Show and Tell

by Jasmine Haynes

  The five-star out by the airport had vacancies, and Trinity checked in less than half an hour later. She ordered room service, but couldn’t eat. After tossing off her clothes in favor of her nightie, she watched old episodes of CSI, one of which featured a woman who’d fed her husband antifreeze for months before he died. It was a slow, painful death. She narrowed her eyes at the TV screen and smiled. Hmm, maybe antifreeze was better than Bobbittizing.

  Yet beneath her jumble of emotions, she ached. She wanted to curl into the bedclothes, pull them over her head, and cry until the ache went away. Maybe she could call Faith and talk. She didn’t have to say anything was wrong, but Faith knew how to listen. If Trinity gave her the chance to listen.

  “I hurt,” she whispered to the room.

  She threw herself out of bed, marched into the bathroom, and stared in the mirror. “I hate self-pity,” the reflection said. “It’s pathetic. ”

  The woman looking back at her was tall even in bare feet, though she had to admit she looked best in her three-inch heels, which put her at five eleven, or the five-inch ones, but they were a scooch difficult to walk in. Still, Trinity loved her high heels.

  Her long blond hair curled softly over her shoulders, though the back did have a bedhead quality after watching hours of reruns. She had the requisite blue eyes to go with the blond look. But were those crow’s feet? And lines between her brows? And by her mouth? Trinity leaned in. God. They were. She’d been thirty for four months. How could she have lines?

  And how could Harper want that woman? Because that . . . bitch had breasts. In her mind’s eye, Trinity could see his fingers squeezing a nipple. Trinity cupped her own breasts through her satin sleepshirt. At least she cupped what there was of them. Not even a handful. She undid two buttons and squished her breasts together, but she still couldn’t find her cleavage. All right, so she didn’t have breasts, but she had good legs. Sure, there were breast men, but there were also leg and butt men, too. Trinity stepped back and pulled her shirt to the small of her back and circled. Okay, not bad. Maybe her butt was a smidge big. Lose a couple of pounds?

  A shower image battered her, almost bringing her to her knees until she dropped her shirt, covering herself, and grabbed the edge of the counter. Harper’s hands caressing voluptuous hips as he tasted between full thighs. Trinity closed her eyes, and the tiniest of moans slipped past her lips.

  All her life, she’d striven for perfection. Ate the right things, worked out endlessly, denied herself all her favorite foods. Like rack of lamb. With a baked potato and sour cream. Bread pudding. And two champagne cocktails.

  And for what? So that Harper could go down on a woman at least three sizes larger than her? Fine, yippy-doodle, it was a bitchy thought, but she was feeling bitchy. She was feeling . . . she didn’t know what she was feeling except wounded and yeah, a little murderous. If she knew where he’d gone, she might have run after him with the nail file and eviscerated him. It would have been oh-so-satisfyingly slow and painful.

  Trinity always tried to look perfect for Harper.

  Yet he’d done that woman in the shower, her hair wet and all over the place, mascara smudges beneath her eyes, her lipstick on her chin. How could he do that?

  How. Could. He. Do. That?

  Because Trinity herself didn’t like to sweat or get her lipstick smudged or her hair askew. She liked to dream about it, but she never did it. Had Harper ever asked to get down and nasty with her? Or passionate?

  The horrible, terrible truth was she couldn’t remember. What did that say about how much effort she’d put into her marriage? How awful. How utterly pathetic. How . . .

  “Will you stop?” The woman in the mirror blinked at her. “He cheated on you. You gave him your all, and he cheated.”

  She’d always denied herself anything that some man might disapprove of. She’d structured her whole existence around what she thought men wanted. What difference had it made? Harper had chosen someone completely different.

  Maybe he’d been pissed that she’d kept her own name instead of taking his when they got married. It was easier than changing all her credit cards, that’s how she’d thought of it. The truth was she didn’t know what she’d done wrong. She’d tried to make everything perfect. Why had none of it been enough for Harper?

  Suddenly Trinity wanted it all, rack of lamb and bread pudding with lots of brandy walnut sauce. She wanted passion. She wanted to get her hair mussed and her lipstick smudged. She wanted to get sweaty. She wanted the hot, screaming orgasms she’d always denied herself. Even if she had to give one to herself, dammit. She deserved it. Right now.

  She wasn’t going to deny herself one minute longer.

  JUGGLING his briefcase, suit hanger, and PC, Scott Sinclair exited the elevator alone on the eighteenth floor. He had a hellaciously early Monday morning flight in order to make the nine o’clock investor meeting in Phoenix. Rather than drive over the hill from Santa Cruz, he’d opted to spend the night at a hotel and take their shuttle to the airport. Plus he could leave his car in the lot without the hassle of long-term parking.

  The doors were set even and odd in small alcoves, and he found his room number halfway down the hall. Dropping his suit carrier to the carpet, he rummaged in his briefcase pocket where he’d stashed the card key.

  From beneath the opposite door in his alcove, a woman’s voice drifted up. Barely more than a whisper of sound. Or . . . Scott cocked his head . . . a moan? He chuckled, hoping to hell she wasn’t a screamer. He had to get up at the crack of dawn.

  Once inside, he tossed his bag on the bed and carried his briefcase and PC to the desk. He wanted to do a last-minute check on his presentation before he turned in.

  A murmur wafted up from the socket above the bedside table. He moved closer, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Without a plug in the electrical socket, it was a pass-through from one room to the other. And that was definitely a woman’s voice.

  No, not a voice, just a gentle feminine moan. The couple next door was about to give him a show without the picture. Ha. Any minute now, he expected the wall to start banging. Yet there was only that low, breathy sound of pleasure. Damn, it was erotic in a kinky, voyeuristic way.

  He couldn’t help himself. What red-blooded male could? Scott laid back, moving closer to the wall socket to listen. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been with a woman in a couple of months, but he could feel her voice like a stroke along his cock.

  Lying on the bed, listening to her, his hands stacked beneath his head, he hardened in his jeans. The intensity of her moans rose. He no longer had to strain to hear. She panted, faster, the thread of her voice running through her breath. Yet the wall behind his head still didn’t shake.

  Jesus, her partner must be going down on her. And she was loving it.

  So was Scott. He rubbed his cock through his pants. She had the most seductive moan he’d ever heard. Not a wail or screech or even a scream, but a soft, throaty pant that fed blood to his cock. He closed his eyes, her voice filling his head as his fingers worked open the button fly of his jeans, then he delved inside his briefs until he was stroking himself to her rhythm. Her voice rose in a crescendo. As she cried out, he felt the throes of her orgasm as if her body milked his erection.

  He almost came with her.

  It was like jerking off to a porn movie. Except that her voice spoke of balmy Caribbean nights, curtains blowing in a gentle breeze, and the scent of the ocean washing over him.

  He figured the wall-banging would start pronto. Yet there was silence. Maybe her partner was getting his condom. He couldn’t wait for their next act.

  He had to laugh. He was such a freaking perv, but hell, he wouldn’t deny how much he’d enjoyed listening. There was something indefinable about her voice that called to him. Maybe it was the circumstance, the unexpectedness, the fact she was a total stranger, faceless, just a voice.

  He’d been married for twenty-two years. Since the divorce had become final a year ago, he’d had
two brief relationships, both of which had skirted the edge of kinky, a few toys, a blindfold, scarves for ropes. But he’d felt no connection, and neither woman had fulfilled the craving in him. The passion he’d felt in his youth, the passion he’d showered on his wife, Katy.

  The passion that had died through the job changes, raising children, climbing the corporate ladder, the fights about money, kids, sex, then the silences that drove him crazy. He’d thought when both the girls went off to college, he and Katy could start over, have time for each other, rekindle what they’d lost. He’d wanted that with every fiber of his being.

  Instead, two weeks after Lexa, his youngest, went off for her freshman year, Katy asked for a divorce.

  Scott swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. None of that mattered much now. His life had turned on a dime, but he wasn’t one to wish for things he couldn’t have. He had Lexa and Brooke, and he adored his girls.

  He’d hoped, though, that he’d rediscover the passion of his youth, that he’d find a woman with whom he could share himself. That might be expecting too much at the age of forty-five. Maybe it came once in a lifetime, and all that was left was good sex.

  Which is what the lady next door seemed to be getting tonight. He was envious of her partner. Yet they were taking their sweet time getting to the wall-banging. He was pervert enough to want to listen.

  Finally, she started to moan again. His cock twitched as if her particular sweet pitch had a direct line to his libido. Oh man, he wouldn’t make it through the next orgasm without coming.

  He wasn’t sure how you could want a voice, but he did. Christ, if he were next door, he’d have her screaming. The head of his cock rose out of his briefs, a drop of come leaking from the tip without even a touch.

  “Fuck me, baby,” he whispered.

  She moaned louder. Higher. A touch more desperate.

  He wrapped his thumb and forefinger around his crown and pumped, just that tight circle, as if he delved with short sharp bursts in her pussy.

  On the other side of the wall, she went crazy. Panting again, moaning. He could almost feel her writhing beneath him on the mattress, and he pretended she was all his, imagining his cock sliding in her, her taste on his tongue. As if she could read his mind through the wall, she cried out with that same musical, breathy quality that made him a little nuts. He wanted that sound, he wanted his name on her lips.

  She drove Scott to the edge with her voice, and still her lover was quiet as a mouse. Damn if he wasn’t glad. He didn’t think he’d enjoy hearing a man’s grunts and groans anywhere near as much as listening to her by herself. Her voice enthralled him, made him actually feel she was there for him alone. Alone.

  Scott started to get it. She was alone. The lover in her bed was her own hand. Or her vibrator. Christ, he almost exploded then. Perhaps because he couldn’t see, the wall a solid barrier, her voice, her soft cries, evoked the most erotic images he’d ever known. Gorgeous legs spread, fingers buried, silky hair fanned across her pillow. His cock swelled, and he pumped faster. God, he wanted to do her. Worse, he simply wanted to watch her. A complete stranger. Learning who she was by the way she caressed herself. Her touch teaching him what she craved. His head back, he groaned deep in his gut.

  And he knew if he didn’t give in to this once-in-a-lifetime impulse, if he didn’t beg her to let him watch, he’d regret it the rest of his days.

  He made the move before he could actually contemplate that she might call the cops and get him arrested for being a pervert.

  2

  TRINITY rolled over and hugged the pillow. She could do better, she knew, because the two orgasms, though pleasant, had been a tad less than mind-blowing. She was left wanting . . . more.

  It was sad, too, because the best orgasms she’d ever had were the ones she gave herself. It wasn’t her lovers’ fault, not even Harper’s. She couldn’t let go at the right moment. It seemed to take so long that she felt impatient. Then she’d fake it. Or the bliss didn’t last. There were a million reasons, most of which centered around not looking ridiculous or sounding like a braying donkey or getting out of control or . . . show anything less than the perfect image she wanted to display.

  She tugged her nightshirt over her butt and snuggled deeper beneath the cushy down comforter. She might have fallen asleep in two shakes if someone hadn’t knocked on the door.

  Who was it at this ungodly hour? Except the clock showed ten. It had to be room service wanting her tray. Trinity climbed out of bed. She’d forgotten a robe, and where had she thrown her undies? Whatever. The shirt covered her thighs.

  Balancing the tray on her hand, she opened the door.

  And almost dropped it. This was no hotel employee.

  Oh my God. She didn’t have on any makeup, and she hadn’t even checked her hair in the bathroom mirror.

  She had to look up, up, up, and she realized how Faith must feel all the time. Petite. It was kind of nice. The guy was at least six four, and he had the flat abs, muscled arms, and defined chest of a gym rat. His thighs in those tight black jeans were . . . yummy.

  She shouldn’t be looking at a man thinking “yum-yum” when she’d just kicked her husband of six months out of the house for cheating on her. She also shouldn’t be searching for a wedding ring, either, yet she noted his hand was bare.

  And he was looking at her as if he were doing the “yum-yum,” too. It felt good, really good. Which it shouldn’t, of course.

  “Let me take that for you.”

  Lord. That voice. Deep, it started a thrum in her chest. He was older, but in a Kurt Russell/Superdad kind of way. In other words, more than sexy enough to turn heads, with short, dark brown hair and a strong, square chin. She let him take the tray without a peep, admiring his rearview as he bent to set her leftovers in the hall outside the alcove.

  “I’m in the room next door.” He pointed as if he thought she couldn’t figure out where next door was.

  She smiled politely. “That’s nice.” What did he want?

  “I can hear you through the wall.”

  He could hear her? What, was the TV too loud? But she’d turned it off half an hour ago. Then a flush rose up her neck.

  “Oh.” What else was she supposed to say?

  His chest expanded with a breath, then he raked both hands through his short hair before dropping them to his sides again.

  “And it made me a little nuts,” he finished as if he hadn’t paused and she hadn’t said “oh.”

  “I’ll try to keep it down,” she said in her most snooty voice while inside she was a mushy mess of embarrassment.

  “I don’t want you to keep it down.” He breathed deeply again, his chest straining against his sky blue button-down, then held her with a penetrating pair of eyes a few shades richer than the brown of his hair. “I want to come in and watch.”

  If she’d still been holding the tray, it would have crashed to the floor and splattered the remains of runny fried eggs all over the carpet and his tennis shoes.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No.” He held up a hand. “But don’t call hotel management. I promise not to touch you.” He stopped, laughed softly, and shook his head almost absently. “I can’t believe I’m over here asking for this anymore than you can believe I am.” Tipping his head back, he contemplated the overhead spotlight before dropping back down to meet her gaze. “I heard your voice.” Then he shrugged as if that said it all.

  He’d heard her voice. Just her voice. “What if I’d turned out to be fifty pounds overweight with a face like a Gorgon?”

  His lips flirted with a smile. “I’d still want to watch you and hear you make those sounds.”

  “This is the weirdest proposal I’ve ever had.” But it made her sort of excited. Well, hell, there wasn’t any “sort of” about it. Her body started clamoring, “More, more, more.”