rose up just enough to free himself from his pants, then he pushed into her, full and hard and fast.

  She lifted her legs to take more of him, loving the pulling pain of his entrance.

  He pushed hard, faster and faster, his face strained and intent, as if he searched for life itself inside her. “You make me crazy,” he said, repeating what Miguel had said to her.