Her Book Of Pleasure - Marie Donovan Mills & Boon Blaze

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the whiskey with a napkin or even his thumb, he deliberately kissed the corner of her mouth, flicking his tongue over the seam of her lips.

      She met his tongue with hers, her taste dark and spicy. Her slender hand rested against his chest, and his heart pounded painfully as if to reach her touch.

      He cupped the silken nape of her neck and she moaned, her mouth opening even wider under his. Winding her arms around him, she caressed the hollow of his throat. He planted frantic kisses on her mouth, her cheek and jaw, following the path her fingers had traced, almost down to her breast. Her fingers tightened in his hair and he broke away from her, his heart racing.

      They stared at each other and he wiped a shaking hand across his face. “We have to stop.”

      “Do we?” She lifted an eyebrow.

      “What do you suggest?” His pulse pounded painfully.

      “I hear the Palmer House has wonderful rooms upstairs, but I’ve never seen any.” Her eyes were heavy-lidded and seductive, her mouth plump and glistening. “Want to show me yours?”

      Oh, boy, did he ever. He pulled his electronic keycard out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “I’m in room 1033. I’ll meet you in ten minutes.” He’d never settle down enough to walk across the lobby if she sat with him. He also didn’t want her to be embarrassed if they were caught slipping upstairs together.

      She stood and turned to look at him. “Hurry, Rick. I’ll be waiting.” She wove her way through the tables, her hips swaying in a sinuous stroll.

      He tossed back the rest of his whiskey and took several deep breaths. “Believe me, Michiko, I’ll make it worth the wait.”

      MEG MANAGED TO KEEP her walk confident until she got into the empty elevator. The doors glided shut, and she clutched the brass elevator rail.

      “What am I doing?” Her voice echoed crazily around the empty elevator, her palm sweaty around Rick’s keycard. The mirrored walls reflected someone she’d never seen before. She stepped closer to examine her face. Her eyes were deep green and heavy-lidded, her cheeks flushed. Her mouth was puffy and pink, despite having kissed off all her lipstick. She hoped he didn’t have a huge smear of Palmer House Plum on his collar.

      She gave a start as the elevator rose. The doors opened at the ballroom level and the sweet strains of a Nat King Cole love song floated in. A couple staggered into the elevator, kissing and tugging at each other’s clothing.

      Pretending she was alone was the best course of action. She only hoped they got off the elevator before, well, they got off in the elevator.

      The redheaded woman was about her age and pulled at the blond man’s tie, kissing the bared skin at the base of his throat. “We have to hurry.” Her voice was low and feverish.

      He grabbed her ass with both hands. “Yeah, I have to get back before my girlfriend notices we’re gone.”

      What a scumbag. Meg braced herself for an explosion of disgust from the redhead.

      The woman shrugged. “My boyfriend was dancing with a brunette. I doubt he’ll miss me.”

      The repulsive pair finally stumbled off the elevator onto the ninth floor, one floor below Rick’s room.

      Well, Nat King Cole might think love was forever, but Meg knew different.

      The elevator door opened on the tenth floor. She took a deep breath and followed the corridor to Room 1033. Peeling the keycard off her palm, she jammed it into the slot. It blinked red warning lights.

      Good enough. Her foray into anonymous sex was obviously not meant to be. She pulled at the card, but it stuck tight in the slot. Maybe she’d warped the plastic when she clutched it in her hot little hand.

      She felt like a burglar, tugging and cursing at the card. She wasn’t firing on all cylinders, either, thanks to the Cuban sangria and Irish whiskey.

      The card clicked into the slot and the light turned green. Green meant go ahead. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the lever handle.

      She fumbled for the light switch and flipped it on. Rick’s room was actually a luxurious suite, the elegant living room decorated with heavy cherry furniture. Her heels sunk into the thick blue carpet as she advanced cautiously. The room was immaculate, as if no one were staying here. She passed through a marble-tiled hallway into the bedroom.

      At least the bedroom showed some signs of occupation. A carry-on bag that had seen better days lay open on the dresser, a crumpled navy Polo shirt and wrinkled khakis slung over a chair. She peeked into the open bag. Plenty of clean clothes and no sharp weapons, always a good sign. She turned to check the bed, testing the mattress with her hand. Firm but not too bouncy. If she were as casual about sex as she had pretended, she’d shuck off the Jolly Green Midget costume and wait for Rick in bed. Naked. She smiled and she left the bedroom in a hurry.

      The glass-walled shower in the huge bathroom was still wet. She sniffed appreciatively, recognizing the citrus-and-sandalwood scent of his cologne. Running her hand over his thick white bathrobe, she took a quick look at the counter, relieved when she didn’t find any bottles of antipsychotic medication, jock itch creams, or membership cards for the American Society of Sickos.

      Now that Meg was somewhat reassured of her physical safety, she had another horrible thought. What if Rick were married? She considered herself a modern American woman, but she drew the line at married men. A long, thick, indelible line.

      She heard a gentle tapping at the door. “Michiko, it’s me, Rick.”

      She froze. No way out now. She hurried to the door and yanked it open. Abandoning any pretense at dissembling, she blurted the question that weighed on her mind. “Are you married?”

      “Am I what?” Rick cheered silently. Michiko had come to his hotel room. He leaned over to kiss her and she backed away.

      “No, none of that. Not until you tell me if you’re married.”

      “Married?” He straightened. “No, I’m not married. What kind of man invites women to his hotel room if he’s married?” As soon as he asked her that, he felt foolish. As part of his investigative training, he’d done infidelity and divorce work. “You’re not married, are you?”

      Michiko gave him a horrified look. “Hell, no!”

      “Yeah, ‘hell, no’ about sums it up for me, too.” He shrugged off his blazer and tossed it on an armchair.

      She glanced around nervously, gesturing to the fridge. “Want something from the minibar?”

      “No, thanks.” His head was still spinning from the whiskey he’d poured on top of his jet lag. “You?”

      “No, no.” She clasped her hands in front of her, revealing the top curves of her breasts as the dress gaped.

      Her vulnerability surprised and touched him. He moved across to her and cupped her shoulders. “Let’s go back to the reception. I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to.”

      Although he wanted her badly, he’d wait if need be. He sensed hidden depths to her that he could never fully explore in one hurried night together. And he never could resist a mystery.

      She wrapped her arms around his waist and nestled her head against his chest. “I want to stay.”

      Rick bent to kiss her, and damned if the pull he’d felt in the bar wasn’t even stronger. This time, though, he made sure he was the one in control, nipping at her tongue as she tried that roof-of-the-mouth trick again. He plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, mimicking what he planned on doing later. He withdrew his tongue, trying to tease her, but she sucked it hard, holding it tight in her mouth’s wet heat. He ground his body against hers, his pants sliding across the fabric of her dress. God, he was almost ready to explode because of a few French kisses.

      A twinge in his neck saved him from embarrassing himself. He loved kissing her, but any

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