Naughty By Nature. Jule McBride
suddenly realized that even though she was practically in his arms, she no longer had any effect on him physically. That was weird. Just a few hours ago, the simplest touch had aroused him beyond compare. Had the sparks already burned out? The magic vanished?
His fingers curled more possessively over her shoulders, and he bit back a curse, wanting to recapture those feelings and wishing she’d quit staring behind him. Last night’s intimacy was serious stuff, but was she really so shy that she couldn’t even look him in the eye this morning? Suddenly, he froze. From behind him, he could swear he heard the covers rustle, but that was impossible.
Lucy’s in front of me, he thought. He was touching her, so he knew he wasn’t dreaming. No, somebody else was in the room! Just as another rustle sounded, he realized that Lucy’s dress felt as cold as ice. Maybe she really had come from outside. In tandem with a missed beat of his heart, Morgan’s eyes widened, and very slowly, he turned and craned his neck to stare at the bed.
Behind him, the covers wiggled. Because of the print on the sheets and duvet, bright blue waves seemed to be undulating and pink whales seemed to be swimming as whoever was buried under there punched their way out. Quickly, Morgan tried to tell himself that he, not the covers, was moving. He’d almost convinced himself that he was just woozy from having too much great sex when, with mounting horror, he saw evidence that he’d slept with someone other than Lucy.
Her hand appeared first.
Slender, pale and long-fingered, it groped over the pillow, extending French-manicured nails that Morgan instinctively knew had left the welts pleasantly tingling on his shoulders. When the covers were whisked back, bare skin flashed right before a whale and cresting wave respectively were pressed to breasts that were definitely smaller than Lucy’s.
No WonderBra was involved, after all. A blue turban was half tangled in hair that was plastered to a head with dried green goop the color of split pea soup, but Morgan barely noticed that because his worst fears had just been realized. He was staring at the lust machine with whom he’d spent the night.
“Three words,” he whispered.
It’s Vanessa Verne.
2
LATER, VANESSA would curse herself for not throwing Morgan out of Lucy’s bedroom immediately, but when she dragged herself from wildly sensual dreams, punched her way out of the covers and saw him standing there stark naked, her response was to feel so soft, warm and female that the hands clutching the sheet to her breasts loosened a fraction and her throat constricted, aching with emotion. Had she really spent the night in those strong arms? Pressed to that naked, muscular, hairy body that had a temperature hotter than molten lava?
Later, after Vanessa fully registered how Morgan felt about her, she’d berate herself for feeling shivers prickling between her shoulder blades at that moment and she’d deny she sighed wistfully while staring with unchecked adoration at the dark, devilish and very naked angel who’d shamelessly pleasured her until dawn.
He had rich, brown-black hair that curled like chocolate shavings on the world’s most delectable dessert. He had dangerously dark, gleaming eyes. For a second, everything in their expression said he enjoyed last night’s fall from grace, but then the look vanished, leaving only high cheekbones. Long smooth cheeks. A straight nose and a mouth that was by turns petulant or bemused. An indentation in a rounded chin as if gently pressed there by a loving thumb.
Even in dark lackluster suits, Morgan Fine was…well, fine, but now he was stripped to the buff and towering over Lucy, one of his huge, strong hands enveloping her shoulder. His bare skin was sleek and glowing, except where wild black hair erupted, looking far coarser than Vanessa recalled it feeling against her fingertips. Inhaling sharply, she averted her gaze, since it landed where he was unabashedly exposed…
Meet me in broad daylight, he’d said.
“Indeed,” whispered Vanessa, her eyes widening.
Suddenly she realized Lucy was trying to inch away from his grasp. “Uh, hi, Vanessa,” Lucy managed to say.
Lucy! Only now did Vanessa register that, when they’d made love, Morgan thought she was Lucy! Not that the misunderstanding would matter, she assured herself—she and Morgan had been so perfect together—but Vanessa felt self-conscious. She was still nude in Lucy’s bed, and when she casually raised a hand to her hair—realizing in the process she’d broken a nail—she dislodged the turban, which fell to the mattress. Wincing, she gingerly probed the green-coated strands of hair plastered to her head and almost groaned out loud. Why had she chosen last night, of all nights, to use this overnight conditioner? And why did it happen to be the same green color as aliens from Mars?
Feeling like a cross between Lisa Kudrow in a screwball comedy and Medusa, she hoped she didn’t look too ridiculous, but it was hard to gauge Morgan’s reaction. Only his eyes moved, following dried green dust as it sprinkled from her hair, flaking over her bare shoulders. Otherwise, he remained stock-still, each of his stone-hard, well-toned muscles tense.
Lucy cleared her throat loudly, as if trying to retrieve her voice from as far away as the stratosphere. “Hey,” she suggested in an overly bright tone. “Why don’t I leave you two alone? I bet you’d like to talk!”
There was a long, otherworldly silence as if the planet had spun to a stop on its axis. And then Morgan growled, “Oh, no, you don’t, Lucy. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here.”
Ignoring his commanding tone, Lucy stepped backward, attempting an escape toward the stairs to the kitchen, but Morgan flexed his fingers and tightened the grip on her shoulder in a way Vanessa imagined had to hurt. Still groggy from lack of sleep and confused because he didn’t seem to want to be alone with her, Vanessa rapidly blinked, another thrill coursing through her when she saw all the empty condom packets strewn across the red carpet.
“Roll out the red carpet,” she whispered in shock, more images of last night racing back to her. That many condoms? Drawing a wavering breath, she counted five. Feeling renewed awe over Morgan’s unparalleled virility, she made a mental note to thank Lucy for stocking the drawer in the bedside table so adequately. There would be a special thanks for the ribbed condoms, which, from reading the wrappers, Vanessa now knew came in neon colors. Yes, she and Morgan had definitely added new meaning to the phrase rainbow coalition.
“Vanessa?” Lucy prompted. “Are you awake yet?”
“Huh?” Vanessa’s eyes bounced from the condom packets to Morgan, who stared back as if he’d never seen her before. That didn’t bode well. When she averted her gaze, biding her time, she was staring through the windows. Someone had pulled back heavy red velvet drapes, and outside, the winter sky was milky-white. Water had frozen in a fountain on the lawn, and snow flurries were lazily falling through bare tree branches. Two floodlights, which were on an automatic timer, snapped off.
But what was happening in here? Vanessa was starting to wake up. Just a minute ago, hadn’t Morgan announced he cared about her? Yes, she recalled, still rousing herself from the dazed, stuporous afterglow left by his lovemaking. He’d said theirs was the best sex he’d ever had. The kind of passion, he’d assured, that kept people together forever.
Vanessa’s thoughts exactly. But the atmosphere had changed. Snuggled under the covers, listening to Morgan’s compliments, she’d felt ecstatic, but she’d better face facts. Morgan had meant to sleep with Lucy. Glancing over her shoulder and judging the distance to Lucy’s bathroom, where she’d left her clothes, Vanessa considered making a run for it. Maybe she could lock herself in there until Morgan left. Or at least wear something other than this sheet while they addressed the misunderstanding.
It was a lost opportunity, however. Morgan, who was still staring at her dumbly, hoarsely said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Verne. Honestly. I had no idea it was you.”
And clearly, if he had, he wouldn’t have slept with her. Vanessa exhaled shakily. What did he expect her to say? That she was sorry, too? She wasn’t, so she settled on saying,