Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [20]
Turning to head back inside, I bit back a scream when I saw a door opening farther down the verandah, one room past what I knew was the office. The white curtains hanging on the French door blew wildly in the night, dancing in the wind, creating a strange misty fog of fabric. And through that fog of fabric stepped a dark figure.
I couldn’t move. Not one inch. I stayed there just outside the front door, watching the figure emerge about twenty feet away. It wasn’t until after he’d disentangled himself from the sheers that I knew for sure it was my host.
He was dressed as he’d been earlier, but his white long-sleeved shirt wasn’t buttoned at all and it blew out behind him just as the curtains did. He didn’t flinch, didn’t make any concession whatsoever to the frigid air. He simply walked to the railing and looked up at the sky.
I’d thought at first that he’d heard me, or seen the flash of headlights, but he never even looked my way. I remained frozen still, not moving for fear I’d attract his attention and have to explain what on earth I was doing out here. In my nightgown. My very sexy, filmy nightgown that was pressed against every inch of my body because of the wind.
Hmm.
Not even really deciding to do it, I cleared my throat. He jerked his head, saw me standing there and just stared. Hopefully the wind and my slinky nightgown were doing nice things for my butt and hips.
He was silent for so long, I began to wonder if he’d been sleepwalking. Finally, unable to take the tension, I came up with a quick explanation for my presence.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my own voice cracking. Clearing my throat I said, “I hope I didn’t wake you. I, just…remembered I hadn’t locked my car.”
“Lottie?” he said, coming closer.
The hesitation in his tone told me he was confused, as if he’d thought I was someone else. Who that someone else could be at this hour in this desolate, abandoned place, I had no idea. “Yes. It’s me. I am so sorry if I woke you.”
He continued moving toward me, his bare feet making no sound on the wet planked floor. Still he made no concession to the weather, his shirt continuing to blow around him, as did his thick hair.
The man looked dangerous. It’s-the-middle-of-the-night-and-he’s-a-stranger dangerous. But somehow, I didn’t care. I made no effort to leave and had no virginal, self-protective instinct to cross my arms over my chest. How could I when the glorious man was staring at me like a seductive wolf at a plate of lamb chops?
Reaching my side, he finally murmured, “You shouldn’t be out here.”
“Neither should you.”
He raked a slow, thorough glance down my body, obviously able to see my breasts almost to the nipples in the low cut gown. The thing fit well, with a supportive bodice that pushed my already more than generous curves up to Penthouse quality heights and I could probably hold up a flagpole with my tight, overflowing cleavage.
I’d often thought how silly men were about women’s breasts. More often than not, I’d considered mine a nuisance whose sole purpose was in getting out of speeding tickets or picking up a fellow college student. Those guys always reminded me of ten-year-olds, as they did their usual rub-squeeze-twist-see-what-I-get-to-play-with thing that they all considered foreplay.
Now, however, I was feeling different. Lebeaux wouldn’t be like that, I knew it. He would know exactly how to touch me to elicit only feelings of blissful pleasure and pure eroticism.
I wanted that. I wanted this dark, sultry stranger to stroke me, to run his fingertips down my cleavage, then catch my nipples between his fingers and lightly squeeze them. I shivered, feeling the tips of my breasts get hard and tight against the silk and could think of nothing else but how amazing it would feel if he were to lick me there, sucking hard while dropping a hand between my legs.
“What are you really doing out here?” he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.
“I told you.”