The Stranger I Married Page 28

  “Oh God!” she gasped, her depths rippling around him, her back arching in the throes of climax.

  “I love you,” he breathed, his mouth to her ear, his chest pressed to hers. Then he followed her, shuddering, spilling his seed in a rush of longing, giving her the promise of the life they would create together with boundless joy in his heart.

  She met him stroke for stroke, his match in every way.

  Don’t miss Jennifer Apodaca’s

  THE SEX ON THE BEACH BOOK CLUB.

  Available now from Brava!

  Holly was sure that Wes knew Cullen’s last name. All she had to do was convince him to tell her. She hurried through the cool night and reached the bookstore just in time to see Wes come outside, turn around, and lock the door.

  Slowing her pace, she walked up. “Hi.” Damn, he was still sexy in that overbearing male way.

  He pulled his key out of the lock, then turned his gaze on her. “Change your mind?” He glanced down at the book in her hand. “Want me to return Cullen’s book?” He added a grin that should be labeled as dangerous.

  Holly leaned against the side of the bookstore and shrugged. “I have time to kill. Thought I’d see if you still wanted to get a drink. Unless”—she opened her eyes wide—“you really are afraid that I’m a stalker with murder on my mind.”

  A small smile tugged at his mouth as he shoved his keys into his pants pocket. “If not murder, then what—sex?”

  Oh yeah. Wait, no! God, she was weak tonight. Maybe it was her bad week. She decided to change tactics. “I asked you out for a drink, Brockman. All you have to say is that you aren’t interested.” She turned and started to walk away.

  “Does that work?” he called after her.

  She’d only gone a couple feet and turned back. “What?”

  “The offensive. Does it work?”

  She couldn’t help smiling. “Most of the time. But then I don’t usually have to beg men for their company.”

  He directed his gaze in a slow examination down her body, clad in a burgundy tank top and form-fitting jeans, then back to her face. His green eyes darkened. “Tell me more about this begging.”

  Down, girl. What was it about him? She shot back, “For that, you’d have to buy the drinks.”

  He stepped closer, throttling his voice down to a dangerous rumble. “Sex on the Beach?”

  She swore the ocean roared in her head. Her hormones surged up into huge waves of longing, washing over her. “You’re offering me sex on the beach?”

  His grin widened, crinkling his gorgeous eyes. “The drink. What did you think I meant?”

  Her thighs tightened in response. Get a grip, Hillbay—it’s just a reaction to a handsome man and a long dry spell of no sex. Holly was all for sex, but on her terms. She always kept her emotions in check. She was the cool one—the one that walked away when the relationship had played out. It was time to take back the power. She said, “That information will cost you more than the price of a drink.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Name your price.”

  “Steak.” She was hungry. And food might keep her from thinking about sex.

  “Done. You can follow me in your car.”

  She was practically dizzy from the pace he set. Or maybe that was pent-up lust breaking free. “Follow you where?”

  “My house. On the beach. I’ll make the drinks and we’ll grill some steaks out on my deck and watch the waves. Or maybe listen to the waves, since it’s dark out.” His grin suggested more than wave-watching.

  She thought about that, but in the end, Wes had what she wanted. Information on Cullen.

  Not sex.

  She lifted her chin. “I’ll follow you. I can spare an hour or so.”

  He nodded like it was no more than he expected.

  Annoyed, she said, “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  He moved up to her until she felt the brush of his breath. “No?”

  She felt a tremor in her belly that spread wet heat. Keep control of the situation, she reminded herself. “I don’t go to bed on the first date.”

  He reached down and picked up her free hand in his larger one. “Kiss on the first date?”

  She should put a stop to this. But the feel of his hand wrapped around hers was warm and sensual. She opened her mouth to tell him they weren’t dating, but ended up saying, “If I like the man.”

  He ran his thumb over her palm. “You like me. Make out?”

  Regaining her wits, she jerked her hand away. “Ain’t gonna happen, book boy.”

  His face blanked at the nickname, then a grin spread out over his face. “Why don’t we go to my house and take these rules of yours for a test drive?”

  She was playing with fire. She knew it but couldn’t stop herself. Wes was not the man she expected when she walked into his bookstore. There was so much more, and she had a strange compulsion to peel back the layers and find out just who this man was.

  Could she do that and keep her clothes on? Or maybe do it naked, but keep her emotions in check?

  She was going to find out. “Lead on, book boy.”

  Please turn the page for an advance look at Gemma Bruce’s

  WHO WANTS TO BE A SEX GODDESS?

  Available now from Brava!

  Andy took her place at the back of the line of Novices and slowly made her way to the front. The name of Dr. Bliss rose from every conversation and floated around the room like an effervescence. Everyone seemed fascinated by the TV guru. She hadn’t been at the Welcoming Ceremony, and Andy was curious to see her.

  When she reached the head of the line, another purple-sashed priestess gave her a stick-on name tag and a light blue satin sash.

  She followed the others into the auditorium and saw Evelyn, Loubelle, and Jeannie sitting near the stage with the other higher ranking goddesses. She found a seat in one of the rows of folding chairs at the back of the room, reserved for the Novices. Peeking over the top of her glasses, she began a systematic search of each row, looking for a tall, auburn-haired, middle-aged stuntwoman—just in case—and came up blank.

  She did find Dillon Cross, standing in the line of men on risers at the back of the stage behind a long table that presumably would seat the staff of the retreat. The men were bare-chested and dressed in short white kilts. They were all handsome and fit, though some looked self-conscious and some looked ridiculous.

  Unfortunately, Dillon looked good enough to make her forget her reason for being here. He was also perusing the rows of seats, a slight frown on his face, and she took the opportunity to get a good look.

  He was tanned and buff, sleek more than built—like a panther, Jeannie had said. There was something predatory about him. A natural grace that was only slightly disturbed by the hitch in his walk. He had long legs and a developed chest that tapered to a narrow waist. A gold braided belt was fixed several inches below his navel.

  Andy gave herself a buzz, just imagining what was under that little pleated skirt.

  Suddenly he looked right at her. Something zinged in the air between them. He smiled, then shook his head and grinned. Andy shoved on her glasses, chastising herself for being caught ogling her attendant. The world became a blur again.

  Conversation abruptly ceased as several priestesses, all dressed in flowing white robes and purple sashes, entered from a side door and took their places at the table on the stage.

  Katherine Dane came next and stopped at the podium at the center of the long table. She was wearing an off-white silk pantsuit and no sash, just a purple jeweled pin fastened to her lapel. Two men followed her onto the stage.

  The first man, a giant blond with powerful muscles swathed in undulating white pajamas, walked to the far end of the table and sat down. The second man was much shorter, slight, with dark shiny hair that receded from a high forehead. He was dressed incongruously in a pinstriped suit. The overhead lights picked out a sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he sat down.

  Ms. Dane signaled for quiet. The rustle
of conversation gradually subsided, and the house lights dimmed until only the stage was left in light. She nodded to the audience, welcomed them again, read off a few announcements, and reminded everyone to apprise themselves of the rules of the retreat.

  “And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce the founder and guiding spirit of Goddess International, Dr. Fiona Bliss.”

  At last, Andy thought, and removed her glasses to get a better look.

  All eyes turned expectantly to the closed door. After a few seconds, the door opened, and Dr. Bliss entered, followed closely by two serious-looking young women in white robes crossed by gold and purple sashes.

  The room, as one, sprang to its feet, and deafening applause reverberated through the air. Dr. Bliss walked to the podium, and Katherine Dane stepped into the background. The supreme goddess lifted her hands, palms upward, and though to Andy it looked like a gesture to continue their accolades, the hall immediately became quiet and everyone returned to their seats.

  Except for her two acolytes. They stood at chairs on either side of the doctor. There was a brief standoff as the two women eyed each other, and not at all worshipfully. A slight gesture by Dr. Bliss and they sat simultaneously.

  Dr. Bliss was close to six feet tall, strikingly poised with classical features and silver hair that was swept back in an elaborate coiffure. She wore a sleek, floor-length caftan decorated in gold braid. She looked magnificent with the row of slaves creating an exotic tableau behind her.

  Silence fell over the room, and Dr. Bliss thanked her “dear Katherine” for the lovely introduction. Andy’s gaze drifted back to Dillon. He was staring down at the floor, completely motionless.

  She turned her attention back to Dr. Bliss, who began talking about finding your inner goddess and how the classes at the retreat would help your self-fulfillment. How women could empower themselves and find satisfaction by discovering their essential woman-ness. The audience hung on her every word.

  “Our detractors dismiss the precepts of the goddess program as mere sex therapy.” She smiled across the rows of listeners. “But it isn’t just about sex…. It’s about power.”

  Andy could swear she heard eighty slave gonads shrivel up and play dead.

  Dr. Bliss began to introduce the staff, starting with the priestesses at the far end of the table. Each stood and smiled and nodded to the audience when her name was called, then sat down as the next one was named.

  The pajama-wearing hulk was Hans somebody, the retreat’s masseur, and more, if the sighs around Andy meant anything more than wishful thinking.

  Then the doctor turned and smiled down at the smaller man. “And this is my husband and help mate, Bernard Bliss, who will be conducting the Eternal Orgasm sessions.”

  Bernard Bliss stood up and with a deprecating smile, nodded to his high priestess wife. She began the applause that was quickly taken up enthusiastically throughout the room.

  Andy stared. There was the sex guru, surrounded by forty half-naked studs, and the nerd with the sweaty forehead was giving her eternal orgasms. Hell. Life was sometimes stranger than the movies.

  When the applause finally died down and Mr. Bliss had taken his seat, Dr. Bliss smiled between the two remaining women. “And these are my assistants, Jane Parsons and Carmen Gutierrez.”

  The two women stood. Jane was a tall, svelte blonde; Carmen was dark and compact. They smiled at their mentor and glared at each other. Dr. Bliss sang their praises, carefully alternating their names as she spoke, meticulously showing no favoritism. Still, the icy looks they reserved for each other boded no good. No doubt about it, thought Andy. There was trouble in Goddess Land.

  Here’s a peek at Katherine O’Neal’s newest

  THE ART OF SEDUCTION.

  Coming next month from Brava…

  The mob began to part in a channel that was rapidly moving Mason’s way from the direction of her self-portrait. And then she saw Richard Garrett towering above the crowd, coming toward her with a determined gleam in his eyes. In that instant she realized his intention.

  Is it possible the man thinks I need to be rescued?

  As he drew closer, she could see that he was firmly and resolutely taking the arm of each person who stood in his way and moving him aside to create a path for himself. His movements were decisive, even aggressive, but he kept up a litany of polite salutations, uttering each with a wry twinkle in his eyes. “Excuse me. Thank you very much. Lovely hat, madam. We’ll move you just there, shall we?”

  Until at last he’d brushed away the horde that separated them, had scooped Mason up into his arms, and was sweeping her through the multitude toward the front door and safety. Large, magnetic eyes with a touch of irony in them crinkled in amusement as he spoke. “I don’t always get this chummy on a first acquaintance. You’ll forgive me, I hope.”

  Before she could reply, the gendarmes swarmed inside, whistles blaring, barreling through. As they did, the wall of people surged like an angry sea, teeming in alarm, nearly knocking Garrett off his feet. He swerved her around and as he did, her fragile sleeve caught and pulled, ripping her bodice just above her breast. She scrambled to pull it closed and as she did, was nearly pitched from his hold.

  She felt herself tumbling. But then, like an athlete, he righted himself and his arms tightened about her, catching her fall. He heaved her up and into his embrace so powerfully that she had to throw her arms about his neck. And then, like a whirlwind, he swung her around, knocking others out of his way, and swooped her through the melee.

  She kept hold of him dizzily, feeling the bump of bodies strewn in their path, feeling the rigid, corded muscles of his arms anchoring her to his chest. His shoulders were so wide that she felt more besieged by him than by the uprising around her.

  She struggled against him, pushing herself up, trying to free herself, and felt her dress rip again. It was too absurd. He was behaving like some medieval knight scooping her out of harm’s way, ripping her to pieces in the process. She wanted down. She didn’t want to be swept away from the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her. She wanted to savor the triumph, to suck the marrow of the riotous experience like an operatic diva commanding her stage.

  “Put me down,” she gasped.

  He stilled for a moment. She saw him glance at her, momentarily perplexed. Then his gaze dropped and his eyes grew hooded and dark. She, too, looked and saw what he was staring at: the ripe, swelling mound of her half-exposed breast.

  In that moment, everything changed. His gaze rose slowly to her face and she saw the flare of raw desire. It lanced her like a weapon, hot and swift, jolting her with the crackling current of his lust.

  “Like hell I will,” he growled.

  He pinned her to his body so she could feel every granite-straining flex of his muscles. And she caught in the blaze of his eyes a stark and ruthless glare. It seared her, scalding her resistance, firing her senses and causing the breath to catch in her throat.

  He carried her through the throng, imprisoned in unyielding arms, mowing a corridor through the swarm, scattering the fashionable patrons in his wake. And she realized with a shock that he was no longer the gallant savior. He was claiming her like a buccaneer snatching his prize.

  Before she knew it, he’d stormed out the door and up the sunlit street, away from the gallery, from the racket, from the crush of human bodies and greed.

  He looked down into her face, peering keenly through the sheltering lace. “Damned nuisance, that.” So saying, he took the lower tip of lace in his teeth and moved it back off her face. “That’s better. I fancy seeing the faces of the damsels I rescue.”

  His voice rasped out the words, less an idle comment and more like a command. All the while his eyes bore into her, his mouth, with full lips, looking pagan and wicked, and almost cruel. She could feel his energy engulf her, wholly masculine, unconscionably rife with a sexuality that made no apology and asked no quarter. So determined, so confident that it melted her in a pool of helpless yearning
need.

  “I don’t need to be rescued,” she stated. But he heard the breathy hoarseness. Not a denial, but an invitation.

  His gaze dropped to the mound of her creamy breast, showcased by the flutter of filmy pink chiffon. They lingered, taking in the sight of quivering flesh, so possessive, so intense, that her nipple throbbed as if it had been touched. Slowly her gaze traveled upward, and he captured her eyes with his own.

  “What do you need?”

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  Copyright © 2007 by Sylvia Day

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