by Nancy Warren
Somehow, when Meg looked at that very determined, very businesslike face, she had a bad feeling she wasn’t going to love the idea.
“Writers’ holidays,” Max said, grinning broadly.
Yep, Meg thought. Her instincts hadn’t led her astray. “What about them?”
“Don’t be dense. Here. With you to lead them. We’ll fill the place with novice writers and you can teach them all how to be best sellers. Isn’t it a great idea? And, of course, we’ll make a documentary of the process.”
“If there were a course that taught people how to be a best seller, believe me, there’d be a lot more best sellers.”
“Oh, you know what I mean. You can teach writing. Hey, I could do a section on filmmaking. We could bring in a few more people and a few more pounds. God knows we could use them.”
“I’m not-”
“Come on, think about it. We’ll have a meeting sometime before you go home. I think it would be great, but if you hate the idea I’ll-”
“Give it up?”
“No.” Maxine sent her a duh expression, then grinned with devilry in the curve of her lips. “I’ll find out who your greatest competition among suspense writers is and ask them.”
Meg immediately envisioned Constantin Fishbourn staying in her cottage, lecturing with appalling pomposity, telling students how to write badly, plot sloppily, and drink heavily. The very notion infuriated her. She narrowed her eyes. “You are a very devious woman.”
“I know. And I wouldn’t do it unless you absolutely turned us down.”
“I’ll think about it,” Meg said loftily.
“It’s all I ask. And, not to put pressure on you or anything, but I told George I wouldn’t marry him until this place was in the black. You know, every pound counts. So, you coming tonight?”
Meg could not believe she was being blackmailed like this. She shook her head, half aggravated, half amused. “Am I coming where?”
“I keep forgetting you don’t live here. Isn’t it weird? It feels like you’ve been here for years instead of weeks. Darts. We play every week at the pub.”
“I’m not very good at darts.”
“You can be on my team, then. I’m killer.”
The pub equaled Arthur, who had so casually drifted out of her door this morning as though the night of searing intimacy meant nothing to him. Casual? What could be more casual than a game of darts? She’d show Arthur Denby casual, all right.
“I’d love to come.”
“Excellent. We meet at seven. Want us to pick you up on the way?”
“No. I can get there on my own.”
So she found herself, at precisely seven, outside the pub door. She was wearing her favorite Seven low-rider jeans, a gossamer soft cashmere sweater in her preferred shade of green, Italian leather boots, and some chunky jade jewelry she’d picked up at a Seattle craft fair. Her hair shone, her makeup was fresh. She was as hot as she had it in her to be.
With a deep breath, she opened the door.
Her gaze went straight to the bar. And there was Arthur, pulling the cork out of a bottle of bordeaux. The corkscrew drilled into the cork with efficient precision, and then his arm muscles flexed and he pulled the cork out with the same ease with which she’d take an egg out of an egg carton. She remembered the way those arms had felt around her last night, the way his hands could arouse her. He’d brought her so much pleasure with hands and mouth and driving cock last night that she was momentarily light-headed with the pleasure of seeing him again.
For a long second she couldn’t move, could only stand there inside the door watching him. Then his gaze lifted and stared unerringly directly at her, as though he’d known she was there.
It was the kind of moment she’d write about, the kind she didn’t believe happened in real life, a moment of absolute intimacy across a crowded room.
His blue-gray eyes darkened and burned into hers. She felt branded, marked, compelled. She couldn’t look away or move. Then his gaze traveled her body, and she decided the ridiculously priced jeans were worth every penny.
Casual, she reminded herself, as she walked slowly forward, fighting the urge to sprint, to pound across the floor so fast her boots would catch fire. To launch herself over the ancient, scarred wood of the bar and into his arms. To take his mouth with her own, drag him down to the floor behind the bar where neither of them would emerge for several days.
Instead she walked slowly. And said, “Hi,” as though she hadn’t come in his mouth last night.
And he said, “Good to see you,” as though he hadn’t buried himself inside her body and called out her name as he exploded.
Casual, she reminded herself as her pulse kicked up and she curled her fingers against each other to keep from reaching for him.
God alone knew how long she might have stood there staring at the man like a publican’s groupie, when she heard herself hailed.
“Hey, Meg.”
She turned. “Maxine. Hi. Hello, George. Is your ankle better?” They’d come in behind her and she hadn’t even noticed.
“Yes, thanks. Sorry, we’re a couple of minutes late. We got held up.” She glanced at the pair of them and saw the heightened color in Maxine’s cheeks, the wild hair, and a red mark on her lip that looked like a bite mark. George might be limping slightly, but it obviously hadn’t slowed him down in bed.
He wore a similarly blissful, just-fucked expression. He held onto Maxine, but not only for support for his injured leg.
Instinctively, she glanced at Arthur to find him meeting her gaze with a broad grin on his face. Yep, he seemed to be saying to her privately, freshly shagged.
Chapter Eight
“Right, then,” George said, as though calling a meeting to order. “What will you have to drink?”
Meg was certain she must have played darts sometime in her life. There were vaguely related family members and old friends of her parents who’d been into British pub style rec rooms, and the odd bar she’d visited that included a dartboard among its attractions. But if she’d ever thrown a dart at a dartboard, it hadn’t made much of an impression.
Maxine hadn’t lied. The woman was a menace. George was too busy making jokes and being charming to bother aiming. Still, he did a great job. Played the game with the same focus as Meg’s Aunt Martha and Uncle Bert gave to their weekly bowling team.
She was the odd one out. The only player who tossed darts the way she might throw a penny into a fountain.
“It might help if you opened your eyes next time, Meg,” George offered.
“Right.”
“Honey, it’s not a paper airplane,” Maxine reminded her after her next round. It seemed Max didn’t like to lose, and her new teammate was pretty much making losing inevitable.
“Arthur,” Maxine finally wailed. “We need you.”
He was there in a gratifyingly short amount of time. “What seems to be the problem?” His voice was low, rough, and sexy. She felt it rumble through her like an earth tremor.
“Meg’s never played darts in her life.”
“I told you I’m terrible,” she reminded Max.
“I thought you were being modest. Arthur, can you help her?”
Meg shot her new friend a fierce glare. It must have been obvious to everyone that Maxine could have given her some coaching. She was the best player of the bunch.
As though having read the annoyance in her eyes, Maxine said, “I can’t teach things. Arthur’s good at that.”
Warm hands settled on her shoulders, sending heat and sexual awareness flooding through her. “Relax,” he said in her ear.
“Are you kidding? Maxine will have me clapped in the dungeon if we lose.”
“I’ll come and rescue you if she does,” he said into her ear so only she could hear. “Though it might take me a while. The thought of you tied up and helpless gives me ideas.”
He wrapped his hand around hers, the one holding the dart, and showed her how to aim, how to throw. With his he
lp, her dart actually hit the outer rim of the actual dartboard. She was delighted.
“Arthur, you have to be on my team. We’re losing.”
“All right.” And like that, they had a new team member and she had Arthur sitting so near her their thighs touched. Under the table he placed his hand on her knee and then trailed his fingers higher, bringing her to aching life.
When it was her turn to throw he turned, looked deeply into her eyes, and said, “Think of something you really want, and aim for the center.”
What she really wanted was to be naked in his arms, his body deeply and completely connected to her own. Her desire was reflected in his eyes. She rose, brushed past him. Picked up the dart.
She thought about the way she’d focused last night, the way Arthur had of giving her his absolute attention. She stared at the board, saw the center, imagined. Dart equals penis, bull’s-eye equals-she started to feel warm. Well, focusing on sex couldn’t make her a worse dart player and might in fact make her a better one. She squinted, imagining the moment of perfect union between dart and bull’s-eye, pulled her wrist back, and launched.
Then she closed her eyes.
“Good God,” said George.
“I don’t believe it,” cried Maxine.
“Bull’s-eye,” said Arthur.
She opened her eyes and sure enough, her dart was dead center on the board. She checked around to see if in fact someone else had thrown a dart that accidentally landed in the center of their dartboard, but no. That blue one was definitely hers.
Maxine hugged her, squealing in excitement, and she looked over her friend’s shoulder, finding Arthur’s gaze on her. He knew, of course. He knew.
Well, whatever it took to fit in during the weekly darts game, she was willing to do. In fact, she felt like she was beginning to belong here, finding the rhythms of Ponsford. While she didn’t know many people, she recognized faces from the village. She imagined their lives, the predictable rhythms of a week. All the ties of a small community, the binding of family, friendships. She felt a mild ache and realized it was sadness that this wasn’t hers. Not really. Not beyond three months.
The dart players left, all but George and Maxine and her. George was politely listening to an extremely boring man explain at great length something to do with soil drainage.
She glanced at Maxine, who pulled a face. “This whole lord-of-the-manor crap isn’t half as fun as it seems.”
“Yeah. I can see how much you hate your life.”
Maxine chuckled. “I wish you weren’t going home. You’re the only person around here who gets me, and who will come to my July Fourth party next year.”
Finally, George was able to extract himself. Putting an arm around Maxine, he said, “Ready?”
Meg started to rise.
Arthur put a hand on her arm. “Don’t leave.”
She was trying to think of a reasonable excuse to stay when she found that Maxine was already dragging poor, limp-jogging George toward the exit and bundling him out the door.
“They didn’t even say good-bye,” Arthur said.
“I think they’re on to us.”
“Do you mind?”
She was surprised, and probably showed it. “No, of course not. I thought you’d mind. You’ll have to live here long after I’m gone.”
His eyes flashed. “I don’t mind. Closing time’s in half an hour. Wait for me and I’ll walk you home.”
There was such a world of meaning in walk you home that her knees turned to mush. “Okay.”
“Joe,” he called to the kid who helped him. “Tell them it’s last call.”
“All right.”
An hour later, the last customer said good-bye, and the bartenders and servers weren’t far behind them.
She was alone in the pub with Arthur.
“Well?” she said, when he began turning out the lights. “Are you going to walk me home?”
He turned and gazed at her, cold fire in his eyes. She shivered. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. He walked up to her, put his hands around her waist. He kissed her, mouth open, so hungry there was no room for finesse, and then hoisted her onto the bar. She gasped in surprise and then laughed. He perched her on the big bar and stepped between her open legs.
“I thought about you all day,” he said, pressing his mouth to her belly, breathing warmth through the cashmere.
“You did?”
“Mmm. I was hoping you’d come for the darts tonight.”
His hands slid under the wool, warm and tough and leathery.
“And if I hadn’t?”
“I’d have come to you.”
That was something, she thought as he opened her jeans.
After the pair of them had managed to wriggle off-her-and unpeel-him-her skintight jeans, and then the ice blue silk panties beneath, he resumed his former position, standing between her legs.
He put his big hands on her thighs and pushed them gently apart, spreading her, exposing her. Heat settled in the very spot where his gaze was raptly centered. She leaned back on her hands, feeling as though she were on a stage. If she looked out, there were the dim shapes of tables, the room fading to blackness as she looked farther into the pub. The surface of the bar was hard under her. When she breathed she smelled the yeasty beer, and a hint of the steak and kidney pie that had been tonight’s dinner special.
He pressed kisses to her open thighs, warm, soft, fleeting kisses. Desire pooled heavy inside her, which he could probably see for himself since he’d managed to place her in the beam of one of the overhead pot lights. If she leaned back on her elbows, her upper body disappeared into darkness, but the way she was positioned, the way he held her, there was no way to avoid the light that beamed on the area from her belly to her thighs.
Arthur slipped one finger inside the gorgeous woman spread before him. “You’re so wet. So hot,” he murmured, his dark head bent over her. He curled his finger toward her pubic bone, finding her G-spot and pressing lightly. Her gasp told him he’d hit his own bull’s-eye. He slipped a second finger inside her. Already her clit was swelling, flowering under his gaze. Her torso was still mostly covered by the soft wool sweater, and with her head thrown back he couldn’t see her face, but he’d spent enough time watching her last night that he could imagine her expression.
Her eyes would be closed, her lips smiling slightly. She was so damn polite, even in bed, that she smiled with closed lips as her pleasure began. But when it mounted, she lost all her manners and bucked and moaned like a wild woman.
He was looking forward to taking her to that place. Just the thought had his prick feeling as hard as the oak she was sitting on.
He leaned forward and touched her with his tongue. She must have been expecting it, but maybe not quite yet, so he felt her hips jerk forward, pressing her more deeply against his mouth. He took her up, following her rhythm when she began thrusting her hips against his mouth and fingers, licking, teasing, and finally sucking on her as her passion grew hotter. Her lips swelled until they were as hard as his cock, her honey was flowing, and the sounds she was making were wild.
“I’m going to…I’m going to…”
“I know,” he said against her damp flesh.
And then she did. He held her hips and licked her from the outside, rubbed her from the inside until she exploded in his arms, against his mouth. And then, with a final cry, she slumped, limp and pulsing against him.
Her legs were draped over his shoulders, her thighs trembling with reaction. He kissed them, so white, the skin so soft, even softer now that she’d come.
She pushed herself up to sitting, her eyes still unfocused, her mouth swollen and moist. “I want you inside me,” she said, her voice passion-rough.
Not something he needed to be told twice.
He’d stuffed a couple of rubbers in his pocket before closing time, so he unzipped, dropped his drawers, and was ready in seconds.
There was nothing elegant about the pose, but he didn�
�t care and he doubted she did, either. He lifted her carefully down, keeping his hands on her ass and her thighs still splayed. She put her arms around his neck and he slid her, soft and open and hot, right onto his burning cock.
She opened her mouth on his, kissing him deeply as they started to move. Her legs wrapped around his waist and he buried himself deeper, driving up and into her while she clutched him, the echoing pulses of her orgasm stroking him like damp fingers.
He wanted her to climax again before he let go, but he was so hot, so horny, so absolutely desperate that he wasn’t certain he could make it. She surrounded him, her scent, her taste, the feel of her, so hot and eager and agile, and the little sounds she was making against his mouth were the last straw.
He pulled her away, giving them both a second of anticipation, then let go so she slid down the length of him, deep and hard.
Once more, twice, and the climax built, uncontrollable, unstoppable within him. As he groaned into her mouth, he felt her own wild tremors and let go completely.
It seemed like days later when he could see again. His chest burned as though he’d run a bloody marathon. She was on her feet, but they clung together still, leaning against the bar and panting. His legs were trembling, his trousers were around his ankles. He must look a right fool, but at the moment, he couldn’t have cared less.
She straightened and began looking down at the floor. When she spotted her knickers in a dainty heap, she bent down, giving him a view of the nicest ass he’d ever been privileged to see.
He reached out and rubbed the gorgeous, fleshy curve. “Come back to my place,” he said.
She stepped into her panties and then dragged on her jeans.
When she turned back to him, her face still wore the glow of recent pleasure.
“If I leave your home in the morning, won’t people be suspicious?”
“I hate to tell you this, but when I left Stag Cottage this morning I bashed straight into Max. I told her I’d been changing that bloody lightbulb in the lounge that keeps burning out, but I’m not sure she believed me.”