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“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.”
