Tie Me Up. Lauren HawkeyeЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Barbara always thought of Ethan as her little brother’s annoying best friend, and she was sure he just considered her his friend’s nerdy big sister. Until the hot night after her brother’s wedding. Alone in the heat, it’s clear Ethan sees her in a way she never saw herself: as a sexy, sensual woman. And for the first time, Barbara feels ready to break free from the painful memories that have haunted her for too long—by exploring her passion for Ethan….

      Book two of Lauren Hawkeye’s Erotic Me series.

      Contents

      Begin Reading

      I couldn’t sleep.

      The “room” I’d been allotted as living quarters for the night was little more than a dry, dark hole. Had there been a window for light to shine through, I was certain that I would have seen dust motes dancing lightly in the air, because though I couldn’t see them, I certainly felt them as they sock-hopped their way into my lungs with every breath that I took.

      Why was I here?

      My little brother had gotten married, that was why. And while the woman who had now been pronounced Nick’s wife was a lovely lady, I’d be first in line to back up the claim that her parents were pushy people. They’d insisted that I not waste money on accommodations, that I stay with their daughter Evie instead. Though I’d had it in my head to say no—in fact I was sure that I’d done just that, several times—here I was, at Evie’s.

      Which might have been okay, except that her parents had apparently offered her little ground-floor apartment to numerous other relatives as well, and since I wasn’t ancient, like Grandpa Jim, or cantankerous, like Aunt Mary, I got the closet.

      Squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as they would go, I tried to envision myself back home in my lovely big bed, with crisp sheets and a small, against-condo-regulations window air conditioner blowing blessedly frigid air into my face. Air icy enough to make my nipples contract and to have goose flesh rising up over my skin in waves.

      It didn’t work. All I could see in my mind’s eye was the undulating, oppressive dark. The dry dark, the desiccated dark.

      I needed some air.

      Gingerly, I rose to a sitting position, careful not to hit my head on the slanting overhang of the stairs above. I groped blindly, searching for the thick plastic frames of my glasses, which promptly steamed up on my nose, adding a thin white film to my already limited vision.

      I felt an icy sheen of panic that wouldn’t be melted away. I didn’t normally suffer from claustrophobia of any kind, but I had to get out of this closet.

      Now.

      The knob of the ancient wooden door needed a good dose of oil, and it squealed as I turned it. By that point, I didn’t care.

      If I couldn’t sleep, then I didn’t see why anyone else should either.

      Still, I padded as quietly as I could across hardwood gone sticky in the heat. An empty Brita filter lying open on the counter made my spirits dive down deep, quashing all my hopes—for a cool drink to help me beat the heat, for the alleviation of some of the discomfort caused by being stuck in a cramped little apartment hot enough to bake a loaf of bread right on the counter, for helping me bear the heavy fabric of the only pajamas I considered appropriate for staying over at someone else’s house as they glued themselves to my skin with a thin film of sweat.

      The closer I got to that back door, the less concerned I became with stealth. Surely Nick’s new grandpa-in-law would understand a little noise when the goal was a breath of air that didn’t sear the lining of my lungs like the seventh circle of hell.

      I stepped out into the tiny backyard, a postage stamp of rapidly browning grass, and let the ancient, dull metal of the screen door slap shut behind me. I didn’t even wince at the loud, metallic clang, because finally, finally I was outside. Outside where the air, while still uncomfortably warm, was at least fresh with the scents of summer: the crisp smell of grass that had baked all day in the sun, and the moist aroma of earth as it cooled for the evening.

      The smell of freedom.

      Well, that was an exaggeration, and I knew it. But something about trying to sleep in Evie’s tiny apartment, which was also the resting place for a handful of other family members after the last thick dregs of nuptial celebrations had melted away, had made me feel incredibly uncomfortable. As though a herd of ants had crawled its way under my skin.

      And I was pretty sure that that feeling wasn’t just from the extra glass of rich red wine that I’d indulged in. No, something about the entire night was getting to me, was making me itch, and, try as I might, I just couldn’t reach the right spot to scratch.

      The eventide air was a balm, though. It didn’t remove the itch, but it soothed it, just a bit.

      Maybe I’d just sleep out here. Just stretch out on that rickety plastic lounger. It might not be the best night’s sleep I’d ever had, but at least the slight drop of temperature as bright, celebratory day melted into dusky twilight, and twilight into brooding night would allow the drops of sweat that dripped down the curve of my spine to tickle at the crevice that divided my ass to dry.

      For the millionth time since I’d stripped out of the bridesmaid’s dress that my brother’s bride had assured me I would wear again, but that we all knew would hang in my closet until the day I died, I wondered why I hadn’t rented a lovely, cool, air-conditioned hotel room.

      Hell, even a cheap, questionable hotel room would be fine, so long as it had air conditioning.

      As one of Evie’s aunt Mary’s earth-moving snores rent the thick night air in two, I shuddered and thought that I’d even do without the air conditioning if it meant that I’d have a little bit of peace and quiet.

      The thought of getting dressed again in the smothering, oppressive dark of that dank little closet and leaving to find that elusive hotel room seemed like entirely too much work. Especially now that I’d been granted at least a small degree of comfort.

      I eyed the plastic lounger, and then lumbered my heat-swollen self over to it. Tested my not insubstantial weight on it gingerly before sitting, and then lying back.

      It took me a moment to realize that I was actually relaxing. Though it was still hot, it was pretty nice out here in this tiny backyard, on this cheap, thrift-store find of a lounger. If I opened my eyes, even without my glasses perched on my nose, I could make out the dusky imprints of the goliath mountains against the plum and amethyst sky. Could scent the mineral tang of glacial ice, even through the thick soup of the heat.

      If I closed my eyes, it was even better. Every sibilant swirl of air through the verdant leaves of the trees was a lullabye, as were the spicy emanations swirling their way to my nose from Evie’s small garden of basil, thyme and mint.

      “What are you doing?”

      I sat bolt upright as the husky, amused male voice sliced right through my hard-won calm like a razor through silk. Annoyance at the intrusion rooted deep in my gut before the web of embarrassment that came all too easily to me swallowed it whole.

      I was wearing polyester pajamas, had at hand pop-bottle glasses instead of my contact lenses, and I was lying on a plastic lounge chair in my new sister-in-law’s dark backyard.

      I groped blindly for my glasses on the packed dirt beneath the chair so that I could see who the strange intruder was. Though he looked pretty familiar through the fuzzy haze that was nearsightedness, the thin edge of nerves wouldn’t dissipate until I could clearly see for myself.

      When I could, I ground my teeth together in frustration.