Nightcap. Kathleen O'Reilly
“Do you know how many different kisses there are?” Sean asked.
“Two. French and everything else.” Cleo hadn’t been big on kissing because it never failed—she’d be in the middle of some lothario’s embrace, and her mind would be racing ahead to the next day’s to-do list. Nope. At least with sex, there was serious action. Now that, she could handle.
“There are forty-three different kinds of kisses,” he told her. “Now, I know you’re thinking that I’m coming onto you here, and I am, but I have a more altruistic motive. You really need to learn how to kiss.”
Cleo pushed the hair back from her eyes and polished off her martini. Time to lay her cards on the table and correct his misguided notions. “Look, I know you want to have sex with me, and I want to have sex with you, so you don’t need to waste a lot of oxygen on getting me ready.”
He looked at her, his gaze dark and intense, full of all those things she wanted to taste, but then it faded. Gone in an instant. “You are such a virgin,” he quipped.
“Try me.” Her voice was a whisper. Husky and rough. She didn’t want his jokes. She wanted his hands on her. He wanted his hands on her. It was there in his face, his eyes, the hard line twisting his mouth, the hard line tenting his slacks.
Breathless, she waited, and he leaned in…
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Nightcap by Kathleen O’Reilly
Kathleen O’Reilly is an award-winning author of several romance novels, pursuing her life-long goal of sleeping late, creating a panty-hose-free work environment, and entertaining readers all over the world. She lives in New York with her husband, two children and one rabbit. She loves to hear from her readers via www.kathleenoreilly.com or by mail at PO Box 312, Nyack, NY 10960, USA.
NIGHTCAP
BY
KATHLEEN O’REILLY
MILLS & BOON
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1
CLEO HOLLINGS, DEPUTY MAYOR of New York City, glanced at her watch and groaned. Six o’clock. She needed sleep, needed sleep desperately. The city’s transit strike was wearing her down, her mind manically bouncing from stalled wage negotiations to her stalled love life, and she didn’t need to be thinking about her stalled love life. She needed sleep. Four days without it would cause anyone to get a little loopy. Only a few minutes, what would it hurt?
Gently Cleo nudged aside the massive piles of paperwork, lowering her head, her cheek nuzzling against the desk. Slowly she was lost in the sleep she so desperately desired, lost in her dreams where the impossible became possible, and the men were the stuff of legends….
THE DESERT SUN BURNED high in the sky, but here inside the great marbled walls of City Hall, she was comfortably cool. Her loyal guards waved their palm fronds and took turns offering her sips of water from diamond-encrusted goblets and feeding her the sweetest grapes on the eastern coast. Alas, her respite was soon over, and it was time for the duties that were demanded of the Empress of the East River. Majestically the trumpets’ fanfare echoed as Cleo walked to the throne. As always, the needs of the city beckoned, and it was time to attend her subjects.
Her guards were ten thousand strong. Their blue transit worker uniforms a testament to their loyalty to their ruler and their city. Reverently they parted, letting her pass, and her eyes noted a newcomer’s arrival with interest.
This one was worthy.
She knew it by the challenge in his mocking eyes. The man believed he could tame her—she, who ruled all of New York.
There were few men in the world that could satisfy her; however, she greeted each day with fresh optimism. When your name was Cleopatra, expectations were understandably high.
Slowly he advanced toward her throne, stalking her as effortlessly as a lion seeks prey, his bare feet making no sound in the great room. His eyes were deep-brown pools that dared her to run, but surely he knew better. Cleo never ran. Gracefully, he knelt before her with athletic ease, but he didn’t lower his head in homage as men always did. Rather, his gaze never left her face, and promised her the world.
Many men had already come and tried to woo her. Their pretty words were nothing but broken promises. Their token greeting cards were trite and flowery. They plied her with the nectar from fermented grapes, but she knew those games. This…this arrogance, this power was new.
Cleo was intrigued.
She stood slowly, rising over him, letting him know his place in her world.
His coiled strength was unmistakable while he remained on bended knee. The hard muscles of his shoulders were tantalizingly displayed beneath the thin cloth of his toga. Strong, potent thighs supported his weight as he knelt, the tendons tight, drawing her eyes. Her fingers stirred, eager to touch. Yet Cleo stayed immobile. This was her palace, her city, her country, and she ruled them with an iron hand that never showed weakness or mercy.
His hand reached out, as if daring to touch her, and one of her guards leaped forward, lethal spear at the ready. To touch her without invitation meant certain death, but she could not kill such a magnificent animal. Rashly, she dismissed the guards, ten thousand men who obeyed her every command. They turned to depart, their booted heels echoed in unison. As they were marching out, she admired this one’s dark head, noting the silken hair and the tantalizing aroma of…Issey Miyake cologne. It was her favorite, never failing to kindle her desires.
Even while supplicated before her, his arrogant mouth inched up at the corner.
The dastardly man knew.
Once the last of the guards disappeared, the hall stood empty and they were alone. His mouth inched up even higher, yet he did not rise. Boldly, his hand slipped through the slit in her gown, and moved to her thigh, not asking for permission or approval, taking. The slight touch burned through her veins, searing her blood. His fingers were hard, rough but well schooled in the art of pleasure, stroking her like a cat, arousing a purr that rumbled through her nerves like the Seventh Avenue subway at rush hour. Cleo was pleased, relaxed and most of all, happy.
Men brought her gifts. No man brought her happiness.
For that alone, she would let him live.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“A common peasant,”