Cara Summers - A Sexy Time of It

He glanced up, and recognition streamed through her. It was him—the man from the stoop. Her breath trembled when he rose. She should run, but she couldn’t seem to move. The pepper spray was still clenched in her hand but she couldn’t raise her arm. As he moved toward her, his shoulders blocked her view of the woman.

What was he doing here? He wasn’t the Ripper—she was almost sure of it. He held none of that blinding violence she’d sensed in the man she’d shot with the pepper spray. But what was this stranger doing standing over the body?

Stop asking questions, her brain shouted. Run. But she couldn’t seem to pull herself loose from his eyes. They were so dark. So intense. And all the while, he moved toward her, slowly, purposefully, the way a man might approach a skittish horse. Or a woman he intended to kill.

“Easy, girl.”

She could have sworn she heard the words. But his lips hadn’t moved. Still frozen, she was acutely aware of the way her pulse hammered at her throat, her wrists, her breast. He was inches away from her, and she was still paralyzed.

His fingers closed around her upper arm like steel bands, “C’mon, we have to get out of here.” His voice was deep, unaccented, and there was no trace of emotion as he drew her with him down the street in the direction she’d come from.

Finally, she found her voice. “We can’t just leave her there.”

“She’s dead. There’s nothing we can do.”

Neely dug in her heels, but she didn’t slow him down a bit. “Did you kill her?”

He sent her a quick glance. “No. From the looks of her she’s one of the Ripper’s victims.”

“How do I know you’re not the Ripper?”

He stopped and turned to her. “Here’s a clue. If I were the Ripper, you’d be dead.”

Her throat went dry. There was something—a trace of annoyance—in his tone now. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her, and she was very much aware of the hand that gripped her arm so tightly. She felt the press of each one of his fingers like a brand. “Who are you then? Why were you in my bookstore this afternoon? Why were you on the stoop across from my store? And how did you get here?”

“You brought me here, sweetheart. And you’re going to tell me how.”

“First, I want to know who you are.”

Max glared down at her as temper and something more dangerous burned through his system. He surprised them both by jerking her close. Then he did what he’d wanted to do earlier in the bookstore. What he’d known he was going to do. He clamped his mouth down on hers. It was a mistake—one he regretted the moment he tasted her.

Why did she have to taste so sweet? Her flavor reminded him of some wild, rare honey that he’d sampled in an ancient time. He had to have more. When she parted her lips, he dived in. The low sound of approval that vibrated in her throat had his blood racing like a river pouring over rapids. He dragged her closer until they formed one figure on the cobblestone street.

She should pull away. It was the only coherent thought that tumbled into Neely’s mind. But she couldn’t seem to gather the will. He was angry. She could taste the tartness of it on his tongue, feel it in the roughness of his palm as it lay on the side of her face and in the fingers that burned at the back of her neck. And still she wanted more.

As if he’d read her mind, he urged her back a few steps until a brick wall pressed against her shoulders. She molded herself against that strong, hard body, nearly cried out from pleasure when that bold hand stroked down her, claiming, possessing. When he gripped the back of her knee, drawing her thigh up, she wrapped her legs and arms around him, scooting up until they were together, center to center. Heat shot through her, melting muscles and bone. Still she had to have more.

He nipped at her bottom lip and deepened the kiss. It was no longer anger that she tasted, but a dark, desperate hunger. His? Hers? In another moment, he was going to take her against that brick wall. They would take each other. She could picture it so vividly in her mind, wanted it so desperately. His fingers had already slipped beneath the waistband of her jeans. The image of what they would do filled her mind so completely that the sound of the whistles barely registered. What she was aware of was that the stranger’s hands had suddenly stilled.

This time she heard the whistles. Three of them. Footsteps pounded on the cobblestones.

Neely cried out softly when he broke off the kiss and set her away from him. She leaned against the brick wall for support as he looked back in the direction they’d come from.

“Sounds like someone’s discovered the body.” Gripping her arm, he pulled her forward. “We’d better get out of here.”

We? Even with her mind still spinning, Neely didn’t think so. She had to get away from him. This was a man she didn’t even know, and they’d nearly had sex against a wall in an alley.

Desperately, she pushed the image out of her mind and concentrated on her options. He was bigger, stronger, and even if she could pull free, he could probably run faster. So…

Suddenly, she knew just how to do it. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Closing her eyes, she conjured up the items in her bedroom—the four-poster bed, the intricately patterned quilt, the Tiffany lamp with its rosy glow. Her body went suddenly light and she let herself be pulled into the whirling darkness.

May 16, 2008

Manhattan

WHEN HE SURFACED, Max found himself lying in a bed with Neely Rafferty. Correction. He was lying on top of Neely Rafferty. They were positioned in a way that mirrored the image that had filled his mind when he’d been on the stoop. The major difference being that they were fully clothed. Thank God for small favors. And it was a very small one, considering he couldn’t seem to find the will to move. And he very much wanted to kiss her again. He badly wanted to finish what they’d started in that alley.

But first, he needed answers. A lot of them. Still, he couldn’t seem to make his body follow the orders his brain was sending out. Okay. For the time being, he’d stay where he was and use his position as an intimidation factor. Her eyes were open and on his. She looked a bit stunned, as if she was still trying to orient herself. He could understand that. He was badly in need of a little orientation, too. Who in hell was she? Obviously not the simple bookseller his research had revealed. Among other things, Neely Rafferty was a psychic time traveler.

And that wasn’t the only psychic power she possessed. Not only had she transported herself, but she’d dragged him with her as if he were a marionette and she held the strings. No one had ever done that to him before, and he was going to find out just how she’d accomplished it.

When she began to wiggle beneath him and arousal shot through him, Max dispensed with his intimidation plan and scraped up the will to shift off of her.

“Who the hell are you?” They spoke the question in unison. Nearly. Max noted that she’d left off the “hell.”

“Get out of my bed,” she added. As an extra incentive, she pulled something out of her pocket. Max grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the pillow above her head. Then he placed one leg over both of hers to keep her still. The good news was she hadn’t shot him with whatever was in that small metal container. The bad news was their faces were close now—so close that their lips were almost brushing.

Time spun out. There was no other sound in the room but their steady breathing. Max knew he should move. He had to move. Once more his brain gave the command to his body, but sensations battered him so fiercely that he was trapped. There was the fast, hard beat of her pulse against his fingers. And there were her eyes. His gaze lingered on them and once again it wasn’t surrender he saw, but a raw desire that matched his own. He shifted his attention to her mouth. Her lips were moist, parted. Needs thundered through him, and it took every bit of self-restraint he possessed not to close the small distance and devour. It was what he wanted, what he’d wanted from the first time he’d seen her.