by Elle Kennedy
His kiss stole the breath from her lungs and made her gasp against his hot mouth. There was nothing soft or gentle about it, just a greedy devouring, the hungry thrusts of his tongue, the sting of his teeth as he bit her lower lip.
Oh dear God, when did Tony start kissing like this?
And why hadn’t he done it sooner?
The intensity of his kisses caused her to drop her hand from his throbbing erection, and all she could do was lose herself in the delicious sensations his mouth and tongue created in her body. Limbs turning to jelly. Moisture pooling between her legs. Nipples so tight it was almost painful.
A fire hotter than she’d ever experienced slowly swept over her. Crackling when he bit her lip again. Hissing when his hand cupped a breast.
And then he slid one finger into her sopping wet pussy and she was shocked to feel the ripples of an impending orgasm rising to the surface.
She clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip, trying to stop herself from climaxing. It was too fast, too soon.
How is this possible? her overly-aroused brain demanded.
She’d slept with this guy dozens of times before, so why was her entire body swarming with unfamiliar—but totally incredible—sensations?
She pried open her eyelids, hoping if she let their gazes lock, she might make sense of it. She squinted, blinked as she searched his face in the dark, and then wondered why his features seemed more…rugged.
Her gaze drifted lower and settled on his arm—was that a tattoo? When had Tony gotten himself inked?
And why wasn’t he tanned? He’d just come from the Bahamas, so really, he should have a—
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” came a sleepy voice.
The husky sound that filled the room made her sit up as if someone had shoved a ten-thousand-volt wire up her spine.
Why didn’t she recognize his voice?
As a steady stream of panic rushed up her throat, she stared down at the dark head beside her, and repeated his question in her disorientated brain.
What was the matter?
In one very swift, very startling moment, Maggie knew exactly what the matter was.
She was in bed with a complete and total stranger.
Ben woke up with jolt, sucked out of his dream the way dust bunnies get sucked out from under the bed by a hungry vacuum cleaner. The shrill female yelp stung his ears, pleasure draining from his body like bathwater.
Christ, that dream. It even rivaled the one he’d had back in the ninth grade, where he’d fondled Cindy Mason’s Double-D’s. No Double-D’s in this one, but a pair of delectable C’s, and a female body with more curves than a lush valley. A hot mouth with an eager tongue. A tight wet pussy—
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
The mortified voice thrust Ben into a fully conscious state. As he quickly collected his bearings, he glanced over and saw that it was all real. There was a gorgeous redhead in bed with him, as naked as he was—and she looked horrified.
“What the fuck…?” He blinked a few times and finally forced his hand to reach for the lamp on the nightstand.
A pale yellow glow fell over the hotel room as he directed his gaze to the stranger next to him. She had green eyes, really nice green eyes, despite the fact that they flickered with deep alarm. Her cheeks were as red as her hair, and when he looked farther south, he saw that a crimson flush had spread over her very perky, very bare breasts.
The redhead caught him staring and let out another yelp, quickly pulling the bedcovers up to her chin to shield her nudity. Her domination of the blanket, however, left him fully exposed and a faint pang of embarrassment tugged at his gut when he noticed he still had the boner of all boners.
What the hell was going on here? He had no clue who this woman was, only that she was the sexiest sight he’d ever seen. Aside from those magnetic emerald eyes and knockout figure, she had high cheekbones, a dainty nose and a sensual mouth that was just a little bit crooked. He liked it, that small imperfection. It made her all the more…real.
He just wished she’d stop biting her bottom lip and wipe that deer-in-headlights expression off her flushed face.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again as she edged toward the side of the bed, still clinging to the blanket. “I must be in the wrong room.”
He opened his mouth to answer, but for some inexplicable reason the power of speech completely eluded him. What the hell was he supposed to say anyway? No problem, thanks for giving me this stiffy?
As he watched her stumble off the bed in her blanket-toga, his confusion gave way to suspicion. Was she really in the wrong room? Sure, the skinny dude downstairs could have screwed up with the keys, but how likely was that? A much likelier possibility would be that this redhead was…damn it, was she press? Had she purposely snuck into his room and tried to seduce him in hopes of getting a juicy story to sell to the tabloids?
Oh shit.
Ben scrambled to cover himself with one of the flat pillows on the bed, then narrowed his eyes as the redhead scurried around the room, collecting items of clothing.
“Who are you?” he demanded in a tone that said he meant business.
She faltered for a moment, a black T-shirt clutched between her fingers. “What?”
“Are you a reporter?”
“Why would I be a reporter?” She appeared frazzled as she stared at the shirt in her hands and then shot him a pleading look. “Could you…could you just close your eyes for a minute while I get dressed?”
Oh, so now she was all prim and modest? She sure hadn’t been that way when she was stroking his dick.
Deciding he was entitled to a little peek, he pretended to close his eyes while watching her through slitted eyelids. He got an out-of-focus glimpse of her scrambling to hook up her bra and his cock twitched with disappointment when her full breasts were finally covered. Would asking her to come back to bed be inappropriate?
Probably.
“Okay. I’m dressed.”
Yes, she was. But the tight T-shirt and short denim skirt that did amazing things to her legs only confirmed she looked just as good clothed as she did naked.
“I’m mortified,” she murmured. Then, looking as if she was offering a scrap of meat to a feral lion, she stepped forward and handed him the blanket.
He took the flowery material and draped it over himself as she continued to ramble on. “I was supposed to meet…a guy. He said this was his room number and I…I guess I got it wrong. I…” She began to stutter, “I don’t usually break into strangers’ hotel rooms, I promise. I just…” She finally drifted off, her cheeks growing redder by the second.
Strangers?
The word hung in the air, bringing with it another hefty dose of confusion. She didn’t recognize him?
She actually didn’t recognize him?
He wasn’t conceited enough to think that all the women on the planet knew who he was, but his face had been splashed on every entertainment show in the country for weeks now. Even the elderly couple who did his dry-cleaning had heard of him, and they hadn’t been to the movies since the fifties.
“I’m just going to leave now, okay?” she continued, jarring him from his thoughts. “I…I can’t apologize enough for…this.”
She swallowed, and then let out a flood of words that had him struggling to keep up. “I, uh…I work at a bar called the Olive Martini and it’s near the corner of Broadway and 47th and if you’re in the neighborhood, you can pop in and the drinks will be on the house.” She sucked in a gust of air. “I know a free drink doesn’t make up for…um, this, but it’s all I can do.”
She clamped her mouth shut and looked at him with wide, shameful eyes, as the humor of the situation finally settled in with full force. A complete stranger had just slipped into his bed, kissed the hell out of him, brought him to a level of hardness he’d never known, and now she was offering him free drinks to make up for it?
Laughter lodged in Ben’s throat as he tried to formulate a sentence
that might make the situation seem a little less absurd.
He never got the chance.
With an awkward smile and another look of terror, the redhead hurried for the door, just as a flash of pink from the carpet caught Ben’s eye.
“Wait,” he called as she reached for the door handle. “You forgot your—”
She slid out and closed the door with a soft click.
“—panties,” he finished.
Chapter Two
Maggie tore down the street in a full-throttled run, sucking in the night air as if an overdose of oxygen would erase the pure humiliation sticking to her throat. She glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see the sexy stranger she’d just mauled chasing after her. Nope. All she saw was the slow rush of people flowing out of one of the theaters, chattering about the show they’d just seen.
She knew her dark-haired hunk wasn’t in the crowd because…hell, because lethal good looks like his would be impossible to miss.
How was it possible for someone to be that attractive?
Once he’d turned on the lights, she’d had to slam her mouth closed to avoid drooling all over the hotel room carpet. He had the kind of looks you only saw on Calvin Klein models these days—cobalt blue eyes, straight white teeth, dimples that melted your insides. But with a bit of an edge, which showed in the way his scruffy brown hair curled under his ears and in that tribal tattoo inked on his biceps. He had bad boy written all over him, which she found incredibly sexy, and all she knew was she’d better thank her lucky stars she’d gotten out of there.
Who knows what she would’ve done if she’d stayed even a second longer.
Probably fucked his brains out.
“Excuse me, coming through,” Maggie called as she wove through the same group of teenagers she’d passed on the way to the hotel.
“Hey, baby, what’s the rush?” one of the baggy-clothed kids asked with a laugh.
What’s the rush? Um, maybe because she’d just stroked, caressed and made out with a complete stranger. If that didn’t make a girl want to flee for the hills, what did?
She ignored the kids and pushed forward, her high heels clicking against the sidewalk. People kept getting in her way, slowing her down, when all she wanted was to get to her building and pretend she hadn’t just committed the most reckless act of her twenty-five years.
Why hadn’t Tony been there?
The question sliced through her so quickly that she stopped in her tracks. For the past five minutes she’d been beating herself over the head for winding up in a stranger’s room, but there’s no way she’d gotten the room number wrong. She’d written it on her hand, for God’s sake!
Furrowing her brows, she flipped over her hand and stared at the three digits she’d scribbled on her palm. Yep. 312. The ink was starting to smear, but there was no mistaking the numbers. She’d gotten it right, which meant that Tony—that jerk—was to blame for this entire mess.
Why hadn’t he shown up? He would’ve called her cell if the plan had changed, wouldn’t he?
Maggie reached into her purse and rummaged around for her phone. She pulled it out, and then groaned. The battery was dead. She tried turning it on, but the thing simply wouldn’t comply, so when she spotted an unoccupied payphone, she made a mad dash for it.
One quarter and five seconds later, she accessed her cell’s message service and heard Tony’s voice.
“Hey, Mags, it’s me. Listen, I’ve got some bad news. We had to make an emergency landing in Tallahassee. Some freak hurricane just swept in and the airline is delaying all the flights. I won’t be able to get a flight out until tomorrow morning, but we’re shit out of luck, babe. I have a meeting with a publisher in the afternoon and I’m heading out to Bora Bora at five. Looks like we’ll see each other next time I’m in town. Probably the end of August. Say hi to the folks at the Olive for me.”
Maggie hung up the phone and gritted her teeth. Say hi to the folks at the Olive for me?
Anger swirled in her stomach like a cluster of enraged butterflies, but deep down she knew she couldn’t blame Tony for what had happened. He didn’t control the weather or the airlines, and it wasn’t his fault that a delay she hadn’t known about had sent her into bed with another man.
Hell, she blamed herself for the embarrassment she felt. Why on earth hadn’t she turned on the light when she walked in, instead of hopping into the bed and giving a stranger a hand job?
She was the moron, not Tony.
As her anger slowly dissolved, she took a few calming breaths. It’s not a big deal. Just a case of mistaken identity.
It’s not like she’d ever see her blue-eyed bad boy again, unless he decided to show up for that free drink she’d offered, but how likely was that? The man probably thought she was a nutcase.
A very astute assumption on his part.
Unable to stop it, a giggle tore out of her throat. It was a hysterical giggle, but she got some comfort from being able to laugh at the situation. The memory of her stranger’s bewildered blue eyes as he lay on the bed with an impressive erection flashed across her brain, turning the giggle into a full-out laugh. She’d never thought of herself as a wild woman, but after what she’d done tonight, she could never be accused of being dull.
Exiting the phone booth, Maggie resumed the walk home, her humiliation fading at each click of her heels. Okay, so she’d molested a man whose name she didn’t even know. Big deal. He’d liked it. She’d liked it too. And they’d probably never cross paths again, so really, what harm had been done?
She held back another laugh and crossed the street, and by the time she reached the high-rise she called home, her nerves had started to calm.
She used her key to open the door to the lobby, and then stepped inside and greeted the security guard sitting behind the desk. Considering the building was only blocks away from Central Park, the rent should have been astronomical, but Maggie had lucked out. When she’d moved here from Queens, she’d thought she’d never be able to find a decent place that wouldn’t drain her savings account, but on her very first day in the city she’d hit the jackpot.
Summer Windsor, a former waitress at the Olive, was subletting an apartment owned by her grandmother, and when Summer learned Maggie was currently living in a hotel, she’d offered her spare room. The rent was peanuts, which allowed Maggie to save for college, and she didn’t even mind sleeping on the couch when Summer’s grandmother came for a visit. In fact, she kind of looked forward to those visits. For a girl who’d grown up with zero family, sometimes it was nice having someone dote on her.
As she rode the elevator up to the tenth floor, she glanced at her watch. It was almost one a.m., which meant Summer was either sleeping, staying at her boyfriend’s, or practicing her steel drum.
Please don’t let it be option number three.
Her prayers went unanswered as she opened the door to the apartment and was instantly met by a wave of jingly notes, her roommate’s rendition of “Under the Sea”.
“You’re still at it, huh?” Maggie called as she tossed her purse on the coffee table and collapsed on the couch.
“The wedding is in three days,” Summer said from the other side of the room. “I have to practice.”
Summer had set the drum up right in front of the small dining room window. More than once the people who lived in the building across from theirs screamed for her to keep her day job. It was almost comical, actually. Summer, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed accountant, banging away on a steel drum so that she could play it at a Jamaican wedding.
Summer had met Tygue Ortega, the man of her dreams, during a vacation to Montego Bay. The two had fallen head over heels for each other, and a month later Tygue moved to New York. The blonde and her dread-locked soulmate had been inseparable for more than a year now, and they were flying back to Jamaica in a few days to attend Tygue’s brother’s wedding.
Where Summer had gotten the idea to play the steel drum for the joyous event, however, totally eluded M
aggie. She couldn’t see Tygue asking his girlfriend to do it, which meant Summer had come up with that brainchild of an idea all on her own.
“I wasn’t expecting you back tonight. Why aren’t you with Tony?” Summer called, biting her lip in concentration as she banged away on the large instrument.
“You don’t want to know,” Maggie replied with a groan. She kicked off her heels and rested her legs on the glass coffee table.
Her ears got a much-needed reprieve as Summer stopped drumming. Her pale blue eyes flickering with curiosity, she rose from the stool and asked, “What happened?”
Summer walked over to the armchair next to the couch, and before her butt met the cushion, the entire story spilled out of Maggie’s mouth. The words came out like an out-of-control freight train, starting from the moment she’d entered the hotel room to the way she’d scurried off like a dog with its tail between its legs.
By the time she finished, Summer was laughing uncontrollably, her expression a mixture of amazement, amusement and appreciation.
“Yes, laugh at me,” Maggie said with a frown. “It makes me feel so much better.”
“Oh God, I can’t believe you did that,” Summer blurted between giggles.
“Well, believe it. Honestly, I’ve never been more humiliated in my life. This even beat the time in fifth grade when that snotty Billy Turner made fun of me for being in foster care.”
“Jeez, that is bad.” Summer paused. “Was he hot, at least?”
“Hot is an understatement. He was…” She searched her vocabulary for the right adjective and came up empty-handed. “Indescribably good-looking.”
Summer looked intrigued. “Nice bod?”
“Oh yeah.” Maggie sighed. “And he had that whole rebel thing going on. Messy hair, tattoo on his left biceps, the I’m-too-cool-to-shave thing happening.”
“Oooh, like Colin Farrell!”
“Who?”
“Your ignorance about sexy actors amazes me, Mags.”
“This guy wasn’t an actor. He was just a normal man trying to get some sleep—until I showed up and nearly raped him.”
