Beyond Seduction. Kathleen O'Reilly

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      ACROSS TOWN ON THE LOWER EAST SIDE, Mercedes was back in her apartment, which wasn’t exactly an apartment, more like a closet with living accessories. The tiny studio had a couch that folded into a bed—when she took the trouble to pull it out. Other amenities included a sink, a one-burner stove, and a half-height refrigerator. At least the bathroom had a tub, her one necessity in life.

      She punched the answering machine button and got a message from Andreas.

      “Hey, Mercedes, listen, something’s come up tonight, so I won’t be by. We’ll talk later. You’re the best.”

      She hit the erase button with a little more force than necessary, mainly because of the music playing in the background. Okay, he wasn’t the world’s best boyfriend. Actually she didn’t even call him her boyfriend because that would imply some level of emotional foreplay in their relationship, and there was none.

      Andreas was like so many guys in the world, not really interested in anything but a good time. Mercedes didn’t let it bother her. She wrote erotic fiction, after all, and could chalk the whole relationship up to research and not lose a bit of sleep. Of course, that would imply she didn’t lose sleep, which she did. More than she would admit to anybody.

      A single woman today was supposed to be hard and emotionless when it came to love and sex, and Mercedes wanted that. When you felt nothing, you didn’t hurt, you didn’t bleed. After almost ten years of rejections from publishers, it was helpful to grow a thick hide and let the slings and arrows of the world bounce off of you. But sometimes an arrow got through the castle walls, and that’s when it was time for a bath—with lavender-scented bubbles to ease the pain away.

      Mercedes drew the hot water, pipes clanking as always, and poured in the magic liquid. Quickly she shed her clothes and slipped into the one place where she could hide from the rest of the world. She leaned her head back against the ancient cast-iron tub and closed her eyes. Her dreams weren’t easy ones. She wanted to hit the New York Times list, somehow, someway, somewhere.

      She supposed her life would be less stressful if she wasn’t so ambitious but her mother had always encouraged big dreams. Mercedes had always wanted to be a writer, to explore the depths of humanity. The good, the evil, and the sexual. When she started the sex blog, the Red Choo Diaries, it’d been a lark. A way to make a name for herself without having the publishing credits that were required, and make a name she did. The blog had gotten her an agent and a two-book deal. And as a bonus, her brothers had found true love because of the blog. Everyone was happily involved except for her.

      The water enveloped her, and she tucked a warm washcloth over her eyes, breathing in the gentle scent. Eventually her body was in another place, a place where her stories lived. That dark, mysterious world were lovers had no faces, and fantasy sex would always be better than reality sex.

      Her fingers began to explore the map of her body she had memorized early on. Hiding beneath the bubbles, she could soothe the place between her thighs. While she pleasured herself, she didn’t think of Andreas, or Nick, or Alex or any of the lovers she’d had.

      Her lover didn’t have a name, only the hard hands that she wrote about in her book, the long body she yearned to explore, and the intense eyes that made her want. They would be hazel eyes, green and brown swirled together like watercolors in the rain. Eyes that flashed gold when impassioned, and calmed to the color of summer leaves when they were at peace.

      Her body rose in time with his, and the soothing lavender scent only sharpened the molten throbbing at her center. He moved faster within her, a quicksilver image that was not quite real, yet more than a dream. She wanted to touch him, wanted to kiss his mouth, test the heat of his skin, but he was always just beyond her reach.

      Right then the phone rang, and Mercedes almost didn’t bother, but an unanswered phone was like an unscratched Super Match For Millions ticket.

      “Hello,” she answered, trying not to be peeved. The person on the other end didn’t need to know they’d interrupted a climax in progress. Although if it was a telemarketing call, her peeve was going to be out in full force.

      “Mercedes Brooks?” asked a voice. A resonant, confident, sexy voice.

      “Yes?”

      “Sam Porter.”

      Sam! Mercedes fumbled to keep the towel and the phone in place. “Hello, Sam,” she purred, sounding completely poised. Mercedes could fake it like the rest of them.

      “So, has your brother hit anybody else recently?”

      Oh. “I was hoping you’d forgotten.” It’d been almost a year since her brother, Jeff, had punched Sam out on live TV when she’d been a guest on his show. A few mistaken impressions, a bunch of wrong words. Not a high moment in her life.

      “No, the jaw still aches sometimes.”

      “You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”

      “Probably not.”

      “You insulted the woman he loves. What would you have done?”

      “The celebrated gossip of tawdry celebrities was the topic of the show. I don’t pull my punches.”

      “Neither does he,” Mercedes said proudly. “So why did you call?”

      “We’re shooting in San Francisco next week, and I was wondering if you’d want to come on the show.”

      Ca-ching! Mercedes squeezed her fingers on the towel to keep from squealing. Never a smooth move. He wanted her on the show? Not the perfect audience for erotica, but hey, she wasn’t going to complain, with her book just hitting the shelves. Mercedes did a short happy dance before regaining her poise. “What day were you thinking?”

      “We’d have you on Thursday night. Fly you out there on Thursday, fly back on Friday. The show would pick up the tab.”

      Such mundane words, in such a lustrous voice. Soft, intimate, infinitely warm. Jeez, he was talking travel arrangements СКАЧАТЬ