by Julia London
He flashed that lopsided grin at her.
“It sounds as if you speak from personal experience,” she added, which was the wrong thing to say, apparently, because a strange look clouded Flynn’s face. His smile faded as he looked at her, and it almost seemed as if he was seeing someone else altogether.
“Actually, no,” he said, after an awkward moment. “I’ve certainly had my share of love affairs, I suppose, but I can honestly say I’ve never been devastated.” He sat back, seemed to consider that a moment more.
She thought she’d just leave that alone for the time being. “What about your folks? Are they well?” she asked before sipping her wine.
“Oh, quite,” he said with a chuckle. “They operate a small bed and breakfast in Butler Cropwell. A Scottish B and B, mind you.”
“Scottish?”
“Mmm. It’s all the rage, you know. Mum has a sign hanging out front—Cead mile failte—”
“A hundred thousand welcomes,” Rachel said.
Flynn blinked. “You knew that, did you?”
“Let’s just say I’ve been to the U.K. a few times.”
“An Anglophile, eh? Then perhaps you’d like my parents’ little B and B. Glen Farley, it’s called, yet another name fabricated for the Scots-loving Americans. In fact,” he said, his eyes shining with amusement, “I should take you there to test their theory—to see if you, by sole virtue of being American, are so charmed that you actually believe yourself to be in Scotland, and therefore are so filled with delight that you dance a jig. Scottish jigs are performed Thursday evenings. Uncle Harry dabbles in bagpipes, and my father fancies himself quite the dancer—or jig artist, as he prefers.”
“You’re joking!” Rachel exclaimed gleefully.
“Why in God’s name would I joke about something as very painful as that?” he deadpanned, and casually sipped his wine.
With a laugh, Rachel asked, “What of your siblings? Where are they?”
“Ah, My siblings,” he said, and told her about his family as they dined on shrimp-stuffed mushrooms for their first course. His sister was married and had two “perfectly horrid” children. His brother was a banker, which, Flynn said, his parents considered a proper occupation.
“Don’t they consider a computer programmer to be a proper occupation?”
Flynn smiled enigmatically. “It’s not quite as grand as they had hoped. In truth, I always wanted to be a homicide investigator, the sort portrayed in the old Humphrey Bogart movies. But alas, that was not on my parents’ list of suitable occupations and I was steered in another direction.”
“So what would they consider a suitable occupation?”
“Prince consort,” he said. “And what about your family?”
Rachel gave him the usual, well-rehearsed rundown. Her father and mother had been together since they were teens, but were currently in marriage therapy as they tried to sort through years of stuff.
“Sounds rather awful,” Flynn said as the waiter cleared the appetizers.
“You cannot begin to even imagine,” Rachel quipped with a roll of her eyes, and explained to Flynn how her father was a self-made man, had built a fortune in freight, but how that fortune came with a price for their family.
Flynn listened intently, nodding thoughtfully as she spoke, offering insights here and there, but without sounding superior or patronizing.
“Siblings?” he asked as the main course of mahi-mahi was served.
“Two older sisters.” She told him about Robin and Rebecca, and a little about their lives, but leaving out, at least for the time being, the part about them being beautiful and successful and nothing at all like their baby sister, Miss Fortune.
They talked easily, Rachel thought, like a couple of old friends. They had both traveled a good deal. And they were both prolific readers and had, on their bookshelves, some of the same authors, although Flynn liked thrillers and Rachel had a definite taste for character literature.
Their conversation was so easy that Rachel even talked a little about her interest in metaphysics, astrology, Buddhism, and a host of other things she typically reserved for several months out when meeting someone new. But Flynn took it all in stride, and while he did not subscribe to the same theories, he was open about them, asking honest questions and listening to her with interest. When the subject rolled around to astrology, and Flynn said he was born under the Pisces sign with Cancer rising, Rachel thought she’d died and gone to heaven. There could not be a better match for her than that, and she should know—she’d studied her birth chart enough times to know.
That evening felt nothing short of magical, either the conjured type or pure coincidence. Rachel could count on one hand the number of times she’d made such a connection with another person, so quickly, and so strongly. Not once did she feel self-conscious, or inelegant. Not once did she have that feeling that he thought she was a wacky broad tilting at windmills.
And Flynn—wow. She had a growing and abiding sense of respect for Flynn. He was witty, and unerringly cheerful. He was respectful and thoughtful and considerate and very smart, and really just delicious to look at.
He asked her how she had landed on ancient British history in her schooling, and she confessed a fascination with kings and queens and knights and romance. “The medieval period was such a brutal time, yet such a romantic time, too.”
“As to romance,” Flynn said, “how are you on that?”
She laughed. “I’m definitely okay with it.”
He smiled, propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward, his gaze intent. “Do you prefer the subtle approach? Such as candlelight dinners, and flowers, and vintage wine?”
“Ooh . . . that sounds excellent,” she murmured. “What other romance is there?”
“Well, there is the purely Neanderthal approach, of course—a bit rougher in the wooing, but in terms of instant gratification, it can’t be beat.”
She laughed a little, leaned forward to match his intent gaze, and said, “With a good bottle of wine, I could be persuaded.”
Flynn’s brows lifted in surprise. “Don’t be too hasty, love. You haven’t considered the metrosexual romance.”
“Pardon?” she asked, wrinkling her nose with a laugh.
“This romance encompasses the finer points of both your subtle and Neanderthal romances. For example, a suave, debonair bloke much like myself may begin his romance with dinner and wine. But in the course of it, he begins to notice things,” he said, his gaze falling to her mouth. “Like how her lips look as if they were carved from coral, or how her eyes are the exact color of the Pacific Ocean. Or perhaps,” he said, reaching across the table to take her hand, “he can’t help notice the curve of her waist into her hip, and that curve makes him think of the little hollow just above her bum that he longs to kiss, or how she might arch her back when she enjoys lovemaking.”
Everything stirred in Rachel. “Wow,” she murmured.
He laced his fingers with hers. “And perhaps, by the time the dessert is served, this bloke says no thank you to the flan, for he’s thinking of something infinitely more delectable.” His gaze casually drifted to her chest. “So he asks the object of his desire if she might enjoy a nightcap,” he said as he caressed her hand with his thumb, “but he’s not thinking of brandy, exactly.”
Oh Christ, her knees were weak and her belly was fluttering. Fluttering.
“How would you find that sort of romance?” he asked, looking at her from the cloak of thick lashes.
“Perfect,” she managed to whisper.
Flynn’s gaze darkened; he let go of her fingers, leaned forward, his hand sliding up her arm to her elbow. “Rachel . . . would you like a nightcap?”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, Flynn, I would love a nightcap.” And with Flynn’s smile, she felt herself light up like a Christmas tree inside.
Flynn grinned, signaled the waiter, and quickly paid the check as Rachel finished her wine, feeling it sluice through her, warming her.
Flynn drove them to the Corporate Suites. As they strode past the reception desk, Flynn saluted the guy behind the counter. He punched the up button on the elevator, and fairly pushed her inside the small compartment.
The moment the doors closed, he turned to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and gently pushed her up against the wall. “I have a confession to make,” he said, his breath warm on her lips. “I lied.” He kissed her. “Horribly,” he added as Rachel caught her breath and kissed her again. “And not very imaginatively. I’ve got an interior boom box, a lousy jazz CD that a friend loaned me, and a bottle of cheap Scotch that might begin to taste like brandy after a tot or two.”
“Why, you silver-tongued devil,” Rachel said, lifting her face, brushing her lips against his.
The elevator doors opened. Flynn grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him, off the elevator and down the hall to his door. He put his key in the lock, pushed the door open, and stood aside, letting Rachel through first. When the door shut and locked behind him, he caught her hand, pulled her into his arms, and said, “I don’t know how you do it, but I find you utterly irresistible.”
“The spell is working, then.”
Flynn chuckled low in his throat, guided her up against the wall. One hand slipped inside her coat and went around her waist as he edged his knee between her legs. With his other hand, he caught hers and dragged it up the wall, holding it above her head. Rachel’s enormous bag slipped from her shoulder and landed with a thud at their feet.
Laughing, they both looked down, and much to Rachel’s chagrin, the little illustrated book she had intended to send to Robin for several days now, had landed, faceup, on his foot—The Art of Making Tantric Love, with Illustrations and Notes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rachel moved quickly, but not quickly enough. Flynn picked up the book as Rachel shoved several questionable items back into her bag and tried frantically to think of a good reason why she might be on a lovely date with a sex book in her bag.
She popped up with her bag. “Oh hey, there’s that silly thing!” she said, laughing a little like a hyena. “I know what you must be thinking.” She tried to snatch it from him, but Flynn moved it just out of her reach and cocked one inquisitive brow.
“That,” she said, shaking a finger at the book, “that is a . . . very . . . funny . . . story. Yessir, a funny story. Not what you’re thinking”
Flynn looked at the book again. “I think I’ve heard of this.” He opened the book—and his eyes went a little round.
Rachel leaned in, peeked at what he had turned to, saw it was one of the many getting-in-touch-with-your-lover’s-sexual-being positions explained. This was so just her luck.
“Okay. Here’s the thing,” she started, but Flynn had turned away, was walking into the tiny little living area with the book, studying it.
“Frankly, I’m rather certain this is impossible,” he said, more to himself than to her as he pointed at something.
Rachel was instantly behind him, straining to see over his shoulder. “See, the whole thing about Tantra is getting in touch with the universe, which I was trying to explain to my sisters one night, but they have a very rude habit of not actually ever listening to me, and all they heard was—”
“Look here,” Flynn said, pointing to the next page and turning it sideways. “What do you make of it?” He turned the book upside down, shook his head. “Really, if one was to contort oneself in such a manner, I can’t imagine that an injury wouldn’t result from it, eh? Nor can I think it would be particularly enjoyable.” He looked at Rachel. “But perhaps I’m missing something. What do you think?”
“I, ah . . . I’m not really, ah . . . sure.”
“Really? Well, speaking strictly from the male point of view, this one looks rather painful.”
“Pain is definitely not part of Tantra,” Rachel said, waving her hand dismissively at that particular picture, wishing to God he’d put it down. “Which is what I was trying to explain to my sisters, and I finally said, look, you’ll just have to see for yourself, and I’ll send you—”
“Now that,” Flynn said, ignoring her as he went on to the next page, “is infinitely doable.” And he flashed a smile—not the charming, boyish smile she was accustomed to, but a very wolfish, sensual smile that definitely made her curious about the picture.
She stopped trying to explain it and pulled his arm so she could see the picture. “Oh. That,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “It does seem . . . doable,” she said, and tilted her head a bit. “With the right foot gear.”
Flynn laughed, turned his wolfish grin to her again. “Honestly, you leave me gobsmacked more times than not,” he said, and tossed the book carelessly onto the couch. He put his hands on his hips, looked at her in a way that made her heart suddenly wing a thousand beats a minute. “I really had in mind a sort of quiet evening. A little music, a little Scotch, chatting up our favorite movies—”
“Braveheart,” she muttered.
“But now I fear I can’t possibly do anything but imagine you . . . like that,” he said, nodding toward the book.
“I, ah . . . I think I have the same problem.”
“Then there is only one thing to be done for it,” he said, advancing toward her, head down, that sexy lock of hair hanging across his brow. “We simply must explore what we’ve both wanted to explore all evening.” He reached for her, pulling her to him.
Rachel was seething with desire, literally boiling with it. He pushed a curl from her forehead, cupped her face in his hand, and kissed the corner of her mouth. “But where exactly might a genius begin,” he asked as he kissed her brow, “if he wanted to experience the full monty of tantric sex?”
“Touch,” she answered in a whisper, and unthinkingly, her hands went to his shoulders. With his mouth on her cheek, Flynn shrugged out of his suit coat and dropped it, then pushed the coat from her shoulders, too.
“Touch,” he repeated, slipping his arm around her waist, drawing her into him “Any sort of touch? One touch? A series of touches? A slap, a bump, or hopefully, a poke?”
“Well,” she said, bending her neck a little to accommodate his seeking mouth. “There are many types of touches. For example, the blind man’s touch, you know, where one or the other closes their eyes and sees their partner through the fingertips,” she said, her voice faltering a little as he slid a hand up her rib cage to the side of her breast.
“Sounds bloody fabulous,” he muttered against her skin. “Go on.”
“And massage,” she said as she impulsively buried her face in his neck, inhaling the spicy scent of his aftershave, the clean smell of soap and shampoo from his collar.
“Ah, the massage,” he said in a very seductive voice as his hand wandered down her side, to her hip and squeezed it.
“And then, there is, the ah . . . oh,” she whispered as he filled his free hand with her breast.
“The what?”
“The use of the, ah . . . mouth,” she said, and felt the desire percolating beneath her skin as she motioned vaguely to her lips. “You know, the mouth can be a very nice tool for, ah . . . touching.”
“Indeed?” His laugh was a throaty chuckle as he slid his hand down her arm until he caught her hand. “Then I will opt for the mouth . . . and tongue . . . and every inch of your lovely flesh,” he murmured.
Rachel sighed dreamily as he artfully moved her into the darkened bedroom and leaned her up against the wall. He braced his arms on either side of her, leaned in to kiss her, his tongue sweeping fully into her mouth, his lips firm and pliant on hers.
And just when she thought she would melt all over the carpet, he lifted his head. “Stay right where you are.” He pushed away from the wall, walked to somewhere near the bed, and after a moment of fumbling about, the soothing sound of a piano filled the small room. He turned toward her, and in the light that spilled in from the adjoining room, she could see his face as he walked back to her, loosening his tie. It was an expres
sion that sent the deepest of shivers of anticipation through her.
As he reached her, he casually put a finger under her chin, tilted her face up to his, and tenderly kissed her lips, soft and long, carefully shaping them, and desire began to pool in her groin. “I should very much like to explore a bit of the Tantra with you, Rachel,” he murmured. “You inspire that sort of thing in me . . . among other things.”
The sentiment was so unexpected and sweet that Rachel caught a breath in her throat as he stood there, admiring her body. It was the sort of sentiment she had heard expressed on the silver screen, on those nights she would sit alone in the family’s little theater, watching romance movies alone while her sisters were out with their dates, leaving her to dream of someone to say those things to her.
This time, it was really happening to her. She had the gorgeous guy, and he had the words, and she had never in her life felt more emboldened or sexy or just plain horny as she did then.
And Rachel suddenly kissed him for it, flinging her arms around his neck, crushing up against him. Flynn caught her, put his arms around her, and held her tightly. She was vaguely aware that something in her had snapped; all the inhibitions, all the insecurities, went floating away on a cloud of lavender, and she no longer worried how she appeared, because she felt beautiful and desirable and sexy. She could think of nothing but Flynn, could see nothing, taste nothing, feel nothing but him. Her hands went to his face, her fingers light on the five o’clock shadow, then spreading, to his ears, and the hair brushing his collar.
Flynn grabbed her wrist, pulled her hand from his face and pressed his lips to her palm, then began to pull her, while he walked backward, to the bed in the middle of the room. Rachel followed mindlessly, moving carelessly across the carpet, not really conscious of anything but Flynn, and hardly even noticing when she bumped up against the bed.
She laughed, lifted her face again, and touched her lips to the corner of his mouth.
Flynn’s hands were at her back, fumbling with the zipper of her dress. Rachel laughed against his mouth as he released her zipper. It was a strange sensation, to feel the cold air on her back at the very same time something had detonated white hot inside her.