hot water, tiny little flames licking their way down from where my hand was touching his, up and over my chest like a flush, pooling lower, deep within me.
“Wow,” I breathed, mesmerized as his pupils dilated slightly, his eyes turning almost black. His fingers rubbed against mine, slowly stroking them from knuckle to fingertip. “All that from just fingers.”
He didn’t say anything, but a shuttered look fell over his eyes. He glanced toward the door. “I should be leaving.”
“No, what you should be doing is lying back and lettingthis ice cream take the swelling down on your eye.” He’s not for me, he’s not for me, the little voice chanted in my head. I told the voice to get stuffed, and reached down to push him back onto the cushions. He resisted for a minute, his eyes wary; then he allowed his body to sag backwards.
“Here, put this back on your eye. It won’t stay cold for long, but it’s all I have.” I handed him the ice cream and gathered up the scissors and my comb.
Neither one of us said anything for a few minutes, other than me asking if he’d like coffee, and him accepting. I pulled out my precious container of preground Starbucks, plugged the kettle in, and assembled a couple of mugs, milk, and my secret stash of chocolate orange truffles on a tray.
“How do you like England?” He finally broke the silence.
“I love it,” I answered, wishing I had an exotic pastry or two to compensate for Alex having missed what I’m sure was a fabulous dessert at Isabella’s. “I haven’t been anywhere but London, but I plan on doing a few touristy day trips in a bit.”
“To where?”
I poured water into the French press and added it to the tray. “Oh, here and there. Windsor Castle, Bath, Cambridge, the Lake District—those sorts of places.”
“Ah. The Lake District is nice. Isabella said you’re writing a book?”
I hauled the tray out and set it on the end table, then dragged both around from behind Alex’s head to a position alongside the chaise where he could easily reach them. As I pulled the table into place, a magazine slipped off the edge, exposing the box of condoms Cait had givenme. I had a brief moment of sheer panic as a picture rose in my mind of me trying to explain away grape—and banana-flavored condoms, but I quickly snatched them off the table and slipped them beneath the cushions under his head. “No, don’t sit up yet, keep the bag on your eye. I was just plumping up the pillow. White or black?”
“White, please.”
I poured cream in a cup, then pushed down on the coffee press. “I am writing a book—a romance. I don’t suppose you read them?”
His eye opened briefly, then closed again. “No. I don’t read for pleasure.”
I leaned over him and lifted the bag of ice cream to cover his eye better. He must have felt the movement, because he suddenly opened his eyes.
And got a good look down my dress to where my boobs glittered in all of their golden glory.
“Sorry,” he said in an embarrassed voice, slamming his eyes closed. He grimaced at the resulting pain when his swollen eye protested the cavalier action, and allowed me to replace the bag over it.
“It’s OK, they’re just boobs. I’m sure you’ve seen them before.”
His good eye cracked open. I smiled and straightened up. “Well, maybe not these particular ones, but others of their ilk. Why don’t you read for pleasure? I thought you being a Scotland Yard detective and all, you’d be an avid mystery reader.”
His eyelid lazily drifted down again. I went out to the cubbyhole kitchen to dampen a clean dishcloth.
“I’m in the Obscene Publications and Internet Unit.”
I stopped wringing out the cloth and cast a worried glance over to the bookcase beside the door, squintingat it and wondering if he could make out the title of the Victorian erotica book I had bought at a used bookstore a couple of days before. For research, of course. Purely for research, nothing more.
Alex’s
“Wow,” I breathed, mesmerized as his pupils dilated slightly, his eyes turning almost black. His fingers rubbed against mine, slowly stroking them from knuckle to fingertip. “All that from just fingers.”
He didn’t say anything, but a shuttered look fell over his eyes. He glanced toward the door. “I should be leaving.”
“No, what you should be doing is lying back and lettingthis ice cream take the swelling down on your eye.” He’s not for me, he’s not for me, the little voice chanted in my head. I told the voice to get stuffed, and reached down to push him back onto the cushions. He resisted for a minute, his eyes wary; then he allowed his body to sag backwards.
“Here, put this back on your eye. It won’t stay cold for long, but it’s all I have.” I handed him the ice cream and gathered up the scissors and my comb.
Neither one of us said anything for a few minutes, other than me asking if he’d like coffee, and him accepting. I pulled out my precious container of preground Starbucks, plugged the kettle in, and assembled a couple of mugs, milk, and my secret stash of chocolate orange truffles on a tray.
“How do you like England?” He finally broke the silence.
“I love it,” I answered, wishing I had an exotic pastry or two to compensate for Alex having missed what I’m sure was a fabulous dessert at Isabella’s. “I haven’t been anywhere but London, but I plan on doing a few touristy day trips in a bit.”
“To where?”
I poured water into the French press and added it to the tray. “Oh, here and there. Windsor Castle, Bath, Cambridge, the Lake District—those sorts of places.”
“Ah. The Lake District is nice. Isabella said you’re writing a book?”
I hauled the tray out and set it on the end table, then dragged both around from behind Alex’s head to a position alongside the chaise where he could easily reach them. As I pulled the table into place, a magazine slipped off the edge, exposing the box of condoms Cait had givenme. I had a brief moment of sheer panic as a picture rose in my mind of me trying to explain away grape—and banana-flavored condoms, but I quickly snatched them off the table and slipped them beneath the cushions under his head. “No, don’t sit up yet, keep the bag on your eye. I was just plumping up the pillow. White or black?”
“White, please.”
I poured cream in a cup, then pushed down on the coffee press. “I am writing a book—a romance. I don’t suppose you read them?”
His eye opened briefly, then closed again. “No. I don’t read for pleasure.”
I leaned over him and lifted the bag of ice cream to cover his eye better. He must have felt the movement, because he suddenly opened his eyes.
And got a good look down my dress to where my boobs glittered in all of their golden glory.
“Sorry,” he said in an embarrassed voice, slamming his eyes closed. He grimaced at the resulting pain when his swollen eye protested the cavalier action, and allowed me to replace the bag over it.
“It’s OK, they’re just boobs. I’m sure you’ve seen them before.”
His good eye cracked open. I smiled and straightened up. “Well, maybe not these particular ones, but others of their ilk. Why don’t you read for pleasure? I thought you being a Scotland Yard detective and all, you’d be an avid mystery reader.”
His eyelid lazily drifted down again. I went out to the cubbyhole kitchen to dampen a clean dishcloth.
“I’m in the Obscene Publications and Internet Unit.”
I stopped wringing out the cloth and cast a worried glance over to the bookcase beside the door, squintingat it and wondering if he could make out the title of the Victorian erotica book I had bought at a used bookstore a couple of days before. For research, of course. Purely for research, nothing more.
Alex’s
Similar Books
