The Wild Side. Isabel Sharpe

grimaced. “Something like that.”

      “But why?” She practically shouted the word. What on earth had Rose told him?

      “I thought you were playing a role. That this was all a game.”

      “I’m not, Riley. It’s not a game, I promise.” One more tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. He watched until it slid into the corner of her mouth, then stood, lifting her to her feet, and kissed her. Only this was nothing like the kissing he’d done before. Nothing mean or messy or punishing. This kiss was sweet, gentle, languorous, tasting the tear that had fallen on her lips, taking his time getting to know the shape of her mouth, each corner; each lip tugged, tasted, explored.

      She pressed herself against him, shocked to feel him hard between them. Oh, man. He wanted her. A guy like this. She could scarcely take it in. He wanted her.

      He led her over to the couch, sat and pulled her down across his lap, still kissing her as if he didn’t intend to stop for the rest of the evening. She sank against him, totally carried away by the man and his mouth, and managed only a slight moan of protest when he kissed a line from her lips to her throat and back along her jaw to behind her ear. His hands came up under her skirt, over her thighs, skimmed and settled on the mound of her sex through her panties.

      Arousal seared through her; she gasped and arched up instinctively for more pressure, shocked by his boldness, shocked by her own. The nerves of the last few hours, the raw fear and subsequent safety, had fueled her; she’d never been this hot, this ready in such a short time. With his warm hand against her, she was burning nearly out of control, panting like an animal. If he touched her, she’d die. If he didn’t, she’d die faster.

      He pushed his hand under her panties, incredibly warm, incredibly strong, incredibly sure. She opened her legs shamelessly and shut her eyes, aware he was watching her face, but not wanting to be aware of anything except the need his touch aroused in her body. He found her wetness, slid his finger inside, then started a light regular stroking in and out, rubbing her gently with his thumb, stopping now and then to tease and dip inside her again.

      Melissa lost herself. She was gone. Nowhere. Nothing existed except the unfamiliar fingers of this man’s hand on and inside her, and the sensations he was making her feel. She squirmed against the coming climax, put it off, clenched her thighs to make him slow down. She wanted to feel like this forever.

      He resisted, urged her on, pushed inside with two fingers, rubbed harder until she fell apart, gave in, let the burning current wash over her, let her muscles contract helplessly around his fingers, then subside.

      She opened her eyes to find him still watching her, an incredulous expression on his face, the measuring look back in his eyes.

      Melissa slid off his lap and fell onto the sofa beside him, dazed and flushed with passion, suddenly aware of how crazed she’d become, and embarrassed by it. How the hell could she let a stranger bring her so completely out of herself? Nothing even approaching that had ever happened to her.

      She drew her hands down her face and throat and smiled at him shyly. “That was…nice.” The word came out as the ridiculous understatement it was, which made him smile wryly. She glanced at his erection, which was making his lap a thing of beauty and astonishing magnitude. “Uh, can I…I mean, shouldn’t I…do something for you?”

      “No, thanks.” He got up and adjusted himself under his pants. “I put you through a rough start tonight. I deserve to suffer.”

      “I don’t mind, really. I can—”

      “It’s okay.” He pulled her to her feet, brushed aside her bangs and released her. “I ought to get going.”

      “Oh.” Melissa wrapped her arms around herself, shocked at his abrupt departure, then chided herself the next second. What did she expect? Affectionate nuzzling for three hours? “Okay.”

      He paused at the door, one hand on the knob on his way out. “When would you like to meet again?”

      “Uh…” Her mind raced. Would now be too soon? Would he think she was too desperate if she suggested tomorrow or the next day? How long could she stand waiting for another adventure with him?

      “Same time tomorrow?”

      Yes! “That sounds…” She cringed. “I can’t tomorrow. I have to work. Day after is fine, though.”

      She cleared her husky throat, trying to act as normal as possible scheduling sex with someone she’d just been intimate with and didn’t know at all, when her insides were singing the “Star Spangled Banner” because he wanted to see her again so soon.

      “Okay.” He smiled under intense, serious eyes. “Day after tomorrow. See you then.”

      Melissa waved and closed the door, then turned and leaned back against it, eyes closed, mouth curved in a sappy, happy grin.

      On impulse, she rushed to the window and watched until she saw him come out of the building and walk down Garden Street, confident, graceful, masculine. Until he went around the corner and disappeared.

      Melissa straightened and slowly closed the window. Rose’s unfamiliar, ultrafeminine apartment felt suddenly still and close and empty behind her.

      Okay, Melissa. You asked for this and you got it. No strings. Just the physical. Just what you said you wanted.

      She wrapped her arms around herself, lonely and bereft and unsatisfied in spite of the most amazing orgasm she’d ever experienced. What was the matter with her? She should be springing off the walls with self-satisfied happiness. She’d passed the test. She was desirable. He’d passed the test: he was so desirable as to redefine desirable. She’d have her fling, learn everything she could, explore her wild side and build up that stockpile of sensual memories she could draw on when Mr. Right and she were bored to death of each other.