AN AFFAIR ACROSS TIMES SQUARE
Rachell Nichole
www.loose-id.com
An Affair Across Times Square
Copyright © August 2012 by Rachell Nichole
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eISBN 9781623000011
Editor: Serena Stokes
Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs
Printed in the United States of America
Published by
Loose Id LLC
PO Box 809
San Francisco CA 94104-0809
www.loose-id.com
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning
This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
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DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.
Dedication
To my parents for always, always encouraging me to follow my heart and my dreams and for never treating my writing as anything less than my profession and the pursuit of those dreams.
Acknowledgments
A few words of thanks to my editor, Serena, whose hawk eyes don’t let anything slip by. And to the whole staff at Loose Id for working so hard to help me bring this book to you.
Author’s Note
When I was asked if I would write erotic romance under a pen name, there was only ever one that came to mind. Rachell Nichole Carrigg was the sweetest, most selfless person I’ve ever known. She was a writer, my childhood friend, my constant companion, and the closest thing to a sister I had. Her untimely death at the age of twenty-five left a hole in my life and in the lives of my family members. It gives me incredible joy and a sense of complete honor to know that her name will live on through me and through writing.
You are missed, my darling girl. I love you.
Chapter One
Layla Morgan’s feet burned as she shoved her key card into the hotel door’s lock and pushed inside. But kicking off her overpriced boutique heels rested low on her priority list this morning. She was hot. Too hot. She needed to be naked. This instant. She pulled on the buttons of her shirt, yanking them free one by one. The noise of the city below barely reached her through the panes of the unopenable windows.
She continued to unbutton the crisp white blouse and let the fabric slide down her arms. It dropped to the carpet with a soft puff of air. The cool breeze from the air conditioner danced across her skin, bringing her nipples to hard peaks. She sighed as her temperature finally began to dip below boiling. Damn these New York summers. Even at six a.m. after the sun had only peeked over the horizon, the temperature was eighty, and humidity clung to the air. It made her long for the temperate climate and cool sea breezes of San Francisco.
She walked into the bathroom and ran her hands under the cool water. She sprinkled slick droplets on the back of her neck, let them slide their way down her spine, leaving a trail of goose bumps. She refused to look at herself in the mirror, knowing what she would see behind her black-rimmed glasses. Knowing her pulled-back hair and barely-there makeup made her look like the lawyer she was. Just the way they were supposed to. She hated it.
She moved her head to the side, trying to release the tension built up from the night’s work spent sitting over books. Damned Paulson case. They were going to make her crazy over the following weeks of prep before the court date. She’d already been here almost a month. She didn’t know if she could handle another four to six weeks. Or eight, depending on how the trial went. Never could tell with murder trials. Layla forced herself to push those thoughts aside. She needed to unwind and get herself ready for bed because she had to be back in her basement office at eight that night. She spared a quick glance through the double-paned glass overlooking Times Square. She’d long since tired of the view, though she kept the curtains open to allow sunlight into the room. She even left them open when she slept, not having to worry about passing hordes of tourists on the eighteenth floor.
She forced her shoulders down, working to take deep breaths, but it didn’t help calm her nerves. Spending all night in the basement office poring over books usually took the edge off her need to run wild through the streets of the city that never slept. It calmed her libido, centered her. But something about being back in New York this time stole away all her hard-won Zen and control. She let herself sink into a chair in the middle of the hotel room. The plush softness caressed her back on the way down. The sweat, still beaded on her skin from her trek home, should’ve cooled her, but she was burning up from the inside out.
Layla reached behind her to the zipper of her pencil skirt and opened it, then lifted her hips and let the fabric slide to the floor around her ankles. She flicked it to the side with one flex of her high heel and sank back into the buttery leather. She sighed at the feeling of cold air against her hot skin.
She trailed her fingers up to the tips of her thigh-highs, playing with the edge of the fabric. She raised her hands higher, needing to settle her nerves, searching for the release she knew was only moments away. Her eyes closed as she slipped a finger inside her thong. Images of Brian, her incredibly hot, very sweet, and married boss danced behind her lids as she glided her middle finger up first one lip and then the other. She quivered at that first contact. Needed it. She could lust after Brian and fantasize about him all she wanted, but she wouldn’t touch him. Not for real.
Because Married meant Off-Limits.
But here, in the privacy of her hotel room, with no one looking, she could pretend it was his thick, slightly tanned finger flicking the edges of her clit. Imagine she sat in his office chair as he crouched beneath his desk to pleasure her while she caressed his blond hair. She moved her right hand down the inside of her thigh, picturing Brian doing the same, and groaned. Her mouth parted in a pant as she pushed her right index finger into her hot sheath.
Brian pushed another finger inside her, stretching her, loving her. She gasped as he worked in a third finger, using his other hand to push against her clit. The rough pad of his thumb swirled again and again around her sensitive nub. He hooked the three fingers up inside her until she bucked against his hand, her muscles clenching down on him as she screamed his name. Layla lay limp against the big office chair, Brian’s fingers still deep inside her, heat suffusing her skin and weighing down her limbs. She could sit here forever, she decided. The three fingers moved, causing waves of an aftershock as they slid from her. She smiled and opened her eyes.
And stared into the dark, hooded gaze of a man sitting behind a desk in an office across the street.
TYLER LACHLAN COULDN’T believe what he saw through his office window. A woman a
cross Times Square, eighteen stories high, scantily clad in the middle of her hotel room, pleasuring herself. And here he sat, staring at her like some sick Peeping Tom. His mother would be so ashamed, but he couldn’t look away. He could feel the way his body reacted to the sight of her. When he’d looked up from that morning’s briefing documents and gazed across the way to the hotel, he’d never expected to be greeted with such a sight. The minute she had started unbuttoning her blouse, his gaze had followed her every movement, his pulse increasing with every step. Blood pooled low in his groin. He was lucky no one else was in the office at six a.m., or he would have been interrupted.
And wouldn’t that have been a shame.
Now she sat there, her hands still between her legs, frozen. He’d never realized how close together the buildings in the square were, too busy focusing on what happened inside his office rather than through the window. He could only make out some of her facial features from this distance, but her body language was clear. He imagined her eyes were dark behind her thick-rimmed glasses. Probably brown, a few shades darker than her decadent mocha skin.
She’d become coiled like a cat the moment she realized she was being watched. He had the sudden desire to lick his lips. What a pervert! He tried to force his eyes closed, tried to spin his chair to the side or look away. He should look away, but he couldn’t move. Apparently neither could she. He stared at her beautiful, brazen body as she did the unthinkable. She smiled at him. She spread her legs wider, and he found himself leaning forward in his desk chair, waiting for more.
She looked right at him as she pulled her hands free from between her legs, gliding them up her mahogany stomach and higher to cup her barely covered breasts. Her bra and panties were darker than her skin—black, perhaps. She maintained eye contact as she moved her hands around her breasts. His cock hardened at the sight. What the hell are you doing?
She didn’t stop, and he couldn’t look away. She pushed a finger into her mouth, sucking it, then trailed a wet path down her chest and slipped it into the front of her bra. She didn’t seem inclined to remove the fabric, and he couldn’t care less. She dipped another finger into her mouth, and he watched, mesmerized, as her other hand slid down her abdomen and between her thighs. He gripped the edge of his desk, desperate for her to continue, though afraid it might kill him if she did.
She didn’t close her eyes this time as she pleasured herself. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and bit it to keep from reaching to relieve his aching cock. It seemed wrong somehow to gain so much pleasure from what she was doing, but he couldn’t help himself. The muscles in his body grew tight in anticipation, his cock throbbing. And still he did nothing but watch until her body shook with her release. She looked at him as she licked her fingers clean. As she stood and walked to the window, pressing her body against the glass, she gave him another smile. Then she kissed the window and closed the curtains.
And he’d never been more turned on in his life.
Chapter Two
Layla sank to her knees on the plush beige carpet, resting her head against the curtained window.
“What are you doing?” She hissed the words through clenched teeth, still shaking from her second orgasm. What, indeed? God, her mother would kill her if she found out. Layla had to call down to the concierge, get her room changed right away. She’d never be able to look out her window again without heat infusing her body. Who came in to the office at six a.m.? She’d never seen anyone there until well past eight.
But her heart pounded, refusing to let her move. She had never felt such a rush as she had holding that intense, dark gaze and bringing herself quivering to the edge. She wanted more of it. Craved his hot, fixated look. She felt his eyes on her every step of the way. And she’d no longer pictured Brian. Her full attention had been on the man across Times Square and his ebony skin. His face was chiseled with a square jaw. A light suit perfectly set off his shaved head and wide shoulders. Within a moment or two, staring at him and touching herself, she’d come.
She knew better than to let herself get out of control. It only got people hurt, and she was always one of them. Not to mention proper ladies didn’t seduce voyeurs across the street. Which was almost enough to make her want to do it anyway, just because she knew it was wrong. She reined in her impulses, desperate to control them and think this through before she did anything else.
What if she could let this be her one outlet? It would help her decompress and keep her thoughts off Brian. This idea held possibilities. Terrifying possibilities. Mr. Times Square probably had a wife, and she shouldn’t be fooling around with him, even from a distance. If he was married, he had no business looking into her personal window. She shook her head at her foolishness. Why hadn’t she bothered to check if someone was in one of those rooms in the building across the street?
Her legs felt like they were filled with custard instead of bones, her muscles still quivering inside and out. She raised a shaky hand to the curtain and slid one panel to the left half an inch. Just enough to see out, to look into Mr. TS’s window and see that he was gone. She tried to squash the disappointment blooming in her chest. He’d run away. She had no right being disappointed, no right parading herself in front of him like some Amsterdam prostitute in the window. What if someone else had been in that office and seen her?
Layla looked at the rest of the windows, searching, making sure no one else had witnessed her personal peep show. She couldn’t see anyone, but she hadn’t seen her voyeur until it was too late. She returned her gaze to his small office. Not even a plant in there. Nothing that told her about him. No paintings on the wall. Nothing but the desk, two chairs in front of it and one behind, and the door out of the office, which opened. She froze as he came back into view.
Gorgeous. A trim goatee covered his square jaw, making him look distinguished. She’d never thought Times Square was so big and small at the same time. Before, she hadn’t really thought of it at all except with some barely concealed disdain. She watched as he went about what appeared to be normal business, his thick shoulders bunching with every movement. He shuffled a few papers on his desk, sat down, and fiddled with his computer. Not once did he look out his window again. Layla ignored the sinking feeling at his lack of attention.
She refused to open the curtain the rest of the way and try to entice him, as much as she wished to. Because this could be almost as dangerous as another affair with a married man. So she contented herself with watching him until he looked up. Her breath caught in her throat. He shook his head and returned to his work. Could he feel her watching him? He glanced at her again. Could he see her watching him? She held his gaze through the half-inch gap in the fabric and waited, holding her breath until he looked down again. She dropped the curtain.
Her plan to release some steam and settle down had been blown to shreds, because now her stomach was knotted with the what-ifs. The soft carpet against the backs of her thighs tickled, urging her to move. Her body still felt too sensitive, too aroused. She needed to shower and get her head screwed on straight. And stay as far away from her window as possible until she figured out what to do.
Grabbing the edge of the table, Layla pulled herself up and slid off her high heels, using the solid surface beneath her fingers for support. She walked on shaky legs through the living room and kitchenette area, then into her bedroom and to the bathroom, refusing to look back and steal a glimpse. Thank God the curtains in the bedroom were closed too. She set her glasses on the sink. Had he been as turned on as she was?
She closed herself into the bathroom. Mulling over the ideas in her head, she rolled down her black thigh-highs one at a time. Maybe she could leave her curtains open tomorrow morning when she got home just to see what would happen. He probably wouldn’t even be there. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed about that. She shook her head, deciding it didn’t matter.
After unhooking her bra, she tossed it and her panties in the corner with the rest of her dirties. T
he maids must love me. Though, of course, they did, and she knew it. They’d told her before that they didn’t mind taking care of her, and for that she was grateful. She turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower. She let the heat seep into her muscles and relax her shoulders. Sitting down in the tub, Layla grabbed the stopper and let the showerhead fill the basin with water. She lay back until the water covered her stomach, all the while trying to decide if she should give in to her wild nature and torture Mr. Times Square.
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Tyler couldn’t help but glance up every few seconds from his desk. The white curtains had closed and remained that way. He still felt exhilarated, even after having left his office, gone to the bathroom, and splashed some cold water on his face. And down his pants, not caring if he got a little wet. The pants would dry. Ten minutes had passed, and he couldn’t concentrate on his work. He looked back down to his computer screen. The same screen he’d been on fifteen minutes ago stared back at him. He read a line, reread it, made a small note on the legal pad, and read the next line. Then he looked across the street again.
Who was she?
The question taunted him, urging him to find out. He’d never been one to let a mystery go unsolved. But what kind of sane person did what she’d just done? What kind of sane person watched, or participated? He could call the hotel and try to figure out who she was. Doing so, however, would jettison him into the stalker category—not a label he wished to have. So he wouldn’t call the hotel. He wouldn’t ride the elevator down eighteen stories and run across the street just to ride another one up the same distance and seek her out. As much as he yearned to do just that.
He stared at the white curtains, willing a breeze to come and make them shimmy. Just to catch another glimpse of light mahogany skin and dark lingerie. He forced his eyes back to his work. He couldn’t let this distract him from his first big case. No way would he be able to win it if he dawdled or got involved with someone. Though how he could get involved with a woman he’d never met and hadn’t been able to touch was beyond him. The sickening thing was, as soon as the idea had taken root in his mind, he’d been unable to ignore it. Maybe a weekend fling with the woman at the Marietta Hotel was just what he needed.
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