Getting Lucky. Avril Tremayne

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СКАЧАТЬ otherwise do to her! Because he would never have mistaken his Romy’s breathless Matt, please as an invitation to enact that shameful scene in his head when it was really nothing more than a plea to stop his rampaging dick from stabbing her in the stomach—and thank God she hadn’t called him on that but had taken pity on him by blaming a mythical case of jet lag for the whole damn disaster.

      And okay, taking the blame for him was something his Romy would do, which meant she really was his Romy and his alien abduction theory therefore was a bust.

      The only other explanation for this whole phenomenon was that it was an aberration brought on by his two-week sexual hiatus—and the fact he’d lasted two weeks without sex, ever since Romy’s phone call, was the equivalent of him being abducted by aliens and replaced with a choirboy version of himself!

      Matthew Carter a choirboy? Now, that was an aberration.

      As he’d hurried into the library and manhandled his chair into the best position for hiding the beast in his jeans under the desk—not without a certain amount of cursing and desk-related violence—he’d decided it probably wasn’t unusual for sex addicts to crave the first available person they saw during periods of deprivation. Didn’t mean he was going to act on it, though. He’d been keeping Romy safe from his perversions for ten whole fucking years and that’s how things were going to stay if he had to lock a chastity belt onto her himself!

      What the hell was keeping her, anyway? They should be halfway through her first document by now. The tedium of paperwork would put a stop to any weird-ass sexual cravings, so he wanted those damn documents stat! Bring them all on, the whole fucking briefcase full!

      He checked the time on his cell phone. She couldn’t be lost between the entrance hall and the library—only one door in the corridor was open and she’d have to see not only the glow of the lights but feel the heat from the monstrous fucking fireplace that was slowly stewing him in his own juice.

      Maybe he should go and find her.

      Take her by the hand...lead her upstairs...into his bedroom...strip her...lie her across the bed. Ash-brown hair tangled on his pillow...eyes a glitter of hazel from beneath those heavy, tilted lids that made her look perpetually, deceptively sleepy...mouth slightly open as she panted for him...tongue darting to lick her top lip...breasts round and heavy...beige nipples jutting proudly...thighs opening to reveal her pink, juicy core...waiting for his fingers...his tongue...his cock. A whimper, a moan, as he slid inside her...clenching around him...hips rising to meet his thrusts...

      Oh God, he wanted to come...needed to come.

      His heart was thudding the way it had in the entrance hall when he’d had his arms around her, his shoulders tightening, thighs clamping, his dick straining for release. And then the hairs on the back of his neck vibrated themselves upright as though a lover’s finger were trailing down his spine, and he realized he was no longer on his own in the room.

      He focused his eyes on his cell phone, counting out the seconds, willing himself to get it together before turning to confirm Romy’s presence behind him... aaand go...

      He swiveled his chair, and lust rushed at him like a bullet. He wanted to suck the breath out of her, rip the clothes off her, lick the scent from her skin.

      What the fuck was happening to him?

      “Sorry to make you wait,” she said, her trying-but-not-quite-making-it smile telling him she felt his tension. “I had to call Lennie to report on last night’s restaurant.”

      She’d taken off her overcoat, and when she paused on her way to the desk to drape it over a chair he saw what she meant about bursting out of her clothes—her bodice was skintight, and she looked ripe as a ready-to-eat-immediately peach. He really didn’t think he was going to survive tonight.

      “It’s two in the morning in London,” he said, the snap in his voice a symptom of his overwrought edginess.

      “So?”

      “So don’t try telling me you called Lennie.” Not that it was anything to him if she called Lennie at two in the fucking morning.

      “I...I did,” she said, and blushed, defensive. “Chef’s hours. I couldn’t have called him any earlier.”

      “Yeah, well, Lennie’s an asshole, expecting you to report in after every meal,” he grumbled, and swiveled his chair back to the desk, because the blush pissed him off and he didn’t want to see it. Not that it was anything to him who she blushed over, but she shouldn’t be blushing over Lennie of all people. “You’re a restaurant consultant not a slave.”

      She’d reached the desk and took her seat, holding her briefcase on her lap as though it were that chastity belt he’d told himself she needed. “You know I have to jump when he says jump.”

      “I know you can’t trust a guy who fricassees garden snails,” Matt said, because he didn’t trust Lennie. Lennie thought he owned her.

      She gave an agitated little huff that told him he was being a dick. “And here I was thinking you might have given up burgers for escargot.”

      “Why would I do that?”

      “The house...this room.” She looked around. “Your tastes have changed.”

      “It’s just a library.”

      “Yes, and it’s very library-like,” she said, looking around again. “Hmm. It reminds me of the library in Teague’s family’s place in the Hamptons. All those shelves full of...of books.”

      “Hel-lo! Library!”

      “Yes but the chairs, tables, Persian rugs, velvet curtains. That fireplace! Big enough to incinerate an elephant!” She laughed, but it sounded forced. “Remember that time we were all invited to the Hamptons for the Hamiltons’ Fourth of July ball? Even Veronica was wowed by the library!”

      “You went into raptures over it, too, so what’s the problem here?”

      She grimaced—grimaced! What the fuck!

      “I just...wondered if you’d bought the place already furnished, that’s all,” she said.

      “Why? Because I don’t have Teague’s good taste?”

      “Well, you don’t, actually. Nobody does! But what I meant was that not even you could get all this done in a week.”

      “Oh.” He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious that it hadn’t been furnished, that he’d hired people to do it, that he’d told them to copy Teague’s style and to get it ready in a week in time for Romy’s visit. The library, the kitchen, two bedrooms—his and a spare in case she decided to stay—and an outdoor table, two chairs and a patio heater so they could eat breakfast on the deck tomorrow, because the deck wasn’t as oppressive as the rest of this fucking ginormous house. And now it felt all wrong. “Look, are we going to spend the night talking about decor or can we get on with the business at hand?”

      “Okay!” She huffed a breath in and out as she pulled a sheaf of pages out of her briefcase and put the briefcase on the floor beside her chair. And then she frowned at him. “You know all this paperwork is only to help you make an informed decision, right? I’m not here СКАЧАТЬ