by Anna Durand
"What happened to her? She turn you down?"
He must've recognized the teasing tone of my voice, because his lips twitched upward at the corners, but only for a second. "Once I saw you, I lost interest in every other woman."
"Mm, I get it." Spearing a bite of pancake, I pointed at him with my fork. "You've got a fetish for geeks wearing ComicCon T-shirts and worn jeans, and who haven't showered or brushed their hair."
Hadn't brushed my teeth either, or shaved my legs, or put on makeup. While waiting for our breakfast to arrive, I'd taken a shower, shaved, detangled, and brushed both teeth and hair. Rory had called someone—a concierge, I guessed—and asked for "toiletries for a woman," which turned out to include everything I needed.
"I have a fetish for beautiful women with stunning smiles and even more stunning eyes." He swept his gaze over my body, his eyes alight with sizzling interest. "And a breathtaking body I couldnae wait to plunder."
"Plunder? You sound like a pirate." Though I joked with him, and I did find his language peculiar at times, I couldn't deny the response from my body. It softened and warmed at his compliments, and from the desire evident on his face. "Seriously, why pick me? You could've hooked up with any one of the hot little numbers strutting their stuff in that bar. I'm confused about why you'd pick me, the girl who'd just stumbled off an airliner. I hadn't even shaved my stubbly legs."
Why oh why did I tell him that? In his presence, I lost the ability to filter my thoughts before blurting them out.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Your legs seemed fine to me, when I was fondling you from head to toe."
Oh, I remembered that with vivid detail. His hands, everywhere, mapping out my body with delicate, sensuous movements. And he hadn't noticed the light stubble on my legs? Sure, I'd shaved yesterday but—Stop obsessing, woman, that's an order.
I gave up on worrying about his opinion of my girlie grooming, or lack thereof, since he didn't seem to give a hoot.
Rory began to eat the plate of pancakes balanced atop his thigh. With the precision and efficiency of a surgeon, he cut the short stack into square pieces of equal size, stacked them on one side of the plate, and poured a small puddle of syrup onto the other side of the plate. After that, he proceeded to consume the meal one bite at a time, dipping each piece into the syrup without dripping any of it. He tapped his fork on the plate to make sure no excess syrup clung to the bite, then he slid the fork into his mouth and withdrew it, empty, without getting one tiny speck of gooey liquid on his lips.
Watching him distracted me from all other thoughts, because I'd never seen anyone eat that way. I pulled out my phone to snap a picture of him.
He noticed, his mouth warping. "Are you taking my picture?"
"Uh-huh. Gotta document this. Never seen anybody eat the way you do." I peeked over the screen at him. "Do you mind?"
"Do what you want."
I took the picture. "You're very photogenic."
He grunted.
Once I finished my breakfast, I settled in to watch him. After a couple minutes, when he'd taken his fourth bite of food, I said, "You're fanatical about not getting even one molecule of food on your spiffy clothes, aren't you?"
"Messes are unpleasant," he said. "Though not to you, clearly."
"Are you implying I'm a slob?"
"Not at all. I admire your enthusiasm."
"Thank you." I scuttled across the sofa on my butt until my knees nudged his leg. "I admire your efficiency, the way you eat with surgical precision. It's so cute." Though he opened his mouth, I didn't give him a chance to balk. "But you're kind of missing the point of eating pancakes."
"Am I?" He slid another mouthful between his lips.
"Definitely. If you don't spill any syrup on yourself, how can I lick it off?"
He froze with the fork lifted to his lips, a pancake square pierced by its tines, his unblinking gaze on me. "What?"
"Let me show you."
I plucked the fork from his fingers and dunked the pancake piece into the syrup. Heedless of the sticky liquid threatening to dribble off the fork, I raised it to his mouth and skimmed the drenched bite of food across his lips to glaze them with sugary goodness. A drop of syrup rolled off the fork onto his chin. I held the fork out to the side and sloped toward him.
He kept so still I wondered if he'd stopped breathing.
I thrust my tongue out to rake it over his lips and then drag it down to lap up the syrup on his chin.
Rory stared at me, eyes wide.
I licked away the last iota of syrup. Leaning back, I raised the loaded fork to his mouth. "Eat up, Rory. You'll need lots of carbs to keep up with me today."
He stared at me some more, his breaths growing heavy.
I waggled the fork. "Don't you want another bite of soft, succulent flesh drenched with liquid?"
From the way his pupils dilated, I knew he'd understood my double entendre. My thoughts flashed back to last night, when he'd plunged into my soft, succulent, drenched flesh. I'd burned for him to taste me, but he never had. Now, he looked like a man desperate to lunge his head between my thighs and devour me.
My clit pulsed at the mere idea of it.
Rory lunged his head forward, but not to devour me. He opened his mouth and enclosed the entire pancake square and all the fork tines, sealing his lips around them. I pulled the fork away, leaving the food in his mouth. He chewed with the fervor of a man starved for days.
He swallowed—without completely chewing up his food, it seemed—and all but tossed his plate onto the coffee table. It smacked down, the perfect squares of pancake jiggling. He slung an arm around my waist, stunning a gasp from me, and silenced my startled exhalation with his mouth. Those lips, sticky and faintly sweet from the syrup, fitted to mine and I surrendered to the pleasure of his tongue forging deep into my mouth. I moaned, going limp against him, answering every lash of his tongue with my own, even as my hands rose to bracket his face and my breasts mounded against his chest.
His hands whisked down my to ass and wrenched me closer.
My ears rang from lack of oxygen, what with him consuming me this way, stealing my breath and scattering my thoughts. I swung a leg out, excited by his groping hands as they guided me onto his lap. Straddling him, our mouths still joined, I crushed my body against his and moaned again at the sensations of his hardening erection between my legs, my breasts mashed against his muscles, and the firmness of his thighs beneath me. His fingers kneaded my ass, their tips plunging between my cheeks with each inward thrust.
On instinct, I tipped my hips up so his fingers dived down to graze my sex through my jeans.
Rory grasped my upper arms and pushed me away.
Panting, hot all over and half off his lap, I gaped at him. "Why'd you stop?"
He hooked a finger under my chin. "Didnae want to."
"Then why? It was just getting good."
"Aye, it was." He rested his hands on my hips. "Losing control is not my strong suit."
"On the contrary, you excel at shedding your inhibitions."
He ran a hand over his jaw, switching his attention to a far corner of the room. "I don't normally behave like a randy virgin." One corner of his mouth twisted downward. "Until last night. Twice I've lost control with you, and twice I…didnae want to stop."
"Why did you stop? If you liked it."
"Told ye. Cannae abide a loss of control." With an ease that delighted a secret part of me, he took hold of my waist and hoisted me off his lap to set me down beside him. He glanced at my ComicCon T-shirt. "We should get you to your hotel. You must want a change of clothes."
Change of underwear, for sure. "Yeah, I would."
With a solitary finger, he traced the outline of the ComicCon logo on my shirt.
Earlier, after he ordered our breakfast, I'd attempted to explain ComicCon to him. First, Rory had tried to define it himself.
Brows furrowed, he'd asked, "Is it a gathering of comedians?"
"Not that kind of comic." I
'd wandered to the pool table, running my fingers over the felt surface. "It's started out as a convention for fans of comic books, but these days it includes various kinds of popular culture not directly related to comics. Sci-fi and fantasy are popular topics. And there's a cool contest for masquerade costumes."
Rory's lip curled, even as he continued to appear baffled. "Costumes. I cannae fathom why grown men and women want to dress up in silly outfits."
I smiled. "Everybody could use a bit of silly in their life."
He pulled a face, then straightened as if a steel rod had been shoved up his spine. "Do you wear costumes?"
"On Halloween and at ComicCon, yes." I sighed wistfully, recalling my last Halloween costume. "At the office party, my co-workers gave me a rinky-dink certificate declaring my costume the sexiest and skimpiest of all."
"Sexy and skimpy?" His voice had gone husky, full of unrequited thirst.
"Absolutely. Halloween is my favorite holiday, because dressing up is so much fun." I stroked my fingers over the crimson felt, imagining I was caressing him. "If you're super nice to me, I might show you photos of my costumes."
He gulped, his Adam's apple bouncing. "You place a high value on fun, don't you?"
"Sure do." I grabbed the eight ball, rolling it between my palms as I leaned a hip against the table. "I'm getting the impression you don't."
"It's a waste of time."
Wow, that had to be the saddest thing I'd ever heard. Or at least in the top ten.
I touched the eight ball to my cheek, its smooth surface cool on my skin. "What's your favorite thing to do? Favorite in the whole wide world?"
"Work."
My jaw must've dropped, because a sudden breeze rushed in to chill my teeth. "You've got to be kidding."
"No." His mouth slid into a suggestive smirk. "Fucking is a close second."
"Only second?" I placed the eight ball on the table. "Seems to me that ought to be first on your list. I mean, you were so into it last night."
"Yes, but work is my passion."
Beg to differ, Mr. MacTaggart. I'd experienced his passion at length, and it had nothing to do with earning a living.
"That is so sad," I told him, and flicked my finger to set the eight ball rolling across the felt. "Why are you in New Orleans? Business?"
"I'm visiting an American friend who's in the same line of work."
"Which is?"
He coughed and glanced out the windows at the view of Bourbon Street below. When he returned his gaze to me, he conspicuously evaded my question. "Why are you in New Orleans? For fun?"
"Naturally." I sashayed up to him, so close I had to bend my head back to behold his eyes. "I got enough work at work. This is a vacation. According to everyone but you, vacation is defined as traveling with no useful purpose, solely to have a good time."
"I see." He tapped a fingertip on my lips. "How long are you here?"
"Leaving on the red-eye tomorrow night."
"Then I have two days with you." He touched his puckered his lips to mine, the kiss chaste and tender. "Two days to plumb the depths of the mystery that is Emery Granger."
So, I mystified him as much as he mystified me. Mutual mystery-plumbing sounded like a spectacular way to spend my two days and one more night in New Orleans, a city as exotic and captivating as the Scotsman hovering inches away from me.
"Plumb away," I said in the sultriest voice I could muster.
He leaned in as if to kiss me, but only teased my lips with his breath. "I look forward to it."
Back in the here and now, Rory unfolded his brawny yet lithe body from the sofa and offered me his hand. "To your hotel."
"Um, it's more of a hostel than a hotel." I accepted his help in getting up off the sofa. "Nowhere near as swanky as this pad."
He shrugged. "Money isn't important."
"Says the guy who probably has his own private Fort Knox."
He pressed his lips together and hissed a breath out his nostrils. "I need a change of clothes before we leave."
"Yeah, you're not really dressed for a freewheeling day of sightseeing. Of course, a billionaire can get away with wearing anything, I guess."
"I'm not a billionaire." He moseyed toward the bedroom door. "Only a millionaire several times over."
I tried to speak but eked out nothing more than a croak.
He disappeared into the bedroom.
Last night, I'd slept with a multimillionaire. The thought kept me glued to the spot where he'd deposited me after lifting me off the sofa.
Rory emerged from the bedroom several minutes later wearing deep-blue jeans that sported sharp creases indicative of a professional pressing and a champagne-colored T-shirt that complemented his eyes. The clothing clung to his taut body, accentuating the lines of every muscle.
He cocked his head at me. "Are you ready?"
I nodded, unable to speak. Not only was he rich, but he always looked good enough to lick, nibble, and pet for hours and hours.
Rory clasped my hand and led me out of the suite. As we strolled into the elevator, he bent his head to whisper in my ear. "I'm yours for the weekend. What will you do with me?"
My brain revved up at last, and I smiled. "Show you how to loosen up and have fun."
"An impossible task. I dislike what most people consider to be fun."
"Lucky for you, I like a challenge."
Chapter Six
Spending the day with a man I'd met last night, a man from another country who prized control and order above all else, proved an unusual experience. Not bad. Just unusual. Rory had at least two, possibly three, distinct facets to his personality. Though they intersected, one took precedence at any given time—though not always the same one. Last night, I'd gone to bed with the irresistible Scot who refused to tell me his name, a master at pleasuring a woman. This morning, I'd met what seemed like the dominant side of his personality, the regular guy who'd forgotten how to relax and enjoy life.
I'd also glimpsed another side of him, the serious and laser-focused multimillionaire. With only a glimpse of that man to go by, I couldn't quite figure him out. My paranoid side wondered why he wouldn't tell me what he did for a living, even after asserting work was his number-one passion in life. As for the seductive side of him, I understood what that part of Rory wanted. Uncomplicated sex, over in less than a night.
Except he'd stuck around this time, with me.
Which led me back to regular Rory, the most fundamental part of him. That guy had no clue why he'd come back to the hotel room hoping to see me again. He also couldn't comprehend the real me. Emery the silly. Emery the slightly crazy. Emery who mystified a big, hunky Scot.
Did I really want to get tangled up with a guy this complicated?
No tangling going on here, no way. I would fly home tomorrow night and never see this man again. Sightseeing was more fun with a friend. Nothing else going on here, just a little companionship for the weekend.
Our visit to my "hotel" stretched Rory's slender adventurous streak to the point of snapping. The Quisby was an offbeat hostel that occupied a historic building with the original Audubon Hotel sign on its front. Rory developed a semi-permanent crease between his brows, right over his nose, when I took him to the room I shared with three other women, a room equipped with two bunk beds.
When I told him two of my roommates were called Stevie and Ronnie, his jaw went slack. "You share a room with men?"
I shook my head, struggling not to laugh. "Chill out. This is a girls-only dorm. Besides, I'm not into orgies."
Though he seemed relieved, he resorted to pacing the length of the room while I retreated into the bathroom to swap out my clothes. I returned a few minutes later to find Rory examining the room from his position near the door, his hands linked behind his back. His expression brightened from uncomfortable to interested. Very interested.
I raised my arms and twirled for him. "Like my duds?"
"Aye," he said, his voice deep and decadently sensual. He strode
toward me, his long legs spanning the distance in two steps. "I like it very much."
Figured he would. My denim shorts exposed most of my legs, and the neon-pink T-shirt I'd selected featured short sleeves and a low neckline. An image of brightly colored flowers sprayed across the shirt's front. Sneakers and pink ankle socks completed the ensemble. I'd pulled my hair back in a ponytail, secured with—what else—a pink scrunchy.
Rory glided the back of one finger up my arm, from my wrist to my shoulder, where the extra-short sleeve of my T-shirt ended. "I liked the ComicCon shirt, but this one suits you better. It's full of color and life, like you."
A rush of warmth weakened my knees, and all I could think of was how desperately I wanted him to take me. Right here, right now. On the bunk bed.
He wouldn't have fit on the bunk bed, though.
Rory hooked a finger inside the neckline of my shirt and peered down into the space between my breasts. "No cash?"
I held up my pink clutch. "Got a purse today."
"Ah." He traced my neckline with the tip of his finger. "Stay with me tonight. You'll have more room and privacy."
"I don't know." Yes, oh God yes, I'd love it, my body screamed. He didn't seem to notice the outburst from my raging hormones.
"Please. I have no expectations, for sex or anything else." He cleared his throat. "I would very much like to have another night with you."
"I'll consider it."
He linked his hands behind his back again and nodded. "Good."
Five minutes later, we climbed inside his luxury rental car. Rory navigated the sedan down the streets of NOLA with same focus and precision he'd applied to eating pancakes. We'd rounded one corner when I piped up with the answer I'd known all along, though my stubborn streak had kept me from saying so.
"Yes," I said, "I'd love to stay with you tonight."
His lips peeled back from his teeth, but he squelched his grin before it had a chance to take hold. Composure reasserted, he spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'm sure you'll be more comfortable at the Ritz-Carlton."
I hadn't missed his almost grin, or the exultation it implied. The goofy, girlie part of me loved knowing he wanted me around so much the desire threatened his cherished self-control.
