Coming Attractions by Rosie Vanyon Page B

they roamed the muscles of
his shoulders, the plains and troughs of his back, the curve of his buttocks.
    He took her daring as a provocation
to allow his own hands to slide from her elbows over her biceps and to skim her
shoulders and descend her back. She was arched against him, so when he skated
his hands down her spine, they came to a natural rest at her derriere and,
instinctively, his palms cupped her rear and drew her even closer.
    She gasped. She could not miss his
readiness, he realized. He was ramrod straight and hard as steel for her. His
whole body was alive with need for the vibrant woman reacting so deliciously,
so wantonly in his arms. At the very center of his hunger was his throbbing
cock.
    And then the rain came. No stray
drops, no warning sprinkle. A sudden sheet of cold water thundering without
notice from the sky, drenching them at once.
    He would have kept kissing her,
would have damned the weather and continued to feed on her luscious mouth, to
fondle her delectable ass, to delight in the sublime feel of the length of her
lush body pressed hard against his... But she shrieked and yanked away from his
embrace, making a mad dash for the veranda. The sprint would have been comical
except that she looked even better wet than she did dry, he thought, remaining
where he was and unashamedly ogling her departing form. Her jeans were
plastered to her thighs and hips, her t-shirt painted against her ribs. When
she turned, laughing, a spray of water flicked from her hair and his eyes
zeroed in on the mounds of her breasts and their sexy peaks poking against the
thin, wet fabric. She looked like a TV ad for something fresh and feminine. He
groaned.
    “Pervert,” she shouted over the
roar of the rain, and laughed as she crossed her arms over her chest.
    “Spoil sport,” he replied, jogging
over to join her on the veranda. “Here.” He pressed his house key into her
palm. “Go inside. I’ll bring the supplies from the car. There’s no point
waiting. By the looks of this storm, the milk will turn sour before we get a
break in the weather.”
    “You don’t want a hand?”
    “I’ll take care of it.”
    “I’ll go dry off then.”
    “Don’t feel you have to,” he told
her, waggling his eyebrows suggestively in the direction of her chest.
    “Later,” she laughed.
    “Promise?”
    “Promise.”

Chapter
Five
     
    “So, what was your childhood like?”
Cara asked as she leaned against the counter in the back kitchen, sipping a
merlot and watching Levi cook.
    “Pretty average. After-school milk
and cookies. Minivan. Suburbia. I was one of four kids. My parents stayed married,
still are. Dad was a vet, Mom worked part time as a florist. They’re retired. We
ate meat and three veg every night. We went to all the local football team’s
home games. We ruled the neighborhood on our BMXs, even my sister. And my
siblings all got sensible jobs out of college. I’m the black sheep, but not
very black. Maybe a chic charcoal or a pleasant ashy gray.” He laughed.
    “Because you’re a movie producer?”
    “Because I’m an entrepreneur, a bit
of a business buccaneer and a financial daredevil. My family was all about
certainty and security. I was about risk and return. I think I scared them.”
    He passed her an orange melamine
tray. It had once resided under the toaster to catch crumbs, she recalled.
Tonight, it was laden with dense bread and held twin dipping bowls of oil and
pistachio dukkah.
    “When did you first know you were
different from them?” she asked as she loaded up her bread, popping the tiny
triangle into her mouth and smoothing her tongue over her slick lips.
    He seemed mesmerized by the motion,
so she dawdled. It turned her on to see the effect she had on him, even from
something as simple as licking oil from her mouth.
    “Earth to Levi...”
    “Ah. What? Oh...”
    She laughed naughtily.
    He cleared his throat.
    “My first venture into exploiting
the capitalist regime? I was a senior.