“Yes,” she whispered. Lost in the moment. The memories.
One hand slipped down again, unbuttoning the button of her jeans. “Tell me to stop, Marley.” When she didn’t, he slid his hand inside her panties until his fingers were pressed against her clit.
“There it is,” he sighed. “That’s what hasn’t changed. I still make you wet. Still make you want. After all this time, you still want to know, don’t you? Still want to know what could have happened. You must, because you haven’t pushed me away. Haven’t told me to stop or slapped my face.”
She shook her head, but they both knew she was a horrible liar. Even as she tried to deny it, she set the letter down and covered his hand with both of hers, forcing his fingers to press harder against her, to move lower.
Michael hummed. “Yeah, you still love this. The princess can hide in her tower all she wants, but we know the truth, you and I.” He lowered his voice to a whisper that skimmed across her cheek like a caress. “We know what a bad girl you are.”
She was bad. Jesus, she needed to stop him before she came. It had been so long—how could his touch still do this to her? It took away all her defenses. Made her ache for more. His middle finger slipped inside her with shallow thrusts and she gasped, her nails digging into the back of his hand until he growled.
The sound of the office door creaking open made her tense an instant before she heard the irritated male voice. “Jesus, Michael. In the middle of the day? If you have company you should at least lock the damn door.”
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Bonus Excerpt - Robin L. Rotham: Not So Tiny Tim
Excerpt
Chapter One
There were only three things on Peter Vaughn’s mind as he walked up the busy, festively lit sidewalk toward his apartment Friday evening—beer, a Bulls game, and bed. And maybe some Advil for his pounding headache. Between clients who wanted more house than they were willing to pay for and contractors who wanted more money than they were willing to work for, he’d had just about enough of being an architect, at least for this week.
“Good evening, Mr. Vaughn,” the new doorman said, opening the lobby door. As usual, his red uniform was immaculate, his white beard perfectly trimmed and his eyes twinkling. He was a nice change from the usual doorman, Chapman, who was always rumpled and a bit of a Grinch.
“Hey, Frosty,” he said. “How’s it hangin’?”
The doorman followed him in and accompanied him to the elevator. “The way you’d expect in this weather, sir. Snugly. But thank you for asking. I’ll admit to being envious of Mr. Chapman’s Hawaiian vacation.”
“Yeah, me too,” Peter said, waiting for him to push the button.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vaughn…” When he turned, the doorman nodded toward the enclosed mall connecting the ground levels of the Dickens Towers. “I believe there’s a young lady in the Tavern who’s in need of your assistance.”
Peter frowned. “Who is she?”
“Miss Girard.” At Peter’s blank look, he added, “Miranda Girard? The two of you are acquainted, unless I’m mistaken.”
Peter slumped. Crap, he’d totally forgotten tonight was Tim’s monthly mini-reunion with his high school friends. The guy usually got laid in spectacular style after one of those things, sometimes until three or four in the morning, and because Peter was staying with him gratis until the house was finished, he couldn’t even tell him to take it somewhere else.
Jesus, he was so ready to move out. The only thing he was going to miss about living in Dickens Towers was being able to walk to his downtown Chicago office, and once he was into his new house, the peace and privacy would be more than worth the commute.
Damn contractors. How in the hell could they just drop his project to do another “quick job” right before Christmas? The house was already months behind schedule, and the rolls of carpet and pad and boxes of tile were just sitting there, waiting to be laid.
It was enough to drive a man to drink, something he fully intended to do as soon as he got upstairs.
“You’re sure she asked for me?” he asked doubtfully. What would Miranda want with him? She was Tim’s friend, not his.
“No, sir, but I’m certain you’re just the man she needs.”
“Cryptic, Frosty, but you’ve got my attention.” Peter sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You realize I’m already late for beer-thirty.”
“There’s plenty of beer in the Tavern.”
“Yeah, for three times the cost of the beer in our fridge.” When the guy just smiled at him, Peter sighed again. “And you think she needs my assistance.”
His smile widened. “I have no doubt of it.”
“Fine. Here.” Peter handed him his briefcase and then shrugged out of his coat and handed him that as well. “Have this sent up to the apartment and I’ll see what I can do for her.”
He wandered down the mall into Dickens Tavern and immediately spotted Miranda sitting at the bar. In red high heels and a sparkly turquoise and white tank dress, striped diagonally like a barber pole, she looked more like a sexy little elf playing hooky from Santa’s workshop than an engineer.
He slid into the vacant seat to her left. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
Clearly startled, Miranda glanced at him and then smiled wryly. “Has that line ever worked for you?”
“This is the first time I’ve tried it.”
“And the last, I hope.”
“Probably.” He ordered Sam Adams and nodded at her mostly empty glass, a Cosmo from the look of it. “Can I buy you another?”
“Thanks, but no. I just need one for liquid courage before dinner tonight. Two might push me over the line into maudlin emotion.”
“By all means, let’s avoid maudlin emotion,” he said, only half joking.
She smiled again. “By all means.”
When the bartender slid the cold beer into his hand, he took a few long pulls, debating whether or not to open the can of worms good old Frosty had unwittingly plunked down in front of him. No doubt Miranda was sitting here fortifying herself against the sight of Tim with yet another party girl on his arm. It was obvious from the first time he met her that she was hopelessly in love with Tim.
Hopeless being the operative word. Tim Crichton had earned his reputation as a player, and he liked to play both sides of the field. When he played, he played for fun, not for keeps, and he made no secret of the fact the people in his life fell into one of three well-defined F-zones—friends, family and fuck-buddies. Crossover between friends and fuck-buddies was not allowed because that might lead to a fourth F-zone—the forever zone—and Tim didn’t do forever.
Miranda clearly fell into the friend zone, so why hadn’t she seen the handwriting on the wall and moved on? She obviously wasn’t his fuck-buddy type. Where Tim preferred women tall and generously proportioned, Miranda was petite and slender, with the kind of subtle curves that appealed to more sophisticated tastes. Where Tim went for the cool blonde look, Miranda was exotic, her bottomless aqua eyes a startling contrast to her warm golden skin and dark hair. She had a wide, generous mouth and lush rose-colored lips that were currently coated with smudged red lipstick. Looking at them made Peter’s pants go a little tight in the crotch. No doubt she could do some pretty amazing things with that mouth.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Why do you need liquid courage?”
Miranda sent him a wary glance. “You’re probably not the person I should be discussing this with.”
“Because it’s about Tim?”
She sighed. “Peter, why are you talking to me? You never have before, and I was kind of under the impression you didn’t like me very much.”
“That’s not true.” Surprised by her candor, he hesitated for a moment and then decided to return the favor. “I was just concerned about your infatuation with Tim.”
She blushed a charming shade of dusky pink but held his gaze. “I changed my mind. I’ll have another Cosmo, please.”
Peter gestured at the bartender.
“He told you what I did last month, didn’t he?” she asked.
“No, he didn’t. What did you do?”
After she’d taken a long sip from her fresh drink, she said without looking at him, “I threw myself at him.”
It took him a moment to digest that. Wow, that must have taken some guts.
“What made you do that after all these years?” he asked, snagging a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar.
She shrugged. “Just…everything came together, I guess. He didn’t have a date that night so we wound up sitting with each other, talking and laughing all evening. I had a few glasses of wine with dinner, then an after-dinner drink, and Tim thought I was too toasted to drive. I told him I’d call a cab but he insisted on taking me home. I guess he was right about my having had too much to drink because when he walked me inside, I saw him standing there under my mistletoe with that smile on his face and I just…went for it. I grabbed him around the neck and kissed him.”
Peter nodded. “What did he do, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“He kissed me back at first. For a few seconds I thought he was going to swallow me whole. But then he pried my arms from around his neck and leaned his forehead on mine and said, ‘Miranda…’” She lowered her voice to imitate Tim’s sexy rumble. “‘You know I care about you like damn, but this isn’t going to happen between us. I’m sorry if I did something to make you think it could.’”
“Ouch.” That explained why Tim had been in a shit mood when he got home that night. It would have been hard for him to hurt her like that.
Personally, Peter would have sat her down a long time ago and explained the facts of life for her own good. Tim considered Miranda one of his best friends—he’d known her since their first day of high school, and as transparent as she was, he had to have noticed her feelings for him. And yet he’d let her cling to false hope for years, which was just wrong, in Peter’s opinion. So Tim hated hurting people—that didn’t mean it was okay to act like a chickenshit.
Then again, nobody was perfect. If Tim didn’t have at least a few flaws, someone would canonize him when he wasn’t looking. Tim would hate that.
She nodded. “Exactly, and you’d think that would be have been enough to stop me, right? But no. I had to go and act as desperate as I felt—I told him if it was the size thing, I wouldn’t have a problem with it, and he kind of laughed like he was embarrassed and told me that wasn’t it. He said I was a forever girl and he just wasn’t a forever guy. He refused to fuck up our friendship over one night of sex.”
The blush was back, and it looked painful this time—which both his dick and his inner Dom found entirely too exciting.
Down, boys, he ordered.
“You know he’s doing you a favor, right?” Peter said. “He could have slept with you and then told you he wasn’t interested in anything more.”
“I wish he had,” she told him flatly.
Peter shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “At least then I’d be grieving over something real, something that actually happened between us instead of this damn stupid…crush.” Her voice broke on the last word and she blinked rapidly. “Crap, I knew I should only have one drink. I’m not going to this dinner with mascara tracks down my cheeks.”
Well shit. Obviously he was only making things harder for her. Good job, Frosty.
“Why are you going at all?” he asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to just cool it for a while, put a little distance between you?”
Her back straightened and her small chin jutted forward. “I still have some pride left. Maybe I’ll take off a month or two after the new year, but it’s our Christmas party and I’m going to walk in there tonight and act like I’m having a good time if it kills me.”
Peter grinned. He do the same thing, only he’d show up with a date and be all over her—or him, depending on his mood that day and the point he wanted to make. But he hadn’t expected that kind of bravado from Miranda, and he’d bet anything Tim didn’t either. He probably thought she wasn’t going to show up tonight, which would explain his shit mood this morning, too. She’d upset the fragile balance of his fluffy little universe.
As if she’d read his mind, Miranda said, “I actually had a date lined up for tonight, a new guy I work with. But of course he went home sick this afternoon.” She held up her glass. “Hence the liquid courage.”
Now she was talking. “I could go as your date.”
She blinked. “Why would you do that?”
“Why not? That was a ballsy move that deserves a little moral support. Besides, you’re a beautiful girl and I’d like to get to know you better,” he said honestly, enjoying the way she blushed again at the compliment. He’d always found her attractive, and if she hadn’t been so far gone on Tim, he would have asked her out. Maybe he should have anyway—it might have saved her and Tim both some heartache.
When she hesitated, he glanced at his watch. “Dinner’s at six-thirty, right?”
“Yes.” She looked at her watch, too. “I guess I should probably freshen up first.”
“I’m going to go change. I might be a few minutes late but I’ll meet you there, okay?” he said, reaching for his wallet.
“Peter…” She put her hand on his arm. “Are you sure? This feels kind of manipulative, and as much as Tim doesn’t want to screw up our friendship, I don’t want to screw up yours either.”
“Trust me,” he said as he threw down a couple of bills. “You won’t.”
* * *
Was she insane?
Miranda frowned into the ladies’ room mirror as she reapplied her cherry-red lipstick. Peter Vaughn wasn’t just Tim’s roommate, he was his friend. If she showed up with him, Tim was going to think she was trying to make him jealous.
Or that Peter was. She’d never been able to decide exactly how deep their relationship went. Tim had come out about his bisexuality way back when they were college roommates, and though they never acted like they were anything more than friends, she’d sensed a certain tension between them that might have been sexual. Had Peter been unwillingly relegated to Tim’s friend zone the way she had, or had he been allowed to cross over?
The idea was discouraging but it hadn’t kept her from imagining the two of them together and getting hot and tingly all over, especially when she added herself to the picture. Peter was a very handsome man—tall and built like a cyclist, with thick brown hair and clear gray eyes—and of course Tim was just as handsome, though in a different way. His muscular frame made his average height seem more imposing, and his rich auburn hair and friendly blue eyes made him stand out in any crowd. After she got past her initial anxiety about Tim’s bisexuality, she’d spent many an evening entertaining herself with fantasies of being sandwiched between the two of them. She’d never allowed herself to doubt that once Tim finished sowing his wild oats, he’d settle down with her. If he still felt other urges, there was no reason they couldn’t bring another man to their bed occasionally—lots of couples did kinky stuff to spice up their sex lives.
She rolled her eyes. Talk about counting your chickens.
But dammit, she thought she’d had reason to count her chickens. She and Tim had clicked from the very first time they met and had so many interests in common, they never ran out of things to talk about. He didn’t treat her like all the other girls in his damn friend zone. He looked out for her. Teased her. Played video games with her and let her help test out the latest ones. And the way he looked at her sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking...
God, she had to stop this. He’d made it clear where they stood, once and for all.
Putting away her lipstick, she ran a comb through her simple chin-length bob with a sigh. Maybe it was time to let it grow out again. Long hair was so much sexier. A few weeks ago someone told her she looked like a blue-eyed Dora the Explorer, and in that moment, she’d never resented
her short, Castilian-Spanish genes so much in her life.
But Peter had called her a beautiful girl tonight, and she’d soaked up the simple, direct compliment like rain after a drought. She wished he’d been as forthcoming as she had at the bar—it would be nice to know exactly what his stake was in all this. Did he really want to get to know her, or was he trying to make Tim jealous?
She should have just asked. He certainly hadn’t hesitated to ask her the tough questions.
And he’d listened attentively to her answers, something she appreciated very much. It had been ages since she discussed her feelings for Tim with anyone but her mother because all her friends eventually got tired of her mooning over her high school crush. They wanted her to move on and fall for an actual grown-up, one who did something besides design video games for a living and date women who were taller than him.
They didn’t see what she did, that there was so much more to Tim Crichton than he liked to let on. Yes, he’d inherited a shitload of money from his grandfather and hit it big with his Quantum Alien game before he was old enough to buy liquor. But instead of wasting his life as a full-time playboy the way some young rich men did, he’d worked hard to parlay his wealth and talent into a huge company that donated buckets of money to children’s charities each year.
If she hadn’t been in love with him before, she surely would have fallen after seeing the video of him lying on a hospital bed next to a small, hairless boy in a surgical mask, enjoying a lively two-player game of Quantum Alien. And she wasn’t the only one. Though the video was shot by the boy’s mother with the understanding that it would never be made public, someone posted it online, and when it went viral women began throwing themselves at him left and right.
As if being young, handsome and rich hadn’t attracted enough women.
Tim had been furious when crowds of reporters started showing up at his visits to the hospital, shouting all kinds of intrusive questions at him. When he finally gave one of them an exclusive on-camera interview and told her about the week he’d spent in the children’s hospital after a snowboarding accident when he was sixteen, the media had eaten it up—and then promptly forgotten him because there was no more story to sniff out.
Breaking Skye Page 13