Hot Under Pressure. Kathleen O'ReillyЧитать онлайн книгу.
The shuttle to the hotel was fast and silent, and it glided through the darkness, getting them there way too fast. David didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. She could feel him, feel his eyes, feel his thoughts.
When the shuttle arrived at the hotel, David took her bag, his arm brushing against hers, and she jumped. It was like a scene in some of her favorite horror movies, but not in the “someone’s going to get hacked up” sort of way, but more “someone’s going to get laid,” and it was going to be good. Really, really good. Her loins started to ache, her blood pounding.
At the front desk was a seventeen-year-old who didn’t need to be up this late. As David handled the registration, Ashley held back because she didn’t know hotel registration protocol for this arrangement. Did they need two names? If so, should she use her real name? It was a whole new world, and honestly, she didn’t need to know about it. There were much more important things to think about, so she and her aching loins were going to hang back and wait it out.
Three seconds later, and then David was back. It was time. It wasn’t enough time.
“You don’t look so good. You need a drink? We can chat more,” he told her, because obviously eight hours stranded on a plane wasn’t enough for Ashley. Oh, no, she needed more chat time.
“We should get a drink,” she said, her brain furiously stalling for chat time, while her other parts were yelling at her to get the heck upstairs.
To the right of the front desk was the hotel bar. It was dark, sleek, a place with low lights, big comfortable chairs, and an IMAX-sized mirror on the wall. Ashley leaned up to the bar. “I’ll take a double shot of tequila,” she told the bartender.
“Make it two,” added David.
While he waited for the drinks, she picked out two chairs, far from the bartender, but not far from the mirror. David set the shot glasses on the low table and settled in the chair next to her. “You should know that I have taken defensive driving, been married only once, have no contagious, nor sexually transmitted diseases and I never pick up strange women in airports.”
For some reason, that made her feel a lot better. “Me, neither. I mean, men. I never pick up strange men.” And after that mangled confession, she licked the salt from the rim of her glass.
David leaned over, and kissed the corner of her mouth.
“Salt,” he murmured.
“Mouth,” she responded automatically, staring at his mouth. It was a good mouth. It was hard, stubborn and looked liked it knew what it was doing.
“Tongue,” he replied.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, and then poured a sharp splash of tequila down her throat. “You would tell me if you think this is slutty, right?”
Ash, that’s a stupid question. He’s not going to tell you that. Men like slutty. When it comes to sex, men have no scruples, no morals, no ethics.
“Absolutely,” he lied.
“Okay. That was stupid.”
“We can get two rooms,” he told here, doing a great impersonation of an ethical man who still wanted sex.
Is this what you want, Ash? If it’s really and truly what you want, then Do It.
She looked at David McLean, the once-divorced, defensive driver with eyes currently tending to brown rather than green. Eyes that said he wanted her. And Ashley made up her mind. It was no contest. Not even a minor dilemma.
“I want to have sex with you. I want to do something new and exciting, at least once before I die, most likely in a plane crash. Stranger sex is exciting.” As she said the words, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were the same, yet different. She was…glowing, which could have been the warmtoned lighting, but she didn’t think so.
“Stranger sex?” he asked, his mouth quirking up at one side. She liked that about him, the way he didn’t fully smile, but only partly committed to it. Like a man who wants to laugh, but isn’t quite sure it’s the correct thing to do.
“Yeah, you know, stranger sex. The unknown, the forbidden, the lady and the tiger.”
Now she was fully staring at the mirror in front of her. Her, the wild-eyed seductress—slight overstatement—with him, the harried businessman, which was probably true.
Kiss him, Ash. Plant a big smoochie right there.
Throwing caution to the wind, Ashley leaned over and kissed him. Once, on the side of the mouth.
“Salt,” she murmured.
Then she boldly moved her mouth to his.
“Mouth,” he whispered against her lips.
It was nearly a kiss. A press of skin, an exchanging of breaths.
It wasn’t enough.
“Tongue,” she said, and magically, it was a kiss. Mouth, tongues, and oh, yes, that was passion. David McLean was a most excellent kisser. He was earnest, sincere, unafraid. Best of all, he made Ashley feel earnest, sincere and unafraid. She forgot about the mirror, and the hotel room, and only focused on one thing—his mouth. The way his tongue mated perfectly with hers.
He tasted like lime and salt and hot, sweaty, body-smashing sex. Maybe that was only her subconscious talking or the humming moisture between her legs, but she didn’t think so. Ashley moved closer, wild-eyed seductress that she was, and then his hand was at her jaw, holding her while that magic tongue moved in and out, intensifying the hum between her legs.
When he lifted his head, those hazel eyes were dark, sleepy and irresistible. Ashley could only stare.
“Two rooms?” he asked.
She shook her head, not wavering or worrying even once.
They walked to the bank of elevators without touching, because Ashley didn’t want to touch him at the moment. Touching implied combustion, and neither a hotel hallway nor a hotel elevator was the place for combustion.
Not for Ashley, and apparently not for David.
This is it, Ash. We’re sure he’s not a serial killer, right? What if you get strangled or something?
David looked at her, his hungry gaze falling to her mouth.
Ashley told the voices to shut up.
DAVID’S HAND SHOOK as he inserted the keycard in the lock, but honestly, he was too primed to try and be smooth about this. He opened the door, told himself to go slow, then immediately ignored all his normally responsible, conventional wisdom and grabbed Ashley, kicking the door shut behind them.
Her arms curled into his hair, pulling him closer, and they stumbled toward the bed. He wasn’t like this. He wasn’t ever like this, so who was that man fumbling her shirt over her head, lifting her skirts, or dive-bombing for her mouth?
That mouth.
She kissed like she dressed. Not completely stylish, but there was an understated flashiness, and a zing. Definitely a zing.
David heard a moan. Hers. Oh, definitely a zing. Now he was moaning, too.
He tumbled on top of her, completely without finesse, but thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind. Her legs wrapped about him, pelvis surging toward him, and his hands went to his fly. Her breasts pressed against him, soft peaks in white cotton. If his zipper would ever get unstuck, he’d shove the bra aside, because he wanted to see…
The room began to shake. What was that? He could hear the roar of a jet engine. The airport. They were at the airport. That wasn’t his cock. Calm. Remain calm.
Condom. Oh, shit. He needed a condom.
“Wait,” he nearly yelled. He needed to get control. He needed to breathe.