Breakfast in Bed

Unbidden, a sudden inspiration occurred to him. What would the character in his book have done had he arrived on the doorstep of a beautiful woman indeshabillain the middle of the night? "Stupid question," Carter said self-derisively. "That's fiction. Anything can happen that you say happens." He gave his mind free rein. Had he been Gregory, the hero, instead of Carter Madison, a decent enough fellow who usually obeyed his conscience, he'd have followed the winsome Ms. Fairchild into her kitchen. The moment he saw her nipples straining against the front of her robe, he'd have reached across the table and covered one with his palm, massaging it with a slow, measured circular motion until it was as round and hard as a pearl. This is lunacy, Carter,his conscience warned him.It doesn't matter. This is fantasy, that's all,his libido argued back.Besides you can't be hanged for what you're thinking. Gregory would have swept the table clear with one fell swoop of his hand, grabbed her up and-- No, no, no. That's got no finesse. No class. The floor? Too cold. Again, no class. Wait, I've got it!He'd have slowly drawn her to her feet. She'd have been shy, reluctant, and put up a temporary show of resistance. But as soon as his lips met hers, she'd have molded against him. His arms would have closed tight around her. Kissing her intimately, sliding his tongue into her mouth like a sword into its sheath, he'd have backed them to the counter, where he'd have lifted her up. She would have murmured a sigh of protest when he untied the robe, but she would have allowed it. Then slowly his hands would part it and he'd see...the yellow nightgown that was probably as chaste and ugly as the robe. "Dammit," Carter said aloud and cursed himself. He dug into his eyesockets with the heels of his hands, determined to concentrate on Gregory and his problems, but Carter's problem was throbbing beneath his tight jeans and wouldn't be ignored. This is your fantasy, you fool. Pretend there was no nightgown. Pretend she was... Then slowly his hands would part it and he'd see...her naked breasts, heaving with longing, tipped with coral nipples that responded to the merest breath of stimulation. He'd touch them as he continued kissing her. Stroke them. Tease them. Then he'd lower his head and take one into his mouth and suck it gently. She'd be virtually wild by now, making low guttural noises in her throat, and curling her legs around him. And when he drew back and outlined the button shape of her nipple with the tip of his tongue, she'd reach for-- "Mr. Madison?" "What!?"he shouted as he cannoned out of his chair, knocking it over along with the stack of papers that flew in every direction when he spun around. He practically broke the stem of his eyeglasses when he whipped them off. Sloan was standing just inside the door, a large silver tray covered with a cloth balanced on one hand, her other still gripping the doorknob as though his fierce response had welded it there. She wet her lips in the nervously reflexive way he was coming to recognize. He tried to blink eyes dilated with passion back into focus, tried to capture lost breath that remained elusive, and tried to pretend that his loins still weren't on fire. He also tried to pretend that he wasn't base enough to bring a lady like Sloan Fairchild into a sordid, lewd fantasy. He succeeded at none of those endeavors. "I...I knocked," she said in a high, timid voice. "I'm sorry, Sloan. I was...uh...deep in thought. Here, let me." He took long strides toward the door and a spasm of regret crossed his face when he saw her flinch with precaution. He attempted to lighten the situation. "I guess I scared you to death, yelling like that. I apologize again." "WhenBrown, Sandra is the author of 'Breakfast in Bed ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780553590180 and ISBN 0553590189.