Just A Little Fling. Julie Kistler
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the front door into the rain, find the parking lot and her car, and drive an hour to that cut-rate motel in the middle of nowhere when she’d been drinking? Or should she pull out the key to room 203, climb the stairs, and have her cozy little rendezvous with Baker Burns?
She’d been over all the reasons she wanted to do this, all about her neglected birthday and her nine-years-younger sister marrying the perfect man and now poor Baker up there with champagne, depending on her, and her in no condition to drive…She licked her lip, gazing around at the Highland Inn, at the flickering candles casting a romantic glow on the soft stone walls and that wide, inviting, dangerous staircase.
“Lucie, are you a woman or a worm?” she asked out loud. “You’re not a child, you’re not a virgin, and you have condoms. What more do you need? Lightning bolts?”
As if some cosmic force had heard her words, there was a huge clap of thunder, and the front hall lit up with the slash of accompanying lightning. Lucie jumped about a foot.
“Okay, so I got the lightning bolt.”
A rushing sound filled her ears, as she stumbled up the stairs, one hand stuck to the heavy wooden railing and the other clutching the key. “What’s that number again?” she murmured, squinting down into her hand as she hit the landing. “Was it 302? No, 203.” Bad time to turn dyslexic. Maybe she was just nervous.
Nervous? No, she was petrified!
But lo and behold, there was room 203 right in front of her. She tiptoed up, she slid the key into the hole, and easy as you please, the door yawned open.
Her heart pounding, the rushing sound getting louder, Lucie took one step inside. Inky blackness greeted her.
So much for candles and champagne. She must not have made it upstairs within the allotted time. Poor Baker must’ve decided not to wait. That was okay. In her newfound boldness, she would simply wake him. In a way, it was less scary like this. She would strip off her clothes, climb in with him, and ease them both into this fling thing.
Lucie paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust, but it didn’t help much. She could make out a large, square blob directly ahead, with a few other indistinct shapes looming here and there. A canopy bed, maybe, with curtains pulled around it. And a desk? There was no light coming in at all to relieve the unrelenting darkness.
“Baker?” she whispered.
No answer. Had she said his name out loud or only thought it? If only she hadn’t drunk so much champagne and knocked back all those margaritas. If only her brain were functioning.
But if she hadn’t, or if it were, she wouldn’t be here, would she?
She took another step. Her stocking foot slid on a pile of fabric lying right in her path. Although it gave her a moment of panic when she began to slip, she caught herself and then stood still for a second, trying to refocus her swimming head. Peering down, she also identified the nubby wool still cloaking her foot. A kilt. A black-and-red Mackintosh tartan, just like all the groomsmen had been wearing. Baker’s kilt.
Okay, that wasn’t so frightening, was it? Exhaling a nervous puff of air, Lucie bent to quietly drop her purse and take off her boots. Oh, she wasn’t wearing any. Where had they gotten off to? She didn’t remember doffing her shoes, but she supposed she must’ve. Maybe she’d left them downstairs in the reception hall with her jacket. Oh well.
At least her hideous kneesocks were easy to peel away, even if she was a bit uncoordinated at the moment. But it felt great to be free of the nasty things. She flexed her bare toes, beaming into the dark room.
Picking up steam, she reached for the waistband of her skirt, but her fingers were clumsy and she couldn’t get the complicated little fasteners to work. “The hell with it,” she swore under her breath, popping hooks and buckles as she tore off the skirt, letting it pool at her feet on top of the groomsman’s kilt.
Ah, that felt like heaven. She could breathe again! She wanted to dance on it, stomp it into the carpet.
Now all she had to do was get rid of the rest of her confining clothes. Impatient, she ripped off her blouse, her panties and bra, throwing them carelessly aside. I am a wild woman, hear me roar! she sung inside her head. Happy birthday to me!
Swinging her head, she undid the neat bun, releasing the full length of her red-gold hair to flow freely over her shoulders. Paradise!
And now she was ready. Nothing left to do but…
Wait a second. She scampered back to where she’d discarded her purse, pulling out one of the bright packets from the machine and closing her hand around it. Best to be prepared. Not that she and Baker were necessarily going to do that, anyway, but that was the idea, wasn’t it? If she got in with him wearing nothing but a smile, she had to expect a certain level of, well, intimacy.
So…She extracted another foil square, clutching it in her hand with the first one. You never knew.
Her heart was in her throat as she crept closer to the heavily draped four-poster. She slipped her free hand inside the curtain, feeling for anything. She thought she could hear him breathing.
The rhythm of his breath grew rougher, more ragged, as her hand closed on warm, smooth skin. Oh, yeah, he was in there. The wooden bedframe squeaked as he moved nearer her hand.
This was no time to be shy. Leaning inside the dark bed curtain, Lucie balanced one knee on the mattress. And her fingers stretched further, sliding over the firm ridges of his ribs, the strong expanse of his muscled torso. Her gulp sounded like a gong in the silent room.
“Is that you?” she whispered, in a raspy, strange voice.
But she knew, even before the words left her mouth, that there was no way in hell that chest belonged to safe, reliable Baker Burns.
What was worse, she didn’t care.
His hand closed over her wrist, grabbing her, pulling her off balance, hauling her all the way through the curtains and into the bed. She didn’t even try to regain her equilibrium, just went with the flow, sliding up his body, taking in the hard, slippery, intoxicating feel of him against her skin. A moan of pure bliss escaped her lips. Had she ever felt pleasure like this? Not a chance.
Closing her eyes, she pressed closer, fitting herself to his long, lean body, rubbing just enough to make herself tingle from head to toe. So this was what a fling felt like. Like one big beautifully wrapped package that she got to keep opening all night long.
Lucie smiled wickedly into the darkness. Oh, yeah. Happy birthday to me.
IAN KNEW THE SECOND he touched her that this was no Feather. His brain was hazy and polluted by Scotch fumes, but not oblivious enough to mistake a living, breathing, vivacious woman for a pale imitation like Feather.
Was he dreaming? But her skin and her curves felt warm, vibrant, incredibly real—too real to be either Feather or a dream.
So who was she and where did she come from? He peered at her in the dim light, but her features were obscured by a long fall of hair, and he knew he’d never seen this body before. Who was she? His mind was foggy enough and his body turned on enough not to complain.
As the long tendrils of her silky hair rippled over his shoulder and his chest, he felt small sparks of desire in its wake. He leaned back, giving in to the sensations. But the way she was wiggling against him, her hips meeting his, was already making him feel like a rocket, ready to launch, and he knew he had to slow it down. Fast.
He reached for her, arching up, filling his hands with her hair, finding her sweet, wet mouth and plunging inside. God, she tasted good.
Even better, she kissed him back hard, hungrily, ferociously, making more of those greedy little noises that were driving him insane. She was nibbling and sliding, tasting and rubbing, climbing all over him in her eagerness. He grinned against her mouth. It just didn’t get any better than this.
With one swift motion, he rolled her underneath him, pinning her hands at her sides. She whimpered, edging up into him,