Strokes of Midnight

by Tarr, Hope

  Swiping the back of his hand across his eyes, he said, “That’s quite a vivid imagination you’ve got. You ever do any writing?”

  Becky hesitated. Biting her bottom lip, she wondered how many more lies she’d be telling before the night was over. “Some.”

  Their drinks arrived, saving her from having to say more. Max lifted his glass of Macallan Scotch. “To those fresh starts and dazzling opportunities your horoscope predicted.”

  Becky had only mentioned her horoscope in passing. She touched her glass to his, surprised and pleased he’d apparently paid such close attention during their short sidewalk conversation. “I have a feeling this may be my year after all.”

  The evening flew by. Max quickly showed himself to be charming, courteous and funny, as well as amazingly well-traveled. Other than the bartender, soon they were the only two people left in the bar, but Becky was beginning to feel as though they were the only two people in the world. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so comfortable with a man—or so incredibly turned-on. She was starting to regret not giving him her real name. Once again she’d been a coward and played it safe.

  “Travel has always been a passion of mine,” Max was saying. “I’ve been to thirty countries in all, but Australia and New Zealand are the ones I keep going back to.” He opened his mouth as if to say more but instead reached for a pita triangle from the hummus platter, one of several appetizers he’d ordered for them to share.

  Becky held in a sigh. Angelina’s globetrotting had grown out of her creator’s frustrated travel bug. Growing up, she had dreamed of traveling the world, but an annual beach trip to Ocean City, Maryland, was about as far afield as her family ventured. Come to think of it, that probably explained why she’d started out writing historical romances set in England. Once she’d made the career switch to contemporary books, she’d gotten her Anglophile fix by making Angelina a Brit. In real life, though, her international travels were limited to a few trips to Canada. She wasn’t sure why but the older she got, the easier it was to get stuck in place. Whether it was bills to be paid or a sick parent who needed her or back-to-back book deadlines, there was always some obstacle to breaking away. Part of the fallout from the bad lunchtime news was she’d be tabling any vacation plans yet again.

  “Do you travel a lot for work?” she asked. As a program consultant, her trips to evaluate federally funded literacy projects had all been domestic and largely limited to the west and midwest. Paris, Texas, was a far cultural cry from its namesake city.

  He hesitated and she wondered if she hadn’t overstepped her bounds. Stranger sex relied on knowing nothing or next to nothing about the other person.

  Reaching for his drink, he answered, “I’m a travel writer.”

  A writer! No wonder they’d seemed to have so much in common. Talk about a coincidence-packed day, not to mention a small world. Then again they were in Manhattan, the publishing epicenter of the U.S., perhaps the world.

  “What do you do?” he asked.

  Taken off guard—so few men thought to ask a woman about her career—she almost blurted out she was a writer, too but caught herself in time. This was her chance to escape being Becky for one night. She wasn’t ashamed of writing romance fiction by any means, but she also wasn’t up for mounting a defense of the genre—or getting into a discussion of such libido-busting subjects as declining book sales and competing entertainment markets.

  “I’m a program consultant.”

  Not really a lie. That had been her day job until a year ago. As the middle kid in a blue-collar family, she’d felt an obligation to get a degree in a field that was practical rather than creative. Her bachelor’s in sociology and her master’s in statistics had put her in line for any number of decent-paying if boring government positions. Though she’d been good at her job, that was one shoe that had never really fit.

  He tossed back the last sip of Scotch and set the glass aside. “That sounds interesting. What kind of programs do you consult on?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, it’s boring. I’d much rather hear about what it’s like to be a writer. I’ll bet anything you’re in town for meetings with your editor or agent.”

  He smiled but this time the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Actually I had meetings with them both.” Judging from the frown furrowing his forehead, neither meeting had gone particularly well. “I head home tomorrow morning.”

  He was leaving in the morning. How great was this! Talk about a made-to-order one-night stand.

  “What about you?” The smile he shot her was so blindingly sexy she almost slipped off the stool for her second tumble of the day.

  Becky decided there was no harm in telling him her general geographic location. Washington was almost as easy to get lost in as New York. “I live in Washington—the city, not the state. I’m leaving tomorrow, too.”

  She caught him staring at her hand, which she’d apparently been waving like a flag, and folded it over the other one in her lap. “They’re plain, I know.”

  As much as she loved to shop until she dropped, she’d never gotten into manicures. Clear nail polish was about as wild and crazy as she got.

  Beneath the bar, his fingers closed around hers. “They’re beautiful, subtly elegant just like the rest of you.”

  He lifted her right hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the palm. Becky drew in a breath, the feel of Max’s lips sending ripples of heat running through her. Talk about romantic! She’d always had a thing for men’s hands, but she’d never thought of her own as an erogenous zone. Boy, had she been wrong!

  Above them on the wall-mounted flat-screen TV, the Times Square countdown to the new year began. “Ten, nine, eight…”

  The bartender sidled up and slid two glasses of complimentary champagne and noise makers toward them.

  “…Seven, six, five, four…”

  Becky turned to Max. Gaze going to his sexy mouth, she acknowledged that her New Year’s Eve curse had been broken in a big, big way.

  “Three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

  Becky couldn’t say who was the first to reach out, but the next thing she knew she and Max were locked in each other’s arms, mouths crushed together and tongues twining, his fingers threading through her hair.

  The blare of a noise blower had them pulling apart. The bartender drew the paper horn from his smirking lips. “It’s last call. We’re closing early due to renovations. Can I get you anything else?”

  Stroking his thumb over the sensitive spot inside Becky’s thumb, blood-warmed like the rest of her, Max glanced at her half-finished drink. “Would you like anything else?”

  Feeling heat pooling into her panties, Becky shook her head. “Nothing more for me, thanks.” At least there was nothing more she wanted from the bar. She hadn’t finished her second Flirtini or touched her free champagne. If she was going to have sex with Max, she wanted to remember it.

  He turned back to the bartender. “Just the check, thanks.”

  She pulled her hand away to reach for her purse. New Year’s Eve or not, she didn’t want him to think she was the type of woman who hooked up with men for free drinks.

  Max’s hand settled atop hers. “You’re my guest.” Before she could protest, he leaned over and brushed his mouth over hers, a soft, sweet caress that stole her words and her breath. Pulling back, he smiled over at her. “I’m old school when it comes to who pays.”

  Becky ran her tongue along her bottom lip, savoring the faint, buttery taste of the Scotch he’d drunk. “Old school is okay…if you’re sure.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” he said, and Becky didn’t think he was talking about the bill.

  The check came. Max added the gratuity and signed the slip. The tip must have been generous even by Manhattan standards because when the bartender looked up, he was smiling for the first time that night.

  “Appreciate it. You have a good night.” He glanced to Becky and then Max. “Feel free to hang out as long as you
want.” He backed away and disappeared through a side door that probably led to a stockroom or outside exit.

  Max smiled over at Becky. “Do you realize we’ve been talking for more than three hours?”

  She hadn’t realized that, but then, ever since Max had sat down beside her, she hadn’t been aware of anything beyond him, including the time. “Three hours might as well be three minutes when I’m with you. I don’t want the night to end.”

  God, had she really just said that? For a split second she thought Angelina had taken control of her voice, but no, not only the voice but the sentiment came from her, albeit a brazen side of her nature she’d never dared reveal beyond her books.

  His blue eyes melting into her brown ones, he admitted, “I don’t want it to, either. Maybe it doesn’t have to. I know we just met, but I very much want to make love to you. Would that be okay?”

  Taking her cue from the ever-seductive, ultra-self-confident Angelina, she leaned in, close enough that a tendril of her hair brushed his cheek. “I think that would be better than okay. I think that would be pretty great, in fact.”

  He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that sexy way she was coming to love. “Good, that’s settled then.” He dropped his gaze and traced the edge of her dress’s deep V neckline with a single finger. “That’s a really nice dress, by the way.”

  Beneath her bra, her breasts felt heavy and hypersensitive. “I’m, uh…glad you like it.”

  His voice dropped to a sexy soft whisper. “Oh, I like it all right. I like it a lot.” Below the bar, his other hand settled on her knee and then slid slowly up, stopping at her thigh. His eyes widened and his smile warmed. “Are you wearing…garters?”

  “Uh-huh.” She’d packed the wicked underwear along with the dress without really knowing why. Basking in the glow of Max’s warm-eyed admiration, she was so very glad she had.

  “Thought so.” His fingers played with the lacey strip, circling and then sliding beneath, sending hot chills racing along her spine—and a wet warmth soaking into her thong panties.

  The main house lights dimmed, shrouding them in semidarkness. Becky opened her legs wider and leaned into Max’s heat. If someone were to walk in from the lounge, his back would shield her from obvious view. Still, being touched in such an intimate way in such a public place was just the sort of wickedly erotic scenario she wouldn’t think twice about writing for Angelina but would never have imagined in a million years for herself.

  Max pushed back from the bar and stood. Voice husky, he laid warm hands on her waist. “Let me take you someplace, okay?”

  Becky couldn’t manage more than a mute nod. She had no more need for words, written or spoken. She didn’t bother to ask where they were going. So long as she was with Max, he could have shot them both to the moon for all she cared.

  When he lifted her, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to wrap her arms around his neck—and her legs around his waist. He carried her through the empty lounge and over to the baby grand concealed behind the decorative metal screen. Kicking the bench aside, he sat her down atop the piano’s cool, glossy hood.

  “Beautiful, so beautiful.” For a handful of moments, he stood looking at her. Then he stepped between her parted legs and bent his head to brush kisses over the bruise on the outside of her knee.

  Bracing herself on her palms, Becky forgot about her sore bottom and her former adherence to the Three-Date Rule. Instead she leaned back and let the heat of the man and the moment wash over her like a warm, sexy wave.

  Max’s hands were on her thighs, pushing her dress up and out of the way. He lifted his head and looked up at her with reverent eyes. “God, you’re drenched.”

  “I know.” She reached a hand to his handsome face, her fingertips trailing his gold-dusted jaw.

  He grimaced. “I guess I should have shaved.”

  Tenderness welled up inside her. She shook her head, savoring the slightly sandpapery feel of him. “You’re perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  And he was perfect. More than perfect, he was a dream come true. Earlier that day on the street he’d shown her how kind he was, how caring. They’d been strangers then. They were scarcely more than strangers now, and yet in the past few hours she’d felt closer to him, more connected, than she had to her ex after months of dating.

  And then there was the whole chemistry thing, which there was no point in fighting, had she been so inclined. Everything about him, absolutely everything, she found endlessly appealing, mind-numbingly sexy. Even his New England accent and the way he had of pronouncing certain words, truncating certain syllables and doing funny things with his r’s, brought her close to coming.

  He turned his face to the side and captured the inside of her wrist in a kiss. “You’re the one who’s perfect. You’re just like I imagined you in my fantasy only even more beautiful.”

  It was true. Her sexy mouth was bee-stung from his kisses, her smooth cheeks pink from the brush of his beard, and her shapely legs were spread wide, hips lifting as if begging for the touch of his hand.

  “You fantasized about me?” She lifted her head to look at him, brown eyes melting over him like liquid caramel.

  He nodded. “I did.”

  His sexy Cinderella must be packing some kind of fairy-dust mojo because he couldn’t remember ever being so completely turned-on by a woman, God help him, not even his wife. Until now he’d thought raw animal lust was reserved for men like his character, Drake, not writers with archeology degrees and bifocal reading glasses, but whatever “it” was, this woman, Rose, definitely brought it out in him.

  He bent and kissed the inside of each smooth thigh, then pushed the slender strip of lace panty aside and spread her between his fingers. Dewy wetness coated her nether lips, her rose-petal-pink clitoris standing out from its hood as if begging for his tongue’s attention. A younger man might have taken those signs as a green light to unzip his pants and dive in. He doubted she would complain let alone ask him to stop. He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said she was drenched. More than drenched, she was dripping, more than ready to take him as deeply as he could go. But there was something to be said for the thrill of anticipation and the richer reward of pleasure prolonged. Though he knew next to nothing about her, he knew she deserved to be savored like a fine wine or better yet, a single malt Scotch, the subtle flavors of butter and oak not something you swilled but rather sat with awhile, rolling on your tongue, teasing out the subtle flavors.

  He sank a finger all the way inside her. Crooking it gently, he knew the moment when he found the supersensitive spot.

  Thighs quivering, Rose moaned and slid urgent fingers into his hair. She bucked her hips and tossed back her head of shiny curls and grabbed for his wrist, pressing him closer.

  Harder and hotter and thicker than he’d ever been before, he edged his gaze upward, drinking in the stark beauty of her flushed face. “Easy, baby, I’ll get you there.”

  Keeping his finger inside her, he slid his free arm beneath her hips and lifted her to his mouth. He nuzzled the nest of crisp curls, the scent of rosemary mint soap mingling with her own tangy musk. Moving lower, he stroked his tongue along her slit, and her cream spurted into his mouth.

  She bucked beneath him, her voice coming out as a raspy moan. “Oh, God, oh, Max, I’m so close. Please don’t stop.”

  “I’m not stopping, sweetheart. I could do this all night. You taste…amazing.”

  Writer though he was, he was at a loss for words beyond that. She did taste amazing, musky and salty and absolutely, indescribably delicious. He couldn’t imagine ever getting enough of laving and licking and suckling her. It was only his mounting sense of urgency that prompted him to hurry. Though he’d yet to unzip his jeans, he knew his balls were drawn up tight and aching, his cock harder and heavier than he could ever remember it being. Like standing on the edge of a demolition site waiting for the hard-wired building to implode, it was only a matter of time. He circled her clit with
the point of his tongue, a slow, thorough sweep, and seconds later she came apart in his arms.

  Drinking in her orgasm, Max looked up into her wild eyes and moist mouth and felt a trickle of come slide down the side of his cock. “I need to get us out of here and up to my room. You’ll come back with me, won’t you?” he asked, not sure what he’d do if she were to change her mind now.

  Lifting herself up on her elbows, she swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, Max, I’ll come with you. I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

  Chapter 5

  Inside his room Drake watched the beautiful Brit lift one red high-heeled foot and kick aside the dress at her feet. Covered only in black garters, silk stockings and the silky curtain of her hair, she strode toward him, green eyes holding his in the semidarkness. Since his wife’s death the year before, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to make love to another woman, but that was about to change.

  She drew up an arm’s length away from him, a deliberate tease. “Tell me how much you want me. Before we go any further. I want to hear every naughty bit.”

  Drake was in no mood for games. He closed the gap between them, his arms going roughly about her, his fingers sinking into her tender white flesh.

  He slid one callused palm downward over her taut belly and squeezed the plump Mound of Venus between her slender thighs. “Open for me, love, and I’ll make both our days.”

  * * *

  12:15 a.m. (give or take)

  They rode the elevator up to Max’s rooftop suite. Becky was in his arms before the double doors closed.

  He lifted his face from her hair and looked down. “Thank you for coming upstairs with me. I’m not sure what I would have done if you’d said no.” The obvious desire in his blue eyes was a more potent aphrodisiac than any mood-or mind-altering substance hotel guests in the sixties and seventies might have used.