by M. S. Parker
Fiancé.
I was getting married.
Reaching up, I touched the necklace—it had started to glow in that way it did sometimes. I’d probably never understand what that meant. Just like I’d never understand entirely why or how I’d ended up in 1962.
I’d probably never get back home, and I was coming to terms with that.
I missed my parents more than anything. Honestly, other than my parents and uncle, I didn’t really miss anything. I didn’t even miss Caitlyn. I’d come to recognize what a toxic friendship that had been, and it was one I didn’t need.
I had what I needed, here.
The diamond ring caught the light, splintered it out in a thousand small bursts, and I smiled. Reaching for my brush, I smoothed my hair down one last time and then opened the door, ready to knock Glenn’s socks off.
Only…he wasn’t in the bedroom, neither him or his socks.
Huffing out a breath, I started for the bed but stopped a few feet away. I needed to get that diary out and leave it somewhere so I’d remember to give it to Florence the next time I went to see her. She needed to have it back.
I dug it out of my purse and lay it on the nightstand.
A muscled forearm slid around my waist, a chilled bottle of champagne clamped in his hand. I yelped when it touched me, my skin protected only by the silky, sheer negligee.
“That’s cold!”
He kissed my neck. “I’ll warm you up.” The other arm came around my upper body, holding two crystal flutes. “I thought we should have another toast.”
“You want to get me drunk,” I teased him, turning in his arms. He kissed me, quick and fast.
“I want to celebrate,” he said.
He popped the champagne open with ease and poured me a glass, then another for himself. I’d only taken one sip before he came back to me, still holding his own glass. The bottle was on the dresser now, and I savored another sip as he slid his free arm around my waist.
“Dance with me,” he murmured.
“There’s no music.”
“We don’t need it.”
We didn’t, either. We danced there, in the bedroom, Glenn wearing just a pair of trousers and me in my sexy little bit of silk and lace. We drank champagne and kissed and teased each other until any chill I’d felt was chased away.
“I love you,” Glenn said against my mouth as his hands moved over me, blazing through the silk.
“I love you too.” Curling my arms around his neck, I strained to get closer.
I couldn’t get close enough, though.
Never close enough.
He groaned in appreciation as I wiggled against him, then he picked me up. A moment later, he laid me on the bed and came down over me, his mouth gliding down my neck to my breasts. The frothy lace was no true barrier, and he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking deep and hard. His hands dragged the long skirt of the negligee up, and I arched my hips to help before reaching to free him from his trousers.
When he thrust inside me, I moaned out his name, so glad that we’d moved past condoms in the past couple weeks. There was nothing like the feeling of skin against skin as he drove deep.
I was already wet, aching, hovering on the brink of climax from the taunting, teasing foreplay that had been our dance.
But he wouldn’t let me come, purposefully keeping his strokes slow and steady, his weight braced over me as he held my gaze. The fire inside me smoldered, constantly threatening to burst into flame, but constantly being kept at bay.
“Watch me,” he ordered, voice rough and husky.
Like I could do anything else.
I rocked up to meet him, wrapped my legs around his waist, trying to hold him within me, trying to move him to give me that last little push I needed, but it did no good.
He shuddered as he moved even deeper than before, and I felt his cock pulse, thickening inside me. It pressed against that spot inside me, and I gasped.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you.”
He moved harder, faster…finally.
Raking my nails across his back and shoulders, then down his arms, I caught hold of his biceps and dug my nails in. “Please…oh…Glenn!”
I could feel it, that heady ecstasy about to explode and overwhelm me—overwhelm us both.
“Do that again,” he muttered when I convulsively tightened around him.
I couldn’t control it, but as he drove into me over and over, hitting a place deep that made me see sparks, my muscles rippled and clenched. Each time I did, his cock pulsed, sending more waves of sensation washing over me...and that made my muscles tighten around him, gripping harder.
It was an unending cycle of pleasure, and caught up in the torrent of it, I lost track of where he ended and I began.
And that didn’t matter.
As the climax slammed into me, he groaned my name and I felt him begin to come, emptying inside me, filling me. I clung to him and he to me, our bodies trembling and twitching as we rode out our pleasure together.
Sometime later, we laid in each other’s arms, neither one of us speaking. Sleep was a heavy weight, drawing closer and closer, but I pushed it back for a few more minutes, eyes focused on the lamp on the table. I hadn’t turned it off. Now I was too tired, too content.
The light glinted off the gilt lettering on the diary I’d gotten from Florence’s dressing room. I’d taken it to avoid it falling into some reporter’s hands once news of her suicide attempt hit the papers. Smiling, I thought about the day I’d first found it, how I’d ended up back here.
Glenn smoothed a hand down my hip, drawing me back to the present.
“I don’t want a long engagement,” he said, voice drowsy.
“Me, neither. I want to be Maya Jackson as soon as possible.”
“Good.”
An uncomfortable sensation pressed in on my belly and I groaned, easing away from him. “I have to…Too much champagne.”
While I was in the bathroom, I grabbed the dress shirt I’d stolen from Glenn nearly a month ago to use as my regular sleep shirt.
He was waiting for me, eyes drowsy, one arm reaching out. I slid in and settled down, the light from the lamp still gleaming. But that was fine. If it was on, I could stare at Glenn.
And he was staring at me, smiling.
I guessed the lamp didn’t bother him either.
Sleep pressed in closer.
He said something. I could see his lips moving.
But sleep gave one final, demanding tug. And I was gone, lost to dreams.
That stupid lamp.
That was the one clear thought in my head.
A light, bright and harsh was shining in my eyes, forcing me to wake up when that was the last thing I wanted.
I tried to turn away from it and bury my face in Glenn’s neck.
But there was no soft bed under me.
There was no soft anything under me—and when I swept out a hand, I didn’t find Glenn.
All I encountered was hard, cold stone.
Shivering, I sat up.
“Maya!”
The sound of that voice, familiar as the sound of my own, made me cringe, and I squeezed my eyes shut.
That bright light continued to beat down on me, but now I knew it wasn’t the lamp.
Reaching up, I went to rub at my eyes.
Something smacked against my cheek.
I looked down and saw the locket, the gold once more dull and dusty.
No. No. This couldn’t be happening. Not now.
“Maya, are you okay?”
I looked around the dressing room.
Florence’s dressing room.
I wanted to scream, cry.
I was no longer in 1962.
I was back.
The Glenn Jackson Saga continues in Chasing Temptation. Turn the page for a sneak preview.
Chasing Temptation: Preview
One
Maya
“Are you okay?”
&
nbsp; Throat tight, I stared at Daniel for a long moment, then around, my mind stuttering and trying to come to grips with what was going on.
“What…” I swallowed, then had to clear my throat when the word came out as nothing more than a squeak of sound. “What happened? How long was I gone?”
“Gone?” Daniel knelt in front of me and brushed his fingers over the back of my cheek.
A few months ago—before everything had changed—that small gesture probably would have annoyed me. As much as I loved my uncle, I was tired of him and my parents fussing and hovering over me.
But now, I reached up and caught his wrist, clinging to him. “Uncle Daniel?”
“Sweetheart, it’s okay. You were only trapped down here for a few minutes, I think. But you must have fallen, hit your head.”
“Trapped…” I looked around, the wrongness in those words hitting me straight in the chest.
I hadn’t been trapped—
My jaw fell open.
That dusty, sad changing room—the one I recognized as Florence’s—was no longer dusty or sad.
It was well lit, a near perfect replica of how it had looked when I’d seen it last, just a few short weeks past—or was it years?
Don’t, a tiny part of me argued. You’ll make yourself crazy.
“What’s going on?” I whispered, clambering to my feet. When Uncle Daniel reached out to steady me, I brushed his hand away impatiently. Slowly, I turned around in a circle, not understanding anything I was seeing.
“They fixed it up pretty nice, I have to admit. They did most of the restoration using photos they found in Miss Woods’ collection.”
Those words had me turning to face him. “Miss Woods…Florence?”
He eyed me strangely. “Yes. I think they’ll be ready to open for visitors within the month, but the family has decided they’ll wait a little longer—out of respect. I understand that.”
“What…” Okay, I was saying that way too often. I went to rub my head, and the gold of the locket—the chain still woven through my fingers—glittered in my hand. Driven by instinct, I shoved the necklace into the pocket of my jeans, desperate to keep it hidden and close.
Daniel turned back to me just as I pocketed it.
“What do you mean, ‘visitors’?” I asked, confused. “Why would they do that after she killed herself down here?”
Daniel blinked. For a moment, he looked just as confused as I felt—then he shook his head. “Honey, Florence didn’t die down here…I told you that. Her assistant found her just in time and saved her life. It was all in her memoir.”
“In her memoir…she wrote a book?” I huffed out a breath. “Uncle Daniel, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He immediately took a step toward me, his face grim. “I think we need to have a doctor look at you. Does your head hurt? Where?”
I smacked at his hand again when he reached out, intent on inspecting my skull. Immediately, I felt bad. He was just trying to help. But I didn’t need help. I needed to…
“No. I don’t need a doctor. I’m just a little out of it, okay? Just…” I stopped and looked around once more time.
Something on the nightstand, near the little bed where Florence had sometimes napped, caught my eye.
It was her diary.
I started toward it, only to stop.
The diary.
I’d left that by the bed last night when I went to sleep…with Glenn.
Glenn…
“This is more than a little out of it, sweetheart. I sent you a copy of her book for your birthday a few months ago. You’ve always been enamored with the story of Florence and how she nearly lost her life. She’s one—was one of your favorite movie stars. I even managed to get the book personalized for you.”
As I turned to look at him, he passed a hand over his eyes. “It was a good thing I managed it when I did. She got sick so suddenly…I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Gone. I thought you said she didn’t die…”
“No, I said she didn’t kill herself.” Daniel narrowed his eyes, and I knew he was still considering taking me on a nice trip to see a doctor. Like hell he was. “She passed away last year. She died from a heart attack.”
I spent the drive back to Uncle Daniel’s reading up on Florence on my phone. She had entries up all over the web—Wikipedia, interviews on People, Time, Biography.com.
She had indeed died of a heart attack last year.
Just last month, one of her children had died.
I guess that explained why they were holding off on opening the set to visitors.
What wasn’t explained was why the set I’d left looked so much…different.
The movie hadn’t been finished—I knew that.
Daniel had told me.
And when I did a search on that particular movie, it was indeed unfinished. The studio tried it again a few years later with new leads, but the attempt failed.
Florence had gone into rehab. I read article after article about how active she’d been in the field, even before advocacy for addicts had been a thing.
She’d been a powerhouse.
I hadn’t looked up anything on Glenn.
I was afraid to.
Other than the movie set, everything looked…normal. Seemed normal.
How could anything be normal, though? Everything in my world had been flipped upside down. Closing my hand into a fist, I fought the urge to look down at my fingers.
A few short hours ago, I’d worn an engagement ring.
Did you?
It was a small, ugly voice in the back of my head, and I resisted the urge—just barely—to start drumming my skull against the window as we drove on through the crowded, bustling streets of LA.
I didn’t want to listen to that voice. I didn’t want to think about what it could mean.
Did you…?
Maybe I hadn’t. Uncle Daniel said I’d only been in that room for just a few minutes.
“Are you okay?”
The soft sound of my uncle’s voice drew me back to myself, and I stirred in the seat, looking over at him. “I’m fine,” I said, summoning up a smile from somewhere.
“Are you?” He didn’t look at me.
But I felt his keen interest nonetheless.
“I’ve known you your entire life, Maya. You don’t do quiet.” He laughed softly. “Not unless you’re plotting revenge or you’re very, very upset. So…which is it?”
“I’m not plotting revenge,” I said.
“Then you’re upset. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” But even I could hear the lie. I didn’t know what to tell him other than that, though. If I told him what was wrong, he’d escort me to the nearest psych hospital. Or worse…he’d call Mom and Dad.
Mom…my heart ached. It felt like it had been months since I’d seen her. Tears pricked my eyes, and I wondered if maybe it had been.
“Maya—”
“I’m fine!” I snapped.
Of course, I wasn’t.
But Uncle Daniel simply went quiet and I sat there, my hands knotted in my lap as I struggled to find some way to tell him I was sorry.
The words wouldn’t come and after a time, I got tired of trying to force them out.
I just want to be alone. I wanted to be alone and I wanted to think.
I had to think. I had to figure out what was going on…was any of this real?
Not what was going on now—everything I’d thought had happened before…now. Before my uncle had opened the trap door and I’d opened my eyes to find myself in a completely different time, in a completely different place, wrapped in the warm, safe embrace of Glenn’s arms.
Was that real?
How had I gone from 1962 to now?
And more…how could I get back?
That question, more than anything else, caught me off guard.
Get back?
Was I seriously thinking about getting back?
But the insane thing was…I
didn’t even have to think about that.
I already knew the answer.
Of course I was.
I was thinking about it hard.
I still hadn’t let myself look up anything about Glenn.
Out of everything else, that was what worried me the most. Part of me kept wondering if all of this was a dream. It felt too real to be a dream, but if it was a dream, then that meant everything would fade, right?
But a huge part of me worried that if I looked up anything about Glenn, then I’d figure out the truth—and I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.
I could still feel the weight of the engagement ring on my finger.
I could still feel the brush of his lips on mine.
And I could swear I could still feel his body rubbing against mine, his arms around me.
I didn’t want to know if I had dreamed him.
I didn’t want to know if it had all been my imagination.
But worse, I couldn’t handle knowing that it had all been real…and he was gone.
Two
Glenn
I’d drank too much champagne.
I could drink all night long if it was anything else—wine, beer, vodka. I’d once had some country singer from Kentucky offer some moonshine, and I’d shared that with him, sipping on it and trading stories until dawn—and while I’d ended up drunk off my ass, I’d been clear-headed enough come morning, I’d at least been able to wake up.
But now…
I knew the feel of the headache I had, knew the heavy press of it.
Memories from the past night were dull, but there was one series of events that was clear as day, and it was enough to make me smile.
I’d given Maya the engagement ring.
And she’d said yes.
That was why I’d brought out another bottle of champagne.
That was why I felt like shit.
And that was okay.
We’d been celebrating.
I didn’t mind feeling like shit if I was celebrating.
Rolling onto my side, I slid out a hand, seeking out the soft, warm heat of her.
