Wicked Wicked Ways

Published by: eXtasy Books

ISBN :978-1-55487-123-0

Page :350

Word Count :87500

Publication Date :2010-09-10

Series : #

Heat Level :

Available Formats : Wicked Wicked Ways (pdf) , Wicked Wicked Ways (prc) , Wicked Wicked Ways (epub) , Wicked Wicked Ways (mobi)

Category : Contemporary Romance , Erotic Romance , Romance

Product Code: 978-1-55487-123-0

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Loretta Hampton is wealthy, beautiful, and adored by men but one night stands and sex with business associates leave her feeling empty. Then she encounters a stranger who leaves her breathless… Margot Weatherford was neither a good wife or mother. Spoiled by her own father, she finds the search for the perfect man daunting. Her financier lover is neurotic, her young son disturbed, her ex-husband demanding. Will she ever find a man that will love her despite her faults? When Rachael Sullivan murders the man who raped her, she is forced to flee her native England. Taking refuge in New York, she takes a job as a maid in a hotel--but then her domineering lover finds her. Will Rachael be vindicated for her crime if she returns to England as her lover wants?

The hotel lounge was dimly lit with a curving black lacquered bar running along one side and a small stage situated at its far end. A broad-shouldered man in a black tuxedo played a grand piano at the rear of the room and a single couple occupied one tiny table across from the stage. Loretta chose an open-backed leather stool at the bar about midway along its length. Her stomach was empty, but she was too mad to eat. She needed alcohol and lots of it. She inched onto the stool and signaled the bald, squat man behind the expanse. “Whiskey. Neat," she requested, taking a pack of cigarettes from her bag.

She gulped down her third whiskey before abating her anger at being stood up by china manufacturer, Steven Weatherford. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall man take a seat at the end of the bar. She glanced away when he turned his eyes on her. She could feel his gaze as he surveyed her body from the top of her head to the stiletto heels of her strap sandals. His inspection brought a condescending smile to her lips. Did he really think she wasn’t aware of his presence? Suddenly the bartender set a drink in front of her. “I didn’t order that," she informed him, raising her gaze to capture his aging face.

“It’s from the gentleman at the end of the bar,” he said.

“Can’t a guy buy a lady a drink?"

Loretta turned slowly in the man’s direction. He sat three stools away, smoking a cigarette, and looking handsome as hell in an Armani suit of deep blue and a white silk shirt open at the neck. He appeared tall even as he sat on the stool. He had thick shoulder-length blond hair, and inquiring blue eyes. Perhaps her hasty perusal of him hadn’t been justified. She glanced at his hands—there was no sign of a wedding ring on his left hand.

I won’t fuck another woman’s man. She smiled at him and reached for the martini. “Sure," she said in a low tone. “You can buy me a drink." But, honey, I’m probably the farthest thing from a lady you’ll ever meet. “Thanks," she said aloud.

He picked up his brandy and moved to the stool directly to her left, smiling a wide white-toothed grin as he held her blue eyes in a locked gaze. “Don’t even tell me some bastard stood you up," he said, settling onto the stool.

He smelled faintly of Chanel, a fact that registered in her brain with alarming speed as she tried to prevent herself from being lost in his blue eyes. She smiled at him, slowly, demurely, her toes curling strangely in her strap Charles Jourdan sandals. He was incredibly handsome.

“Okay. I won’t tell you then," she replied, her voice low and husky. She hated to admit that the whiskey she had downed in her fit of anger at Steven Weatherford had gone quickly to her head. But it had relaxed her, too. She mentally noted that her attraction to the handsome stranger probably wouldn’t involve making any deals for money. She never negotiated when she was drunk. Sex is a different thing altogether…

He offered her a cigarette and she slowly slipped one filter-tipped stick from the gold foil pack. Raising it to her lips, she watched his eyes watch her mouth as she took hold of the filter. There was something incredibly erotic about him—she sensed it in every bone in her body. She pulled in a quick breath as her eyes strayed to his belt, then lowered to his crotch. There was a nice bulge between his legs.

“Are you a guest at the hotel?" he asked, raising the flame of the lighter to touch the tip of her cigarette.

He seemed to be devouring her face in the yellow glow of the tiny flame and she felt suddenly mesmerized in his presence, a feeling she could only relate to orgasm of the strongest kind. One of those where you wait and wait and finally, when you’re bathed in sweat and hanging on by your toenails, it arrives—startling and magnificent—to rock you all the way to heaven and back. The sensation set her mind to thinking. She hadn’t been with a man for almost a month. She was horny. She needed fucked—for long hours.

Her gaze traveled over his face, slowly, taking into account the curve of his cheek, the straightness of his nose and the way his top lip arched slightly to one side when he smiled. He had no British accent. An American in London like myself? He was incredibly suntanned. He was gorgeous. And he was probably a dream in bed.

But he had all the earmarks of a playboy. Good looks, enticing smile, expensive clothing, and that hint of Chanel fragrance she first noticed when he moved to the stool beside her. Had he just left the bed of another woman? But then, what did it matter? She had needs, needs that he could, no doubt, sate.

She stifled the lusty shiver threatening her spine. She could only imagine the feel of his muscular body beneath that Armani suit—the taut muscles, the smooth skin. It’s just sex. She reminded herself. After all, what else was there? Money. Yes. Money and sex. It was a cruel world. It was a world of twin pleasures. Her brows puckered in annoyance of her own thoughts. Why was she debating the issue? The outcome was always the same. Take the sex—and enjoy it. And then get up off your backside and make some more money. “I might be," she replied, dragging her thoughts back to the present and his question.

He chuckled low in his throat. “Then, shall I invite you to my room, or do you want to invite me to your room?”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

He leaned closer to her, halting when his lips brushed her left earlobe. “I think we both want the same thing. I’d like to fuck you in every conceivable position known to man.”

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Wicked Wicked Ways

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