Extreme Exposure

by Pamela Clare

  Kara started to say no, but Holly had already answered for her.

  “More Diet Coke for me, and definitely another marg for her.”

  By the time the remains of the fajitas were cleared away, the conversation had moved from men to having sex with men, and Kara was feeling better than she’d felt in ages. She was floating, and everything in the world seemed warm, fuzzy, perfect.

  She glanced at her empty glass and wondered what exactly they put in their margaritas. Whatever it was, it was really, really, really strong.

  “What I miss most is kissing.” She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to conjure up the sensation. “I love it when you feel that first brush of his lips on yours. And when his tongue slips into your mouth—mmmm.”

  Holly smiled at her and poked at the ice in her glass with her straw.

  “You know what else I love?”

  “Hard cock?”

  Kara heard Holly, of course, but she wasn’t going to let Holly interrupt her train of thought. It was so like Holly to go straight for the crotch. “I love it when a man licks my nipples. It makes me crazy! I can’t even think about it without feeling turned on.”

  Holly shrugged, still smiling. “That’s nice, but I prefer his mouth a bit farther south.”

  “Galen refused to do that. But I knew this guy in college who said he really liked it.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Was he any good at it?”

  Kara nodded and felt heat suffuse her cheeks at the memory. She leaned forward and looked straight into Holly’s eyes. “I think it’s soooo erotic when you kiss him afterwards—and taste yourself on his mouth!”

  A man’s voice interrupted the conversation. “What are you ladies talking about?”

  Senator Sheridan. He stood beside the table, his coat draped over his arm.

  Kara looked up, felt the heat of his smile, and answered without thinking. “I was just saying I think it’s really erotic when you kiss a man and taste yourself on his mouth.”

  Some part of her wondered through a tequila haze whether she had just said something she shouldn’t have. But before she had time to consider it, the senator pulled out a chair and sat.

  “I’d have to agree.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “That is erotic.”

  She could smell his aftershave—something warm and enticingly male. He had taken off his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, exposing a bit of chest. His shirtsleeves, too, had been unbuttoned and were rolled up to reveal the muscles of his forearms.

  Kara couldn’t remember noticing a man’s forearms before.

  Holly was right.

  Senator Sheridan was hot.

  Reece knew he should be going. He had to finish editing the last of his five bills for the session, as it was slated to be heard in committee next week. He also needed to read through the bills he would be expected to vote on next week. And there were always phone calls and e-mails from constituents to return. But he found he couldn’t budge.

  Kara McMillan was nothing like he’d expected. The black-and-white photograph that ran every week with her opinion column showed a rather stern woman, hair pulled back, staring gravely into the camera. But the real Kara McMillan was much softer, more colorful, and much more feminine than her photo revealed.

  He could tell she was tipsy by the color in her cheeks, a pink glow against her otherwise creamy skin. Her features were delicate, almost elfin. Her eyes were an unusual shade of green, dark with flecks of gold. Her hair was almost black and fell, thick and shining, to her waist. She was almost a foot shorter than he and willowy, with delicate curves in the right places. She looked more like a ballet dancer than a tough reporter.

  Kara had a reputation for being ruthless. When she called, people worried. Last year she had lost a city department head his job after discovering he was writing thousands of dollars in checks to a nonexistent contractor who turned out to be his mistress. Reece had been impressed.

  Then she had called him.

  He’d been taken aback by her voice—soft and sexy. He had answered her questions—surprisingly insightful questions—and found himself wondering if her reputation wasn’t more the result of her determination and her success. As he knew too well, nothing pissed people off like success—and a refusal to break the rules.

  Kara turned to her friend. “Holly, I’d like to introduce Senator Reece Sheridan.”

  “Please, just call me Reece.” He reached out a hand to the pretty blonde who sat across the table from Kara.

  She shook his hand. “Holly Bradshaw.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt your conversation. You were just talking about—”

  “Oral sex,” Kara supplied, apparently unembarrassed. “So tell me the truth, Senator, how do men really feel about going down on women?”

  “She’s had three,” Holly mouthed, pointing toward Kara and holding up three fingers.

  But Reece had figured that out for himself. “It’s Reece, and I can’t speak for all men, but I—”

  Kara shook her head. “How like a politician to dodge the question!”

  Reece tried not to laugh. “If you’d let me finish my answer . . .”

  “Let the man talk.” Holly shot Kara a stern look.

  More pink crept into Kara’s cheeks. “Oh. Sorry.”

  “I can’t speak for all men, but I enjoy it just fine—provided the woman gets into it. Not all women are comfortable enough with their bodies to enjoy it, you know.”

  Kara looked puzzled by this and stared at . . . his mouth. “Do you like to kiss women?”

  “Yes. But not as much as I like to go down on them.”

  Kara’s gaze met his. He saw her pupils dilate and heard her little intake of breath. Her reaction, unguarded and sensual, intrigued him, and he found himself wondering if she was anywhere near as fiery in bed as she was in print.

  A voice in his head reminded him he was treading on dangerous ground. Kara McMillan was a journalist. There was nothing to stop her from printing every word he said, nothing to stop her from taking her embarrassment out on him once her hangover had passed. He had a feeling she wasn’t used to drinking and that, while she might be adept at asking tough questions, those questions probably never involved anyone’s views on oral sex.

  But in short order, she’d peppered him with an array of queries.

  “Do women really taste like tuna?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Is it fair that some men expect a woman to give them head but refuse to return the favor?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Do men like regular sex or getting head more?”

  “That depends on the moment—and the woman.”

  If she was trying to turn him on, she was doing a good job of it. He took a sip of whisky and nearly choked at her next question.

  “What does it feel like to be inside a woman?” She leaned toward him, her gaze fixed on his, her chin resting on her hand.

  “Um—”

  “Good grief, Kara, are you interviewing him?” Holly laughed, stood. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  Kara giggled, then made a grave face and spoke with mock severity, as if quoting a newspaper headline. “Sen. Sheridan Says Not All Women Like Oral Sex.”

  Reece laughed. “It’s Reece, and please tell me this isn’t tomorrow’s lead story.”

  “I’m afraid it is, Senator.” She looked at him sternly. “It’s a senatorial sexposé.”

  A moment later he caught sight of Holly as she waved good-bye to him and slipped out the front door.

  In his mind, he heard the doors of the trap swing shut with a clang.

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  REECE SHIFTED his gaze back to Kara, who was licking salt from the rim of her margarita glass with a distracting pink tongue. “How are you getting home?”

  She glanced across the table at Holly’s vacant spot. “Holly is driving me. Coming
here was her idea.”

  From her tone of voice, Reece gathered Kara hadn’t wanted to come along, an intriguing notion, since she’d obviously gotten very much into the spirit of the place. “I think Holly has deserted you. She just walked out the door.”

  The look of panicked surprise on Kara’s face as Holly passed them outside the window and blew them a kiss convinced him Kara was as caught in Holly’s snare as he. He felt oddly relieved. He didn’t have much respect for women who tried to manipulate men into bed. Since he’d been elected, he’d met far too many women like that—grasping women who sized up men according to social status and potential future earnings and saw sex as the fastest means of securing their share.

  That sort of woman hadn’t been interested in him at all when he’d been nothing more than a high school social studies teacher and youth soccer coach. But once the title “Senator” had been placed before his name, they couldn’t spread their legs fast enough. He had learned the hard way not to take a sexy, willing woman at face value.

  But it was obvious Kara hadn’t been privy to Holly’s scheming. She sat for a moment, eyes wide with astonishment. Then she grabbed her purse, threw her credit card on the table, stood—or tried to stand. But three margaritas had taken their toll.

  Reece jumped to his feet and reached out with both arms to steady her before she fell into the aisle. “Careful.”

  “I have to catch up with her. I don’t have cash for cab fare. I’ll have to walk home.” There was genuine worry in her eyes.

  Reece couldn’t blame her. The streets of Denver weren’t the safest place for a woman at night—particularly one who’d had three. He reached for his coat. “It’s allright, Kara. I’ll drive you.”

  She looked at him, her green-gold eyes clouded by uncertainty. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Reece was a bit surprised to realize he was telling the truth.

  As soon as Kara had paid the bill—her friend had thoughtfully abandoned that, as well—Reece led her out into the cold January night and down the icy sidewalk.

  The shock of Holly’s trickery seemed at first to rob Kara of her tequila-induced chattiness, and they walked in silence. This wasn’t entirely a bad thing, as Reece wasn’t sure he could have endured more of her seductively blunt questions without embarrassing himself.

  What does it feel like to be inside a woman? Holy hell!

  “I can’t believe she left me! Why would she—?” But Kara never finished the question. With a gasp, she slipped on ice and would have fallen had Reece not caught her.

  “You’d better hook your arm through mine, or you’re going to end up flat on your back.”

  “Oh!” Kara felt the strength of his arms as they encircled her and looked into his blue eyes. Her stomach did a flip.

  Flat on her back.

  The next moment, he deposited her squarely on her feet, wrapped a strong arm around her waist. This was a good thing, as the sidewalk was not only slippery, but seemed somehow slanted, as if gravity were stronger in some places than others.

  She hadn’t had that much to drink. Had she?

  Reece led her to the door of a yellow Jeep Wrangler that was covered with mud up to its headlights and stuck a key in the lock.

  “This is yours? It isn’t a sports car.” Kara took his hand and climbed up the step into the passenger seat.

  He shut the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and got in. “Sorry. I left my Jag at home in the garage next to my Porsche.”

  It took Kara a moment to realize he wasn’t serious. “You’re joking, Senator.”

  “It’s Reece. And, yes, I am.” With a grin, he turned the key in the ignition, turned on the heater, and slid into traffic. Then he reached across her and buckled her seat belt. “Where am I taking you?”

  She had to think for a minute. “Corona four blocks south of Colfax.”

  “Close to the Capitol.”

  Kara nodded. “And close to my son’s day care and the paper.”

  “You have kids?”

  “One. He’s four.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Connor.”

  “So you’re divorced?”

  “Oh, no! No, no!” Kara couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “I was never married.”

  As Reece drove through the city’s slushy streets, Kara found her gaze traveling over his face, only vaguely aware of what he was saying—something about state law and aid for single parents. Watching him, she felt something she hadn’t let herself feel for years—an overwhelming attraction to a real, live man.

  Then she remembered Malibu Melanie.

  Reece already had a girlfriend, a gorgeous girlfriend. There was no way he would break up with her to spend time with a woman as unglamorous as Kara.

  Then again he had left the bar with her, not Malibu Melanie. But a little voice inside her mind shot that hope to bits. He was giving her a ride home because Holly had run off, not because he was attracted to her. She felt her mood plummet.

  “Corona, right?”

  Kara realized they had reached her street. “Take a right. It’s that one.”

  He turned into the driveway and left the Wrangler running. “I’ll walk you to your door. It’s slick out there.”

  By the time Kara had opened the passenger door—the handle was a bit confusing—he was standing beside her, offering her his hand. The ground seemed ten feet away.

  “Easy.” He helped her down, slipped his arm through hers, and walked with her up the flagstone path that led to her front door.

  Even though she was wearing a thick winter coat, the contact was unsettling. She wanted to savor it. She wanted it to end. It had been a long time since she’d been physically close to a man.

  “Watch the steps. That’s it.” He helped her up her front porch one stair at a time and then released her.

  A feeling not unlike desperation welled up inside her. She didn’t want him to leave. Not yet. “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be.”

  “No? How so?” He stood so close she could feel his body heat.

  “I had you figured for an overgrown frat boy.”

  He frowned. “Now I am insulted. I was never in a frat.”

  Kara giggled at the irritated tone in his voice. “Did you date cheerleaders?”

  “No. They wanted nothing to do with me.”

  “And you don’t drive a sports car.”

  “They’re no good in three feet of snow, and I like to snowboard.”

  “Like I said—you’re nothing like I thought.”

  His lips curved in a wry grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Then, ignoring the voice of warning in her mind, she asked the question she’d wanted to ask all the way home. “Who is Malibu Melanie? Your girlfriend?”

  He looked puzzled, his brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “You know—the blond bimbo you were with earlier.” She watched recognition dawn on his face.

  He smiled, chuckled. “Who is Melanie?”

  “Yeah.”

  He cupped her shoulders in his palms, an amused smile on his face. “Melanie is my little sister.”

  KARA STARED unseeing at the stack of new press releases in her hand.

  She wanted to die, to wither, to vanish from the face of the earth.

  All weekend she had tried to forget, but she could not. She’d drunk enough to act like an idiot, but not enough to blot out her memory. Like a bad song, her own words played over and over in her mind, just as they had all weekend.

  I was just saying I think it’s really erotic when you kiss a man and taste yourself on his mouth.

  Why hadn’t Holly done her a favor and stuffed a napkin in her mouth?

  Do women really taste like tuna?

  Would it have been too much to ask to have been struck by a lightning bolt?

  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

  You know—the blond bimbo you were with earlier.

  If only she could
spontaneously combust. She had called his little sister a bimbo!

  Kara dropped the press releases on her desk, buried her face in her hands, and moaned, her dignity in tatters. She had made a complete fool of herself in front of a state senator, a man she would have to interview sooner or later, a man in a position of power who could easily malign her to any number of important people.

  To his credit, Reece—Senator Sheridan, she corrected herself—had kept his sense of humor and behaved like a gentleman. He’d driven her home, walked her to her door, and declined her rather blatant invitation to come in for a cup of tea and whatever might follow.

  “Not this time.” He’d brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Ask me again when you haven’t had three.”

  She had found herself staring up at him, wishing he would kiss her. “I’m glad I got to know you better.”

  He had smiled. “I sure learned a lot about you, sweetheart.”

  Then he’d turned and walked down the stairs, calling back to her to take some aspirin and drink lots of water.

  One thing was for certain. Kara would never speak to Holly again. And she would never, ever drink more than one margarita at The Rio.

  She forced her mind back to the press releases.

  A motivational speaker promising financial gain to those willing to pay $500 for his workshop. A company vowing to make the world’s largest chocolate-chip cookie using organic dairy products. A health department notice about free vaccination clinics.

  None of them touched on her current beat, which focused on the environment. She tossed them into her recycling bin and picked up her phone to check the five messages on her voicemail.

  She had called his sister a bimbo!

  Kara dialed her access code, determined to put her stupidity—and the devastatingly sexy man who had inspired it—out of her mind.

  “Hi, Kara, it’s Holly. I guess you’re still not in. Buzz me as soon as you get this, OK?”

  Delete.

  “It’s Holly. Are you in yet? I want to hear how it went.”

  Delete.

  “Hi, Kara. It’s Holly. I hope—”