Thrill Me

by Isabel Sharpe

  The circles stopped; he swallowed a groan. Her hand moved back up to caress her breasts, dipped back down to stroke her sex briefly, then away again.

  He’d been so desperately wrong. She was making love to herself the way a woman wanted to be made love to. Building slowly, teasing, tantalizing, to the peak of arousal. What he’d written was a fantasy of male screwing, a huge phallus pounded in hard. Alex had been right.

  May found her clit again, rubbed in more earnest circles; her head rose off the pillow then hit back down. A flush broke over her face and her chest; she let out a soft moan. Getting close.

  Her orgasm was going to kill him.

  He held himself in his seat, every instinct yelling at him to lunge onto the bed, bury his face between her legs to taste her ravenously, make her come, then while she was still climaxing, plunge furiously inside her and take his own pleasure.

  He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. But it took all his strength to resist.

  She moaned again, her pelvis tilted upward, the circles she drew with her clit grew larger, harder, faster, frantic.

  He gave in—at least partway. Unzipped his pants and, half-ashamed, grabbed his cock to match her rhythm, straining for his own climax as she strained for hers.

  She relaxed suddenly; her mouth opened in a silent “oh.” Her breath went in and in and in, then her hips rose off the bed, scattering pink petals; she cried out and thrashed, cried out again, tense, breathless, panting.

  He grabbed a tissue from the lacquer box on the table next to him and his own orgasm hit hard; he caught the semen, wave after wave, then shuddered out the last drops and slumped back in his chair.

  May lay still, eyes closed, limp, sated, breathing fast and deep; he wasn’t sure she realized what she’d driven him to, or that he was even in the room for that matter.

  Another tissue, and a third, he cleaned himself up, zipped his pants, hands unsteady, brain reeling.

  Holy shit.

  Her eyes opened at the zipper sound; she smiled at him, flushed, gorgeous, languid. “How was that?”

  He meant to laugh, but couldn’t, shook his head instead. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything sexier in my life.”

  “No?” She got up on one elbow, watching him curiously; he probably looked as stunned and spent as he felt.

  “No.” He held her darkened blue gaze, and something sprang to life between them that deepened the intimacy to an almost unbearable degree.

  May blinked and looked away, retrieved her underwear calmly and put it on with steady hands—hadn’t she felt it?—panties first, bra next, then her clothes, as relaxed and natural in his room as she’d been tense and out of her element before.

  Would he ever figure her out?

  “Thank you for doing this.” He wanted to laugh at himself, at the earnest Boy Scout way the words came out.

  But he was beyond grateful. The scene for his book would come alive in a way he’d never have anticipated and he knew he’d be up most of the night trying to capture what she’d shown him on paper, sure without doubt this was what Alex had meant, what she’d known was missing and he was too duh-male to get. He’d happily eat crow if he could manage to portray even some of what May had shared with him.

  “You’re welcome.” She put on the rest of her clothes and dropped the pink sex toy back into her bag. He wondered if he should ask her to stay, but she was already moving toward the door.

  Then she stopped and turned back. “Can I ask you…”

  “Sure.” He took three steps toward her, until he was a foot away, close enough to touch her, or kiss her. “Ask away. Whatever you want.”

  “Did you come just now?”

  He grinned. “As if I hadn’t in weeks.”

  She laughed, pressed her lips together as if she shouldn’t have, then laughed again. “I’m glad.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s more fun with two.”

  “Very true.” That was his cue. Let’s make it both of us together next time. But for some reason, the words wouldn’t come.

  Instead, he gestured to his laptop, on the black desk where her scarlet skirt had lain a minute before. “I’d ask you to stay for a drink, but I have plenty to keep me busy tonight, thanks to you.”

  “That’s okay.” If she was disappointed by the lack of invitation, she didn’t show it. “It’s been a long day, I should get to bed.”

  He followed her to the door, reached over her head to hold it open, feeling like something still needed to be done or said to make the night complete, but unsure what it was.

  “Well…” She turned under his arm and smiled again, peaceful and triumphant. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She started to move out of his room, and he took hold of her arm, not ready to let her go, and not even sure why.

  May turned back questioningly.

  Without a clue he was going to, he leaned down and kissed her.

  Her lips were soft and warm; she inhaled sharply and stilled in his doorway. Unable to keep himself from her once he’d started, he kissed her again, and again. This time she responded and he let the door close behind her, gathered her in his arms and let the taste of her mouth fill him, her scent fill him, the feel of her body fill him up. She tasted sweet, smelled like sex and roses, and felt like his fantasy woman come true.

  Then he let her go, because what the hell was he doing kissing her like a crazy-in-love fool?

  She took a step back, wearing a soft, vulnerable, happy look that undid him, though he was pretty undone to begin with.

  He opened the door, leaned in and kissed her again. “Good night, May. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She whispered good-night and walked out of the room. He let the door close behind her and stared at it, reliving the kiss over and over like a schoolboy who’d just had his first one, unable to understand how the touch of a virtual stranger’s mouth could have filled him so completely, and how he could have gone this long without realizing or understanding how empty he was before.

  7

  Note on Concierge board:

  Are we giving the jewelry to Trevor’s babe today? Though I must say, this one looks a lot nicer than the others. Usually bimbo central in that room.

  Linda

  Reply on Concierge board:

  We haven’t heard not to. And you’re right, this woman actually looks like the type who deserves Tiffany. She smiles, says thank-you and tips! Though after the lucky stiff got to have dinner with Beck Desmond last night, I’m not sure she deserves anything.

  Moira

  (Grinning evilly)

  MAY FINISHED the last crisp crumbs of her pain au chocolat, found an overlooked plump raspberry at the bottom of her fresh fruit bowl, wiped her mouth with the linen napkin and drained the last drop of an excellent pot of coffee.

  Breakfast served in bed should be a daily occurrence. An elegant breakfast, like this one, eaten at nearly ten after a long, sound sleep and a long dishy chat with Ginny, recapping only the details from her date May felt comfortable sharing. None of this 7:00 a.m. cornflakes and wheat germ dutifully shoveled in at the kitchen table, one eye on the clock so as not to be late for work.

  She pushed the tray out of the way and swung her legs off the bed, stood and stretched contentedly, arms way up, muscles lengthening. Ahhhh. What indulgence to dally in now? How to make herself feel even more luxurious and pampered?

  A knock on the door and the muffled announcement of a concierge staff member seemed perfectly timed. What magnificence was about to arrive?

  A smiling young woman proffered a small distinctive blue box with a blue bow May recognized as being from Tiffany & Co., her father’s store of choice—or was it Mom’s?—for special occasion jewelry. May thanked her and the woman left, still smiling, as if working at HUSH was equivalent to an all-day orgasm. Or did they just give the staff uppers?

  She turned, holding the box, eyeing it curiously. From Trevor. It had to be from Trevor. But even telling
herself that twice didn’t stop the disappointment when she saw the card. “For a very lovely and talented lady, Trevor.”

  Ew. She rolled her eyes and held the box at arm’s length. Should she even bother opening it, or just have them put it back in the “Trevor closet” with the other thousand or so boxes waiting their turn to be presented to other lovely and talented—blech—ladies?

  On the other hand, Tiffany was Tiffany, and this was May’s adventure, and Trevor deserved having the price of whatever was inside deducted from his sleazy bulging wallet.

  She pulled off the ribbon and opened the box, which contained a silver serpentine bangle. May slid the cool smooth metal over her wrist and laughed. Very fitting that the bracelet should evoke a snake. It was lovely, but…well, who cared?

  She put the bracelet back in the box and closed the lid, doubting she’d even be able to take it home with her. That kind of souvenir she didn’t want.

  Last night when she’d come back from Beck’s room—okay, floated back—and undressed, a rose petal had fallen out of her bra and drifted to the ground. She’d gathered it up and, fully recognizing that she was being a sentimental fool, pressed it between two tissues in the pages of the volume of erotica she found in a drawer. As far as she was concerned, that little petal was worth ten times whatever this bracelet cost, even though Beck had only been setting the scene for his novel, and the petal meant as much to him as the bracelet meant to Trevor.

  Except…Beck had come to her rescue in such a sweet way after that dismal start last night—how people ever got those giant rubber dicks inside them, she hadn’t a clue. And that sweet rescue had started May on a slippery slope to some gooey thinking that was way dangerous in this situation. In one corner, Big Famous Devastatingly Handsome Author researching a scene. And in the other? Rebounding Rita, ripe for falling for the first man who smiled at her.

  More than smiled. Said in that gentle deep voice that he wanted to see the real her. He could not have picked a more perfect thing to say to Ms. May Ellison. Even though she knew he was talking about sex, her traitorous Wisconsin May-bes had wasted no time jumping in for some fun. Maybe he really cared about her. Maybe he’d glimpsed her true self and wanted at it. Maybe he wouldn’t be bored or turned off by her as she really was. Maybe he had romance in the back of his mind, and not just commercial fiction.

  Sometimes she exasperated the hell out of herself.

  But his words had relaxed and emboldened her enough to do what three days ago she never would have imagined she’d be able to. Lose herself enough in front of a near-stranger to be able to bring herself off.

  She frowned and headed to the bathroom to brush her teeth. “Lose herself” wasn’t the right phrase. The entire time she’d been so aware of him, straining to hear sounds from his chair, wanting so much to sneak a peek. Was he watching? Turned-on? Or, God forbid, typing away, bored and yawning?

  In her closed-eyes fantasy, he was going wild for her. By the time she was close to coming, she’d been frantic for him to get up off the damn chair and make love to her—or hell, even screw her—until they went over the edge together.

  But of course, that was fantasy, and fantasies didn’t come true often. She had excited him enough to take care of himself, thank goodness. But he wasn’t after sex, let alone her hyperromantic vision of attraction leading to love, marriage, babies and fiftieth anniversary parties.

  So…how to explain that kiss?

  May raised her head and stared at her dreamy-eyed expression in the bathroom mirror, toothpaste foam ringing her lips, while thrills played tag all over her body.

  If men kissed women like that simply because they were grateful for help on their books, then she was able to turn dildos into pain au chocolat by winking at them.

  She spit out a mouthful of toothpaste. Whoa Nelly, them’s some dangerous thoughts there. Ginny, of course, had May and Beck halfway to being engaged already, and May hadn’t told her about the scene in the bedroom, and had played way down her reaction to the kiss. But even without Ginny’s help, she was poised, very un-Veronica-like, on the brink of serious infatuation. Even if there was the smallest germ of truth to her wishful thoughts, with only three full days of her stay left, including today, nothing could come of the attraction. There simply wasn’t time. Forget that the more she saw of him the more she wanted to have another week, or two, or three, to see what happened.

  What should she do? Pursue him? Back off? Wait until he made the next move? Ginny thought she should go all out, but Ginny was in it for the vicarious celebrity romance thrill and didn’t understand the danger May’s heart might be in.

  May sighed, wiped her mouth with a thick HUSH towel and tossed her toothbrush to rattle back into the glass. Who was she kidding? She was acting as if this could be a normal romance. Was she forgetting that he thought she was Veronica? That their little dalliance, however it turned out, belonged firmly in the fantasy thrill column?

  How about she stopped analyzing and worrying over every tiny little nuance of everything that happened to her and just live?

  Ya think, May?

  She showered, dressed in a blue-and-white short clingy sundress, put on light makeup and considered her options for the day’s activities.

  The city beckoned, wasn’t that what cities were supposed to do? As much as going out on her own made her nervous, she couldn’t stay inside the hotel the entire week. Even an amazing hotel like this one. She’d come all the way to New York, the city her mother had told her so much about; now that she wasn’t spending all day in bed with Trevor—and thank God for that—she should at least see some of it.

  At the room’s window, she pulled back the curtain. Gray clouds glided by overhead; down below wind swirled trash on the sidewalks and threatened pedestrian hairstyles. Not ideal weather to venture out in.

  But really, she couldn’t sit in the room all day. Especially because if she knew herself, she’d be brooding way worse than she had been already, secretly or not-so-secretly waiting and hoping for the phone to ring. At someone’s beck and call as it were. She’d done too many years of that with Dan. It was time to be her own woman, whoever that turned out to be today. May, Veronica, or some combination thereof. Dan was doing Charlene back home in Oshkosh, and May was here without him, ready to go.

  She added a light blue cotton sweater to the sundress and marched to the elevators, through the lobby—no signs of Eartha Kitty today—and out the door, held open for her by today’s supermodel-slash-doorman.

  The temperature was much hotter than seemed possible for a cloudy day, air heavy with coming rain; the wind blew unpleasantly warm and smelly, like a giant’s bad breath. Not a day for endless aimless wandering with no umbrella. But a brief stroll down Madison Avenue would be possible. Just to say she’d done it. She could explore farther this afternoon, or tomorrow. If she felt up to it.

  Half a block later, the oppressive air made the sweater unbearable and she took it off, nearly punching an old man in the process. How did anyone tolerate all these bodies wherever he or she went? Pushing past, hurrying, dodging; the crush made her even more breathless than the ninety-nine percent humidity.

  She waited at the corner of Madison and East 41st until the light changed, the giant’s bad breath threatening to blow her skirt up. One step into the street she had to jump back to avoid being run over by a taxi swinging around the corner, horn blaring, driver shouting something she doubted was a compliment.

  Lovely. Would she ever get the hang of this city? How had her mother tolerated it? What had appealed?

  A shop window caught her eye and drew her over as if the contents were magnetized. An art supply store. She hesitated only a second and went inside. A few minutes later, she emerged, unscathed, clutching a beautiful set of colored pencils and a lightweight collapsible easel, much nicer than the one she had at home.

  Well, that was cool. Maybe she just needed a positive experience like that to kick her in the right direction.

  Vastly cheered
and encouraged, she managed three steps north on Madison when the rain chose that precise moment to begin falling—no, pelting—in heavy drops that splattered the sidewalk with circles the size of quarters until no dry surface remained.

  May turned and ran for the safety of the HUSH lobby. She waited there a few minutes, air cold on her damp skin, watching the streaking rain, a lucky few pedestrians producing umbrellas or newspapers to hold over their heads.

  So much for her first wild woman exploration of the city. Eartha Kitty regarded her from a chair in the lobby with her usual contempt, and May had a fairly uncharacteristic desire to give sweet little pussums the finger.

  Back in the elevator, she contemplated the buttons, scowling. Back to her room? To do what, pace? Watch TV? After her brave decision to venture out, that seemed a horrible surrender.

  The elevator doors slid shut at the same time she saw the button for the roof garden and pressed it reflexively. There were bowers up there where she could sit protected from the rain and draw. And maybe Clarissa would be there; it would be nice to see a friendly face and have someone to chat with.

  On the roof level, she got off and pushed through the doors to find the freak shower had stopped. The sky was still gray, but the breeze was much cooler, and the fresh, earthy smells of a wet garden beckoned her out into it. Incredibly, a red-tailed hawk that had been sitting on the edge of the roof took off at her approach and flapped leisurely across the street to perch on the roof opposite.

  That was probably one of the last things she’d expect to see in the middle of any city, let alone one this size. She set up her easel and did several sketches from different angles. The first, of an espaliered apple tree, framed by the similar artifice of the buildings behind it. Second, of a fancy topiary contrasted with the natural fall of an overflowing box of nasturtiums.

  Finally, a sketch of the part of the garden the hawk had been in, a tub of blue spruce, a cedar, black-eyed Susans and daylilies, a tiny still-wet stone cherub with a tear-shaped mossy stain on his face, which reminded her of Leonardo, the whimsical stone turtle in her mom’s backyard. As a final touch, she drew in the hawk, still visible across the street, sketching him perched on the wrist of the stone child, as if they were lifelong friends.