Getting Lucky. Avril Tremayne
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the call.
His Romy? Fuck that! Romy was just Romy.
And then Camilla had told Romy that Matt would call her back, and that was a step too far in the proprietary stakes so he’d pulled the phone out of her hand fast enough to give her whiplash of the wrist and taken it into another room.
Camilla had looked mightily displeased, but it was poor form for a guy to ask a girl about her menstrual cycle in front of someone she’d never met, so he’d left Camilla to it and launched straight into it with Romy via a short, sharp opener: Enough of this bullshit, how do we fix it?
We can have an ablation, she’d said.
Then have one, was his response.
She couldn’t if she wanted a kid one day—which she definitely did, she’d explained—because there’d be no having one afterward.
So have a baby now, he’d said, what was stopping her?
Little problem of no man in her LIFE! And yes, she’d screamed the last word, because a cramp had ripped her in half at that exact moment.
He’d paced the floor while she’d breathed through the pain, and then said, fuck it, he’d give her a baby—why not?
And she’d said, Why not? Because it was a big deal requiring more than the one minute’s reflection he usually afforded life-and-death decisions.
And he’d told her it sure as hell didn’t require her usual one thousand years’ reflection, and that it would make the top ten list of easiest things he’d ever fucking contemplated: a quick ejaculation on his side of the Atlantic, a turkey baster on hers, a courier in between, a baby at the end and Yippie-Kai-Yay motherfucker to the problem.
She’d laughed so hard at the Yippie-Kai-Yay motherfucker she’d snorted, but she was crying at the same time, and then she’d said he was the next best thing to Captain America to offer, even if she couldn’t accept.
And he’d snort-laughed then, insisting that Captain America was a virgin as well as not being the masturbatory type, whereas Matt had shot out so many gallons of semen over the years—with and without the assistance of a second party—he could have his own page in Guinness World Records so where was the comparison?
And somehow during the ensuing argument over Captain America’s sexual expertise—or lack thereof—which they’d been having forever—Matt’s sperm offer had been accepted and general terms for proceeding agreed to, and he’d felt pretty damn happy with himself because hey, he was going to be a father, which he’d never thought he’d be.
Correction: godfather.
Because obviously he couldn’t be a real father.
By that stage Camilla had left, presumably in a huff since he hadn’t heard from her since, and Matt had figured that was just as well since she probably wouldn’t appreciate his commitment to impregnating another woman even if he wasn’t actually coming within spurting distance of Romy’s fallopian tubes.
And now here they were, and he felt pretty sure Camilla had jinxed him with the his Romy bullshit because his Romy wasn’t the Romy he’d opened the door to.
His Romy had obviously been kidnapped by aliens and replaced with a metamorphosed porn star version who looked exactly like his Romy—neat and chic, clean and bright—but was on a mission to drive him out of his fucking mind with the need to get his hands on her. Which he could not do, because his Romy, his real Romy, was off-limits.
He wasn’t allowed to imagine taking his Romy against the wall energetically enough to shake the crystals off that god-awful chandelier. He would never have flung his Romy halfway across the hall for fear of what he might otherwise do to her! Because he would never have mistaken his Romy’s breathless Matt, please as an invitation to enact that shameful scene in his head when it was really nothing more than a plea to stop his rampaging dick from stabbing her in the stomach—and thank God she hadn’t called him on that but had taken pity on him by blaming a mythical case of jet lag for the whole damn disaster.
And okay, taking the blame for him was something his Romy would do, which meant she really was his Romy and his alien abduction theory therefore was a bust.
The only other explanation for this whole phenomenon was that it was an aberration brought on by his two-week sexual hiatus—and the fact he’d lasted two weeks without sex, ever since Romy’s phone call, was the equivalent of him being abducted by aliens and replaced with a choirboy version of himself!
Matthew Carter a choirboy? Now, that was an aberration.
As he’d hurried into the library and manhandled his chair into the best position for hiding the beast in his jeans under the desk—not without a certain amount of cursing and desk-related violence—he’d decided it probably wasn’t unusual for sex addicts to crave the first available person they saw during periods of deprivation. Didn’t mean he was going to act on it, though. He’d been keeping Romy safe from his perversions for ten whole fucking years and that’s how things were going to stay if he had to lock a chastity belt onto her himself!
What the hell was keeping her, anyway? They should be halfway through her first document by now. The tedium of paperwork would put a stop to any weird-ass sexual cravings, so he wanted those damn documents stat! Bring them all on, the whole fucking briefcase full!
He checked the time on his cell phone. She couldn’t be lost between the entrance hall and the library—only one door in the corridor was open and she’d have to see not only the glow of the lights but feel the heat from the monstrous fucking fireplace that was slowly stewing him in his own juice.
Maybe he should go and find her.
Take her by the hand...lead her upstairs...into his bedroom...strip her...lie her across the bed. Ash-brown hair tangled on his pillow...eyes a glitter of hazel from beneath those heavy, tilted lids that made her look perpetually, deceptively sleepy...mouth slightly open as she panted for him...tongue darting to lick her top lip...breasts round and heavy...beige nipples jutting proudly...thighs opening to reveal her pink, juicy core...waiting for his fingers...his tongue...his cock. A whimper, a moan, as he slid inside her...clenching around him...hips rising to meet his thrusts...
Oh God, he wanted to come...needed to come.
His heart was thudding the way it had in the entrance hall when he’d had his arms around her, his shoulders tightening, thighs clamping, his dick straining for release. And then the hairs on the back of his neck vibrated themselves upright as though a lover’s finger were trailing down his spine, and he realized he was no longer on his own in the room.
He focused his eyes on his cell phone, counting out the seconds, willing himself to get it together before turning to confirm Romy’s presence behind him... aaand go...
He swiveled his chair, and lust rushed at him like a bullet. He wanted to suck the breath out of her, rip the clothes off her, lick the scent from her skin.
What the fuck was happening to him?
“Sorry to make you wait,” she said, her trying-but-not-quite-making-it smile telling him she felt his tension. “I had to call Lennie to report on last night’s restaurant.”
She’d taken off her overcoat, and when she paused on her way to the desk to drape it over a chair he saw what she meant about bursting out of her clothes—her bodice was skintight, and she looked ripe as a ready-to-eat-immediately peach. He really didn’t think he was going to survive tonight.
“It’s two in the morning in London,” he said, the snap in his voice a symptom of his overwrought edginess.
“So?”
“So don’t try telling me you called Lennie.” Not that it was anything to him if she called