At His Fingertips. Dawn AtkinsЧитать онлайн книгу.
It was as though they were being swirled down the drain of an irresistible attraction, while they clung to the slick, sloped sides of the tub. Whether it was ordinary lust or cosmic forces, she couldn’t yet tell.
Mitch moved the Early American sofa where she asked, treating the monstrous thing as though it was made of balsa wood. He was so deliciously strong. He rose, not even breathing hard from the effort. “Anything else you need from me?”
A million things and they all started with his mouth. And his fingers. And that broad back. “Uh, maybe put the newsprint pads on easels?” They were for small-group time when participants brainstormed solutions to each other’s problems.
While he did that, she set up the computer for the presentation on the grant template.
“Exactly what’s going to happen here tonight?” Mitch asked when he’d finished.
Stay for the meteor shower and you’ll see. She explained the networking, grant-writing tips, brainstorming and goal-setting portions of the workshop.
“Sounds reasonable.” He acted as though he’d expected something bizarre or laughable. So of course she had to startle him.
“And then we strip and dance naked in a circle under the moon, chanting Druid spells.”
His eyebrows shot up as she’d expected.
“I’m joking.” She paused. “But there’s a spiritual aspect to it, too. The idea is to verbalize what you want, write it down, put energy behind it and attract success. This approach works. It’s been documented.”
She watched him fight his skepticism to smile. “Hell, if it would get my brother into something good, I’d strip naked and dance under the moon myself.”
“That I’d love to see.” Her words held surprising heat. Not how she usually flirted. Around Mitch she felt raw and hungry, not light and easy as she usually felt when she anticipated going to bed with someone.
She enjoyed sex—the warmth, the connection, the wonder of two bodies moving together in pleasure. For those moments, she felt part of the life force, eternal and timeless.
But sex with Mitch would be different. It would be intense, erotic and a little scary, like daring yourself to look down from the top of a forty-story building.
She’d sensed that when they’d kissed all those years ago. She’d been a virgin—technically—but she’d made out plenty. Never until that night had she felt a need so ferocious it made her liquid with desire. And here it was again. Only this time she knew exactly what to do about it.
“I almost wish I were psychic,” Mitch said. “I’d love to read your mind right now.”
“I think you already are.”
“Ah.” He shifted closer, his dark eyes intense, then retreated. The electric tug between them seemed to trouble him, too. “So you just write down a wish and it comes true. Like ‘I want to become an astronaut or a ballet dancer or—’”
“A rock star?” She’d meant to tease, but his embarrassed expression made her instantly sorry.
“Yeah. That.” He grinned, but she’d sensed his pain. He’d believed her prediction and it had been wrong.
The truth was ice water down her back. She’d failed him as she’d failed her mother. And he’d been hurt. “I’m so sorry. When I predicted your success, I was just learning and I—”
“Forget it. You told me to go for it. Big deal. I was a kid. We both were.”
“But I—”
“You told me what I wanted to hear, Esmeralda. That was years ago. Forget it.”
The doorbell rang. She stood there, wanting to tell him her mistake was a learner’s arrogance, that she’d become better. But what if her mistake had led to the cynicism she saw in him now?
“Get the door. It’s show time.” He smiled at her, his face full of kind sympathy. “Relax. We’ll talk after. I’ll help you put back that monster sofa.”
“All right.” Mitch was staying and her every chakra pulsed with energy. She’d never felt so alive around a man.
She headed for the door, troubled by the quicksilver of her emotions around him. Everything changeable, everything intense. If they were meant for each other, she would never have a moment’s peace or harmony. How could that be right?
MITCH PASSED THE BOX OF chocolates shaped like genitalia to his left, mortified as hell. He didn’t dare make eye contact with a soul now that they were nibbling boobs or cocks in dark, milk or white chocolate. Good Lord. Esmeralda hadn’t mentioned people would be bringing samples, but apparently the sex candy woman wanted to create a mail-order business.
The workshop wasn’t turning out to be as sensible as Esmeralda had made it sound. There were a few grant-writing tips, sure, and he’d taken notes, but mostly it was pep squad rah-rah and mystical bullshit.
Three of the participants were outright nut cases, a couple were borderline criminals and the kindest thing he could say about the rest was they were…quirky. Well, that girl and her father with the kiddie gym idea were normal enough, if the dad would just quit trying to live through the daughter and let her get a teaching degree. Sheesh. He could hire a manager if he didn’t want to run the gym himself.
Right before the candy lady did her thing, a woman had passed out samples of customized sexy lingerie, saying something about regular women looking ridiculous in the off-the-rack stuff. As she pointed out the features of each item, Mitch kept picturing Esmeralda wearing it. He could imagine her sweet nipples through that lacy slip thing, envision her shapely legs snug in those red fishnets, see her breasts swell above a black half bra.
He shifted his legs to be sure his erection didn’t show. Around her, his lust hit with an unexpected wallop, like some frou-frou drink made with six hard liquors. It mowed him flat. Well, all except the part that stood straight up. Damn.
Now and then her sizzling eyes would catch his. She wanted something from him. Something big. Which made him conclude he would help her with her furniture, but not with those wiggly straps. No way. Talk about asking for trouble.
He had the grant to work out, and he wasn’t up for dealing with her strange and silly beliefs. She treated the kooks and crooks with the same respect she gave the sensible people.
Take the guy who owned a girlie bar and wanted to do something “plaque-worthy” for his strippers. A muscle-bound bartender who worked at his club was looking to be an investment banker. Yeah, right.
Dale never showed. Which irritated Mitch, but he’d taken good notes, ignoring the goofball stuff about positive visualizations and universal energy. He’d talk it up to Dale, tread lightly, ease him on board.
He was relieved when Esmeralda announced the workshop was over. She had everyone recite affirmations to each other. The room echoed with Gregorian chants of wishful thinking: I can see my dream and make it happen…. I am smart and capable and savvy…. I know what I want and how to get it…. I am a successful writer…artist…entrepreneur…
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