By Appointment Only (31 page)

She went up on her tiptoes for a hug and a lengthy kiss. They were both breathless when it ended. She smoothed her straps back into place and took his hand. “Tell me all about it. What did the big guy say?”

Morgan tugged her into his lap on the sofa. “He was very pleased at how much progress we’ve made in getting the project back on track. And he’s providing extra crews so we can work double shifts and still possibly make our deadline.”

Her smile lit up her face. “That’s wonderful. But I never doubted you for a minute.”

He ran his hand over her hip, testing the thin layers of brightly colored fabric. “Are you wearing any underwear? I’m asking strictly in the interest of keeping the conversation going, that’s all. I really don’t care.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I see. I was hoping you’d applaud my efforts to conserve water, you know—by not dirtying as many clothes.”

He put a hand on her thigh and headed north. They both groaned when he hit the jackpot.

Hannah nibbled his neck. “I thought you’d be hungry after working all day.”

He caught her lips and devoured them in a desperate kiss. He and Hannah had been celibate during her recovery, first so as not to cause her pain, and then later to make tonight even more special. “Will the food spoil if we wait?” He tugged at the fragile straps of her dress.

She shrugged, as much as she could with his mouth teasing her nipples. “Not irretrievably,” she panted.

He found her zipper and made use of it, groaning in appreciation when he dragged her dress over her head and disposed of it. She was already barefoot, and without what appeared to be her single item of clothing, she was now completely nude.

He laid her back on the sofa and knelt on the floor beside her. Carefully, he traced the three small scars from her surgery.

Hannah wiggled her hips. “That tickles.”

He mapped her body with his hands, caressing every plane, every amazing curve. “You’re beautiful,” he muttered.

“You’re horny,” she teased, her brown eyes warm and bright with happiness. “I’ve missed you.” She said it simply, quietly, smoothing his hair with a soft touch.

He nudged her legs apart. “I think I’ve forgotten what to do.”

She gasped when he brushed her tiny clitoris. “It will come back to you. I’m counting on it.” Her words were breathless, excited.

He wanted to pounce on her and ram his throbbing cock into her wet, slick heat until they both went crazy. But overriding his hunger was a deep, aching tenderness. He still worried about hurting her in the aftermath of surgery, but more than that, he worried about how he had hurt her before. He put his head on her stomach, feeling her heartbeat beneath his cheek.

He imagined his child growing there. The image made him weak. Made him hurt with a longing he’d never experienced. He licked her navel lazily until she shoved him away in a fit of giggles.

“Sit up,” he commanded, wrangling her body like a rag doll until he had her where he wanted her.

Her head lolled against the back of the sofa when he spread her thighs and lifted her legs onto his shoulders. He buried his face in her sex and thrust his tongue into her. The fragrance of passion surrounded him, and she cried out, arching her spine and lifting into his intimate caress.

He cupped her ass. “Four weeks is a hell of a long time, my love.”

She came quickly, shivering and tightening her legs around his neck until he was in danger of smothering. Gradually the tremors of her climax faded, and he started again.

She tried to protest, but he was starving for her again. He was still fully clothed for a reason. The minute his bare skin touched hers, all bets were off.

Her breathing was ragged, her eyes closed, her soft skin flushed and damp. He felt the moment she tensed, and he stopped abruptly. Her eyes flew open. “Morgan?”

He still held her, but he fished in his pocket and drew out a diamond ring. A piece of jewelry he had carried with him for twenty-eight days. He dangled the sparkly platinum circle in front of her face. “The orgasm or the ring?” To help her decide, he brushed his finger over a very sensitive spot.

She was staring at him with incredulity, although a smile lifted the corners of her mouth at his naughty ultimatum. “I can’t have both?” She pouted really well.

He couldn’t bear it any longer. He put the ring between his teeth, stood up, and started stripping off his clothes. Hannah’s position was lewd but definitely appealing. He was down to his boxers in no time, and he decided to let her participate. “Why don’t you sit up,” he drawled. “And take these off me.”

She nudged his balls with her knee. “Why don’t you give me my ring?”

“
Your
ring?” His erection grew a millimeter more. “I haven’t given it to you yet. I might change my mind.”

She sat up and cupped him through his shorts. “How about a fair trade?” She shoved the elastic of his underwear to his knees and took him in her mouth.

He almost swallowed the ring. It was a close call, so he slid it on his pinky for safekeeping. “Jesus, Hannah. Warn a guy, why don’t you.”

She held his hips and took him deep, again and again, her tongue stroking him until he thought his head, or something else, would explode. The firm, wet suction on his cock tightened every muscle in his body. He let her keep that up for about ten seconds too long.

Desperately, he disengaged his manhood from her clinging lips, and dropped to his knees. “Hannah Quarles. Will you marry me?” He took her left hand, removed the ring from his own finger, and waited for an answer.

He was on eye level with her breasts, but he had no trouble keeping his gaze locked to hers. He held his breath, his heart pounding rapidly. He saw moisture sheen her eyes, but she blinked rapidly and smiled.

“On one condition.”

“Please tell me you don’t want to jump out of a plane together.”

She giggled. “We’ll save that for an anniversary. Actually, it’s a very simple request.”

“Name it,” he said fervently.

She cupped his face in her hands and leaned down to kiss him. “I want us to set a date for our wedding.”

His hands shook, but he managed to slide the ring on her finger. “Really?”

Her smile was soft and happy. “The sooner the better.”

He tumbled her down to the rug, half covering her body with his. “I have a condition of my own.”

She held up her hand to admire the ring. “I’m not getting married at some dumb theme park, so you can just forget it.”

He chuckled, aligning their bodies and pressing the head of his erection at her core. “I want us to get married in that church where we first met.”

Her fingernails scored his back as she tried to pull him deeper. “Done,” she gasped. “Anything else?”

He slid all the way to the hilt, claiming the woman he loved. “I want you to promise me at least fifty good years.”

She closed her eyes and arched her back, pressing her hips into his as he thrust. “Only fifty?”

He couldn’t last any longer. Not after he’d hungered for her so long. “It’s a good start,” he muttered. And then he gritted his teeth and took his bride-to-be on a free fall that had no end.

Valentine’s Day will never be the same
in Janice Maynard’s next intoxicating erotic tale.

Hot Mail

On sale January 2009
Read on for a sneak peek. . . .

Jane Norman needed a man.

There were probably a lot of valid reasons a thirty-one-year-old woman might need a man...carpentry projects, plumbing emergencies, auto repair, spider extermination—you name it. And although Jane’s feminist sensibilities were as well developed as the next gal’s, she had no desire to prove her worth in any of those categories. She was content to let the male of the species shine.

Furthermore, she didn’t need a sperm donor. She wasn’t yearning to put on twenty or thirty pounds, and then in nine months take on the monumental job of motherhood. If she had a biological clock, she couldn’t detect it ticking any more loudly than normal.

But the fact remained: She needed a man.

For sex. And cuddling. And long walks on the beach. Well, scratch that one. Tennessee was a landlocked state. She deleted the last entry on her mental checklist and continued. She needed a man for sharing meals. And sex. And laughter. And sex. And playing footsie under the covers. And sex.

Definitely a pattern developing. The trouble was, not just any man would do. Jane had a lamentable tendency toward wanting what she couldn’t have. Or didn’t have. Namely, Ethan Oldham, the tall, self-assured assistant chief of police. He made her heartbeat skitter and her forehead break out in a sweat whenever she saw him in his khaki uniform, his muscular thighs and broad shoulders straining the seams of the standard-issue clothing.

Never mind that they had lived in the same community since they were in grade school. Or that they’d shared an on-again/off-again friendship for a decade and a half. Mostly off, the past four years. But, hey, that wasn’t her fault. Ethan had done the unforgivable. He’d gotten engaged to another woman. And even though he’d had the good sense to rectify his mistake quickly, she’d told herself it was a sign that she needed to eradicate this silly crush.

They were never going to be a couple.

But time heals all wounds, or so she had been told, and when a girl sits alone on New Year’s Eve one too many times, she gets desperate. In this instance, really, really desperate. Desperate enough to come up with a plan that was completely beyond her skill set: She was going to become a poet and win the man she loved.

She had never at any previous point in her life aspired to write erotic verse, but in a moment of blinding revelation while standing in line at the supermarket, she’d read a snatch of an article from the latest
Cosmo
, and realized that she needed something original. Something inspired. Something that Ethan Oldham would be unable to ignore.

In a moment of insanity, she’d decided to use bottled ink and a fancy quill . . . as if that would somehow afford her an edge in this dirty-poetry endeavor. Instead, all it had given her was an indelible spot on her favorite robe and a trash can full of crumpled efforts.

She scanned her most recent attempt.

Not only did her poetry suck, but it didn’t even make grammatical sense. She sighed and tossed the latest version with the rest.

It was all Ethan’s fault. If he’d reciprocated her adolescent devotion in the ninth grade, things would have been different. But when a girl is almost six feet tall at the tender age of fourteen, it’s a cold, cruel world. Sadly, Ethan had been the only boy in the junior high school taller than Jane, and she’d fallen madly in love with him for no other reason than his stature. Of course, his single dimple hadn’t hurt. Despite the fact that he barely knew her name way back then, she had yearned for him to notice her.

She pushed the memories aside and looked at the clock in the bottom corner of the TV. Fifteen minutes left in the old year. And good riddance was all she had to say.

She ignored the messy quill and reached for a ballpoint pen and a piece of scrap paper for her next draft.

She burst out laughing and moaned, scooting from the sofa to the floor. She crossed her arms on the coffee table and buried her face, wishing she had the confidence to simply walk up to Ethan Oldham and ask him out.

As a healthy, virile young man at the peak of his physical power, he was enough to make any woman’s knees weak, but Jane had no clue about how to reveal her not-so-platonic feelings. She’d tried time and again to move on, to develop a crush on someone else. Anyone else. In fact, she had sworn to herself that she was over Ethan . . . for good.

But without fanfare, another sad, single New Year’s Eve had rolled around, and suddenly the incurable optimist buried somewhere amidst all those painful school-age memories sat up and shouted,
Go for it, woman. You’re not getting any younger, and you’re never gonna find another man who makes your toes tingle the way Ethan Oldham does.

So here she was, on December 31, alone in her apartment, doing her best to compose a sexy, wicked valentine that would bring the man of her dreams to his knees. She knew that one card wasn’t going to do it. She’d need patience, and perseverance, and a bunch of valentines.

Maybe six or seven. One for each Friday from now until February 14. Could she do it? Could she court a man using nothing more than creative, erotic verse?

She picked up the quill one final time and retrieved her last sheet of neatly trimmed parchment paper. Her brow furrowed; her fingers tensed. This was do-or-die time. Delicately, she moved the nib across the paper and watched openmouthed as the pen composed words and phrases with all the confidence and aplomb of a Oiuja board.

Jane’s hand was shaking when she laid down the pen. Did she dare send this? Would Ethan be intrigued? And if he was, would she ever work up the courage to betray her identity?