Desired (Miranda's Chronicles Book 1)

by Anna Jeffrey

  Why I chose that as a comparison, I didn’t know. I knew nothing about New York City real estate. I had been there one time in my life and the Big Apple and Cowtown were like two different countries. My synapses truly must be fried.

  He turned toward me, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And in Midland, Texas, it would cost me a lot less. If it existed.”

  Our faces were a foot apart, close enough to overload every one of my senses. His gaze flicked over my face, then settled on my eyes. “You’ve got the prettiest eyes. Somebody must tell you that every day.”

  My whole system started to churn and my cheeks warmed. I ducked my chin and drew a deep breath, causing my chest to noticeably rise and fall. “Th—Thank you. It’s, um, unusual for someone with my hair color to have blue eyes.”

  Useless information. Dear God, I’m stammering. What was wrong with me? People had often told me I have pretty eyes and I usually said “thank you” and moved on.

  The corners of his mouth tipped into that elusive smile that almost wasn’t. “Yes, ma’am, they’re blue all right. Blue as the Texas sky.”

  His voice had become a purr. That and staring at his perfectly-formed lips had me paralyzed. My. God. This is surreal. My own mouth quirked into a quick smile that came and went.

  “Is your hair really that color?”

  Fighting the urge to touch my hair, I gave a cajoling tsk-tsk. “Seriously? You’re asking a woman you don’t know if she dyes her hair?”

  One wide shoulder lifted in a shrug. His eyes held mine for a few more beats. Even as dark as his irises were, I saw the heat of passion and it affected me dramatically, as if he were touching me in a forbidden place.

  “I like red hair,” he said. “If it’s natural, I like it even more.” He gave me another one-sided smile. “And for what it’s worth, I’m having a hard time convincing myself that I don’t know you.”

  Oh, hell! Is this flirting? What went on between Gabe and me was flirting. Harmless. It had never lured me the way this beautiful stranger’s soft words were enticing me now. I couldn’t attach a name to what was happening, but this was more than playing. And I couldn’t think of a single smart comeback. “I—I, well, really...No, um…I don’t dye it.”

  He didn’t reply. Just grasped my upper arm, leaned in and tenderly kissed one side of my upper lip.

  I nearly stopped breathing. My eyelids drifted shut. His mouth lifted and kissed the other side, then gently bit my lower lip. When he stopped, my eyes fluttered open. His ardent black eyes held me stone still. His breath touched my lips, its minty scent reaching my nostrils. My heart raced around my rib cage as if it were a trapped hamster.

  “Miranda,” he murmured, as if his tongue were testing the name. “Pretty name for a pretty woman.”

  His strong arms came around my waist and pulled me close, his head angled in the opposite direction and his mouth covered mine.

  All of the craving that had been harrying me all day, the tension and confusion and even lust that I had been fighting sprang up and traveled to parts below and I wanted everything. With him.

  His tongue nudged my lips. I tentatively parted them and that was all the encouragement he needed. His hand cupped my jaw, held it firmly while he took possession of my mouth with gentle suction and long, lush licks and an erotic skill I had never experienced. His male scent and the warmth of his body engulfed me. My nipples hardened. A contraction squeezed deep in my sex. An unfamiliar world of wanting and needing spun around me and I was lost.

  Instinctively, my arm slid around his thick shoulder and I kissed him back like for like.

  I felt rather than heard a low groan rumble up from deep in his throat. The keys I held slipped from my hand and hit the floor and I combed my freed fingers into the back of his silky hair as we continued to ravage each other’s mouths.

  His hands traveled down and clutched my bottom, pressed my pelvis fully against an erection that felt like a steel bar. The visual I’d had of him in the elevator—his penis naked, hard and huge—took over my mind and a tingle so sweet and sharp it was almost more than I could bear darted to the core of my sex. No kiss had ever seduced me so completely.

  His hand left my bottom and his fingers moved up, pulled my blouse tail free of my skirt’s waistband. He drew back, his breathing shuddery as the two of us watched himself expertly unhook my blouse buttons and brush the panels of silk fabric aside. My own breath was coming in quick pants I tried not to show.

  He smoothed his hand over my braless breasts that were flattened by the tight Spandex lace of my cami. When he couldn’t take one in hand, he looked down at my torso. “Jesus, what is this thing?”

  I fought an urge to grab the cami’s hem, yank the shielding garment over my head and bare my chest.

  He gave up on the camisole and circled my firm nipple with his palm, ducked his head and moved his mouth down, radiating damp warmth around my nipple through the tight fabric and somehow he succeeded in tonguing it and sucking. My sex answered with deep contractions and my body instinctively arched to the pleasure. I couldn’t hold back a great sigh.

  His mouth dragged away from my breast and trailed upward again to the bare skin above the camisole’s lace edge, over the slopes of my breasts and on up, all the way to the hollow of my throat, his tongue tasting the elevated pulse point. He moved on over to where my neck joined my shoulder. He licked, then sucked, then soothed with another lick. I tilted my head, savoring his warm mouth on my throat and neck. He nuzzled below my ear, gently closed his teeth on my earlobe and tugged.

  “I want to fuck you, Miranda,” he said softly.

  Omigod! A new shot of adrenaline rocketed through my body. I should have been insulted by such a crude declaration coming from a total stranger, but for a reason I couldn’t explain even to myself, I wasn’t. Instead, I was dangerously close to thinking he had presented a great idea.

  Though no man had ever talked dirty to me, something my hairdresser, Ashley Harrison, said to me once barged into my mind: Honey, there ain’t no bigger turn-on than when some guy just flat out tells you he wants to fuck you.

  Oh. My. God. She was so right.

  And to prove it, my better judgment was going under for the third time in a dark pool of desire. My knees were quaking, my sex was tingling and it felt so good I didn’t want to stop it.

  But I had to.

  My survival instinct buoyed me back to the surface. I pushed against his chest, leaned back against his arm and stared into black eyes that gave away nothing. “You’re taking a lot for granted,” I said, my words coming out choppy. “I don’t know what Drake has told you or what you’re reading into—”

  Instantly, he released me, stepped back and away from me, his breathing harsh. “Stop right there.”

  Bereft, I stared at him.

  Jamming his fists against his hips, he glared back at me. “You don’t strike me as a naïve woman, so don’t try to make me think you are one.”

  Oh, wow. If he only knew. My experiences with sex ranged from disappointing to downright awkward, up to and including Donald Sloan, the man I had slept with on and off for two years, the man I had thought at one point I wanted to marry and the man who knew less about sex than I did. What I thought were the facts about sex, I had heard from girlfriends or read in Cosmo.

  I huffed, trying to show irritation equal to his, though what I felt was anything but irritation. “I’m not trying to make you think anything at all.”

  His dark eyes glowered. “You think Drake and I share locker room stories? Like a couple of teenagers?”

  I couldn’t imagine the sophisticated Drake Lockhart doing such a thing. Feeling silly, I turned my head and rubbed my hand up and down my opposite arm. “Of course not.”

  But refusing to look at him didn’t resolve my dilemma. Somehow, for the sake of my own self-respect and my continued good reputation with Lockhart Concepts, I had to put things back on an even keel. Yet, as surely as my common sense knew that was what I needed to do, ano
ther part of me was ridiculously excited by his making what he wanted with me unabashedly clear.

  “I’m not a game player, Miranda. I don’t have time for it. You’ve got the same itch as me. I can tell. We’re two grown people. So, baby, let’s don’t waste time.”

  Oh, God. Did he know where my head had been all-day? Such frankness was as intimidating as it was arousing, but I had to brake this runaway train. I had to stop him and myself both. With a deep, but unsteady breath, I faced him. “Listen, I don’t do recreational sex. I just don’t.”

  He tilted his head to the right, his eyes squinted. “Why?”

  Oh, hell. I was losing ground. Now, not only was I ready to ignite and so wet that my inner thighs and the lacy tops of my thigh-high stockings were slick, I was on the verge of panic. “It’s risky and demeaning. And unsatisfying.” To my own ears, my voice sounded as if I were barking in a well.

  “Then you’ve hooked up with the wrong partners. I’ll make sure you don’t feel that way. And you won’t go away unsatisfied. That, I promise you.”

  He said that matter-of-factly in that raspy, devastating voice. Oh, he could deliver on that promise all right. I had not one shred of doubt. But how could we be having this intimate conversation so casually when we scarcely knew each other? And I cringed at the expression “hooked up.” It reminded me too much of the episode after which I truly had given up recreational sex.

  “You know what? I’ve always hated that expression, hook-up. It sounds like dogs in heat. I don’t expect a lifetime commitment, but to me, sex has to have some meaning.”

  “I hear you. It’s better to engage on more than one level.” His posture relaxed and he opened his palms. “Look, Miranda, I’d love to ply you with wine and smother you with roses. But as it is, I’m short on time. I’ve got to be back in Midland tomorrow.” He planted his hands on his hips again and gave me that smirky grin and a wink. “But I do have time to make you come a dozen times.”

  Oh. My. God, my inner voice exclaimed. That is so not cute. Could he be any more obnoxious? What are you going to do?

  My immediate inclination was to roast him with a caustic remark, stalk off and leave him standing, but I couldn’t do that without creating an incident. He and I were the only people on the twentieth floor of a high-rise building and I was the person with all the keys. Was I going to walk off and leave him here? No, I wasn’t. If I ever wanted to work for Lockhart Concepts again, I could not anger or embarrass one of the CEO’s friends and customers. But how could I tactfully make him understand that sex with me was not part of the deal on a condo in Skyline?

  Beyond all of that, in my limited experience, more than half the time, I had never come at all. A dozen times wasn’t even possible….Was it?

  Stepping sideways, I put space between us, squatted and picked up the keys I had dropped. “Listen, we should not be here doing this. I apologize for letting it happen. I need to lock up everything and get back downstairs. I’m sure Paul’s wondering why I’m taking so long.”

  He bent, put his hand under my elbow and effortlessly stood me on my feet. “Who’s Paul, that concierge? That guy hasn’t given two thoughts to what you might be doing.”

  His arm came around my waist and his black eyes captured mine. “Miranda. Since the minute I saw you this morning, getting you under me is all I’ve been able to think about. I haven’t felt that urge that strong in a helluva long time.” He bent down and tenderly nipped my lower lip. “Let me make love to you.”

  He might as well have thrown kerosene on a fire. Hearing that voice across a pillow sailed into my imagination. When I didn’t reply, he pulled me closer and his mouth took mine in another demanding kiss and I didn’t resist.

  Well, making love is different from fucking, my inner voice told me smugly.

  Chapter 5

  Before I had time to wonder what might happen next, Mr. Tackett and I were half-sitting, half-lying against the dozen or so coordinated designer pillows on the living room sofa and I was confined between his big body and the sofa back. My thighs were draped over his and we were kissing like hormone-driven teenagers in the backseat at Lover’s Leap. Did he plan for us to do it on this sofa? I recoiled at the thought. I didn’t know how much the sofa cost, but I was fairly certain the price tag was I the high five-digit range.

  His hand came behind my neck. “I want to see your hair.”

  “No, don’t—”

  But he had already released my barrette, freeing my long, thick hair. He brought strands of it around my shoulders and fingered them, smiling down at me. “I love your hair.”

  He cupped my neck with a large hand and kissed me again, then trailed his opposite hand down my torso, over my hip, down my leg all the way to my feet. He slipped off my shoes, sat up and began massaging my foot and ankle with strong hands and fingers. Good grief!

  “I don’t know why women torture themselves with shoes like these.”

  The only male who had touched my feet and legs in months was Tran Rung whom I paid for pedicures. I closed my eyes and savored the massage. “Mmm, that feels sooo good.

  He moved to the other foot. “Better now?”

  I stretched my foot and arched it in his hand. “Ooh, yes.…”

  He ran his fingernail up my arch and sensation pricked deep in my sex. My foot jerked and my eyelids sprang open. “Oh…”

  He looked back and over his shoulder at me. “Right connection?”

  I didn’t dare answer.

  He lay back beside me and gave me a quick chaste kiss. The corners of his mouth turned up in a smile. “You’ve got the most kissable lips.”

  Then, his hand was on my knee, easing up the inside of my leg and under the hem of my skirt, leaving goosebumps in its wake. My heartbeat stuttered, but I made not a peep of protest. Oh, he was very smooth. I was so aroused I wanted to part my legs to give him access to more, but I hadn’t quite come to terms with what was happening or with my own emotions. And I was embarrassed that the insides of my thighs and the tops of my stockings were damp.

  He broke the kiss when his hand reached the lacy elastic of my stocking tops. He gave a little frown. “What’re you wearing?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of thigh-high stockings.”

  He pushed my hem up, all the way to my crotch, his gaze following his fingers.

  The potent scent of my arousal bloomed around us. No way could he not know why my thighs and stockings were wet. My cheeks flamed. Dear God. What would he think? I clutched his hand, stopping him and pressed my thighs together. I twisted my face away.

  “It’s normal, baby. Don’t be embarrassed. Not with me.” His voice had become even softer and raspier. He freed his hand from my grip, caught my chin with his fingers and turned my face back to him. “Hey, I like that you’re wet for me.”

  He pulled my knee toward him, opening my thighs. His hand moved to the crotch of my panties that felt as if they were soaked. I was almost crazy for his touch, but I tensed and squeezed my eyes shut, dreading it as much as I wanted it.

  “It’s normal,” he repeated. “Relax now.” He pushed the silky fabric aside and his hand cupped my sex. “Oh, baby, you really are so wet….”

  He rested the heel of his hand on my pubis and carefully parted my labia with his fingers. My breathing grew shallow. I lay perfectly still. A finger eased into me. My hips lifted reflexively toward his hand even as a little squeak burst out of my throat.

  “Mmm. Tight. Oh, that’s good, baby. And your pussy’s swelled and hot. I do like that.”

  I had never heard such words from a man’s mouth. I wanted to gasp and blush, but a steady pulse had begun to drum deep in the top of my sex beneath his hand and that nebulous place low in my belly was already faintly convulsing. Oh, God. This was getting so out of control.

  His finger withdrew from inside me and swept my vulva with long, languid strokes, wetting me even more. I hadn’t been touched this way in sooo long. Or truthfully, I hadn’t been touched in quite
this way at all, ever. No guy with whom I’d had sex had ever fondled me so tenderly or so expertly. I gave a weak moan.

  Then, those agile fingers moved to my clitoris and began gently circling. My focus narrowed and suddenly I didn’t care if that speeding train Drake had mentioned crashed right through those thick plate-glass windows as long as Tack didn’t stop. I was ready to beg him for something, anything. I could come like this. Any minute. I gripped his biceps and arched my back.

  “Am I doing it right?” he asked softly.

  I didn’t know if he was doing it “right,” but it felt flawlessly wonderful. “Yesss.” The word came out of my mouth a hiss.

  “Watching you come is all I’ve been thinking about all-day.”

  No, no, no. Too private, too personal. I summoned my voice in a breathy reply. “No, you haven’t. You’ve been looking at a horse.”

  “Uh-huh. And that just made it worse. After teasing the poor bastard into such a frenzy that he nearly tore up the barn, they didn’t even give him a live mare. They led him to a phantom horse and a phony vagina. The whole time he was snorting and pumping and raising hell, I wished that phantom mare was you and I was him.”

  Something had to be wrong with what he had just said, but with his hand pressuring my pubis and with what his fingers were doing, I couldn’t muddle through it. I shook my head. “We can’t do this. I’m serious. Look at this sofa. No telling what it cost.”

  “We’ll stop before it gets messy.”

  It was already messy. I was soaking wet.

  All at once, his fingers left me with my clitoris throbbing and my vagina clenching. I barely kept myself from pleading for him to finish what he started. He lifted his fingers to his mouth and sucked on them.

  I had never seen anything so primitive. I stared, then shook my head vehemently, releasing the little noise that had stuck in my throat.

  “Do you know how good you taste?” He rubbed his wet fingers over my lower lip. I frowned and jerked my head to the side. “Lick your lips, baby. See how good you taste.”