Sex Drive. Susan Lyons

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СКАЧАТЬ gray eyes. “Oh yeah. Beds. Who’d want too big or too small, when you can have just right?”

      “It was the chairs that were too big and too small,” I protested halfheartedly, remembering the story I’d read to Merilee a few times. “The beds were too hard and too soft.”

      “Ah, well…” The spark danced again. “Too soft definitely isn’t good. Too hard, though? Hmm, you’re the woman. Is there such a thing as too hard, when a gal’s in bed?”

      Oh my God. My cheeks flamed. This man was so out of my league it wasn’t funny.

      If I had any sense, I’d tell him not to be crude. Tell him to remove his hand from my neck, where he was caressing my nape in a way that sent more shivers of pleasure coursing through me. I’d pull out the exams and get back to being Dr. Fallon.

      Instead, I glanced at his lap. Under the fly of his jeans, an already impressive bulge was expanding. I forgot all about being Dr. Fallon and wondered what he’d look like naked, how he’d feel under my hand as my touch made him grow. Then, how he’d feel between my legs, where my long-neglected female parts had sprung to needy awareness.

      Oh God, this sexy, assured, experienced man truly was turned on by me. I’d never had such a sensation of pure female power. It gave me an unprecedented sense of sexual confidence.

      Trying to ignore my flaming cheeks, I said, “Too hard? Not in my experience.” Day didn’t need to know how limited that experience was.

      The flare of surprise in his eyes pleased me, and I went on. “Of course, as you pointed out, I’m an academic. Hypotheses need to be tested.”

      He laughed and his hand clasped my shoulder. “I’ll volunteer to assist with that test.”

      Oh God, what had I got myself into? Did he think I was offering to have sex with him? People did speak of the mile-high club…

      “Dinnertime.” It was Carmen, brisk and professional. “I’m taking orders. We’re starting with either Atlantic salmon tartare, pâté de foie gras, or wild mushroom soup. Then your choice of beef tenderloin with peppercorn sauce, coconut curried chicken, or bug salad with mango-ginger dressing.”

      “Bugs,” I said. I loved the crustaceans, with their taste somewhere between crab and lobster. “And the salmon tartare, please.”

      “The mushroom soup for starters,” Day said, “and I’ll have bugs as well. And wine. Last time I flew, there was a Lenton Brae Sauvignon Blanc?”

      “We have it.” Snidely, she added, “You’re ordering for your fiancée as well, of course?”

      He glanced at me. “Sugar, does that wine sound good to you?”

      I didn’t know the wine, but played along. “Of course, sweetie.” Gathering my courage, pleased to have an excuse to touch Day, I leaned into him and pressed a kiss to his T-shirt-clad shoulder, absorbing an amazing jolt of heat and energy.

      Hmm. If kissing his shoulder through cotton was that powerful an experience, what would lips to lips be like? I had a growing—let’s face it, irresistible—need to know.

      Carmen handed us warm, damp towels and departed.

      After I’d wiped my face—a benefit of not wearing makeup—and hands, and placed the towel on my tray table, I said to Day, “What’s the wine?”

      “It’s from the Margaret River region. Dry, crisp, kind of lemony, a hint of spicy oak. Should go well with the bugs and appies.”

      Hmm. He was getting more interesting by the moment. A hot-looking guy with a dragon tattoo who was a wine connoisseur. And flew business class. For the first time, I wondered what he did for a living. I was about to ask when his lips quirked up at one corner and he said, “Sweetie? You called me sweetie?”

      “You called me sugar.”

      “It popped into my mind. Because you’re so sweet, and all,” he teased. “So, d’you call all your guys sweetie?”

      “No.” I’d called Jeffrey “dear” occasionally, but mostly used his name. I wasn’t the endearment type. I gave Day a saccharine smile. “Only you, sweetie.”

      He laughed. “I like you, you know that?”

      “I’d kind of hoped so.” I paused a beat. “Since we’re engaged and all.”

      “Speaking of which.” He lifted his flute, which had an inch of champagne in the bottom. “Shouldn’t we have a toast to our upcoming…”

      I raised mine, too. “Nuptials?”

      Slowly, eyes gleaming, Day shook his head. “Not what I had in mind.” He clicked his glass gently against mine, then lifted it and drained the contents in one swallow.

      “So I’m supposed to drink a toast to whatever you had in mind?” All the same, hand trembling as I lifted the glass, I did it. It wasn’t a promise I’d have sex with him, only a promise to…What?

      To play his game, which I had to admit I was enjoying even though it made me nervous. Not to mention aroused. He’d banished my headache, made me forget about work, and also, I suddenly realized, made me forget to phone my sister Jenna.

      Now I seized on the excuse to distance myself a little, to let some of the sexual tension dissipate. “Oh, gosh, I need to make a call.” Jenna should be home by now. Alone? Yesterday she’d said she had broken up with the surfer guy she’d followed to Santa Cruz. She hadn’t sounded heartbroken, but that was no surprise. For Jenna, relationships were about having fun while they lasted, not about the long term.

      “Go ahead.” Day gestured to the onboard phone, then lay back, eyes closed.

      I took a moment to admire the length of his legs, the press of firm thighs against worn denim, the bulge at his groin that had receded since Carmen’s arrival but was still impressive. His forearms rested on the arms of his seat, firm and tanned, sprinkled with black hair. My fingers itched to touch his arm. Among other bodily parts.

      I dialed my sister’s number and waited. After several rings, I was readying myself to leave another voice mail, when I heard her voice, breathless. “’Lo?”

      “Hello, Jenna, it’s Theresa.” I curled sideways in my seat, away from Day. Not only for the illusion of privacy, but to avoid the distraction offered by his hunky body.

      “Hey, sis. Call display didn’t show your name.”

      “I’m on the plane. Did I wake you?”

      “Nope. Just got in. There was a beach party. So, you’re on your way home?”

      “Didn’t you get my e-mail? I said I’d get a flight Sunday night.”

      “Is this Sunday?”

      “I think it’s Saturday night there.” The time differences did get confusing, even for efficient me. As for Jenna, she’d so rarely held a regular job, the days of the week held little significance to her. Nor did keeping track of time. Or keeping track of much of anything. How paradoxical that she’d chosen to participate in a count-the-falcons survey.

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