Strokes of Midnight

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Strokes of Midnight Page 8

by Tarr, Hope


  He looked down on her and brushed back the damp curls from her face. “Don’t tell me you’re going shy on me now.” He picked up her hand and drifted it over her pubis. “Touch yourself for me. I want to watch you. In case you have any doubts, I’m going to love watching you. Just thinking about watching you is making me hard all over again.”

  Even feeling shy, the sexy demand was too tempting to pass on. She felt herself going wet all over again. Her skin had the hot, prickly feeling she normally associated with the early stage of sunburn, the telltale tenderness that told you you’d overindulged in the sun worshipping but, tough luck, it was too late to cover up now. The hot look in Max’s eyes when he talked dirty to her, the sight of his broad, damp chest hovering over her, the sense that he really was going to get off on watching her helped her find her courage—and her sense of adventure.

  “I’ve never done that before.” He tossed her a skeptical look, and she clarified, “I mean, not in front of another person.”

  Bringing herself to orgasm shouldn’t take long. She’d touched herself so many times over the past sexless year she’d jokingly suggested to Sharon she was thinking of giving classes on the subject. Five minutes when she woke up in the morning was all the time it usually took. Afterward she got up, brushed her teeth, and jumped into the shower. An orgasm might not qualify as a breakfast of champions, but it definitely took the edge off her frustration so she could focus on getting her daily pages written. But could she really masturbate in front of Max? She supposed there was only one way to find out.

  Still sensitized from her recent climax courtesy of Max’s very talented tongue, she slid her hand between her spread thighs and found the nub of her clitoris with her middle finger. Closing her eyes, she started the slow circular sweep she knew would bring her to a quick, golden peak. At this point, she usually reached into her mental stockpile of fantasies for one of the classic erotic scenarios guaranteed to get her off—a desert sheik, a British nobleman in period dress, a navy SEAL or FBI agent or international spy. But this time her fantasy was flesh-and-blood and right there in bed beside her, stealing the scene—and her heart, if she let him.

  “Does it feel good, sweetheart?” Max’s sexy whisper floated above her.

  Eyes closed, she nodded, focused on the musk and heat of him surrounding her. “You know it does.”

  “I want to hear you say it.”

  “It feels good. Actually it feels great.”

  Performing for him was proving to be a major turn-on for her, too. Alone, she’d never gotten this wet this fast. She spread her legs wider and lifted her hips to match the increasing rhythm of her damp hand.

  “Look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.” Max’s breath blew across the side of her damp throat, raising gooseflesh in the midst of all that heat.

  She obeyed, opening her eyes and looking at him. Brown eyes met blue ones—and suddenly Becky was in over her head, drowning in deep waters.

  “Tell me again how good it feels.”

  Becky shivered and bit the inside of her lip. The tingling was rapidly building to a full-blown ache, the first delicious spasm promising a deeply satisfying release only a breath or two away.

  “Look at me.” Braced above her, Max lifted one hand from the mattress and laid it along her face. “Open your eyes and look at me and jump off that cliff. I’ll be there to catch you. Trust me.”

  Trust me. The last lover she’d trusted had done the equivalent of taking a razor and slashing her heart into bloody strips. But this was no time for cynical thinking. This was no time for thinking at all. Becky opened her eyes and looked up into Max’s face, his lean jaw set tight.

  She circled her finger one final time—and hurled herself over the cliff edge and into the deep blue ocean of her lover’s eyes.

  * * *

  4:45 a.m.

  Lying on her side with her head resting on Max’s shoulder, Becky traced the musculature of his chest with a single finger. “Would you believe the shoes made me do it?”

  He shook his head and laughed. “Rose, right now I’d believe anything you told me.”

  Becky bit her lip, once again wishing she’d been honest with him about her name at least. Even though they’d be parting ways in a few hours, it would be nice in years to come to look back and think of him as a friend.

  Steering the subject into safer waters, she teased, “Are you sure you’re a travel writer?”

  His smile dimmed. “What makes you ask that?”

  She slid her palm over the queue of damp golden hair leading down his flat belly to the erection standing out from his thighs. Technically, it was morning already, but dawn was at least another hour away, and in the interim that beautiful thick cock was meant to be touched and tasted and worshipped.

  “I don’t know. I could almost imagine you wrote about sex for a living.” She wrapped her hand around his shaft and lightly squeezed, loving how he let her fondle and play with him, pleased at how effortless it was to turn him on.

  He smiled over at her. “If I do, it’s only as a hobby.” He ran a single finger down the side of her neck, drawing her shiver. “Are you cold? Do you want the sheet?”

  “No, thanks.” She shook her head, never warmer in her life. Making love to Max was a bounty for all five senses, including visual. She didn’t want to cover up any part of him, particularly the part stiffening in her hand.

  Settling a hand atop her thigh, he sucked in a breath. “God, I can’t believe I just met you today. I feel so comfortable, as if I’ve known you for years.”

  “I know. I feel the same way.” It was true. She’d never felt this relaxed with a man and at the same time so excited. She glanced over to the torn condom packets lying atop the nightstand and then back at Max. “We’re officially out of condoms. Unless you have a hidden stash, we can’t—what I mean is, I’m not on any kind of birth control. Sorry.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry.” For the first time that night, Max looked less than sure of himself. “I didn’t come on this trip expecting to meet anyone.”

  Even though what they were sharing was a one-night stand, it had turned out to be the most special night of her adult life, not to mention a truly memorable New Year’s Eve. She didn’t want him to think she went around picking up strange men in bars, either.

  “Believe it or not, I bought those condoms a year ago. I’ve been carrying them around ever since. As they say, hope springs eternal.”

  She could tell from the expression on his face that he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her. “I can’t imagine a beautiful, intelligent woman like you lacking for partners.”

  The unexpected compliment took Becky off guard. She clamped her mouth closed before she was tempted to deny the compliment or, worse yet, ask for confirmation. Angelina wouldn’t ever turn down male admiration or second-guess it. The Brit’s confidence in herself as a woman, as well as a spy, was a pivotal part of her character. Maybe it was time Becky scripted some of her fictional creation’s self-assurance into her real life.

  He looked over at her and confessed, “Before tonight, I hadn’t had sex in almost two years.”

  It was Becky’s turn to be skeptical. With his face lost to the shadows, she couldn’t read him, and she supposed it didn’t really matter. Stranger sex was, by definition, a one-time thing. In a few more hours, they’d go their separate ways and never see each other again. There would be no do-over and no repeat performance.

  Earlier in the evening, the thought of seeing him for one night and then never again had provided a sexual and psychological thrill. Now, thinking of how little time they had left, she felt more than a little sad. Stranger sex or not, this night was the best of her adult life.

  Why was it the good things in life always seemed to go by so quickly?

  Chapter 6

  Angelina peeled herself from the Aussie’s broad, damp chest and reached for the sheet. She’d just had the best bloody shag of her life and the brilliant part was he didn’t have
a clue as to who she was. Anonymity was proving to be a potent aphrodisiac, for her at least. Thinking how good he smelled, recalling how amazing he’d tasted, she leaned over and ran her lips along the corded sinew at the side of his throat, sampling the salt on his skin.

  He pulled her atop him so that she straddled his narrow hips, his cock pressing into her lower belly. “Angie, you’re one hell of a woman.”

  Angelina froze. Feeling like an acrobat whose safety net had just been taken away in the middle of a high-wire act, she stared down into her lover’s blue, bedroom eyes. “How the hell do you know my name?”

  * * *

  Becky opened her eyes the next morning to a new year and a new day. She felt like a fairy-tale princess waking from a dream—a red-hot sexy dream. Rolling onto her side, she reached for her gloriously naked Prince Charming, but the mattress beside her was empty and cold.

  “Max?” She opened her eyes.

  Wrapping the sheet around her, she sat up in bed. Fully awake now, she spotted the sheet of hotel stationery and single red rose on the pillow beside her.

  A rose for a rose…

  Thanks for an unforgettable New Year’s night.

  Max.

  She picked up the flower. He must have snagged it from one of the lounge tables last night or early that morning. Inhaling its fragrance, she felt her throat tighten and her eyes water. This New Year’s Eve would always stand out in her mind as the sexiest, most romantic night of her life. Now that it was over, she felt like Cinderella the day after the ball.

  She read Max’s note again, searching for clues much as Angelina might decipher an encrypted piece of code, torn between gratitude that he’d bothered to leave a note at all and hurt that his goodbye was so very brief. But then, he was a travel writer, not a poet, and they’d had a one-night stand, not a love affair. What had she expected, a Shakespearean sonnet in iambic pentameter?

  Sliding the silky petals down her cheek, snippets of scenes from the previous evening ran through her mind like highlights from a movie trailer. What a beautiful night, what a beautiful man, what a beautiful…memory. If only it might have been more than that.

  But it wasn’t. They’d had a one-night stand, end of story. Max was a thrilling and tender lover, the perfect lover, but none of that meant he had feelings for her beyond lust. What they’d shared was a moment, not a future. Despite his claim that he hadn’t had sex for almost two years, for a hot-looking man who traveled for a living such encounters must be commonplace.

  Holding the sheet around her, she shuffled out into the living room, the suite echoing with an empty stillness. She checked the alcove for luggage that might indicate he hadn’t left quite yet, but it was empty, too, as she’d known it would be. In the bathroom, droplets of water still clung to the glass shower stall, suggesting he hadn’t left all that long ago. She picked up a corner of the damp towel hanging on the bar and inhaled his musky soapy scent, the same scent clinging to her body.

  Tears stung her eyes. How was it possible to miss someone you hadn’t known even twenty-four hours?

  Surveying her watery eyes in the mirror, Becky told herself this weepiness had to stop. It was time to start acting her age, or at least to start living her life like a grown-up woman, feet firmly planted in the present, not the past, even if the past was just a few hours old. She had to pull herself together and call Pat with her answer. But for sanity’s sake, before she did anything else, she needed to wash off Max’s scent.

  The bathroom in her room was a closet compared to this. She surveyed the deep double sink and separate shower and tub and thought, Why the hell not? She didn’t have her toiletries with her but there were complimentary travel-size bottles of shampoo and conditioner set out on the counter and a dispenser of all-purpose shower gel inside the stall.

  She stepped out of the bed sheet and treated herself to a long, hot shower, almost as long as the one she’d taken the previous evening and even more needed. Along with her bruised bottom, she was sore and stiff in several other very private places. By the time she stepped out again, she was feeling better, or at least more like herself. She dried off with one of the fluffy white towels, wrapped another around her wet hair, and slid on the complimentary guest robe which, wouldn’t you know it, smelled just like Max.

  Max…Maxwell. Who knew, but maybe meeting Max was the universe’s idea of delivering on the promise of fresh starts and dazzling opportunities in her houses of career and love in one fell swoop. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the similarity in names was some kind of sign.

  By the time she finished drying her hair with the blow dryer anchored to the wall, she’d made up her mind. She would coauthor the book with Adam Maxwell. She really had nothing to lose—well, nothing beyond her dignity—and the sooner she and Maxwell got down to figuring out exactly how coauthorship was going to work for them, the better it would be.

  Dressed in her outfit from the night before, red shoes and beaded evening bag included, she stepped out into the hall. She felt a little sleazy leaving a hotel room that wasn’t hers in rumpled cocktail clothes, but then again, this was the Chelsea.

  Back in her own room, she plugged her cell into the wall charger and speed-dialed Pat’s number. A few rings later, her editor picked up.

  “Hey, Pat, it’s Becky. I’m checking in as promised. Look, I’ve thought over the coauthorship deal, and I’ve decided to accept.”

  On the other end of the line, Pat hesitated. “That’s great, Becky. There are some kinks to work out before we go to contract, but we can chat about that later.”

  Picking up on Pat’s nervousness, Becky wanted to chat about it now. “What kind of kinks?”

  “Maxwell blew a fuse when I pitched the coauthorship. I spoke to his agent last night and again this morning, and so far he’s not budging.”

  Feeling as if the floor was caving beneath her feet, Becky held the phone away from her ear. It had never occurred to her Maxwell would reject her. Housewife porn comment aside, she’d assumed he must already be on board with the deal, otherwise why would Pat have approached her?

  Thinking about that, her shock rapidly turned into full-blown pissed off. “Who the hell does he think he is, anyway? Does he think Drake is too good for Angelina? That tree-trunk-necked primate should count himself lucky that a sexy, sophisticated woman like Angelina would even let him put his ham-handed mitts on her, let alone agree to share her spotlight.”

  Becky stopped herself, realizing she’d once again spiraled into her alternative universe, an occupational hazard of writing fiction. The problem, or rather the pain-in-the-ass she had to deal with wasn’t a fictional character but its real-life creator, Adam Maxwell. “I need Maxwell’s phone number.”

  “You know I can’t do that, Becky. Let me keep working this behind the scenes with the agent and our legal department. You go home to D.C. and I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

  Becky wasn’t going home to D.C. or anywhere else, at least not yet. “If Maxwell still refuses the deal, where does that leave me?” Pat’s answer was dead silence, which told Becky all she needed to know. Still, she had to hear her say it. “Unemployed, right?”

  Pat sighed into Becky’s ear. “I’m afraid so. What I told you at lunch the other day hasn’t changed. I can’t offer you another solo contract right now.”

  Becky shot up from the side of the bed. “In that case, give me a fighting chance. Give me his number, his cell number, not his home. I swear to you I won’t give it out to anyone.”

  Pat heaved a sigh. “I hope not, because if you do, I could lose my job. If he finds out, I still could.”

  Becky was already reaching for a pen and the hotel message pad. “He won’t. You have no idea how charming I can be—or how persuasive.”

  In life sometimes it was easier to ask for forgiveness than permission—and Becky suspected this would turn out to be one of those times.

  * * *

  As soon as Becky jotted down Maxwell’s number, she ende
d the call to Pat and programmed it into her cell. But first—even though he couldn’t see her over the phone, she knew she’d feel on firmer footing if she wasn’t wearing last night’s rumpled clothes. She took off her dress and shoes and changed into jeans and a soft-pink angora cowl-neck sweater before packing up her things.

  Sitting down on the side of the bed, she took a deep breath, highlighted his number from her address book, and hit the green send button. It rang a few times and then his voice mail kicked in, inviting her to leave a message. Oh, she’d leave a message all right.

  Remembering her promise to Pat to be charming and persuasive, she left a pleasant to-the-point message and then went out of the hotel in search of coffee. Two skinny lattes and five messages later, she was steaming mad, as well as running out of time and caffeine tolerance. She glanced at her watch. Checking out would leave her barely enough time to catch a cab to Penn Station and make the eleven o’clock train to D.C.

  She hesitated, asking herself how she would write the scene if it was for Angelina rather than herself. Angelina wouldn’t stand by and let herself be brushed off, no matter how big a name Maxwell was in the publishing industry or anywhere else. No way would her intrepid creation give up that easily, or at all.

  Becky flipped open her laptop. Balancing the computer on her lap, she logged online. A quick Internet search brought up Maxwell’s Web site at www.drakesadventures.com. Not so surprisingly, there was no publicity photo of the reclusive author. There was a short bio, though. She skimmed the sparse few lines.

  Bestselling author Adam Maxwell writes from his home surrounded by the serene backdrop of New Hampshire’s White Mountains region. Like his fictional alter ego, Drake Dundee, Maxwell is an ardent traveler and outdoor enthusiast. He has traveled to more than thirty countries and four continents, experiences that lend an astonishing authenticity to his Drake’s Adventures series. Look for his next Drake’s Adventure novel in brick-and-mortar and online bookstores this fall.

 

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