Behind The Red Doors (Santori Stories #1)(43)
Author: Vicki Lewis Thompson

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if inhaling the scent of the perfume she wore. Then he caught her hand in his, pressing hers tighter against his cheek. He turned slightly, kissing the fleshy part of her palm. When his tongue tasted the pulse point in her wrist, she sighed. He feels it, too.

“I somehow suspect I might end up being thankful to Georgie for being such a creep,” she whispered.

“Me, too,” he whispered. “I can’t believe I didn’t know you really existed twelve hours ago.” He didn’t let go of her hand, still gently kissing her, driving her mad with the tiny flicks of his tongue against her skin.

Finally he entwined his fingers with hers and lowered their clenched hands to the seat between them. “I think I should probably get you home. It’s pretty late.”

Home. Yes. Glancing at her watch, she saw it was after midnight. Hopefully, the fates would be kind and her neighbors asleep. If they weren’t…well, after hours sitting here in the dark, admiring his profile, dying to taste his lips, aching to be held by him, to feel that hard, masculine body beneath his clothes, she wasn’t much sure she’d care.

Tonight she didn’t much feel like the good little second-grade teacher. She felt very much like a grown woman with needs she’d buried for far too long.

When she told him her address, he glanced at her in surprise. “You said you live near your parents, right? Then we grew up a few miles apart. Ten blocks closer and we might have gone to the same school, though we wouldn’t have been in the same class.”

“So I might have gone to school with one of your brothers?”

He nodded.

She raised a brow. “Are they as cute as you?”

He shot her a look out of the corner of his eye. “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t. I’d hate to have had to steal you away from one of my little brothers.”

“Confident, huh?”

“Only when it’s important.”

Like this? Like her? She didn’t ask.

When they arrived at her building, she asked him to park a few spaces down from the entrance. Some of her neighbors were light sleepers. He did so, giving her a quizzical look, probably seeing the nervous way she chewed on her lip.

Meg sat in the passenger seat while he got out and came around to open her door. He walked quickly, his breath creating little clouds of condensation in the cold night air. Watching his every move, she saw him tuck one hand into the pocket of his soft leather jacket. I’ll warm you up.

Meg couldn’t believe she was about to do what she thought she was about to do. Invite a man into her apartment. Kiss him because if she didn’t she’d never be able to sleep tonight, wondering what his mouth tasted like. And if it tasted as good as she suspected it would, she had a feeling she’d want more than one kiss. One of the books she sometimes read to her students flashed into her mind. If you give a mouse a cookie…

“She’s going to want a glass of milk,” she whispered.

Joe, who had just opened the door, smiled as he helped her out. “Pizza, wine and milk. Interesting flavor combination. Maybe I should ask right now if you can cook.”

She shook her head. “Not very well. Does it matter?”

“Not a bit.”

When they reached her front door, Meg fumbled with the keys. Dropping them, she winced at the klinking sound of them hitting the hardwood floor in the hall. She hoped Mrs. Mahoney wasn’t awake, soaking her bunions or reading another of her never-ending tabloid newspapers.

Bending, she reached for the key ring, realizing when she had it between her fingers that the position was a very incriminating one. If Mrs. Mahoney opened her door right now, she’d see Meg, eye level with the impressively filled crotch of a pair of faded men’s Levi’s. She gulped, unable to look away from the lean hips, the long legs, the boot-covered feet.

Good Lord, was she really about to make a serious pass at this amazing man? Was she really going to find herself in his arms soon? Five minutes. Maybe less. Just get the stupid keys in the door, Meg.

“Let me,” Joe said, reaching for the keys from her cold, shaking hand as she rose.

She did, passing the key chain to him, nearly unable to breathe from his closeness. His breaths touched her hair, his fingers sent friction shooting up her arm. His low, sultry whisper was only a tiny bit louder than the roar of her wildly beating heart.

Finally, when the door was open, she could resist no longer. She swung around, backing into the darkened room, throwing her purse to the floor. Grabbing the front of his jacket in both fists, she tugged him in with her. She noted the surprise in his widened eyes, but paid no attention to it as she leaned up on tiptoes and crushed her lips against his.

“Sweet Meg,” he whispered against her mouth. He resisted for no more than a second, then wrapped his arms around her as if he were a man holding on to a life ring. Their lips parted. Breaths were shared. Tongues met and danced in a hot, wet frenzy that tasted like wine, pizza and frantic need.

And suddenly Meg knew she didn’t want a glass of milk. She wanted the whole damn cow.

When he moved his hands lower, cupping her hips, pulling her tighter against him, she whimpered. Feeling how affected he was by their embrace—hard and stiff against his jeans—her whimper turned to a moan. Instinct, not experience, made her grind her h*ps against him there. She needed so much more.

When she felt his hand slide up, under her sweater, to delicately stroke the sensitive skin along her spine, her legs went weak. He held her tighter, caressing the arch of her back, his fingers moving in tiny circular patterns near the edge of her skirt. She hissed when they dipped below the waistband.

Reaching for the door, intending to slam it shut, she suddenly realized Joe’s other hand was already there. He was holding it open. He moved his mouth to her jaw, kissing her, pressing his lips to the nape of her neck, just under her ear.

“The door,” she whispered. “Shut…the door.”

“No, Meg.”

She froze. “What?”

She saw the effort it took him to pull his hand from her body. “I should go.”

Go? Now? “Why?”

“It’s late. You’ve had a long day.” He took a step back, separating them by much more than a few inches. The way he held his body told her they were miles apart. “Plus, we just met.”

Oh, God, he thought she was a floozy. She, Meg O’Rourke, whose simple white underwear had served as an effective chastity belt for the past five years. Meg, who’d never initiated a kiss with a man in her life, had gone from nun to tramp in thirty seconds. Must be a record.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to, uh…you must think I…”

He shook his head hard, then cupped her chin to force her to meet his stare. “No, I don’t. What I think is you’ve had a long, emotional day. As much as I want what you’re offering, I’m not the kind of guy to take advantage of a very vulnerable woman.”

Just her luck. She’d decided to go for it with a man who had a conscience.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, Meg. And I’ll see you tomorrow night. You can count on it. Okay?”

He was gone before she could agree, hurrying down the hall as if afraid that if he didn’t leave right then and there, he might not leave until morning. That was some small consolation, she supposed. There was no way he could have faked his response. The evidence had been, uh, impressive. Meg stood in the doorway, listening to his steps on the stairs and the closing of the building’s front door. Then she leaned forward, thunking her forehead on the door frame.

“Well, you certainly blew that one, didn’t you, missy?”

Oh, please. Not this. Not now. She looked up and saw her neighbor scowling at her from the doorway across the hall. “Mrs. Mahoney. You’re up late.”

“Indigestion.” The woman dropped a hand to her pendulous stomach and rubbed at it absentmindedly. “Rico at the deli put hot peppers on my hoagie. He knows my stomach can’t take them. I think he did it on purpose because I didn’t give him a big enough tip last time.”

“Why didn’t you pick them off?”

“Because I love the blasted things,” the woman confessed. “Don’t change the subject. How’d that hottie slip off the hook?”

Meg shook her head. “It’s late. I really need to turn in.”

The elderly woman, who was actually rather nice when she wasn’t doing her imitation of Mrs. Kravitz from “Bewitched,” smirked. “Tell me what happened and I won’t tell your mother you went out with a blond-haired man in a sports car, and came home with a dark-haired man in a truck.”

And to think she’d just believed the woman could be nice. Knowing the old battle-ax with the steely blue eyes would make good on her threat, Meg briefly explained how she’d switched dates. She never mentioned where she’d met Joe, though.

“He was being noble. So when you kissed him, he ran off.” She crossed her arms. “Darlin’, you really need to learn, men have to build up to these things. He looked upon you as someone he’d saved from a wicked man. The last thing he needed was to feel like he was a wicked man himself.”

She almost laughed. Joe was one of the most decent guys she’d ever met. That, she realized, was probably Mrs. Mahoney’s point. “Maybe you’re right.”