by Meg Benjamin
Horniness aside, between the office’s stifling heat and her fatigue from another night of erotic dreams she was finding it impossible to stay focused on the theme park’s advertising. Even with the deadline a few days away. She closed her eyes to gather her wits, but couldn’t keep from fantasizing about Scott.
Perspiration beaded on her forehead and trickled down her cleavage. Between her thighs she pulsed with a familiar, unsatisfied desire. Her hands were white-knuckled and damp from gripping the edges of her design table, and she shifted uncomfortably on her stool.
“Okay, this is a stick-up,” said a voice behind her. “Hand over your purse, nice and slow.”
Molly’s eyes flew open as she felt something hard press into her spine. She hoped that, in her horny, daydream state, she hadn’t actually moaned aloud.
“Oh, no.” She gasped in a mocking helpless-female voice.
“Quiet,” the familiar voice said. “Follow my instructions and nobody gets hurt. Now, like I said, hand it over.”
“But I don’t have a purse.” Molly tried her best to sound brainless and breathy.
“Nice try, but I know different. I’ve been watching you for awhile now, girlie.”
She couldn’t help but grin.
“You’ve got a purse as big as a saddlebag, full of all kinds of female doo-dads.”
“What?” Molly whirled and deftly slapped the fluorescent highlighter out of Scott McDowell’s hand. “I don’t own doo-dads. Take it back, McDowell.”
Scott laughed at her semi-indignation and retrieved the marker from where it had landed in the corner of her cubicle.
“Okay, okay, but what would you call all that crap you cart around?” His blue eyes twinkled in devilish amusement and, as he straightened, he ran his free hand through his thick blond hair.
“The items in my purse are none of your business.” She pushed her plastic-framed glasses back up the bridge of her nose and pretended to be in a huff. “But, I repeat, there are no doo-dads.”
“Jeez, what’s with you? I was just kidding around.” Scott leaned against the edge of her filing cabinet.
In deference to the heat, he’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, abandoned his necktie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. A few tawny hairs teased her into contemplating the masculine chest beneath. She forced herself not to lick her lips.
God, she wanted to jump Scott and rip off his clothes. He wore navy pleated-front trousers, leaving her to wonder how much of the folds were filled with air and how much with…him. She’d been craving a cool shower all morning, and now she needed one for a reason other than the unbearable heat.
Hoping he hadn’t guessed her line of thinking, she averted her gaze and dabbed a tissue at the moisture on her upper lip. Temperatures like this made wearing her thick hair in a tight bun sensible, but even it seemed to be melting, lilting slightly to the left of where she’d pinned it that morning.
The K&B offices were sweltering, but one would never have known it by looking at Scott. Unfortunately, doing just that increased Molly’s body temperature a good thirty degrees. She looked and felt like she’d been standing all day in front of an open pizza oven, whereas Scott looked like a brand new Ken doll ready for an afternoon picnic with Barbie.
“You’re a pod person, right?” she asked. “The air-conditioning is on the fritz, the building is about a zillion degrees, and you look like you just stepped out of a Saks Fifth Avenue ad.”
“Bite your tongue. Saks isn’t a client. Yet.” He smiled, and the chill that zipped up her spine almost made her forget about the office’s current sweatshop conditions.
It’s not the past that wounds us…it’s the ghosts we hold on to.
Hearts Awakened
© 2008 Linda Winfree
Hearts of the South, Book 6.
A lifetime ago Mark Cook’s pregnant wife vanished, taking everything and leaving an empty, aching hole in his life. Since then, as penance for his failure as a husband and father, he’s refused to allow himself to live. Refused to lay his sleeping heart on the line for any woman.
Enter Tori Calvert, his best friend’s baby sister. Suddenly, against his will—and against his better judgment—that same damaged heart seems determined to reawaken. And Mark’s not sure he can withstand the pain.
When she was a teenager, a vicious attack ripped away Tori’s very essence as a woman. Finally she feels ready to focus her existence on something other than her job as a rape crisis counselor. And to step outside the shelter of her loving, protective family. She trusts Mark more than any man, yet fear holds her back.
Fear that even the healing light of love may not be enough to banish the shadows of the past.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Hearts Awakened:
Tori drifted into awareness. The light from the hallway shone into her eyes, and she squinted and yawned. A blue dress shirt was draped over the edge of her mirror. A pair of men’s loafers sat by the door. The owner of those shoes slept behind her, one hard arm draped over her waist. His hand curved around her ribcage, scant inches from her breast.
And that wasn’t his belt buckle poking her in the backside.
Her stomach twisted and her heart thudded in an irregular rhythm. She shrank away from the arm holding her, colliding with the solid chest behind her. Her heart shifted from its thudding to a frightened flutter. The hand tightened and a murmured protest sent warm breath along her bare shoulder.
Mark. Her heartbeat slowed somewhat. She was in bed with Mark, that was his hand wrapped around her, his chest along her back. His erection against her bottom. She concentrated on breathing, slow, relaxed breaths. She was in bed with Mark, because this was where she’d wanted to be. Closing her eyes, she absorbed the sensations of being this close to him.
He smelled of clean male. Being wrapped in his loose embrace made her feel sheltered, protected. He slept on, snoring lightly, his breath a warm rhythm on her skin. The hot outline of his hand through silk enticed her. An inch or so upward and he’d be molding the underside of her breast. She pictured that hand sliding up, fingers curving around her, arms tightening, that hard ridge pushing more insistently against her.
A liquid ache pooled in the pit of her stomach and she shifted, filled with restlessness. Her breasts tingled, feeling heavier, fuller, and she laid a hand over her abdomen. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she could feel her pulse between her thighs. All this, just from being in his arms, from thinking about his touching her?
She released a long, measured exhale. What would it feel like when he did touch her? If he was to shift those strong fingers down instead of up, slipping beneath the waistband of her slacks? The pulse at the apex of her thighs throbbed and she pressed her legs together.
The movement brought her bottom into closer contact with his groin. He jerked, a sudden stillness an indication he was awake now. On her ribcage, his fingers tightened and relaxed but didn’t move. He kissed her shoulder, a soft murmur on her skin. “You awake?”
Awake? Her entire body vibrated with awareness of him. All vestiges of sleep had evaporated. “Yes.”
He traced the line of one rib with his thumb. “Feel better?”
“I guess.” She lifted her shoulder in a small shrug, his lips touching her again.
He kissed the side of her neck. “I could get used to waking up with you.”
“Me too.” The rigid line of his arousal still lay between them and curiosity got the better of her. She covered his wrist with her fingers. “Do you always wake up like this?”
“Hard? Not always, no.” His quiet words sent heat rushing over her skin. “I was dreaming about you.”
Her breath caught. His drowsy voice had dropped with the admission. Could men purr? No, not a purr. More of a throaty, husky growl. He’d dreamed of her. The achy pulsing spread.
“Tell me about your dream,” she whispered.
“We were together, like this.” He shifted closer, mouth near her ear. “Only without so man
y clothes. You let me touch you.”
She burned, fire licking through her veins. “How?” She swallowed, her tongue darting out to wet her dry lips. “I mean, how did you touch me?”
With his lips, he traced the curve of her ear. “We were lying together like this and I slid my hands up. Your breasts filled my palms. Your skin was so hot, honey. Hot and smooth, except around your nipples. They were hard and you wanted my mouth on them. You let me taste you.”
The pictures he painted flickered in her mind. She wanted to take his wrists, pull his hands up, let him do the things he described. Only the fact she wasn’t the woman in his dream, not really, stopped her. That woman was his fantasy. The reality would be her freezing in fear somewhere along the way.
The first step in conquering the fear was facing it. She stroked his arm. Under her touch, his skin was warm, sprinkled with dark, coarse hair. She swallowed. “Is that all?”
He nuzzled her neck. “Not by a long shot. You touched me, your nails on my back, my shoulders. I slid my hands down, over that flat stomach of yours. I could feel the muscles trembling. I was still kissing your breasts, licking and sucking, and you were holding my head there, your nails scratching me a little. I couldn’t get enough of you.”
Even with the fear, the beat of attraction between her legs grew stronger. She resisted the urge to squirm. The edge of his hand brushed the underside of her breast.
“You opened your thighs to me.” His dark voice wrapped around her, doing wicked things to her senses. “I stroked you and slipped a finger inside, then another.” He tilted his pelvis, the solid ridge of his erection nudging her. His groan shivered over her ear. “Honey, you were so hot. Wet. Tight. You moaned. My name, over and over. I loved that, loved knowing I could make you feel like that.”
She wanted to roll over, to beg him to make the fantasy come true. She wanted to believe it could. His nose brushed her cheek and he feathered his palm across her stomach.
“I wanted to be inside you so bad, Tor, and you wanted it too. I wanted us moving together, until you came all over me. Until I was coming inside you.”
“Is that what it would be like?” Her voice emerged shaky and broken. “If we made love?”
He rubbed his face against her shoulder. “Oh honey, I think we’d be better.”
She turned her head to look at him. His eyes had gone a burning, smoky gray. “I want to,” she whispered. “But I’m frightened. I don’t know—”
“Shh.” Leaning in, he kissed her, his mouth firm and warm on hers. He framed her face. “We’re not going to do anything until you’re ready.”
He kissed her again, nibbling and teasing at her lips. Tori shifted to her back, holding his jaw with trembling fingers. Levering up on an elbow, he massaged a hand down her bare arm and she shivered.
His tongue probed at her mouth in a teasing flickering before he brushed a more sedate caress across her bottom lip. “Open your mouth, Tori.”
The rough whisper set her nerves on fire. Gripping his shoulders, she opened to him. He slanted his lips over hers, tongue meeting hers in short, easy thrusts. She moaned, the restless wanting alive once more.
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