Midnight Special Coming on Strong - By Tawny Weber Page 0,43
Hunter’s mouth watered, his gaze locked on her mouth.
“Influence?” he repeated absently, shifting in his chair. His jeans, all he had on, tightened enough to make him glad he hadn’t bothered to snap them.
“Yes. Influence. Mine is my aunt.” Marni continued to eat her strawberries, alternating between the chocolate and fluffy whipped cream. As she nibbled, she talked about her huge family and how her aunt stood out from what sounded like a very intrusive crowd.
“How do you deal with that?” he asked, interrupting her description of a recent family outing that’d turned into a speed dating–style blind date, with four cousins bringing along their version of her perfect man. “The interference, the constant nagging. Isn’t family a pain in the ass?”
Marni laughed and shrugged. The movement did delicious things to her robe, the fabric rippling over her breasts, baring a little more of that pale, silky flesh. Hunter shifted in the chair again.
“They’re interfering, yes, but they love me. There’s something incredibly comforting in knowing they are always there. The ties of family are like a safety net, you know? It’s a lot easier to fly knowing they are there.”
Hunter nodded before he realized he was agreeing.
“My dad’s like that, I guess. He’s always had this absolute belief in me. Even when I was a kid.” Hunter gave a little laugh, remembering. “I was maybe four when I declared I wanted to be—” FBI. Hell, he was getting a little too relaxed here. To cover his wince, he reached over and stole one of Marni’s strawberries. “I’d told him I wanted to be like him. He never laughed. He just sat my four-year-old self down and said if I wanted something, I had to work at it. Then he spent the next fifteen-to-twenty years showing me how.”
Twirling the strawberry between his fingers, Hunter watched the juicy red fruit swirl as he remembered all the times, all the ways, his dad had been there. Had influenced him. Paving the way in his career, showing him overtly and silently his unstinting support.
“You really look up to him, don’t you?” Marni asked quietly. “I mean, I love my family, but the only one I think I might want to be like is my aunt. But you and your father, that must be a pretty special relationship.”
Hunter shrugged, a little abashed to realize just how much he did love his father. And how easy Marni made it for him to feel those emotions without feeling like a jerk. The only other person he’d ever talked about his family with was his best friend, Caleb.
Shifting his gaze from the strawberry to Marni, he noted the sweet warmth in her eyes, the softness in her expression as she looked at him. It was as if she was reaching into his heart and tugging at the strings there. As if she was testing to make sure he had enough depth, enough emotion, to match hers.
Damned if he didn’t wonder that himself.
And suddenly, for the first time in his life, he hoped he did.
Like a slap upside the head, Hunter reeled at that insight.
Then, because he knew thinking about it would ruin what they had going here, that the minute he accepted that there was something emotional here, he’d slam the door shut. If he ignored the emotions, he could happily enjoy everything else between him and Marni.
The laughter.
The discussions.
The teasing.
And the sex.
Those emotions, though, kept pounding, pushing, trying to get his attention.
Determined to ignore them, Hunter went the only route he knew would work one hundred percent.
He stood and, ignoring Marni’s surprised look, pulled her to her feet. Then he grabbed up the tray of chocolate and whipped cream.
“What are you doing?” she asked, following him to the bed.
“You ate all the strawberries,” he pointed out, flicking the belt of her robe open with a quick twist of his fingers. The heavy satin slid down her body, leaving her gleaming, naked, in the dim lamplight. “So I’ll have to eat my snack off your body.”
* * *
MARNI LAY IN HUNTER’S ARMS, her body limp with satisfaction. Forty-eight or so hours of exploring each other’s bodies, of playing out ever sexual fantasy that could be played on a moving train, and you’d think she’d be satiated.
She glanced at the floor next to the door, where the daily briefings of the train’s murder mystery event had piled up since their first morning together when Hunter had insisted that Simpson slide them under the door instead of disturbing them.