FLYBOY1: Don’t tell me we’re gonna go through that again. Honey, there’s nothing wrong with letting your sexual side show a little.
A little? He thought she’d let it show a little? She nearly let out a mad cackle, but stopped, remembering that he was probably watching her right now. Instead of replying in some crazed, raving way—tempting since she currently felt pretty crazed and raving—she decided it would be smarter to go straight to the heart of the matter.
RILEY: I’m appalled at what I did last night, and I want you to leave me alone for the rest of my time here.
His answer took longer than normal, but when it came, was typical of him.
FLYBOY1: You didn’t seem appalled while you were doing it.
She let out a sigh of disgust and didn’t care if he heard her this time. RILEY: Another bout of drunken insanity, that’s all. I was DEEPLY appalled AFTERWARD, and that counts for a lot.
FLYBOY1: Did you go to Catholic school or something?
Despite herself, she let out a short laugh, half-amused, half-hysterical. RILEY: No. Afraid my conservatism is organic, all me.
FLYBOY1: If I were there with you right now, do you know what I’d do?
She drew in her breath and her pussy fluttered, unbidden. RILEY: No.
FLYBOY1: I’d fuck the conservatism right out of you, honey.
She didn’t type an answer. She had no idea how to respond. Because as much as she really thought it wise to banish him from her life and forget any of this had ever happened, she couldn’t deny the hard jolt of arousal coursing its way through her conservative body at reading his words.
FLYBOY1: I’d think you were mad at me . . . except you don’t LOOK mad. You look . . . excited. In fact, your cheeks are starting to flush, same as when you touch yourself.
Again, Laura considered her response. She hated being so easy to read. She hated that he could see her and she still couldn’t see him.
RILEY: It’s so unfair that this stupid camera only works one way. And for your information, I AM mad, at myself. Last night went too far, and it absolutely won’t happen again.
FLYBOY1: What size shoe do you wear?
She blinked at the screen in utter disbelief. Here they were, discussing shared sexual depravities, and he was taking down sizes? RILEY: Why on earth do you want to know?
FLYBOY1: Humor me.
RILEY: 7½. But if you do anything stupid like have sexy shoes delivered to me because you want me to walk around naked in them or something, I will promptly throw them out into the snow.
FLYBOY1: You take the fun out of everything.
She sighed. RILEY: None of your business. FLYBOY1: 36C?
She let out yet another irritated harrumph. RILEY: 34, if you must know, but you got the C right.
FLYBOY1: Guess I’m a good judge of tits. And yours are beautiful, honey. Only problem with the present I sent you yesterday is that I didn’t get to see them.
She rolled her eyes. RILEY: Poor planning on your part, I suppose. Damn it, why was she letting herself be engaged this way? She was supposed to be putting a stop to this.
FLYBOY1: Show me now.
Laura sucked in her breath as she stared at the screen and tried to keep her expression neutral. No man had ever made her feel so torn between her real self and her inner bad girl.
To her surprise, part of her wanted to unbutton her pajama top right now, wanted to sit typing to him topless. But if she kept on with this, she feared she’d lose some precious part of herself. She’d come close to that last night, she thought—to giving away something she wasn’t sure she wanted to give. At least not to a man she’d never meet in person.
RILEY: No. And you know what else? I’m done with this, Braden—REALLY done with it. As of right now, I want nothing more to do with you, got it?
She liked that his next answer took awhile. She liked having surprised him with her anger. And even though she sat in the desk chair, still aroused, still wanting—that anger was real. Last night had gone too far. She never should have done something so intimate with a stranger, and it had left her feeling ashamed. This had been mysterious and intriguing, and probably the most truly exciting thing she’d ever done—but the horror she’d felt last night, coming right on the heels of her orgasm, had made it clear to her that it had to stop.
FLYBOY1: Won’t work, Laura. You won’t turn the camera off.
Arrogant bastard. RILEY: I don’t have to turn it off to ignore you. And I’m going to start ignoring you right this instant. I came here to write a book, now I’m going to write it.
FLYBOY1: How it’s going, the book?
She didn’t answer, instead pulling up the file she’d been writing in.
FLYBOY: Is your alter ego busy solving some heinous crime?
She swallowed, hard, because she found it difficult to ignore someone directly addressing her, even through the computer—but she still managed to. In fact, she started vigorously typing the next scene of the book. The writing was terrible, of course, but she could fix it later. For now, she mainly wanted to look busy and absorbed in her work.
FLYBOY1: Come on, honey—don’t be like this.
I have to. To protect my sanity. It was tempting to tell him that, to let him persuade her back into conversation—but no, not this time. She had to stand strong. She kept typing—something about Sloane Bennett being hot, the hottest man Riley had ever laid eyes on, let alone kissed.
FLYBOY1: Talk to me.
Another sentence—this one about Sloane being the sort of man who could tempt Riley to do things she never had before, but how Riley refused to be tempted because she had a case to solve and she intended to show Sloane she was a good detective, and that having sex with him probably wouldn’t do much to convince him of her mystery-solving prowess.
FLYBOY1: Please.
Drat—that almost got her. She felt guilty and mean.
But there was nothing mean about it. He was a big boy—he’d get by just fine without her company, she was sure of it. And for all she knew, he was dating twenty different women. And would have one of them in his bed tonight. Or maybe he was dating only one woman—a special one. And this was sort of like cheating on her. More than sort of—definitely cheating. She let out a sigh and kept typing, reminding herself that these were just more good examples of why it was a mistake to get intimately involved with someone she didn’t know from Adam.
A few feet away on the desk, an antique black phone rang. She flinched—the phone hadn’t rung since her arrival, and she’d thought this particular device only served as a decoration; she’d never dreamed the thing actually worked.
She knew almost certainly that it was Braden calling—insisting she talk to him. If she answered, she could finally hear his voice. She would definitely feel as if he were a little nearer, even if it was only an illusion. If only she dared.
Of course, it could also be Monica, or her mother, who also knew where she was—but they’d more likely call her cell.
Staring at the phone, then casting a slow glance back to the computer, she took a deep breath and reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, honey. It’s me.” As she’d suspected, his voice was deep and dark, flowing over her like thick, melted chocolate. Just hearing it made her breasts feel heavy and her inner thighs ache.
“Hi,” she replied shortly. She glanced down, away from the screen. She couldn’t let him see how just the very sound of him affected her.
“Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
She suspected he’d used the persuasive tone on women before—and she also suspected it had always worked. “I never said I was mad.” She swallowed back the nervous lump that had grown in her throat at this unexpected push closer to him. “I’m just . . . very uncomfortable.”
“I don’t want you to feel that way. I want you to love what we’ve been sharing as much as I do.”
“Well, sure, that would be nice, but . . . I can’t.”
“Why do you think sex is wr
ong?”
She sighed. “I never said that, either. I don’t think sex is wrong at all—I think sex is great. But I’m not comfortable doing weird things with a stranger. It might be different if we were together, in the same room, but we’re not even in the same state, so . . . it’s just a bizarre way to be intimate, that’s all.”
She heard him breathing on the other end of the line and, despite herself, couldn’t help enjoying the continued illusion that he was somehow closer now. “I’d think most women might like it better this way—I mean, since you keep telling me I’m a stranger, I’d think you’d be glad I’m far away. That it would make you feel . . . safer or something.”
“I’m not most women. I’ve told you, I’m conservative and sensible. Nothing about this is conservative and sensible.”
“And if I asked you to meet me at the computer tonight at ten o’clock?”
“You’d find an empty room this time—I swear it.” And she meant it—sexy phone voice or not. Because if there had been any safety through the anonymity provided by the computer, this kind of changed that, made him even more real than he’d been before. She simply didn’t think she could muster another masturbation scene for him now that she’d heard his voice.
“So you’d really stand me up?” He sounded disappointed, but his voice also held a hint of teasing. “I hate to hear that, snowflake.”
“Why?”
“You get me hotter than anyone has in a long time.” No teasing this time. All serious, all heat.
“Why is that?” she asked frankly. “Why not find a real woman—one you can touch yourself ? I hear they have attractive ones in California.”
He laughed softly, although it held little humor. “You’re real enough for me—trust me on that. More real than most women I know.”
“Too much silicone and BOTOX in your world?”
“Maybe something like that. Just suffice it to say you’re the woman I want right now.”
She blinked slowly, then finally lifted her gaze to the camera, feeling she needed to face him if she were to get her point across. “Then I guess it’s too bad I’m here and you’re there. That’s the only way this could go any further. I’m sorry, Braden.”
With that, she hung up the phone, then pushed to her feet and walked away.
It took every ounce of strength she had to do that—really walk away from him, or as close as she could come to walking away given that he was actually three states away from her—but she meant it. She’d been reminded this morning of how little she really knew about him and just how intimate she’d become with him. It was too much. Too risky. Too strange.
His liquid voice still reverberated in her ear as she forced herself to eat a little breakfast—a bagel and coffee—then walk upstairs and get dressed.
And when she came back down, she gasped when she nearly tripped over last night’s velvet panties and the purple vibrator, still lying on the floor in front of the couch.
Yes, this was too much, and it had simply gotten too real.
And that’s why it had to end, once and for all.
Much to her surprise, Laura still managed to get some writing done, despite the morning upset with Braden. She’d waited to return to the computer until she felt certain he’d be busy doing other things, and as hoped, no IMs arrived. Outside the window, the sun shone brightly, the sky crisp and blue above a sparkling mantle of snow, and it somehow lifted her spirits and helped the words flow onto the page. Her only fear by day’s end was that much of the afternoon’s work might eventually have to be scrapped—for she was beginning to fear Riley was obsessed with Sloane Bennett ad nauseam.
That night, another hamburger, this one eaten in front of the TV—where sitcoms reigned. No reading, no thinking—just sitcoms. When ten o’clock rolled around, she felt predictably tense. And she even glanced at the computer once or twice, but she wasn’t tempted. In fact, she didn’t know if she was imagining it, but she had the oddest feeling that he wasn’t even there—as if he’d finally really believed her when she’d said it was over.
Of course, just as Riley had thought of Sloane all day, so had Laura thought of Braden. She didn’t regret her decision, but she supposed she wished things were somehow different—wished they’d met under more normal circumstances through Monica . . . heck, wished they’d really even met.
Then again, if they’d met through Monica at some family event, Braden Stone wouldn’t even have noticed her. She wasn’t the blond bombshell type she suspected could generally be found on his arm, not the type he probably would have categorized as even a possibility—if he’d not stumbled across her masturbating in the living room of his vacation home. As she shut off the TV a few minutes later, then headed upstairs, she shook her head once more, not quite able to believe she’d touched herself that way in the first place, let alone where it had led.
A few minutes later, she lay down to sleep in a pink cami and a pair of cheerfully striped flannel pants. She felt at once adrift, yet also settled, centered. The excitement with her voyeur had ended now—but that was okay. She would write her book, go home at the end of her retreat, and life would get back to normal. And that’s what Laura thrived on—normalcy.
Wasn’t it?
She ignored the vague sense of loneliness she felt for the first time since arriving here—writers like to be alone, remember? she lectured herself—and tried to fall asleep peering out yet another enormous picture window at a bright, nearly full moon hanging low in the Colorado sky.
When blessed sleep came, it brought dreams. Of Braden. Of sex.
Only . . . when a kiss came on her cheek, waking her, she knew instantly it wasn’t a dream, nor was the warm male body crawling into bed with her.
She should have panicked, but didn’t. Somehow she knew it was him, and that this wasn’t really over at all—even before he said low, near her ear, “Don’t be scared, honey. It’s just me.”
Chapter Six
She still hovered on the edge of sleep, that place where everything was dreamy—yet there was no doubt in her mind that he was very real. She whispered his name. “Braden.”
“I couldn’t let it end,” he breathed warm and wicked in her ear.
She lay facing away from him in the bed and could feel his erection—that quickly—pressing into the crack of her ass. One large hand curled around her waist, fingers splaying wide across her stomach through her top as he lowered a scintillating kiss to her neck. It set off explosions of pleasure inside her.
She never once thought of objecting, stopping him.
Having him here, next to her, touching her, after the things she’d longed for and the intimacies they’d already shared . . . there was no hope of stopping, no reason to try. She didn’t have sex with strangers, but this was different. Maybe because he no longer felt so much like a stranger, having come to her like this. Or maybe just because he felt too overwhelmingly good, the sex dripping off of him and onto her like something tangible that instantly consumed her. Either way, she wanted it with her whole self.
He stroked and caressed her belly, his fingers finding the skin between cami and waistband and then flirting with the underside of her breast, all the while delivering more kisses to her neck, shoulder. Her whole body rippled with the supreme pleasure of finally having his hands on her, of having him in her bed.
When his palm closed over her breast, she moaned and instinctively arched into his touch. His breath grew heavy, hot, as he massaged her with a slow, intoxicating rhythm that quickly swallowed her, helping her forget to think and only to feel. His cock grew harder against her rear, and she found herself pushing back against it, wanting to feel even more. Braden growled softly in response, and the sound ran all through her, heightening her excitement.
Rolling to her back beneath him, she lifted her hands to his cheeks, studied his face. How strange to be in bed with a man whose eyes she’d never before looked into. Oh God, he was beautiful—even more than in the photo. Dark, thick hair framed strong feat
ures and expressive eyes, even seen only in the moonlight. She couldn’t quite make out the color—brown, she thought. Deep and warm. Dark stubble covered his chin, and she grew aware that he wore a T-shirt and jeans, stretched out against her.
He peered boldly back at her the whole time, clearly taking in her face, as well, his look devouring her until finally he lowered a slow, passionate kiss to her lips. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she met his sensually prodding tongue with her own. Short French kisses mingled with longer, deeper meetings of mouths until she was lost in it—and utterly thunderstruck.
No man had ever kissed her this way, this . . . perfectly from the start. It was as if they’d been kissing each other for eons, as if they knew exactly how the other would respond, how lengthy or fleeting the kisses should be, how passionate or lingering. She felt strangely and suddenly like a schoolgirl, as if she could have kissed him all night and it would have been enough to satisfy her.
Until, of course, his palms returned to her breasts, capturing them both with unabashed possessiveness, massaging gently but thoroughly, and drawing a long, hard sigh from deep within her. His hands were skilled, confident—they owned her on contact—and, just as she’d somehow known, were way better at pleasuring her than even her own.
The kisses went on as he kneaded her and slipped his thigh between her legs beneath the sheets. His erection jutted rock-solid against her hip, and they moved together in rhythmic bliss as Braden pushed her top up over her breasts.
His strong hands molded to the outer curves as she peered down to see them within his grasp, the peaks taut and pink. He looked, too, then met her eyes only briefly before dropping down to capture one sensitive nipple in his mouth.
“Ohhh . . .” she moaned as the pleasure expanded through her with the pull of his lips. She curled her fingers into his hair and watched as he suckled deeply—yes, yes—then opened his eyes to lock them on hers. The connection was startlingly intimate—but they’d already been intimate in far more bizarre ways, so she didn’t look away.
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