Pitch Imperfect(64)

The quiet, easy life she had imagined was careening out of control. She had a three-storey house she could barely afford and she worked in a pub to make ends meet. Plus, she had become the target of xenophobic thieves. The hate graffiti made her uncomfortable and she’d checked and double-checked the doors and windows. Without Reiver she felt alone. Vulnerable.

“To Reiver,” she said, lifting her glass and spilling a few droplets on the floor.

Before coming home she’d checked on him at the clinic. The operation had removed the tumour successfully and he would be back where he belonged in a few days. Anjuli sighed. If only there were a similar procedure to remove her feelings for Rob, cut him out of her heart and leave her unable to feel anything other than friendship.

The only way to do that was to remove herself from temptation, and yet she had allowed him to kiss her. Anjuli groaned into her wine glass. She was worse than slutty, kissing Damien one minute and Rob the next; coming on to one man and then almost coming with another.

Damien wanted more than a platonic friendship and she had led him on, knowing in her heart she didn’t want the same. Selfishly, she had used him to try and forget Rob. When had she turned into such a bitch? One in heart-pumping, mind-numbing heat judging from her reaction to Rob’s kiss. Anjuli racked her fuzzy brain. There was something else she was having a hard time coping with, something big, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Oh yeah, Craig was leaving Mac for some tart down south.

Pop!

Like the cork in her wine, there went Mac’s happy life. Anjuli gulped down the full-bodied red. Would Sarah tell Mac she’d seen her in her dressing gown with Craig? The censorious reporter had barely stayed long enough to take a few photos, coldly polite and witheringly formal.

“That wasn’t what it looked like,” Anjuli had said, hating the defensive tone in her voice.

One perfectly manicured eyebrow had risen delicately. “It never is.”

What the hell was she supposed to say to that? She’d be damned if she started explaining herself to Sarah Brunel. Anjuli teetered to the fireplace and topped up the logs in the fire. She poured herself another glass, leaving the wine bottle on the hearth to warm. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and it was cold in the sitting room, even with the central heating. High ceilings were lovely, but had their drawbacks.

Maybe she should go to sleep—nature’s way of forgetting the unforgettable.

Her stomach growled. She should put something inside her belly because she was getting utterly, hopelessly drunk, the alcohol in her veins making her...restless? No, that wasn’t it. Wired, like an electric cable gone wild, sparking the earth wherever she touched.

During her last semester at Juilliard she’d gone to a party with a friend and they’d sat cataloguing the different types of drunks. Silly drunks, belligerent drunks, gropey drunks. Then there were the huggers, cry-babies, and singers. Her friend was a hugger, but Anjuli wasn’t in any of those categories.

She was a sexy drunk.

Swirling her wine, Anjuli thought about the hurtful things that had been written about her in the tabloids over the years. Contrary to those spirulous...no, squirrilous...Whatever. Contrary to the screwilous articles, she hardly ever got drunk and she wasn’t promiscuous. But she was definitely running on alcohol, speeding miles past flirty and cruising into floozy.

Her insides may be growling, but it wasn’t food she craved.

Anjuli lay back and shut her eyes, stroking her hand from her breast to the dip in her stomach. She could taste firm, masculine lips; feel strong hands around her waist, hauling her against a tall, rigid body. Oh, yes, there was the hard press of male desire against her hip. Her hand slipped under her nightdress and across her skin, imagining Rob’s thick, hard cock doing the same.

Dizzily, she tried to shake off the image and replace it with another, to exchange black hair for blond and smoky grey eyes for leonine gold. Her stubborn brain refused the substitution, saturated by alcohol’s truth. She wanted something bigger, hotter, longer than her fingers.

She wanted Rob.

Rob’s mouth on hers, his hands on her breasts and his hard length inside her. He was lighting her up like the logs in the fireplace, making her simmer and squirm against her hand until she was panting and wet—so wet!—right where she wanted him. Her body arched as pleasure began to roll through her, pushing her hips into faster gyrations, leaving her moaning, aching for release.

The sound of the doorbell didn’t register until a few sharp knocks brought her down from the cresting wave. Anjuli lowered her nightdress and tried to clear her head. Another few knocks, more insistent this time. Pulling a throw over her shoulders she weaved her way to the front door.