Midnight Craving (Contemporary Romance)

by Kimberly Ivey

  “Is nudity allowed on your beach?”

  Mira swallowed hard as her mind struggled to formulate a coherent thought. She didn’t want to imagine this delicious looking man naked on her private beach, but oddly, she could.

  And she did.

  And he wasn’t alone in her decadent fantasy which lasted all but five seconds.

  When she found her voice again above the guilty pounding of her heart, she said, “Since the beach can be viewed by almost anyone in the east side of the house or on the road coming in, you should wear clothes at all times during your stay. There are no other guests scheduled and we’re several blocks from the nearest house but sometimes there is an occasional drop-by from town.”

  Of course that was a lie. No one from town visited. They didn’t have to. The narrow minded townsfolk on Annabelle Island had all formulated their opinion of her twelve years ago after the scandal with Joel Blakemore. No doubt they still blamed her for her father’s resignation as pastor of the church and his subsequent departure from the small village.

  Mr. Jones nodded. “Very well, madam. I will try not to offend the sensibilities of staff or guests during my stay.” He moved about the room to peruse a few of the period furnishings that had belonged to her late grandmother, a four post rosewood and mahogany bed with hand carved finials.

  He paused to look at her, setting off a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

  “Miss Reece, you should know that I do like to sunbathe nude occasionally, even on warm fall afternoons such as this. When we spoke on the telephone you mentioned access to the third floor roof, a widow’s walk I believe you called it. If the beaches are off limits, would it be permissible for me to sunbathe nude on the roof?”

  Caught off guard, Mira blinked. No one had ever asked if they could sunbathe nude on the roof. Still, she supposed it would be all right. Apparently it was an activity Mr. Jones enjoyed.

  And one she might also enjoy with a pair of high powered binoculars and a secret vantage point in the dunes.

  Heat suffused her cheeks at the thought and she realized she was blushing. She was no voyeur. What had gotten into her? She pulled herself together. “Follow me to the widow’s walk, Mr. Jones, and we’ll check out that possibility.”

  Mr. Jones followed her down the hallway to a small door which led to ten steps up a dark, narrow passage way. She didn’t feel unsafe being alone with him, but she was achingly aware that he’d stirred her dormant senses to life. She’d not been intimate with a man in twelve years and hadn’t wanted to pursue romantic relationships after Joel’s cruel betrayal a week before their wedding. Even still, this man’s presence overpowered her—the earthy green notes of his expensive cologne, the sensual heat that emanated from his large and powerfully built physique.

  Another disturbing thought popped into her mind as she ascended the narrow, darkened steps. From his height and the size of his hands and feet, she’d bet he was well endowed in another area. Perhaps she might get a peek at him while he sunbathed and judge for herself.

  The thought took her breath away. Gasping for air, she flung open the roof access door. Bright sun burst through, temporarily blinding her. She lost footing as she attempted the step up and instead, stumbled backward into Mr. Jones’ embrace, feeling the solid wall of muscled man connect with her spine. His hands grasped her arms, searing her where they touched. Her breasts warmed in awareness that the handsome male specimen holding her in an awkward, yet enjoyable clutch was a stranger.

  Words would not form in her mouth. His body was unfamiliar, warm and hard, yet oddly comforting at the same time. Slowly, he turned her around, holding her as if she were as fragile as spun glass. She gazed up into his dark, hypnotic eyes. Her knees began to buckle.

  One strong, large hand splayed across her back to steady her. Another gripped her elbow. Blood rushed from her head as the stairway spun. Mira slumped forward against the man-god, bracing her palms against his chest as his arms went around her. Lord, but he smelled delicious.

  “Miss Reece, are you all right?” he asked.

  No, she was not all right. He was holding her as if it were the most natural thing to do, as if he’d held hundreds of women this exact way. As if he’d held her this way.

  Their awkward embrace reminded her of a romance novel cover she’d once seen—a handsome Viking warrior locked in a steamy clutch with his lady love.

  And this clutch was going on wayyy too long.

  He helped her stand. Embarrassed, Mira smoothed down her dress, tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Her heart pounded out a near deafening tempo in her chest.

  Regaining as much composure as possible, she drew in a steadying breath. “Yes, I’m all right now. I…I just missed a step.” She hoped her voiced sounded normal. Turning, she took the last step up, warning him to be careful of the uneven platform.

  The dizzying view of the ocean’s churning waves and whitecaps from this height made her look away.

  “Magnificent,” Mr. Jones remarked as he turned to survey their surroundings. “Yes, this will do nicely.” He turned to her. “Would it be possible to have meals delivered to my room as well?”

  She’d already extended liberties by even allowing him to sunbathe nude. Guests were served in the dining room downstairs, with the exception of honeymooners who were allowed forty-eight hours of special accommodations. Besides, she wasn’t his waitress but his host. Better they got things straight up front.

  “Breakfast is from 7 to 8 AM in the dining room, Mr. Jones. Croissants, ham or bacon, jam, juice and coffee. Light lunch at noon consisting of soup du jour and sandwich on home baked bread, fresh fruit compote and iced tea—same place. You’re on your own for dinner. There are several restaurants within a ten minute drive.”

  The pout of his wickedly decadent lips and darkening of his sultry eyes made him appear even sexier. She licked her lips and swallowed hard, then glanced away as a warm tingle returned to her breasts.

  “As I said when I spoke with you last week, I require privacy while I am here. I do not care to dine with fellow guests, nor do I care to make chit chat with the locals. I am here for solitude and would like to take meals in my room. If that is going to be a problem . . . ”

  Mira’s breath caught in her throat. Was he threatening to leave if she didn’t give into his demands? She couldn’t afford for him to bail out—not with taxes due on the Inn next month. But she also couldn’t let him get his bluff in, either. She’d learned that hard lesson once before with Joel. Budge one inch and a man will try to conquer you.

  Or destroy your soul.

  “There are no other guests scheduled at this time, Mr. Jones, so you will be dining alone…or with me,” she added as an afterthought.

  His face brightened. Well, that certainly seemed to placate him for the moment, although she couldn’t understand what possessed her to say such a bold thing. In the eight years she’d operated the Inn, she’d never dined with guests. Time for a quick seque. “I will change the linens in your room every day and I will serve breakfast and lunch each day you are here, but all meals are to be taken downstairs in the dining room.”

  A flicker of disappointment crossed his face. Apparently he didn’t like that arrangement. She supposed the man-god was accustomed to getting his way.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “Meals in your establishment’s ‘mess hall’ will be observed.”

  Mira bit back her response. Mess hall? This wasn’t summer camp and she wasn’t his counselor. She didn’t baby sit and she didn’t coddle her guests. Mr. Divine could haul his lazy, although extremely delectable looking ass out of bed every morning and make it to the table if he expected to be fed. Even the feral cats that lived beneath the house made an effort to find their way to the food bowls twice a day.

  “Of course if you join me at mealtime Miss Reece, I certainly won’t be disappointed.”

  He flashed a devastatingly sexy smile that send her heart skittering out of control again. Mira had to get o
ut of here, away from his overpowering presence.

  “I’ll leave you to settle in,” she said, tossing him the keys to the rooms. “If you need anything, just phone from your room. My private line is listed in your brochure.”

  Mira turned on heel, hurried down the narrow steps and into the hallway. She nearly broke into a run once she was a safe distance. What was it about this mysterious stranger that had her heart fluttering like a teenage girl and had every nerve in her body on high alert?

  He was male. No, he was a god—and he affected her senses in ways she hadn’t been affected in years.

  Armand smiled once she’d gone. Feisty little thing wasn’t she, this Mira Reece?

  Clearly she’d been uptight about his presence. Never more had he sensed it than when he touched her, held her slender, though tense body in his arms. Why? Was she a man-hater? Or was she simply a shy wallflower who’d never been properly pleasured? He chuckled at the last thought and gazed out over the calm turquoise water of the Atlantic. No, Miss Reece—Mira—was no man-hater.

  He hadn’t missed the way she drank in the sight of him when she didn’t think he’d noticed, or the way her little nipples pebbled beneath the thin cotton fabric of her dress when he spoke. She couldn’t be a virgin—not at her age. Surely a woman of at least thirty, he surmised, must have taken lovers?

  Back in his room he undressed, wrapped a towel around his hips for modesty and headed up to the roof with his lap top. Since there appeared to be no other guests about the Inn and the sun was still high enough in the sky, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to catch a few rays in the nude. Tomorrow he’d ask Miss Reece—no, he must call her Mira—if he might borrow one of the folding loungers he’d spied in the dunes earlier.

  On the roof, he peeled off his towel and spread it on the small wooden deck, then stretched out next to his lap top for a few minutes of delicious sun while he worked.

  He clicked on the document, Passion’s Storm, and continued where he left off.

  Lady Ophinia gyrated above Dante, her milky thighs clutching his sweat-slick hips, her head tossed back in ecstasy as she rode passion’s storm. He thrust upward, burying his ….

  He paused deliberating a new phrase, then continued typing…thrust upward, burying his steely man sword to the hilt as his broken name tumbled from her ruby, kiss-swollen lips. Dante knew the punishment for slaking his lust on Lady Ophinia would be severe, but it would be worth the hundred lashes of his cruel master’s whip. No, two hundred! Even a thousand!

  “Oh, Dante, love me, love me!” Lady cried as she squirmed in wanton delight.

  He paused. “Squirmed?”

  Shit.

  Armand saved the new text, then rolled onto his back. Lady Ophinia Abernathy was the most boring wench he’d ever cast as a heroine in a novel. It was all wrong, damn it. All wrong! He didn’t need a seasoned tart to pleasure Dante. No. He must have an innocent maid, unschooled in the ways of men. Dante, her father’s slave would tutor the little virgin in the sensual arts. There’d be pleasure toys. Bondage. Spankings. The love scenes would be so hot they’d scorch the covers right off the books. It would be the most erotic work he’d ever produced, possibly even controversial. It was time to break out and push the envelope with this novel.

  Re-reading his last entry, he sighed, laid a forearm over his eyes to shield them from the sun. Bloody fucking hell. Did he expect women—the majority of his readership—to pay money for this?

  ‘You have six more weeks to finish Armand,’ he recalled his agent saying.

  Six freaking weeks and he couldn’t stomach his hero and heroine.

  With a sigh he got to his feet. He spied Mira on the dunes as she set about mending a fallen wooden fence. Remembering his nudity, he crouched behind the rail so as not to attract her attention. Not that it might be such a bad idea.

  Mira, so soft and innocent looking but with a sassy tongue and the fiery spirit of a sea wench. He’d bet his last six figure advance she was a wild woman in bed, or could be, given the proper lover.

  He fantasized of pulling doe eyed Mira into his arms, divesting her of the dowdy blue floral dress and caressing the swell of her firm little breasts. He wondered if her nipples were dark or pale? If the skin hidden beneath her clothing was freckled or flawless. His cock twitched at the thought of caressing her naked skin—of stripping her of every shred of clothing and tasting her innocent looking lips, her luscious tits . . .

  Of licking his way down her torso and parting her nether lips with his tongue.

  Bing. A new idea formulated in his mind.

  Returning to his laptop, he closed the old file, clicked New.

  A blank screen. A new beginning.

  “Dear, sweet virginal Lady Mira . . . tutored in her bedchamber by Dante, her father’s slave . . .” he muttered under his breath. “Chapter One.”

  He typed, pleased with his first few lines.

  Dante ripped open the bodice of the fiery haired Lady Mira’s thin cotton shift with his teeth, then grasped her small, but firm bosoms in his hands, his mouth seeking out the taut, berried nipples that begged for tender ministrations of his tongue. Her milky globes were firm, her sweet, virginal body as succulent as ripe fruit and made for his carnal pleasure. Her breasts heaved beneath him with each breath, telling him with her eyes what she wanted as he divested her of the rest of her garments. She was more than ready and willing and he thrust his hand betwixt their bodies to test her readiness.

  Needing more inspiration for his love scene, Armand scrambled to his vantage point again, but Mira Reece had gone.

  Mira tossed a handful of trash she’d retrieved from the dunes into the garbage pail behind the house, then dusted the sand from her white canvas sneakers and went inside to wash her face and hands. A quick check in the foyer mirror made her jump. Her hair was wind tousled and nest-like. Her simple cotton dress hung like a limp blue sack on her thin body. She finger combed her short auburn hair back, away from her face, then licked her lips to gloss them. She glanced to the stairs and listened a moment. Silence. Mr. Jones must be in his room, resting.

  She wondered if she should check on him, just to make certain he had everything he needed.

  At that last thought, her body warmed. Perhaps she should go upstairs to help him get settled in and unpacked. After all, it was only polite to offer.

  She unbuttoned the first buttons on the front of her dress to reveal a nice hint of shadowed cleavage. She smoothed her hands over her breasts, cupping them, squeezing them closer together. Maybe she should get one of those push up bras. She gasped, suddenly ashamed. What was she doing? Behaving like a brainless man-hungry bimbo, that’s what! This was ridiculous, primping and posing in front of the mirror. She buttoned the dress quickly.

  Forget helping Mr. Jones unpack. She had work to do.

  Hurrying to the utility closet, she pulled a feather duster from the shelf and proceeded to the porch to clean the ceiling fan blades.

  On the front step, she discovered an expensive looking black writing pen with engraved, gold letters: AG.

  How odd. She’d cleaned the house thoroughly after her last tenants a week ago. No one had visited since—not even a solicitor. Assuming it belonged to Mr. Jones, she ascended the stairs, pausing at the third floor landing. Silence greeted her, although two of the bedroom doors were ajar. Which room was he in?

  “Mr. Jones?” she called out, her voice echoing through the stillness of the massive hallway. “I found something that might belong to you.”

  Silence.

  Perhaps he was napping. She should have phoned his room first.

  As she turned to leave she noticed the roof access was also open. Her heartbeat sped up. Was he sunbathing nude on the widow’s walk? Mira bit back a grin as devilish thoughts warred within. Something in her gut said yes. Another little voice said, “take a peek.”

  No. It was wrong to invade his privacy.

  On the other hand…it was her house and she certainly had every right to find out
what he was doing.

  Was the California dweller tanned all over? She swallowed hard at the thought. There was only one way to find out.

  She tiptoed past the open bedroom doors toward the narrow staircase, suppressing a giggle.

  With her heart thumping in her throat, she slipped soundlessly up the steps, pausing at the bright, sunlit entrance. She dared a peek around the corner. Her jaw dropped.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  Mr. Jones lay on his back, stark naked, sunning himself in all his male glory. And oh, how glorious it was! His bronzed body glistened with tanning oil. She caught the scent of coconut on the salty breeze and her mouth watered with the desire to lick it off his skin. His abs were flat and taut, his long legs muscular and covered with dark hair. This also answered her question. He was tanned from head to toe and all points in between.

  Semi-erect, his penis was thick, long and impressive, dark colored. Fire ignited at the juncture of her thighs as she drank in the sight of his beautiful, sculpted body. It was a sin for a man to look so good. Or so edible.

  She shook her head. All right. Enough gawking and drooling at the naked Adonis.

  Pulling back into the shadows, Mira clenched her eyes shut and drew in several calming breaths. She needed to get out of here before he discovered her.

  She’d just turned to take a step down when something brushed against her ankles. She cried out then clamped a hand over her mouth. Tiger, her yellow tomcat had come to investigate.

  “Who is there?” Mr. Jones called.

  Oh, crap!

  Mira hurried down the stairs at breakneck speed, a cross between a tiptoe and a full run. She didn’t stop until she was seated safely and innocently in the wicker rocking chair on her front porch. She fanned herself casually with a gardening magazine, in the event she’d been followed. Whew! That had been a close call.