Page 57 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“Think of pretty boy,” he whispers when I stand there stiff as a board, uncomfortable because I’m liking this little experiment a tad too much. “Pretend I’m him. Pretend it’s his mouth on yours. His body against yours. His hand in your hair.”
Cam’s hand is in my hair. When did that happen?
I discover with a twinge of terror that I don’t care because I like it so much. He holds my head in place as we kiss with his hand fisted at the scruff of my neck, an action so wholly and unexpectedly erotic my mind blinks off-line. I sag against him, desperately drawing breath through my nose.
Oh God. Oh that. Oh yes, that. Do that again. You’re a genius. My nipples could cut glass.
He’s so big, and hard, and hot as a furnace, but his mouth is the softest thing in the world. It’s a cloud. A sweet, delicious cloud that’s impairing my thoughts and kicking up the release of eggs from my ovaries until I’m sure I could make omelets on a hotel brunch’s buffet line with all of them.
Somehow my arms have wound around his shoulders. Somehow his other arm has become an iron bar around my waist. Somehow I’m making desperate growly kitten noises and grinding myself against his body.
Somehow he’s making desperate growly wolf noises and grinding back.
The doorbell rings.
We break apart like we’ve been caught plotting the overthrow of the government and stare at each other.
“Someone’s at the door.” My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed a toad.
“Are you gonna answer it?” His voice sounds like he’s swallowed a handful of gravel.
I wheeze out an asthmatic breath. “It could be important.”
Cam’s gaze drops to my lips, then flashes back up to my eyes. The heat in his eyes almost incinerates me. “More important than this?”
Whoa. Was that an earthquake? No, we don’t have earthquakes in Manhattan. Then why is the ground moving?
Sounding irritated, the doorbell rings twice more. It breaks the weird spell I’m under, and I’m able to jerk away from Cam and draw a breath before I throw myself back into his arms and beg him to do naughty things to me.
I wonder if his ChapStick is drugged?
I grab my glasses and shuffle to the door with a jolting, stiff-kneed gait, like a zombie. When I open it, Mrs. Dinwiddle stands there in a royal-blue lounging robe with peacock-feather trim at the sleeves and hem, a martini in one hand and an unlit cigarette in a long black holder in the other. Her turquoise sequined headband sports a spray of seed pearls on one side that bob as her head moves.
I’m too discombobulated to bother with small talk. “Since when do you smoke, Mrs. Dinwiddle?”
“Good gracious, Ducky, I don’t!”
I look pointedly at the cigarette holder in her hand.
She waves it around like Hermione casting a spell. “Oh, this! Isn’t it elegant? I found it in a trunk yesterday afternoon, packed away in the back of my closet with some of my old stage costumes. I had Blessica run to the store for a pack of cigarettes, because it looked quite sad without one. Ducky, did you know a pack of cigarettes costs thirteen dollars? Shocking!”
She doesn’t look shocked. She looks positively giddy. I wonder what number martini she’s on. “How can I help you, Mrs. Dinwiddle?”
She sails past me into my apartment on a cloud of Chanel No. 5, shedding peacock feathers. Mr. Bingley scampers over and starts batting at the feathers, his tail bristling with excitement.
“I had a thought, my dear, since you’ve embarked on your program of self-improvement.”
I close the door behind her. “Who told you I’ve embarked on a program of self-improvement?”
She spins around, chin lifted at a regal angle, cigarette holder with its ridiculous unlit cigarette held aloft. The cat scurries around her floating feathered hem with insane-o hunter eyes.
“Cameron did, my dear.” She notices him leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “Oh! Hello, Cameron!”
“Hullo, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”
She squints at him. “Are you all right, my dear? Your face looks funny.”
At the same time, Cam and I say, “Intestinal gas.”
