MIRROR IMAGE

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"What makes you think I've done something?"

"Because you won't look me in the eye."

"I'm avoiding you, yes. But only because I'm mad, not because I've committed what you would consider a transgression.''

"That's been your routine in the past, Carole."

"Don't call me—" Avery caught herself just in time.

"Don't call you what?"

"Nothing." She hated having him address her as Carole.

"Don't call me a liar," she amended. Defiantly, she flung her head back. "And just so you'll know from me before you hear it from somebody else, Van Lovejoy was smoking a joint. He even offered it to me. I refused. Now, do I pass muster, Mr. Senator?"

Tate was furiously rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Don't wander off by yourself like that again."

"Don't put me on a short leash."

"I don't care what you do, dammit," he growled, gripping her shoulders harder. "It's just not safe for you to be alone."

"Alone?" she repeated in a harsh, mirthless tone. "Alone? We're never alone."

"We're alone right now."

It occurred to them simultaneously that they were standing chest to chest. One was breathing with as much agitation as the other. Their blood was running hot and their tempers were high. Avery felt her nerves sizzle like fallen hot wires that snaked across a rain-slick street.

His arms went around her, met at the center of her back, and jerked her against him. Avery went limp with desire. Then, moving as one, their mouths came together in a ravenous kiss. She folded her arms around his neck and provocatively arched her body into his. His hands slid over her derriere and roughly drew her up high and hard against the front of his body.

Their breathing was loud.  So was the rustle of their evening clothes. Their mouths twisted against each other; their tongues were too greedy to exercise finesse.

Tate walked her backward into the wall, which then served the original purpose of his hands by keeping her middle cemented to him. His fingers curved tightly around her head and held it in place while he gave her a hungry kiss.

The kiss was carnal. It had a dark soul. It touched off elemental sparks that were as exciting to Avery as the first tongues of flame were to primal man. It conveyed that much heat, that much promise.

She attacked the studs on his pleated shirt. One by one they landed soundlessly in the carpeting. She peeled the shirt wide and bared his chest. Her open mouth found the very center of it.  He swore with pleasure and reached behind her for the fastenings on her dress.

They eluded his fumbling fingers.  Fabric was ripped. Beads scattered. Sequins rained down. Neither was mindful of the damage. He worked the dress down her shoulders and planted a fervent kiss on the upper curve of her brëast, then reached for the clasp of her strapless brassiere.

Avery panicked when it fell open. He would know! But his eyes were closed.  His lips were his sensors, not his eyes.  He kissed her brëasts, stroking the tips with his tongue, drawing them into his mouth.

He needed her. She wanted him to need her. She couldn't give enough.

She tugged his cuffs over his hands without even unhooking his cuff links. He flapped his arms until he was entirely free of his shirt, then slipped his hands beneath the hem of her dress. They smoothed up her thighs, caught the elastic of her underwear, and worked it down. Then his palm was on her, his fingers inside her, and she was gasping hoarse, whimpering, wanting sounds.