by Anne Calhoun
“What was that?”
“I think he said it’s five hundred euros extra to retrieve phones from the canals,” Milla started, then her heart stopped when an email appeared in her VIP mailbox. She tapped the header, skimmed the email, then shot both hands overhead and let out a whoop that bounced off Venice’s grand buildings.
“Good news?”
“Expedia is offering to sponsor my next trip! They want to use my videos on their site, and I’ll be one of their official bloggers!”
“Brilliant!” Charlie said. “Well done, you!”
“Thanks,” she said with a delighted shudder. “I’ve got so much material. This is the start. I’m sure of it. I can do at least six videos on Istanbul alone, and—”
A text message appeared in her notifications. She tapped on that and expanded a picture of Kaitlin, Elsa, Jared and Billy all wearing the pub quiz T-shirts. The text read, Victory at last!!!!!!! Based on Jared’s possessive arm around Kaitlin’s shoulder, they were well on their way to more than a professional business relationship.
Charlie laughed. “Good for them,” he said.
“I’m almost happier for Kaitlin than I am for myself,” she said. “Sponsorships are great, sure, but winning that T-shirt? Awesome.”
He chuckled again.
“Are you sorry we’re not there?” she asked as she shut off her phone and slid it into her pocket.
Charlie waited until she’d snuggled herself into the pillows at his side, then tipped her chin up to give her a soft, lingering kiss. “Milla, I’m with you. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
* * * * *
To purchase and read more books by
Anne Calhoun, please visit Anne’s website here.
http://www.annecalhoun.com
Now Available from Carina Press
and Anne Calhoun
Can he prove to her that what they share
isn’t just great sex but an emotional connection
strong enough to last forever?
Read on for an excerpt from
BREATH ON EMBERS.
About the Author
After doing time at Fortune 500 companies on both coasts, Anne Calhoun traded business casual for yoga pants and started writing down the stories that got her through far too many tedious corporate meetings. Her first release, Liberating Lacey, won the 2010 EPIC Award for best Contemporary Erotic Romance. She holds a BA in English and history and an MA in American studies from Columbia University. Anne lives with her family in the Midwest.
Also by Anne Calhoun
Carina Press
Breath on Embers
Harlequin Spice Briefs
What She Needs
Under His Hand
Versed in Desire
Sexy, contemporary romance stories
for today’s fun, fearless women who know
what they want from their live,
their careers and their lovers!
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Chapter One
December 3rd
Christmas lights glinted on Thea Moretti’s black patent leather boots as she hurried along East Eighty-Sixth Street, across Park Avenue, heading for Madison. The night air held a damp chill that boded snow, and a few drops of borderline-freezing rain spattered her hair. She tightened the belt of her matching thigh-length trench coat and turned up her collar against the cold. If she stood perfectly still the coat and boots covered her from ears to toes, but based on the looks she’d gotten on the bus, any movement flashed a couple of inches of bare skin between the coat’s hem and the tops of her thigh-high boots.
Korn pounded her eardrums as she passed Demarchelier, crowded even on a Tuesday evening, and crossed Madison against the light when the uptown traffic broke. She ducked through The Croydon’s glass door as a man in a business suit exited and headed for Fifth Avenue. The doorman gave her a quick onceover.
“He expecting you?” She couldn’t hear him over the sounds of “Falling Away From Me” but she’d gotten really good at reading lips since she’d moved to New York nearly a year before.
He was Ronan O’Rourke, resident of apartment 9B, and the answer to that question was no.
“Don’t buzz him,” Thea said, keeping her own volume natural. “You’ve got your hands full.”
Rick, occupied with handing out packages to impatient residents while accepting a rack of dry-cleaning from a laundry and buzzing an apartment expecting a delivery of what smelled like Chinese food, took her at her word and gave her a grateful nod as he hit the security buzzer to open the second set of doors. Thea slipped through with the delivery man. The fury-filled music thundering against her eardrums contrasted starkly with the cream marble floor and potted ferns as she headed for the bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. She and the delivery man waited for a couple to exit the elevator, then rode as far as the fourth floor together. Thea trusted the aroma of Kung Pao chicken wouldn’t permeate her outerwear.
There wasn’t enough material under the trench coat to absorb the scent of Chinese food.
Apartment 9B was right off the elevator bank. Thea paused just outside the door and adjusted everything she wore, tugging down the coat’s hem, straightening the boot tops. She shook the few droplets of chilled rain from her hair and left the coat collar up, as a glance in the mirror opposite the elevator told her it added a sexy-spy overtone to the look.
Reluctantly she turned off her iPod, tugged the earbuds from her ears, and wrapped the cord around the device. Silence rang loud in her head until the canned laughter of a sitcom rerun rose and fell behind Ronan’s door. She slipped the iPod into her coat pocket with her MetroCard, then depressed the buzzer.
The deadbolt clicked, then the door opened. Ronan stood on the other side in his stocking feet, his blue eyes widening with surprise and a pleasure that made her heart jitter. He wore a dark blue uniform with the single silver bar of the FDNY’s Lieutenant insignia on the collar. The sleeves of a white thermal undershirt were pushed to his elbows.
“Hey, Thea,” he said. “Did Rick buzz? I didn’t hear it.”
His voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed with interest. In some distant part of her mind she noted the fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, a sign that his last stretch of duty at FDNY’s Battalion 10, Engine Company 22, hadn’t been uneventful.
So much the better. He needed this. She needed it, too. More than he knew.
The patent leather squeaked when she cocked her head and her hip; his gaze roamed from the top of her tousled hair to the tips of her shiny black boots, lingering on the way back up at the exposed skin peeking through the coat. The tops of her thighs. The hollow of her throat.
Her mouth, adorned in a matte red several shades darker than her natural lip color.
Jackpot.
Silence stretched for a moment as heat bloomed on his cheekbones and in his bright blue eyes. One dark brow lifted. He cleared his throat, then braced one broad shoulder against the doorframe and let his gaze roam her body once more.
“Can I help you with something?”
Excellent. Ronan had a quick eye and a sharp mind, two qualities that nicely iced the cake of his muscular firefighter’s body.
“Santa sent me to help you, sir,” she said, her voice provocative but low in deference to the building’s other residents. The words felt a little ridiculous. She was a systems architect, not a...
Not a what? Not a flirt? Not a sexpot? Not alive?
His gaze flicked to her mouth again. “With what?”
Holding his gaze with her own, she reached for the trench coat’s belt and unbuckled it, then slipped the shiny black buttons free. The coat gaped open to reveal a red velvet Santa’s helper outfit. White fur
trimmed the edge of the strapless bodice and the short skirt’s hem, dancing several inches above the tops of hooker boots straight out of Pretty Woman.
Subtlety wouldn’t hold back the emptiness. Filling the void required loud music and meaningless sex. “Anything you like,” she said.
He stepped to the side to let her in. As she swayed down the short hallway leading to the living area she let the trench coat drop from her shoulders to the floor, revealing the length of her spine in the backless dress. The heels, three inches higher than she normally wore, put a swing in her hips that set the red skirt in a perpetual motion guaranteed to draw a man’s eye.
One look over her shoulder and she knew she’d caught Ronan’s.
Based on the rustle of patent leather she knew he’d picked up her casually discarded coat and hung it on the rack beside his door. Ronan was terribly neat, a personal habit that came from living in close quarters with the other officers in his company during his duty shifts. Probie slobs quickly morphed into neat freaks, or risked the wrath of older, more senior members.
She stopped in the middle of his living room. When he joined her, she struck her best model pose, hands on hips. He crossed the parquet flooring to stand in front of her.
“I thought Santa only brought toys to good girls and boys.”
She put her fingertip to his lower lip, then trailed it over his chin to his pulse, thumping steadily at the base of his throat, then continued down his breastbone, across abdominal muscles as hard as his sternum to his belt buckle. “I told Santa you’ve been very, very good,” she said, toying with the buckle. Her fingertip almost grazed the bulge straining against his zipper, and his breathing halted for a second.
That slight break in his calm demeanor sent heat sparking along her nerves to settle low in her belly. Ronan was very, very good in bed, as self-possessed and controlled as he was out of it. That bottomless well of calm, both intense and remote, reassured her that despite nine months of hooking up, he was no more emotionally involved in this than she was.
She’d met him on St. Patrick’s Day, on her way back from yet another appointment with the therapist her family made her promise to see if she moved away from Columbus, Ohio, the only city she’d ever called home. The weather was warm for March, sunny and promising an early spring as she walked home up Second Avenue. The bars had thrown open their big windows and uniformed firefighters, EMTs and police officers spilled out onto the patios lining the streets. She would have ignored them all if a big blond, several Guinnesses to the wind at one in the afternoon, hadn’t treated her to a terrible come-on line as she crossed the avenue, but when she scanned the group it was black-haired, blue-eyed Ronan who sparked something deep inside. Standing in a cluster of rowdy uniforms, he was serene as opaque glass, but heat and promise rose from his body like mist from the lake on a cool morning.
Much as it did right now, standing in the middle of his living room.
“I’m not a boy,” Ronan said.
He didn’t argue whether he’d been good or bad. Ronan didn’t focus on good or bad. He focused on live or die, and she didn’t want to think about that. “Santa’s branching out,” she said somewhat desperately, then put weight behind the come-on by unbuckling his belt.
The backs of her fingers brushed his erection as she unfastened his uniform cargo pants, then tugged his uniform shirt and long underwear T-shirt free and drew them over his head. This was supposed to be a grown-up gift to him, but she treated herself to the sensation of his skin, taut and smooth over heavy muscle. She trailed the backs of her fingers over his pectorals, then down his abdominals.
Bone, muscle, skin. So alive, blood pumping through his veins as he watched her. Even without meeting his gaze, she felt the heat of his look on her exposed shoulders, the tops of her breasts. The connection thumped between them, would double in intensity if she made eye contact. Instead she dropped to her knees and slid her palms into the open waistband, tugging it down just enough to release his thick, heavy shaft. Without saying a word he eased onto the broad, round arm of his leather sofa, then found the remote and clicked the television off.
Silence once again rang in her ears and she wished for the distancing effect of the television. Instead, she gripped the base of his shaft and pulled it down to her mouth, then swirled her tongue around the head. At first contact his defined abdominals flinched, and his breathing stuttered accordingly. The nuances of sex filled the void with heat and simple erotic longing. Back on familiar territory, she closed her red lips around the tip and flicked a glance at him through her lashes. Eyelids drooping with lust, his mouth somehow looked both soft and mean as he watched her. Emboldened, she set a torrid pace, wetting the shaft with her saliva as she went down until her lips met her fist, then drew back up. Spit slicked her grip as she continued, the sound flicking against her eardrums with each hot suck.
His hand lifted to her cheek, then the fingers from his other hand tangled in her hair, pulling her back with a none-too-gentle tug. Her mouth was open as he slipped his thumb in to rub the edges of her teeth before his fingers tightened on the back of her head, pulling her forward and guiding his cock back into her mouth.
Heat seeped along her nerves to pool in her cunt. Her knees shifted apart, the patent leather squeaking on the hardwood as she undulated with longing. The scent of skin and musk drifted into her nostrils. A low groan echoed in her ears, the sound of Ronan’s control fraying. His fist tightened in her hair, the fingers on her jaw tightening even as his hips lifted, forcing his cock to the back of her throat. He was one, perhaps two sultry sucks away from coming when the fist in her hair tugged her head back and again made her meet his electric blue eyes. Hot, male desire etched his face, and his cock throbbed in her hand. A pearly drop formed at the tip. His muffled curse when she bent forward to lick it off made the sting in her scalp worthwhile.
“A blow job’s not enough?” she asked.
He crouched just enough to wrap one brawny arm around her waist and hoist her right off the floor, then turned for his bedroom. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks,” he said.
“I wanted to give you something,” she protested.
“And now I want to give you something.” He backed her into the wall and pinned her with hips and shoulders, the arm around her waist slipping under her ass to hold her at the right level. He kissed her, his mouth hot and possessive, demanding her full, undivided attention. She struggled, because this was supposed to be about sex, not about them. But she didn’t last long, and when surrender shuddered through her muscles, softening her against him, he added, “Since I’m bigger and stronger, you’re going to take it.”
He kissed her, his tongue delving into her mouth while his hands remained still, until demand knotted tightly in her nipples and pussy and she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. The noise in her head cracked under her frantic pulse, the squeak of her boots, and breath warring with kiss.
One arm still under her ass, he stepped away from the wall and found the short zipper at the small of her back. With one jerk the teeth separated enough for her bodice to gap away from her breasts. He turned to the bed and bore her down onto the spread. Braced on one elbow, he tugged the molded cups down, exposing her breasts.
She shimmied in an effort to get the silly dress over her hips and off, but he leaned into her, stilling her movements. “Keep it on,” he said as his gaze roamed from breasts to bared thighs then to her face. “It’s hot. Very hot.”
Masculine appreciation edged out the exhaustion in his eyes. He cupped one breast, plumping it while running his thumb back and forth across her nipple until her eyes closed, then applying his tongue to the tip, then the edge of his teeth as her need for sensation grew. Her breasts grew heavy and tight as he worked them over. When her nails dug demandingly into his shoulders and she arched against the hip and thigh pressing against her mound, he chuckled and shifted down. She went up on her elbows and watched him use his jaw to nudge red velvet and
white fur to her hips, a day’s worth of scruff scraping enticingly against sensitive skin. Black hair, wicked blue eyes, full mouth surrounded by sexy stubble...the combination of sight and sensation made her drop back against the bedspread.
When he paused, she gave an internal groan. The plan was to give him a sexy Santa’s helper blow job and then leave, erecting a barrier against the upcoming season. The coat and skirt were short enough that she’d worn rather demure black hipster briefs, not the thong or cheeky panties typically adorning her ass for an evening with Ronan. But then he settled his open mouth over her mound and exhaled gently. Moist heat pressed against her clit, sending sparks flickering along nerves to her fingertips and toes. She braced her feet and undulated under him, but realized she’d planted her sidewalk-dirty boots on his bedspread and shifted to take them off.
“Leave them,” he said again as he slid his palms under her ass to pull her underwear down. “The boots, the dress...leave the whole fucking outfit on.”
Her panties snared around one ankle when he used his broad shoulders to open her and spread her wide for his mouth. His tongue delved into her juicy folds, slowly circling her clit as his strong fingers found her nipples. She writhed and gasped, got a handful of his thick hair and yanked as tension fisted tight, drawing her in on herself, then he catapulted her into a breathless, sobbing orgasm, and blessed oblivion.
That wasn’t what she came here to do, but oh God, it felt good, filling the void inside with a dark heat she couldn’t resist, or deny.
Ronan straddled her torso, jostling her back into the moment. “Still feeling helpful?” he asked. When she nodded, he dropped a condom in her palm.
She gripped his shaft in one hand for a couple of slow, hard strokes. When his breath hissed between his teeth, she tore open the wrapper, paused to give a sweet kiss to the tip of his cock, then less-subtle licks in time to her stroking hand.
“Jesus, Thea. Do it.”
