Midnight Resolutions. Kathleen O'ReillyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Rose stopped that line of thought and fanned herself, surprised by the heat on a cold January night.
Ian—she rolled his name off her tongue—turned her on with something else. Her fingers slipped between her legs, beneath her panties, and she found herself wet, aroused.
Odd, yet fun. Curious, she pleasured herself, conjuring his face, remembering his mouth. Her finger stroked faster, her body flushed, and for tonight, she could imagine a man’s hands on her, feel his gentle caress, sure, easy, hungry yet restrained. Her breathing staggered, and this time she didn’t see the dark of the ceiling. Instead, she saw deep brown eyes burning with a light she couldn’t understand. She tasted the heat of his mouth on hers. A tiny moan escaped from her throat. Pleasure. Stealthy and sly. The pleasure teased her, beckoned to her, testing her control. Warily her lashes drifted shut, and she surrendered to the fantasy, finding her rhythm, sensing the orgasm chasing after her.
The first flutters of pressure increased, building more, and her heart began to race at the challenge to cut it off before it took control of her.
In the end, it was no challenge at all. Here, no man would follow her, and Rose closed off her mind, banishing the twinkling eyes, blocking the feel of that devouring mouth. Here, no one followed but Rose. The warmth pooled over her, and there was only a second—never more than one gossamer second—that her muscles contracted and her body flooded with pleasure. Deliberately, Rose shut the pleasure down.
Here was her secret place, the quiet blanket in the dark where the blustering voices had never entered, where only Rose could hide. She’d been quick and careful and silent because little ladies didn’t touch themselves and little ladies were not to be touched, and Rose needed to be the world’s most perfect little lady.
In the blink of an eye, her cheeks had cooled, her heart had calmed and Rose had smoothed the silk pajamas. Gracefully she took her seat and typed out an appropriate response on the keyboard. When she was finished, she allowed herself one tiny punch into the air, all while keeping her feet firmly on the ground.
His name was Ian.
THIS WAS WRONG. BECKETT never trusted sex, it was too full of complications and emotions, but he trudged after Phoebe, ignoring the eight thousand logical and rational reasons that this would be a mistake. He’d been in her long and empty apartment many times before, but not like this. Not with his cock painfully full, and images of her plastered in his head.
Foolishly he followed her over scuffed, golden oak floors, followed her into the dark recesses of her bedroom. She had five seasons of Family Guy on her dresser for late-night watching. He kept rolling over that mundane fact in his mind, but when she began to strip off her clothes, suddenly he was obsessed.
He wanted to touch her. Badly. His blood burned with it, but his brain—the part that was still functioning—held him back.
The sweater came off, exposing a sheer bra and the dark nipples underneath. The air smelled of pine cleaner, burned soup and Beckett’s lust. His breathing grew ragged as he watched her shed her shoes, her jeans. The glasses were removed, dropped on the nightstand near the bed.
Through the window, the Upper East Side slept quietly in their beds, a ship’s horn bleating, a truck honking and somewhere a siren screamed.
Beckett didn’t care. Tonight, the entire East River could burn and he wouldn’t budge from this place.
In his mind, he’d never considered a naked Phoebe. Yet there she was. The half-opened slats of the blinds pushed light into the darkness of her bedroom, her skin flashing gold, then shadows as she moved.
She walked forward, bare feet padding on the thick rug, and from the living room he could hear the crazed cackle of her parrot, scolding him. Still, his eyes didn’t stray. She was…not exactly beautiful, but something that fascinated him even more. The long, lean curve of her that ran from the high breast to the arch of her hips. His gaze drifted lower to the sleek muscles of her thighs. The dark shadow between.
When they were a whisper apart, Phoebe raised her head and stared, and those normally shielded, practical gray eyes were blurred with confusion. Beckett hated confusion, but his mind wasn’t thinking, or more likely, he didn’t want his mind to think. Furious, with her, with himself.
Complications and emotions. He could feel them swirling in the air, smelled it, stronger and more potent than the musky scent of desire. If they did this, they could never go back.
Complications and emotions.
There was a clanging in his brain. A bell. A foghorn.
A phone.
“Do you want me to answer that?”
NO! “You should,” he stammered. “Get that. Now.”
“Whatever you want, whatever you say,” she muttered. “Get the phone, Phoebe. I’ll get the phone, Phoebe.” As she walked, he watched the miraculous perfection that was her bare ass, until she selfishly wrapped herself in the duvet covers and picked up her phone. “WHAT?”
He nearly laughed, but then she would glare, so he kept quiet. Beckett needed the break. He was nervous and desperate—never a good combination. Fate had thrown a kink in their plans. Why the kink? Was fate trying to tell him that this was a bad idea? It hadn’t seemed like a bad idea earlier.
“Who wrote you?” Phoebe was talking into the phone. Without her glasses, she looked so different, so unsure. Okay, this was a bad idea. The duvet cover slipped, his eyes tracked the movement…
“Why didn’t she tell you her name?” Phoebe glanced at him, mouthed the word, Ian.
She was talking to Ian. Naked. She was naked, talking to Ian. Beckett tried to follow the conversation but naked kept getting in the way. He turned, futzed with the Family Guy DVDs on the dresser, doggedly studying the nefarious face of Stewie, knowing that behind every innocent expression lurked the mind of evil. Beckett looked at her reflection in the mirror, now doggedly studying the V between her breasts, and felt his tongue start to swell.
Her eyes met his, but she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She wouldn’t notice. Her brows furrowed. She noticed. Quickly he refocused on Stewie, because somewhere in the world, the Fates were laughing.
And if he didn’t get it, her parrot started cackling, as well.
She put her glasses on, her eyes magnified, the confusion magnified, his guilt magnified. Damn it.
No, he was above all this. Carefully he moved toward the bed, step by step, inch by inch, and then balanced precariously on the very edge. “What he’s saying?” he whispered.
Phoebe hit the mute button. “She e-mailed.”
“She didn’t give her name?” he asked, his mind resuming function.
“No name, no number, but he still set up the date. Jane Doe agreed.” Her voice was brisk, businesslike, as if nothing had ever happened. As if she wasn’t sitting there bare…
“No good,” he cut in. “What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided that Ian sounds like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if he shows up and she’s a serial killer, or like, a cow?”
Phoebe glared, and he sighed with relief. Okay, this felt normal. This felt right. She unmuted the phone. “Ian, listen. What if some other strange woman saw the listing and decided you sounded like an easy mark? Or worse yet, what if you show up, and she’s a serial killer, or umm…mean?” There was a pause. “No. I’m not channeling Beckett, thank you very much. I’m just concerned.”
Beckett beamed at her. Silently she shot him the finger.
“No, I don’t think she’s trying to protect herself. You’re not a serial killer.”
She sighed, bosom heaving. Beckett sighed, too, then looked away. “No, you couldn’t be a serial killer, Ian.”
Beckett