JENNIFER LABRECQUE - Red-Hot Nights - Daring in the Dark

Like a sudden summer storm, the atmosphere shifted and thickened. A sexual charge pulsed between them. For one daft moment, he could have sworn she leaned into his touch, pushed her pebbled point harder into his hand. Want slammed through him, his universe reduced to the feel of her breast in his palm, the hot desire that left him rigid. She uttered a muted, inarticulate sound. He wasn’t sure if it was a moan or a protest, but it served as a dash of cold water.

He yanked his hand away. “I’m sorry. That was an accident.”

“Of course it was … I’m sure … you’d never …”

“How far are we from your bedroom?” he asked, his tone as tense as his body.

“Simon …”

She thought he only had to touch her breast and he was ready to throw her down and have his wicked way with her? Ready to fondle her and taste her until she was so caught up in their passion she’d forget all about the dark? Unfortunately she was right. And if she was his, he’d do just that. But she wasn’t his. “The window—that’s where the window is, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Was that relief or embarrassment or both in that single syllable? He left it alone.

They navigated the short hall to her bedroom, past the bed and over to the window. Tawny opened the curtains and raised the blinds.

The city lay shrouded in darkness, reminiscent of a well-rendered charcoal sketch, dark skies with the looming shadows of darker buildings against it. In the distance auxiliary-lit buildings stood, glowing sentinels guarding the city. Up and down the street, candles, flashlights and headlamps provided illumination.

Despite the muffled noise of people and the inevitable bleating of car horns, the darkness isolated them, stranded them on the island of her apartment, removed from the rest of civilization.

Dark clouds scudded across the sky, obliterating the bit of light the night sky might have afforded.

“A storm’s coming in,” she said.

“It looks like it. Do you have any candles?”

“No flashlight, but I have lots of candles.”

She released his hand and turned. Her bedside table stood a few feet from the window. She opened the drawer and felt around. She held up a long object. “My flamethrower.”

She flicked a long-nosed, handled lighter and lit a candle by her bed. She crossed the room, lighting two wall sconces. They flanked a painting of a semi-dressed woman reclining on a divan. Very sensual. Like her. Like the room.

A sleigh bed dominated the windowed wall. A comforter in an elegant paisley pattern of bold reds, cinnamon and gold lay atop it. Matching gold-fringed pillows were piled against the headboard invitingly. A mirrored dresser filled the wall space between the bedroom door and wardrobe. Tawny moved over to a large triple-wicked pillar candle on her dresser.

She turned to face him, smiling. “I told you I had plenty of candles.”

She was even more beautiful with candlelight dancing across her face, flickering over her bare shoulders, casting the valley between her breasts into a mysterious shadowy place he longed to explore. Her smile faded and the perfume of the candles wafted around them, exotic scents that conjured images of hot sex, that stripped away his reserve and left him a man who ached for the woman he wanted and couldn’t have. Her lips parted and he could have sworn he glimpsed a reciprocal heat in her eyes.

“You shouldn’t burn them all. We don’t have any idea how long the lights will be out.” Nothing like a little censure to dissipate a mood.

“I have plenty. I’ve got a thing for candles.”

“What else do you have a thing for?” he asked, his tongue moving faster under the circumstances than his internal censor. And he was only human. They were alone in her apartment, in candlelight, her bed was right there and less than five feet separated them.

She wet her lips, as if her mouth was suddenly too dry and he felt another stab of familiar guilt—this time for making her uncomfortable. “That was a joke. My misguided attempt at humor. Do you have a radio with batteries so we can find out what’s going on out there?” Definitely time to introduce the real world. He needed outside stimuli to keep from drifting off into another fantasy of just the two of them.

“My boom box uses batteries.” She opened her closet door and stepped over the pile of clothes on the floor. She knelt down and bent over. He should look away, direct his attention to the painting on the wall, check out the dark New York skyline. Hell, watching paint dry would be better, far more noble, than staring at her on her knees with her amazing, enticing, drool-inspiring bum in the air.

She backed out of the closet, boom box in hand, and stood. She flipped the switch. Nothing happened. “Okay. Batteries that aren’t dead would be a bonus.” She upended the radio on the bed and opened the battery compartment. “Six C-cell batteries. I’ll have us fixed up in no time. I keep extras on hand.”

She rounded the bed to the bedside drawer where he stood. She pulled out two batteries and tossed them onto the bed. She dug a bit more, pulling out a third. “Three isn’t going to do it.”

Her skin glimmered in the soft light, her eyes were soft and luminous, her scent issued a siren’s call. He thrust his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. He’d been mad to agree to be here tonight. “No. I’d say it’s rather obvious we need three more.”

“I’ve got it covered.” Her smile said she was tired of him being a jerk. And he was tired of being a jerk, but it was better than giving in to his impulse to ease her onto the bed, peel her clothes off and become intimately acquainted with every delectable inch of her naked body.

She delved back into the drawer—obviously command central in her bedroom—and pulled out … the biggest vibrator he’d ever seen. Well, actually, he didn’t believe he’d ever seen a vibrator firsthand before. It was quite … large.

“Simon, meet Tiny.” Tiny was pretty intimidating from a man’s point of view. Not that he suddenly felt inadequate or anything. She unscrewed the bottom, dropped two batteries out and replaced the top. She put it back in the drawer and then pulled out a much smaller dildo with a smaller stem on the top of it. “This is Enrico and Bob.” She waved the toy in his general direction.

“Um, I gather the little guy is Bob because he …”

“Yep. You got it. He bobs up and down.”

Simon reminded himself to breathe—but not too heavily. This was going great. He should’ve abandoned her, along with his principles, and gotten the hell out of her apartment when he’d had the opportunity. He’d only thought it was hot before. He was burning up now. “I guess this answers the question as to what else you have a thing for.”

She pulled out a single battery and tossed it onto the bed atop the others. “There you go. Six C-cell batteries, and I promise they’re all in working order. Why don’t you put them in?”

MAYBE SHE’D GONE A TAD too far introducing her vibrator boys by name, but she’d had enough of his quiet sarcasm and disapproval. According to Elliott, Simon’s demeanor stemmed from being first-generation American. His father, a Brit, had relocated to New York before Simon was born to curate some museum or another. She didn’t care if his father was next in line for the British throne, she was tired of Simon’s hot-and-cold attitude. And if she was honest with herself, she was none too pleased with herself that he turned her on to the nth degree and annihilated her composure. Around him she couldn’t seem to think of anything beyond sex. With him. She’d nearly made a fool of herself when he’d put his hands on her shoulders. And then when he’d touched her breast … she’d come close to begging him to take her then and there, hard and fast, against the wall, in the hallway. Simon brought out a sensuality in her that she’d never known before and in some aspects frightened her with its intensity.