Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [114]
They didn’t bother with turning any lights on; the spill of moonlight from the curtainless window was enough for Adam to navigate around the bookcase, to see the hectic flush on Miranda’s cheeks, the burnished copper of her hair. When the edge of the bed pressed into the backs of his knees, Adam realized that Miranda was urging him backward, pushing her sweet body tight to his. Intuiting her plan, Adam broke the kiss long enough to turn and strip all the blankets and sheets from the bed. He was too hot already.
The smile Miranda gave him was scorching, but it was the gentle warmth in her eyes that stole Adam’s breath.
“Lie back, honey,” she told him, and Adam finally thrilled to the endearment the way he’d wanted to. “It’s my turn to make you forget everything.”
Selective focus was a beautiful thing, Miranda found. Her life had never been in such turmoil, her emotions never so unruly and uncontrollable, but the moment Adam scrambled back and spread himself out on the wide bed before her, the rest of the world fell away.
There was nothing for Miranda, nothing but this.
Adam, his broad shoulders strong against the softness of the pillows, his strong legs stretched toward her like an invitation. Everything about him called to her, tugging at her heart.
Tugging at her conscience.
Miranda pressed her lips together as tightly as she could. She’d messed up everything, so badly. She’d been unbelievably wrong about Jess and Frankie, and when she thought of her brilliant plan to separate them, she felt ill.
That damned book. One hundred and fifty pages of sleazy, tabloidy trash masquerading as pseudojournalism, and Miranda had written it. Not only written it, but sent it to her editor, to be published.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Adam made a soft sound, bringing her mind back to the present. This beautiful moment, which felt like a reprieve sent from heaven.
Rob Meeks could so easily have told them what she’d done. She wouldn’t have been able to deny it, would’ve had to watch the light fade from Adam’s eyes when he looked at her and saw someone who would do something so bad. Protestations of “book or no book” aside, Miranda was fairly certain what Adam’s reaction would be if he ever read what she’d actually written.
But Rob hadn’t told. And Jess wasn’t in danger. So there was still time.
Miranda could fix this.
She knelt at the foot of the bed and bent low over Adam’s prone form, rubbing her cheek along the heat of his side, bumping up his ribs to his chest and over to his shoulder. He moaned and she smiled.
One phone call on Monday morning would fix everything. Miranda would let the publisher know that she withdrew her consent to publish the manuscript and make them shred their copy. She’d get them to stop payment on the check they’d sent. It would all be over.
No one would ever have to find out how close she had come to selling her soul.
Filled with renewed purpose, and the relief that came from making a decision about what to do, Miranda set about ridding them both of their clothes. Adam was more of a hindrance than a help with the fiddly bits like buttons and zippers, but he was a big help when it came to tossing the clothes to the floor with reckless abandon. She palmed a little foil packet from Adam’s jeans pocket, silently blessing him for being a typical optimistic man who always carried a condom.
Adam needed to be taken care of. The shattered look on his face had to be banished. The guilt scraping at Miranda’s insides only made her more determined to fill Adam’s mind and body with pleasure to replace the tension and panic of the last few hours.
She’d make it all up to him, everything Rob did, everything she’d done.
When they were both naked, Miranda climbed up his body, straddling his hard thighs.
Her eyes had adjusted to the meager light from the window above Adam’s bed. She could see every nuance of Adam’s expression, every tense and release of his muscular shoulders and arms.
“You feel amazing,” he said, eyes dark and wide, watching her.