The Elliotts: Secret Affairs. Susan Crosby
was good, John, but emotionally charged. We need to remember that. Make it real, instead of …”
“Surreal.”
“Exactly. A fantasy, nothing more.”
“And a one-time thing.” He added the tiniest inflection at the end, turning the phrase into a question if she chose to hear it that way.
“Absolutely.” Definite. Certain. No question.
He looked away. He had his answer. “Okay. I’m glad we cleared that up.”
“Me, too.”
He shifted a little. “I didn’t use protection.”
“We both got carried away. But there’s no problem.”
“Good. Great.” He stood. “I’ll go, then.”
He heard her follow him. The air seemed thick. Breathing took effort. He turned when he reached the door, wishing he could read her mind.
“Is there something else you want?” she asked, reaching toward him then pulling back.
“You,” he answered, catching her hand, tugging her toward him. “I want you.”
“John ….” There was hunger in her voice, need in her eyes.
Then they were in each other’s arms, kissing, moaning, hands wandering, bodies pressing. She tipped her head back as he dragged his mouth down her neck, her robe separating, revealing her naked body, warm and dewy, as if she’d just stepped out of the bath.
“You’re all I’ve thought about,” he said just before drawing a nipple into his mouth, cupping the most feminine part of her with his hand. “You. This.”
“Me, too.” Her voice was deep, breathy. “Come with me.”
He went willingly into her bedroom. Lights were on full. Sketches were everywhere—tacked on corkboard on the wall, scattered over the floor, even on the bed, an unmade jumble of linens. She swept the papers away.
They drifted to the floor, as did her pale blue robe, pooling around her feet, making her look like a goddess rising from the sea.
He jerked his sweater over his head, got rid of his shoes and socks. He touched his belt. She brushed his hands away and undid it, all the while looking at his face. Her color was high, her cheekbones sharp, her eyes a deeper green. Her lips were swollen from kissing, and parted slightly. He felt his slacks drop to the floor and kicked them away. Then she hooked his briefs and tugged. As she knelt to remove them, her hair brushed his abdomen, then his thighs, his shins.
He dug his fingers into her scalp, pulled her hair into his fists, squeezed his eyes shut. A month of fantasies became reality. Hell, not just a month, a lifetime, but a month of specific fantasies about one particular woman.
When her exploration became more daring, he pulled her up, moved her back and made her stretch out on the bed. He wanted to drag it out, make it last, but he lost all sense of control and finesse. He plunged into her. She arched into him. His body blasted apart in a long series of hot, explosive, rhythmic sensations. She clenched him from inside and climaxed with him, her face contorted, her mouth open. Then their movements slowed … stopped. He rolled over, taking her along. She stretched out on top of him and he wrapped her close.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Scarlet had spent the better part of the past month—months, really—convincing herself that she didn’t love John, that she’d merely been infatuated because he was so different, attentive to Summer in ways that no man had been attentive to her. She’d been envious, that was all, and had created a fantasy about him. Now she was back at square one. Because she did love him.
Now, how could she keep him in her life long enough for those feelings to run their course? Obviously absence hadn’t helped. And obviously they couldn’t go public. People would assume that John and Summer had slept together, so the idea of Scarlet sleeping with her sister’s ex-fiancé was—She couldn’t even come up with the right words.
Appearances were important, especially for John, personally and professionally. And while Scarlet had a reputation, such a liaison with John would be beyond her usual outrageousness. How could they get past that? Not to mention him coming in contact with Summer.
And also not to mention she was probably a kind of substitute for her sister, a way to end his curiosity about her. Why else would he have come on this strong? He would certainly want closure; she would, in his shoes. Since he’d missed out on a physical relationship with Summer, having one with Scarlet could give him closure. Of sorts.
The thought that she and Summer might be interchangeable in his mind made her a little sick to her stomach. But maybe he wasn’t thinking that way at all. Maybe she was just imagining it.
So, now what? It seemed to Scarlet they needed to let the attraction burn in a controlled environment or it might be a bank of embers forever, taking on too much importance as time passed, always waiting to flare.
She had an idea ….
“Do you still want lessons?” she asked, burrowing against him, not wanting to see his face.
His arms tightened around her, and he drew a long breath, as if she’d awakened him. “Lessons?”
“Last time you asked for help honing your skills.”
“You said I didn’t need lessons.”
“Not in bed. But you could learn something about being more romantic if you want to woo a woman into bed … in the regular way.”
After a long, drawn-out moment of silence, he rolled to his side with her, then propped himself on an elbow to look her in the eyes. His were filled with humor. His dimples deepened. “Woo?”
She shoved his shoulder as he laughed, apparently at her use of such an old-fashioned term. “You have to admit you could use lessons.”
His smile faded some. “I admit it. Instinct doesn’t seem to be serving me well. Except—” he slid a hand down her back and pulled her closer “—where you’re concerned.”
“Only in regards to sex, then.” She knew he didn’t return her feelings.
“No stronger instinct, is there?”
She shrugged.
He stroked her hair, tucked it behind her ear. “So, you’d be willing to advise me on how to properly woo a woman? What would that entail?”
Lots of time together. Lots of touching. Lots of—”Lessons,” she said instead.
“Homework?”
She hadn’t thought about that. He would have to experiment on other women, to see if the lessons worked. That would never do. “You’ll practice on me. If you can make me fall under your spell, then you know it can work on any woman.”
“She says humbly.”
“I’m not being egotistical. I’m just immune to the games of most men.”
“What happens if you do fall under my spell?”
She had no answer for that. She’d dug a ditch she couldn’t climb out of, however.
“Seems to me this is a game with potentially disastrous outcomes,” he said.
“Or fun ones.” She laid a hand along his face. “It’s very selfish, I suppose, to want this.”
“But if we’re both in agreement, what’s the harm?”
“We’re adults, after all.”
He said nothing for a few seconds, then seemed to relax. “When would we start?”
“Sometime when we’re dressed.”
He grinned. “In the meantime …” He hooked a leg over hers, bringing her closer