Chapter 2
Two
Michael Moretti didn’t usually bother with married women. Not that he couldn’t seduce them. Quite the contrary. He’d done it more than once, but somehow he always heard his mother’s shrill Catholic voice in his head during the deed. She’s a married woman! You’re no better than your father! Yep, kind of a woody killer. Strange how that Catholic guilt could still get to him when he hadn’t been to mass in twenty years. Every once in a while it occurred to him that he didn’t have any issues with some of the other Catholic no-nos—namely sex outside of marriage and use of birth control. Nope, he only heard Mama’s voice when he was fucking a married woman, probably because his mother had caught his father in bed with the hot married neighbor when Michael was ten. That was the last time he’d seen the low life.
He held out his hand to a beautiful nymph named Stacy Summers. A beautiful married nymph. With cascades of auburn hair and the biggest brownest eyes Michael had ever seen, she was almost worth letting his mother scream in his head as he spent himself inside her lush body. He shook his head to clear it. He had other fish to fry tonight. No time to waste on a woman who couldn’t fulfill his ultimate goal.
A dance, though, he had time for.
Her hand was slick with sweat as she shyly took his. Redness crept into her cheeks, down her chest, and onto the plump tops of her breasts showing through the black fishnet she wore. Damn, the woman looked hot. If only she weren’t married… He’d love to take her up to his room and free the tigress he knew hid inside her bashful exterior. She’d be an animal in bed. Somehow he just knew.
He led her to the dance floor and took her into his arms. Yes, her body was as soft as he’d imagined and curved in all the right places. If only she didn’t have that damned ring on!
Slowly, they swayed to the music. Her body tensed against his. Normally, he didn’t talk while he danced, but maybe a little conversation would relax her.
He leaned in, positioned his lips above her earlobe, and inhaled the sweet scent of strawberry. “Your husband’s a lucky man.”
“Oh.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “I’m not married.”
His cock nearly danced a jig inside his jeans. “You’re not? What’s with the ring then?”
“It was my grandmother’s. She left it to me when she died last year.”
He smiled. Did her eyes light up just a little? “You might try wearing it on your other hand, sweetheart.”
The redness in her cheeks deepened. His cock hardened.
“Yeah, I know. But it doesn’t fit, and I haven’t had the time to get it resized yet.”
Michael stepped back a little and took both her small hands into his. “It’s very pretty. And big too.”
“Yeah, Grandma was pretty well off. We were really close.”
Sadness laced her big brown eyes. Was that mist forming? Why did he have the sudden urge to draw her to his chest and comfort her? Quickly, he willed his mind to return to his task at hand. Rich grandma dies, leaves everything to hot unmarried granddaughter.
Just the ticket.
Michael tipped her chin upward and gazed into her big baby browns. “I’m sorry about your grandma.”
She sniffed. “Oh, I’m okay. She was ill. It’s better this way. I mean, I miss her, but she was in a lot of pain.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s just…it happened at a really hard time. My divorce…”
Divorced. Recently. Possibly looking for a rebound guy. Definitely a candidate for rebound sex.
The ticket, all right.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He brushed one thumb across her soft cheek.
“Really, it’s okay.” She brushed his hand away. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
He drew her to his body again, brushed his lips against the softness of her earlobe. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Hell, it wasn’t even a lie. She was ravishing. Even with her eyes sunken and sad, she lit up the whole damned room.
Her head landed softly on his shoulder, and a quiet “thank you” escaped her throat.
“You want to go someplace else? Get a drink?”
Her head popped up. “You mean leave the party?”
“Yeah. Or we can stay. It would be easier to talk without all the noise, though.”
“Can we finish this dance first?”
He chuckled. Without thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her pink cheek. “The song just ended, sweetheart.”
“Oh.”
More pink flooded her cheeks and neck. Damn, it would be worth it to embarrass her all night, just to see how red that beautiful body would get.
“What are you drinking?”
“Cosmopolitans.”
“I’ll get you another,” he said. “Go wait for me outside. By the table with the calendars where we met before.” He smiled and headed to the bar.
* * *
Stacy tapped her high heel on the smooth tile floor. Her hands were clammy, her skin prickled with goosebumps. What had she been thinking, saying she’d meet Michael Moretti out here for a drink?
She glanced at the calendars on the table. There he was, right on the cover. She liked the shot inside better. The photo on the cover displayed more skin, but the shot inside was a black-and-white, taken in the shower. It showed his amazing back and his broad shoulders, with his hair hanging in wet black waves down his neck. Rather than his whole face, the photo revealed his profile—his chiseled masculine jawline, his perfect aquiline nose—very sexy.
He truly was a god.
Her insides tumbled. Where the hell was he with her drink?
“There you are, beautiful.”
His husky voice washed over her like a smooth bourbon. He handed her a cosmopolitan, and to avoid talking, she immediately took a drink of the crisp pink liquid. She took another and another.
“Slow down.” Michael touched her forearm.
Her skin sizzled, and she jerked away.
“No hurry. There are plenty of drinks.” He arched one eyebrow. “Besides, I want you coherent.”
Warmth crept to Stacy’s cheeks. “I’m just fine, Mr. Moretti.” Mr. Moretti? Had she really said that?
“You can call me Michael, beautiful. What shall I call you? Ms. Summers?” His eyes gleamed. “Mistress Stacy?”
Stacy took another gulp of her drink. Mistress? She might write about light bondage occasionally, but she’d never practiced it. Had never wanted to. Her sex life with David had been…sterile. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. He brushed his teethand then kissed her, moving his tongue methodically in circles for exactly ten minutes. He fumbled with her clit for a minute or two and then shoved his cock inside her before she was wet enough to enjoy it. Afterward, he’d brush his teeth again, wash his cock, come to bed, and turn his back to her.
In twenty years of marriage, he’d never gone down on her. She’d gone down on him the few times he requested it, but he’d never come in her mouth. In twenty years of marriage, she’d never had an orgasm.
Just once, she longed to feel the amazing momentary sense of floating, the suspension of time, the tingling spreading rapidly from her pussy through her core, to her arms and legs…
She’d described the female orgasm in so many different ways in her writing, and reviewers often praised her for portraying the woman’s sexual experience in such a realistic and sensual way.
What a crock. If the reviewers only knew… Stacy Summers, “the Queen of the female orgasm,” as one reviewer had called her, was all theory. She might as well be a virgin for all her practical experience.
She cleared her throat, erasing the sting from the last large gulp of alcohol. “Just Stacy is fine.”
“Stacy it is, then. Or I may just call you beautiful, if that’s okay.”
Another crock, but what the heck? Why not live out a fantasy for a few minutes this evening? She could talk to her favorite cover model, share a drink or two. “Do you want to go sit in the bar with our drinks?” she asked.
“I had something a little more intimate in mind.” Michael’s tone was teasing as his voice caressed her.
“Intimate?” She willed her voice not to crack. “Like what?”
“Like my room, maybe?”
Stacy shook her head. Had she heard him correctly? No way was she was going to Michael Moretti’s room tonight. Granted, he was the hottest thing walking, but he had what must amount to an abundance of sexual experience. He’d expect her, an erotic romance author, to know her way around a man.
She shook her head again. Michael Moretti wasn’t coming on to her. What would he want with a middle-aged divorcée? He could have his pick of any sweet young thing here, including the female cover models. Surely he couldn’t be suggesting… Of course not.
“I don’t think your room is the best idea,” she said.
“Well, the bar’s kind of noisy.”
“It’s less noisy than the party.”
He chuckled. “True enough. All right, the bar it is.” He held out his arm. “At your service, Mistress”—he grinned—“er…Stacy.”
Her nerves jittering, she shyly placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. God, solid muscle… The man couldn’t have a gram of fat on his entire body. Of course not, he stripped for a living. When not modeling for covers, he headlined for the Chicago Playboys, an all male revue that rivaled Chippendales in popularity. She briefly wondered if he took steroids to maintain his physique. She hoped not.
Luckily, the bar was only a few hundred yards away. Stacy made it without tripping over her high heels, for which she was eternally grateful. The dimly lit bar was not crowded, most likely because the hotel was filled with conference attendees who were all at the vampire party. Michael found a cozy table for two. He ordered another cosmo for Stacy, who still gripped the one he’d given her in the hallway, and a scotch on the rocks for himself.
“So,” he said, once the waitress had left, “tell me about Stacy Summers.”
Nothing like laying it right out on the table. Stacy hated talking about herself. Why would anyone find her interesting? “I’m a writer, but I guess you know that,” she said shakily.
“I had assumed.” His cocky smile lit up his face. “But that can’t be all there is to know about such a lovely woman as yourself.”
Oh, he was good. He played his part well. No doubt he earned his payment for the weekend because he certainly knew how to charm the ladies. What could she possibly say to him that he would find remotely interesting? “I’m divorced, a little over a year now.”
“Yeah, you told me, remember?”
“I did?”
He smiled. “While we were dancing.”
Of course. The familiar pink heat crept over her flesh. God, she was an idiot.
“How long were you married?” he asked
“A while.” No way was she going to admit to twenty years in a passionless marriage. That would give away her age.
“Any kids?”
“No. David didn’t want kids.”
“And you?”
Her? She had longed to be a mother, but in her introverted way, she had agreed to David’s desires. Now, at forty-five, she was too old for motherhood. “I was fine with his decision.” A lie, but why would Michael care to hear how she’d cried over the loss?
“A shame,” Michael said.
She widened her eyes. Why would he say such a thing? “What do you mean?”
He brushed on finger over her forearm. “I mean it’s a shame you never had kids. A shame you didn’t pass those amazing genes on to the next generation.”
Her skin tingled under his touch. “Amazing genes?”
“You’re beautiful, Stacy. But I’ve already told you that.”
Oh, yes, he was good, all right. Warmth flooded her cheeks and neck. She had no idea what to say, what to do.
Be Johnny Carson.
Advice from the therapist she’d seen before she and David decided to call it quits. She had complained that she never knew what to say in social situations, that she felt shy, awkward, and conspicuous. The therapist had said, “Be Johnny Carson. Ask the person questions about himself. Everyone likes talking about himself.” The only problem was, what to ask?
She took a sip of cosmo. “How about you? Have you ever been married?”
“Nope. Never had the pleasure. I was engaged once. It…didn’t work out.”
The writer in her sensed a story there, but she couldn’t pry. She wasn’t that brave. Hell, she wasn’t brave at all.
Why was she here again?
“Any kids?”
Shit. Foot in mouth. He’d never been married. How would he have kids?
He lowered his eyes for a second. Was that sadness? When he looked back at her, the question didn’t seem to faze him. “Nope. No kids for me either.”
“Sorry. You already told me you hadn’t been married. That was a stupid question.”
The left side of his mouth curved up into a crooked smile. “You don’t need marriage to have kids, beautiful. A lot of my friends have them and haven’t been married.”
“Right. Of course. I just meant…” God, shut up, Stacy! She let out a short laugh. “I don’t know what the hell I meant.”
Michael’s finger traveled farther up her forearm and rested in the ticklish spot inside her elbow. “You have a great laugh.”
His touch ignited her. “Yeah, and I’m great at saying the wrong thing.”
“Listen”—he scooted her chair closer to hers—“why don’t you loosen up? Let the real Stacy out? I’d like to get to know her.”
“Why do you want to get to know me?” She truly wondered. David had been married to her and had never wanted to “get to know her.” “Besides, I’m a lot older than you are.”
“Do I look like I care? How old are you, anyway?”
Stacy didn’t believe in lying about her age, even to impress the likes of Michael Moretti. “Forty-five.”
“Well, you’re beautiful. You don’t look a day over thirty.”
Right. She looked good for her age, she knew, but thirty? “Right.”
“I’m not lying, sweetheart. You’re hot, and I really do want to get to know you.
“Why on earth would you want to get to know me?”
His hazel gaze penetrated hers. “Because when I first saw you standing there looking at my photograph, I couldn’t wait to get you into bed.”