by Lori Foster
“I am wet in that other way, too,” she said in a whisper.
Hot damn. Kyle clenched his fists and forced himself not to attack her in a fit of lust, no matter how sexy she was. His cock went hard, straining against his swim trunks.
“Oh yeah? Why is that?”
Sara fisted her hands in her shirt and drew it up a little as she rolled on her heels nervously. “I think it’s because when two people are dating, they like each other. And they … want each other.”
This was good. Kyle took a step toward Sara, shaking his head a little to get a water drop off his eyelash. “I want you. Do you want me?”
Her eyes squeezed shut briefly before she said, “Yes.”
His heart was racing, but he held himself very still, hanging on to control. “Are we dating then, Sara?”
Hands twisting the T-shirt convulsively, she said, “I wear my glasses all the time.”
That statement caught him off guard. Frowning, he said in confusion, “So?”
“I work, I come home … I’m very boring, Kyle.” A long finger reached up and flicked a rolling raindrop off her cheek.
He bent forward and sucked the droplet off her finger, running his tongue down over her knuckle and back to the tip. Sara gasped.
“I don’t find you the least bit boring. And I can’t wait to get to know everything about you.” He hovered over her finger, wanting to see if she’d pull it out of his reach.
She didn’t.
“That is, if you’re interested in dating me.” Instead of holding his breath or begging, he reached under her shirt and put his hand on her waist. Then he drew her still-wet finger back into his mouth and sucked hard. Give her something to think about before she answered.
“Oh, I am interested.” Her hips rocked toward him, bumping him in the thigh. “And I’m going to have so much fun telling my friends I’m seeing a lifeguard. They’ll never believe me.”
Kyle took hold of her tiny backside and helped her grind against him, their wet clothes sticking and tugging, frustrating him. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, but today was my last day as a lifeguard. I’m going back to school to become an EMT.”
Her head snapped up and she laughed, a deep throaty sound that made his testicles tighten. And not from a torsion.
“Hmm, maybe we have more in common than I would have thought.” Nails scraped across his back. “You know, I was never the smartest in med school, by any stretch of the imagination, but I worked hard. Good luck with your classes.”
He nuzzled her neck, licking along her wet skin, feeling her shiver beneath him. “You can help me study.”
Stepping back, he struggled with her wet shirt, yanking and pulling it up, causing a lot of jiggling of her breasts, thighs, and belly. When the shirt finally landed on the floor in a sopping wet heap, he was fighting for breath, deep want for Sara snaking into every inch of his body and making him nuts.
“Of course I can help you study,” she said, standing in front of him, firm and golden, damp, with goose bumps on her breasts, nipples a deep pink. “Toxicology?”
That quirky little grin she gave made him growl. He reached for her. “I was thinking more along the lines of anatomy and physiology.”
“Oh,” Sara said, striving for innocence, but knowing she sounded more eager than anything else. “If you want, we can get started with all the major muscles. In a warm shower.”
Kyle’s hand on her behind squeezed harder. “I think I’m going to like dating a smart woman. You have such good ideas.”
Sara certainly anticipated a great deal of her own pleasure in dating a large, blond, courageous, and caring ex-lifeguard. “I have other ideas, too.”
Involving a very thorough examination of his muscular body.
He groaned, then kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her chin, brushing past her lips. “You’re so beautiful, and I’m really damn grateful for unreliable bikini straps.”
Sara laughed, knowing she’d gotten way more than she’d ever expected when she’d stuck her sandaled foot on that beach.
“Now, let’s get in that shower,” Kyle said, tilting his head toward the hall. “And I’ll touch and you teach.”
Feeling Sexy Sara rejuvenating within her, she warned, “It could take hours.”
His green eyes darkened. “I’m very dedicated.”
Then he kissed her, and Sara forgot that she ever knew a thing.
MY THIEF
MaryJanice Davidson
For Ethan Ellenberg, who fearlessly bats for me, and for MT, who fearlessly reads rough drafts.
Chapter One
John strode out of the elevator, shifting his suit bag from one shoulder to the other to dig out his key card. He related to Richard Gere’s character in Pretty Woman … he missed keys. Not that he ever watched girly movies like that. Well, hardly ever.
He stopped outside this week’s home-away-from-home, Room 666 … hmm, not too disturbing. Not that he ever watched cheesy horror movies like The Omen. Well, hardly ever.
As he slipped his key card into the slot, the door was thrown open and an arm snaked out and dragged him inside.
He dropped his suit bag, ready to rumble, then realized the arm was attached to a woman. A stunning, redheaded, blue-eyed woman with prodigious freckles.
“Strip,” she ordered.
He thought that over. Naw. He must have misunderstood. She’d probably said something like, “You’re in the wrong room, dicklick,” and in his shock he’d misheard her, which was perfectly understandable because—
“Dude! My lips are moving, can’t you see ‘em? I said strip.”
“What?”
“Strip. Undress. Take. Off. Your. Clothes.” He noticed with surprise bordering on alarm that her own clothes were flying off her as she spoke. “Do I have to write it on my forehead?”
As more and more creamy skin was exposed, alarm changed to something else. And speaking of something else, she certainly was. Her hair was shoulder-length and curly, bouncing around with a life of its own. The shades were drawn and the lights were out, and her glorious hair was the brightest thing in the room. It looked like coals banked for the night. Her limbs were long and slender, and she had the cutest little belly, which rounded out slightly above the darker red thatch between her—
Jeez, all right, I’ll help you,” she said, clearly annoyed at his slothfulness. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but did you take a special bus to high school? A short bus?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Then her hands were on him, pulling his jacket off, loosening his tie with nimble fingers, tugging his shirt.
“All right, all right,” he said mildly, but he didn’t feel mild. She was stunning. It wasn’t so much her looks, which were very fine. He had never met a woman who possessed more natural charisma in his entire life. She fairly vibrated with life. And impatience.
Clearly pleased to see he was finally getting with the program, she bounded over to the bed, yanked the covers back—he was treated to a flash of a creamy white bottom—and then was as snug in his bed as a redheaded bug.
Nude, he followed her, sliding between the sheets and wondering exactly what the hell to do now. “They really take this hospitality suite thing seriously,” he said.
Then he said, “Mmmff!” because she had grabbed him by the ears and was kissing his socks off. If he had still been wearing any. Which he certainly wasn’t.
His arms slipped around her, drawing her closer, relishing the silky skin of her back. Her breasts flattened against his chest and his hands slid lower, caressing the fine globes of her butt. Her tongue snaked inside his mouth and he nearly groaned.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Oh, here we go,” she mumbled into his mouth.
“That’s the spirit,” he mumbled back.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Go away!” they shouted in unison.
“Hotel security! Open up in there!”
Chapter Two
She pul
led back from his embrace and peered into his eyes. John waited for a breathless declaration of love. “Hmmm, that’s not quite right,” she said, then reached out and mussed his hair.
“Stop that,” he protested. “It took me hours to get it just right. Also, why is hotel security after you?”
She didn’t answer. Just stood up, bent over, mussed her own hair, flung her head back, grinned at his gasp of appreciation, then grabbed the comforter and slung it over her shoulders.
She marched to the door and opened it. “Whaaat?” she whined. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”
Two men peered past her, and John at once realized what they thought they were seeing: a barely clad redhead, an unclad John, lights out, shades drawn, and an air of musk and impatience pervading the room.
The smaller man, dressed in a blue suit, shirt, and tie that made him look embalmed, rubbed his hands together. John could hear the rasping sound all the way across the room. “Sorry—so sorry—there’s been—that is to say—”
The taller man shouldered him aside. “I’m Ron Wilde, hotel detective. This is the hotel manager, Ken.”
“Pleased—very pleased—”
“Someone cracked one of the safety deposit boxes downstairs. You haven’t seen anything unusual, have you?”
“She’s a natural redhead,” John volunteered. “I’m not quite sure if that’s what one would consider unusual, but—”
“You hush,” the redhead said, but she was smirking. “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind …”
“Terribly sorry—never meant to disturb—” The rasping was coming faster. If Kenny boy didn’t get some lotion on those hands, he was going up in flames from pure friction.
“‘Bye,” Red said pointedly, starting to swing the door shut. The detective stuck his foot out, and the door stopped.
He fished around in his jacket—dark brown, which almost exactly matched his hair and eyes—and finally extracted a card. He handed it to Red with a leer. “If you need anything else, just give me a buzz.”
John bristled. The punk was coming on to his would-be fake girlfriend! He thought about grabbing the suit by the lapels and tossing him into the tub, or possibly out the window, but then Red slammed the door and they were alone again.
She flung off the comforter like a titian-haired Wonder Woman and, he noticed with total dismay, began dressing as rapidly as she had undressed.
She slid into her jeans, shrugged into her T-shirt (“Come Along Quietly”), then stepped into her sandals. She dug into her pocket, pulled out a rubber band, and efficiently tamed her vibrant hair into a ponytail. As an afterthought, she kicked the comforter in the general direction of the bed.
“Thanks tons, doll,” she said, sketching a salute. “It’s been great working with you.”
Three steps to the door, and she was gone.
Gone?
Not fucking likely.
Chapter Three
John bounded out of the bed and caught up with her just as she was stepping into the stairwell. “Wait!” he said, and she turned around in surprise. Then her gaze dropped to his groin and she grinned. “I don’t even know your name.”
“So?”
“Where are you going?”
“MYOB, pal.”
“I don’t know that club.”
“Very funny. Seriously, thanks for helping me out and all, but I have to run. And dude … you need to get dressed. Not that I mind. But still. Public hotel and all that.”
“It’s too bad,” he said regretfully. He leaned casually against the doorframe. Then jerked upright—the metal frame was cold.” You could have stayed in my room as long as you liked. Now, of course, I’ll have to call the house detective and let him know you’re on your way down.”
She glared at him, her eyes slits of laser blue. “Blackmailer.”
“Actually, I’m an accountant.”
“Yech! Even worse.”
“Oh, come on,” he coaxed. “Whatever’s going on, it’s obviously too hot for you to leave right now. Why not come back to the room for a while? Frankly, I’m dying to hear all about it.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously.
“Because I’m an accountant in town for a convention. What else am I going to do?”
“Good point.” She nibbled on her lower lip, which instantly made him want to do the same thing. “Well … I s’pose you’re right. I mean, it’ll be tough getting out of here for a while. And you did help me out … and kept your mouth shut when Frick and Frack came knocking.”
He snorted at Frick and Frack, then shrugged modestly.
“All right,” she decided. He was so relieved he nearly toppled down the stairwell. “I’ll come back. For a while. But you really have to put some clothes on.”
“Why?” he asked, escorting her back to lucky Room 666. “You’ve seen it before.”
“Yeah, but … do you, like, work out every day or what? I’ve seen bodybuilders in worse shape. Seriously. Clothes. First thing.”
They stopped outside his room and he smacked himself on the forehead. “Dammit! I was in such a rush to get you, I forgot the keycard.”
She smirked at him and ran his card through the slot. “Grabbed it from your pants on the way out,” she said.
“You keep your hands out of my pants.”
“Oh, like you really minded five minutes ago.”
“Irrelevant.”
“Besides, I didn’t know if it’d come in handy later.”
“You are an unregenerate pickpocket.”
“Whatever you say, pal. But your wing-wang isn’t wagging out in the hallway anymore, thanks to me.”
He’d have liked to strike up a strenuous argument to refute this point, save for the annoying fact that she was right. “That’s not going to be your pet name for it, is it? Wing-wang?”
“We’ll see,” she said mysteriously, and practically shoved him inside.
Chapter Four
“Mmm nnn’d eeel eeeeg,” she said with her mouth full.
“What?”
She chewed and swallowed. “I said, I didn’t steal anything.”
“That’s nice. Back up.” She was still dressed, and gorging herself on room-service chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and chocolate milk. Sadly, she had not instantly disrobed after room service had come and gone.
He was wearing the standard-issue lux-hotel white terry-cloth robe, sitting on the bed and watching her. He was hungry, but not for food. “What is your name?”
“Oh. Didn’t I tell you? Sorry.” She stuck out a hand, shiny with chicken grease. He shook it gingerly. “Robin Filkins.”
“And the girl named ‘Robin’ didn’t steal anything.”
“Har-har. And nope. How can you steal your own property?”
“Lots of ways. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
“How about, not?”
“Why don’t you want to tell me? An unburdened conscience is a light one.”
“Who talks like that? And to answer your question, because it’s none of your business?” she guessed.
“You involved me,” he explained patiently. “You made me your alibi. At the least, you owe me an explanation.” He eyed the gorgeous mounds under her T-shirt. “Or, barring that—”
“Simmer down, El Horno. I’ll cough up the scoop.”
“Only if you promise to stop mixing your metaphors. And to never call me that again.”
“Hey, a bird in the hand is worth a pig in a poke.” She laughed and a few red curls escaped her ponytail and bounced around her face. “Besides, don’t get uppity with me. You never told me your name, either.”
“It’s not like you gave me time for civilized conversation.”
“I didn’t hear any complaints, pal.” She smirked.
She was really quite something—shameless, funny, blunt. He itched to touch the curls framing her face, to see if they felt as silky soft as they looked. “Point taken. It’s John Crusher.”
“Seriously?”
“Sounds like a professional wrestler, doesn’t it?”
She gnawed on a chicken leg. “I bet all the other accounting weenies are terrified of you.”
“Actually, I’m a freelancer with my own business, and rarely run into other accounting weenies. So, you were going to explain your curious yet refreshing actions of the last hour …?”
“I was? Oh, right. I was. In a nutshell: cracked my uncle’s safety deposit box. Got my property back. Took off. Cracked the first door I found on the highest floor. Jumped your bones—temporarily. The end.”
“Why my room?”
“Cracked the hotel reservation system first—you weren’t supposed to check in until tonight, Early Boy.”
“You’re quite right,” he said, surprised. “I caught an earlier flight.”
“Yeah, and thanks for nothing. I go to all that trouble to lift a universal housekeeping card, and you show up early. I just about dropped my panties when I heard your key card rattling in the slot!”
“If memory serves, you did drop your—”
“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, figured I’d hang out here for a couple hours until the heat was off, then slip out the back. This was, of course, totally foiled when you showed up. Although I must give you snaps for your cooperation.”
“Cooperation,” he said dryly, “is my middle name. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. We can be—”
“Mr. and Mrs. Crusher?” she teased.
“Something like that. But I do insist on knowing exactly what you st—uh, got back.”
“Why?”
“Overreaching curiosity. I’m taking a survey. Pick a reason.” He frowned. “It wasn’t a gun or something, was it? Because if that’s the case, I’ll toss you right out on your pretty behind.”
“Hey, I do have some scruples, pal. And no, it wasn’t a gun. It was—”
“Open up in there!”