Seeing Red(32)

“Witch.”

She closed her eyes and damn near purred as he eased into her. “Yep. What’s the Russian word for witch?”

“Ved’ma…” God she felt wonderful at that angle, and she wanted to talk? “But it doesn’t mean quite the same thing.”

“Mm-hmm.” She moved her legs up higher, draping them over his shoulders. The clench of her fingers into the meat of his back urged him on, so he increased his pace incrementally, savoring the tight clench of her cunt around his shaft with each attempted withdrawal.

She angled her torso upward and pressed soft lips to his chest, kissing across his pecs, then up his neck. Given her height, that was about all she could reach.

If he eased back a bit, she could meet his lips, but before he could follow through on the thought, her head met the pillow again, and her eyes fluttered behind her eyelids.

“Do that again,” she whispered.

“What?”

“That thing you did—on your knees.”

“Oh.” He shifted into the transitional position he’d taken moments before, on his knees, sitting back at about forty-five degrees, angling her bottom up off the bed toward his core. He’d only wanted to improve his passage a bit as she was so tight—her body so narrow. He hadn’t thought she’d noticed the brief reconfiguring.

She tucked her hands around the backs of his thighs and held on as he increased his pace.

With each thrust, she let out a little whimper, growing gradually louder until he had to clamp one hand over her mouth.

Her eyes took on a malevolent glint for a moment. Then her expression relaxed as if she understood what they were doing and precisely who could catch them.

Briefly, he considered pulling his hand away, but the shuddering movements of her body and the feral grunts vibrating from her throat forced him to reconsider. And knowing that he’d done this to her, rendered her wordless and pliant, aroused him that much more. His skin tingled, belly contracted, and when her short nails pierced the flesh of his thigh backs, he toppled over the edge, bringing her along for the ride.

He pulled out of her, drawing one more whimper from her throat, and rolled onto his back. His throat burned and lips were chapped from harsh breathing. He drew his tongue over them and tried to steady his breaths as he stared at the gentle swirls in the ceiling plaster.

Was that three times? He’d never had any other woman three times. There were a few who’d come back for a second round, but they’d just wanted sex. No talking. No follow-up. They didn’t push their luck for round three. Meg had passed them in that race, but their situation was a far more perverted one. Equally stagnant, unless someone labeled their relationship as something more.

And that someone would have to be Meg. That’s what Sharon said, and Carla had hinted at as much. But neither woman had given him any clues as to how he could get her to turn the tide. Perhaps he’d been asking the wrong questions.

Perhaps he always had.





Chapter 9



Meg felt an unusual surge of desperation and didn’t understand the origins. She’d been restless, waking up at ungodly hours to pace the floor in front of her bed. She hadn’t really left the condo in days beyond riding the elevator down to the lobby to fetch her mail, and that one trip to her gynecologist who’d squeezed her in between a prenatal exam and a scheduled C-section. She’d worried that conversation would shape up to be rather uncomfortable, perhaps, “Yes, Doctor. I know this is highly unusual, but I’d like you to run a full panel of STD tests because I let my rock-star ex-husband sleep around on me. Here’s my arm.”

Fortunately, her doctor hadn’t lectured. Hadn’t judged. She did, however, cringe, then called the nurse in to order the tests. She’d put a rush order on them, but it would still be a couple of weeks before they all trickled back in. The doctor thought Meg was probably fine since she was asymptomatic and had been abstinent for so long, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

Meg had pretty much avoided everyone in the days following her return from Bermuda, and didn’t even turn on her phone until she caught one particularly scathing e-mail from Sharon while she was finishing up that technical writing project.



Heard your parents are coming into town. That’s great. Super. So wonderful that the big guy is going along with this so prettily, right? How are things going on your end? Do you feel better about yourself now that the faux-moving company you staged moved all those empty boxes into your condo? That was a good one, girl. Good job keeping up appearances. I hadn’t even thought of crossing that T myself.

While we’re on the subject of your faux-marriage, I had lunch with your husband yesterday when I was down in Fayetteville meeting with a couple about their wedding reception. For some reason that idiot turns into a big Russian lump whenever you’re the subject of conversation, so whatever you’re doing, stop it. Don’t lead him on. He’s not the sort of alpha schmuck that seems so predominant in our circle. He’s going to let you walk all over him like cheap carpet because he thinks you’re some kind of princess.