Jule Mcbride - Night Pleasures

“It’s good you don’t intend to fight me,” he stated, the urgency in his words as seductive as his body. “It’s no use.”

And he was right, she realized as he toyed with the waist chain she wore, suddenly tightening it, making her skin quiver and her nerves dance. “Nice,” he murmured throatily. “So very nice.” Silken chest hairs flattened against her back as he embraced her more tightly from behind, holding her to the hard, muscled wall of his chest, his palms thrusting upward once more, lifting her breasts, holding them high as if he were making an offering to a goddess.

“Bring the salts,” she whispered, feeling the lights in her mind extinguishing as she arched against him, pleasure arrowing to the juncture of her thighs. “I’m going to faint.”

“You will,” he promised, cupping where she felt so swollen. “From the pleasure.”

And then he turned her head, kissing her until everything inside her became as darkly sensuous as the mirrored passageway, as liquid and hot as the summer night. Thumbs and fingers teased her taut nipples, roughening and pinching, making her whimper from the torment. “Good,” he praised softly as she writhed.

“Please,” she whispered back, her jagged breaths bringing in scents of his skin that made her head swim. Groaning, he twisted his hips, swiftly lowering her to the floor. She shivered as he lay on top of her, his naked body covering hers—toe to toe, chest to chest. Nipples brushed. Lips brushed. Palms brushed. It was all too good to be true, she thought, feeling his muscles tense. His soft, panting breath stirred her hair as he claimed her with a piercing thrust. She gasped. It was deep, so deep it would have hurt—maybe even killed her—if not for the unbelievable pleasure….

Edison started. What the hell? he thought, his mind reeling back to the present. Suddenly he was staring, slack-jawed, into eyes that looked less like topazes now and more like fire-warmed whiskey. With a rush of awareness, he registered that his whole body was hot, his mind still full of pure, unadulterated sex. Was this some sort of practical joke? Had Eleanor roped him into this, knowing Selena’s diary wasn’t in secret code?

“Did you say something?” he managed to ask.

Selena was frowning as if she were an entomologist and he were a new species of insect. “You’re really devouring that employee manual,” she said curiously.

He wanted—no, needed—to devour her. He was fit to be tied—literally. Preferably with the silver scarves that had barely covered Mademoiselle Duclaire. Drawing a deep breath, he licked his dry lips.

“If you’re thirsty,” she said, watching him, “the water fountain’s right next to the elevator.”

He could hardly leave the desk at the moment, given how her diary had affected him. “Thanks, but I’ll keep reading.”

She squinted. “That interesting, huh?”

“Employee manuals. Nothing like them,” he forced himself to say. “Racy,” he couldn’t help but add. “Satisfying.”

Her tone was dry. “You must lead a truly exciting life.”

It had gotten a lot more exciting as he’d read Night Pleasures. But none of this made sense. Had someone wanted to distract him from researching the classified ads? This diary had to be just that: a diary. If it was in code, it would have been predictable, written only for show. But this was full of heart, full of longing….

Selena was still frowning at the cover of the employee manual. “Are you really going to read that again?”

Edison glanced down, his eyes catching the words pure velvet magic slid inside her. “A real page turner,” he assured.

“I’m beginning to think you’re a little strange.”

He eyed her. “Do you want to find out the truth?”

“You sound so mysterious. Are you sure you’re not a spy?”

“No. But maybe you are. Is Selena even your real name?”

“Yes. But my parents almost named me Silence.”

Surely she wouldn’t banter like this if she really was stealing IBI secrets. “Silence?”

She nodded. “I was a seventies baby. Hippie parents.”

“Funny,” he said. “You look normal enough.”

“I rebelled.”

Judging from her diary, she was quite the free spirit. Edison took another deep breath, reminding himself that even if she wasn’t spying, indulging fantasies while on IBI’s payroll wasn’t exactly kosher. When he was at work, he did what they paid him for: work. “Rebelled?” he couldn’t help but say. “Does this mean you’ve got something against free love?”

She considered. “Love never comes without a price.”

“What price are you willing to pay for it, Selena?”

The words had simply slipped out, and now her whiskey-colored eyes darkened as if the conversation had turned too heavy. He was aware once more of the effect her fantasies had on his body. “I’d rather be alone,” she finally said, “than pay a price for love.”

“My feeling exactly,” he admitted. But that hardly barred him from playing the Marquis de Lancroix to her Mademoiselle Duclaire. “So, you like to be alone? Does that mean forever, or just tonight?”

Faint color had risen in her cheeks, and he could see her throat work as she swallowed. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Mind if I ask one more?”

Crossing her arms over her ample chest, she glanced away, drolly rolling her eyes. “Could I stop you?”

“No. What about dinner?”

Her eyes darted to his again, and she smiled. “What about it?”

He sent her a long, sideways glance. “Do you want to eat it?”

“I usually do.”

“With me?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Ah. Let me guess. You know a quaint little Italian place with small, round, candlelit tables and a cellarful of dusty wine bottles.”

She’d hit the nail on the head. The place was called Antonio’s. But because he’d just read her diary, Edison couldn’t help but say, “Actually, for you, Selena, I was thinking about something French. Passer la Nuit.”

“Given how diligently you were reading the employee manual, I figured you were the conscientious type,” she countered. “Doesn’t it bother you that we work together?”

He shrugged. “I’m only a temporary.”

She considered so long that he almost withdrew the offer, but then she simply said, “Okay.”

He tried to hide his surprise. “What about seven o’clock? I’ll pick you up.”

“Seven-thirty,” she countered. “I’ll drive my own car and meet you at the restaurant.”

Given her fantasies, he could see why she’d want some control of the situation. No telling what might happen if she let herself go. Now that he’d read part of her diary, he was well aware that she was a lust machine, and yet she’d seemed so oddly vulnerable and straight-laced. Was she really inexperienced? Were these fantasies merely her way of trying on the role of seductress? “Seven-thirty,” he found himself murmuring. “At Passer la Nuit.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Lowering his head, he pretended to read. Did she have a lot of experience with men, or just an imagination as vivid as Technicolor? he wondered once more. And was she stealing from IBI? Was this diary actually in code?

Flipping through the pages, he bit back a soft groan as he read, “Every inch of him went taut. He was ready to explode, but he wanted to hold back—had to hold back. He was waiting for his soft, untutored butterfly, whose wings were about to unfold.”

If he didn’t stop reading, Selena Silverwood would be lucky to make it through an appetizer tonight—Italian, French or otherwise. But then, a job was a job. And because he was a patriot, he was duty-bound to continue mulling over every steamy word she’d written. For God and country, he thought dryly, bracing himself against the soft, feminine scent of her that drifted over the glass partition.