Learning Curves - By Elyse Mady Page 0,48

I’m afraid.” He ran his hands down, over her hips, skirting her short hemline before clasping them against the small of her back.

She laughed and looked down at her scarlet cocktail dress. “This is a little more upscale than my usual look but Mom would skin me alive if I didn’t dress up.” She paused then added, with a twinge of unexpected bitterness, “Mom’s big on appearances.”

A small frown pulled at his lips and he squeezed her reassuringly. “Well, in my opinion, you look sexy as hell. All I’m going to be able to think about during this dinner is just how high those kick-ass stockings of yours really go.” His hands made the foray down again, and this time they didn’t stop at her hem. “Wanna give me a hint?”

He felt solid, his body pressed against hers. Being held in his arms, Leanne felt safe and cherished and beautiful. Brandon still wore a look of bright humor but his eyes were no longer lit solely by desire. They had softened with compassion and understanding. His worn cotton shirt smelled fresh, and she allowed herself the luxury of tucking her head against his shoulder and soaking in the sense of calm certainty he seemed to exude. It was hard not to succumb to the feeling of rightness that invaded her when he teased like this, laughed like this, held her like this.

Was a real relationship really so impossible?

He’d called her sexy.

Again.

Once, she could excuse as the heat of the moment but twice?

Twice was something else entirely.

She’d tried to resist his charm. She’d spent days and days reiterating her career goals and all the reasons they couldn’t be together, but here, in his arms, all her arguments seemed like paltry straw men. He squeezed her tightly, and their bodies meshed from knees to shoulders but there was nothing seductive about his embrace now. He seemed content to simply be close, dropping a tender kiss in her hair.

The reassuring gesture made her eyes sting. Leanne could finally admit that there was more to this relationship than just sex, however hard she’d fought against it. That maybe, if they both gave it a chance, this could grow into something permanent. But there was one unavoidable reality. If she won the Walters Prize, she’d be moving on, and Brandon was staying at Wellington to finish his degree. No matter how much she liked him, she couldn’t set her goals aside for the mere possibility of something more. Like a sexually explicit term paper, their relationship had a deadline. And that deadline made her heart ache.

She straightened and pulled out of his arms. He let her go readily enough but his face looked momentarily bemused. Eager to change the mood, she quickly redirected the conversation toward the upcoming dinner.

“I really appreciate you pinch-hitting for me like this. It’s definitely above and beyond the call of duty. Aunt Barbara and Uncle Paul are fine, but Gillian’s a real pill.”

Grinning at her sour expression, Brandon laughed. “Pinch-hitting doesn’t really do it for me, I’m afraid. Spanking, though. I’m definitely willing to experiment with that.” His eyes twinkled with a naughty light and Leanne bit down hard on her lower lip to restrain the heated acquiescence that wanted to hurtle out.

Two days apart might have been two hundred from the way her body thrummed and throbbed in lustful anticipation. Here she was, ready once again to forget all sense of modesty and jump his bones. She wanted to run her fingers over his fly, tear open the zipper and release his cock into her eager hands.

She wanted him. Period.

The sound of footsteps snapped her back to reality. And the appearance, moments later, of two dancers made her doubly grateful that she’d had the sense to pull back before things got out of hand.

The men stopped at the top of the stairs, the surprise on their faces evident. She recognized one of them from her first visit to the club. T’Shaun, maybe? But the other one was a stranger—until the moment he spoke, greeting Brandon in a friendly tone.

“Hey, man. Any chance our paychecks are ready to go?”

Leanne drew back, a wash of mortified color flooding her face. She knew that deep baritone voice. He was one of the performers who’d walked into the dressing room Saturday night.

Oh my god. The one who’d made the crack about Brandon getting in her? She couldn’t meet their eyes, the angry blush creeping up her neck blaring her discomfort like a siren.

She