Three Little Words Read online

“Got one,” Greg answered without taking his focus from her.

  Then his mouth was on hers. Thank God. He walked her back into the waiting car and up against the mirrored wall. The doors slid shut behind them. Greg shifted his attention to her throat as the car surged upward. His teeth scraped her pulse, eliciting a gasp. His tongue danced over her skin, turning her every exhalation into a soft moan.

  She clutched the lapels of his jacket, her hands providing an unwanted buffer between the hard wall of his chest and the tight peaks of her nipples. She arched her back, desperate to get closer to him and farther from the brass handrail cutting into her ass. He trailed hot, wet kisses into the deep vee of her dress and she made the mistake of opening her eyes.

  Fact and fantasy merged and melded, and her booze-befuddled brain raced to keep up. A man and a woman swam in and out of focus, the beveled edges of the mirrors on the ceiling multiplying the breathtakingly erotic scene playing out below. A woman trapped against the wall, her dress hiked high on one leg, as a tuxedo-clad man devoured her with single-minded determination. The kind of fervor an old maid conjured in her neediest moments. Passion she’d never actually known. A hunger she feared would go forever unfulfilled. The kind of predestined connection to another person she didn’t think existed outside the covers of a romance novel. With a man she’d barely met but already knew intimately.

  The elevator doors opened. Greg finally raised his head. Jo took some comfort in the fact that his eyes looked to be as blurry and unfocused as her mind. Reason took one last shot at establishing a foothold in a night run amok.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” she murmured, half talking to herself.

  Greg shook his head, casting off her doubts like a dog shedding water. Eyes wide and earnest, he grasped both her hands. “I’ve gotta taste you.” He stated the desire baldly and it proved irresistible. She went willingly as he pulled her from the elevator. He propelled her along the hall. “I have to be inside you.”

  Her shoulder bounced off a sconce. Their feet got tangled as they tried to kiss and steer. Jo slumped against an obliging wall as he pried a key card from his pocket. The door swung open and his grin widened exponentially. She stared into the blinding glare of his bright smile and the world spun.

  He lured her into the room, enticing her with his warm lips and wicked tongue. The door slammed, spurring a flurry of frantic action. His jacket landed on the floor in a heap. His teeth scraped her jaw and teased her ear lobe. Hot breath washed over fevered skin. He found the cloth-covered buttons that danced up her ribcage. First one slid free, then two. By the time he reached oh-thank-God-three, Greg had her flat against the wall.

  She arched her back, urging her breasts into his hands. She slid her eyes shut. Gravity and the undeniable appeal of offering herself up to his hungry kisses pulled at the slippery fabric of her wrap dress.

  “Jesus, you smell incredible.” He whispered the words into the hollow of her throat and her knees turned to jelly. “Taste even better. I’m gonna lick every bit of you.”

  The tucks of his shirt scraped against her bra as he traced the valley between her breasts with the tip of his tongue. Her already aching nipples drew tighter still. “Please.”

  Lost in the depths of his promise, Jo was uncertain of what she was asking for but more than willing to beg for whatever he wanted to give. The shusssh of her hair brushing the wall as she rolled her head from side to side seemed to spur him. He pinched her nipples and she cried out, her eyes opening wide.

  Greg stared up at her, his eyes dark and intense, his handsome face a fierce mask of raw desire. He rolled the aching tips between his thumb and forefinger, pulling at them through the satin of her bra. “Please what?”

  The husky growl of his prompt sent a fresh wave of arousal straight to her pussy.

  “Please…yes…everything.”

  She gasped in dismay when he abandoned her nipples, only to sigh the second he yanked the straps of her bra down her arms. Cool air wafted across the turgid tips as he hooked the satin cups beneath them. The fabric bunched under her breasts and pushed them up high. Jo stared as he kissed his way along the top of one, his dark hair a stark contrast to her pale skin. Her mouth ran dry. She tried to blink away the thick haze of lust and alcohol closing in around her, but all she could focus on was the sight of his kiss-reddened lips latching on to her nipple.

  Her back bowed. He sucked strong and deep. Each pull of his lips and tongue tugged at some invisible string inside her. He moved to the other breast and drew her in, suckling ardently as he stroked her back, her waist, and her belly. His hands landed on her hips, the blunt tips of his fingers digging into soft flesh as he tried to control the wild gyrations of her body. No use. Her hips bucked as he peppered her belly with hard, sucking, open-mouthed kisses. Moist breath seeped through the satin of her matching panties. Her thighs trembled as he traced the lace edge of her low-slung boy shorts.

  He looked up at her, his eyes wide with frank admiration. The lift of his brows was earnest and hopeful. “I like these.”

  “Can’t stand a thong. Didn’t want panty lines.” The random bits of reasoning popped out of her mouth before her brain engaged.

  “God, no,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t want those.”

  His lips brushed her navel as he caught the edge of the lace between white teeth. Their gazes met somewhere over the heaving of her chest. Her lips parted. The seconds stretched as taut as the strained elastic. Words bubbled up inside her. She had a plea ready on the tip of her tongue when the lace snapped back into place.

  He smothered her disappointed groan with a chuckle. The rumble rolled through her, and he nuzzled the curve of her stomach. She pushed her hands into his hair, rumpling silky smooth strands in her clutching fingers and holding him where she wanted him most. Desire pulsed through her veins, her blood running thick and languid despite the pounding of her heart.

  The room dimmed and started to spin slowly. She dug her heels into the floor, but the panorama continued to shift. Like a diner trapped in one of those rotating rooftop restaurants, Jo tried to focus on a single spot. The edges of her vision blurred, smearing his handsome features. Her fingernails scraped his scalp in a desperate attempt to anchor herself in the eye of the storm.

  She cried out when his hot tongue scraped the front of her panties, dragging the drenched fabric over hypersensitive flesh. Greg devoured the last shreds of her sanity by thrusting the soaked satin into her with a hard push of his tongue. Teeth rasped her cloth-covered clit until she thought she’d climb straight out of her skin. He nuzzled the abused panties aside then dragged the tip of his tongue along the swollen lip of her pussy.

  Her thrusts turned wild and uncontrollable. And Greg didn’t even try to restrain her. Instead, he hummed his appreciation, jerked the crotch of her panties away, and speared her with his tongue.

  Jo came hard and fast, pressing her head into the unforgiving wall and her cunt into the fervent caress of his mouth. Wave after wave of pulsing climax ripped through her. She shuddered, riding every crest until he wrung the last drops of pleasure from her, leaving her limp and exhausted.

  “Wow.” His whispered assessment hit the nail straight on the head.

  And she would tell him. Just as soon as she found her lips. Warm and inviting, a fog of bliss wrapped itself around her, providing soft cushion when her legs gave way and she slid to the floor.

  “Josie?”

  She nearly purred when he said her name. Or maybe she did. Her whole body felt like one big, goofy grin. Greg the Grin Giver. That should be his name.

  “Josie, are you okay?”

  Okay. Beyond okay. Better than good. She tried to lift her hand to brush his concern aside, but the damn thing weighed too much.

  “Josie? Sweetheart?”

  Oh. Sweetheart. She liked the sound of it. Liked it so much that when he slid his arms under her back and knees, she snuggled deep into the crook of his neck. Moments later, the rou
gh abrasion of carpet fibers was replaced by cool, smooth sheets. He slid his arms out from under her and brushed her hair back from her face. So damn good. Nice to have someone take care of her for a change.

  “Josie?” he whispered.

  Yes, Josie. She was Josie again. Sighing her contentment, Jo burrowed deeper into the pillow and surrendered to sweet, fuzzy darkness.

  * * * *

  Jo awoke to a sadistic streak of sunlight searing her eyelids and her tongue welded to her palette. She tried to part her lips to take in some fresh oxygen, but some prankster had velcroed them together. Drawing a tentative hit through her nose, she abandoned the quest to open her mouth in favor of prying her neon-orange eyelids apart. For some reason, she had the wacky idea daylight would be more welcome than the pits of fiery blackness. Boy, was she wrong. A shaft of bright white light scorched her retinas. Thankfully, the superglue on her lashes proved stronger than her will. Letting them snap shut again, Jo sank deeper into the pillow. Apparently, the orange-black abyss was exactly where she belonged.

  She also knew damn well she didn’t belong in this particular bed.

  For one thing, the pillow was all wrong. The second clue was the unmistakable scents of booze, sleep, and aftershave hanging heavy in the air. Still, a woman hoped for the best. Maybe she’d been lucky enough to get hit by a bus on her way home the previous night. She clung to the frail possibility of a doctor-scented hospital room as she took two more weak inhalations through her nose, the only pain-free part of her face, then sacrificed her fuzzy tongue in the name of exploration.

  Lucky for her, the heat of the hellfires melted the Velcro sealing her mouth. She had just enough moisture left on the tip of her tongue to wet her puffy lips. Praying for some kind of coma-related explanation, she searched her memory for clues as to what happened to her but came up blank. A full minute passed. Inhaling deeply, she mustered the resignation to commit to another eye-scorching attempt to take in her surroundings. Gritting her teeth, she sucked air through her teeth until the room swam into focus.

  She spotted a strip of ornate crown molding stretched the length of the ceiling. Stylishly neutral wallpaper and bland artwork framed in gilt dotted the walls. Remorse twisted her gut even as a trickle of relief stirred her sluggish blood. The possibility of a hospital was officially ruled out as the probability of a strange hotel room took root.

  Then the panic borne of a decade and a half of unwavering routine kicked in.

  She sat bolt upright in the bed as terror grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed. Hard. The limp sheet pooled in her lap as the blood drained from her face. Guilt rushed in her veins. She crooked a leg to launch herself from the strange bed, but then reality settled in. She had no need to panic or rush. She shouldn’t feel guilty. She hadn’t forgotten to care for her mother; she’d simply forgotten the woman she’d dedicated the last sixteen years of her life to was dead.

  Covering her hammering heart and focusing on the insipid landscape across from the bed, she forced herself to take three deep breaths. Half-dreading what she might find, Jo turned her head to inspect the landscape of the bed. Beside her, buried beneath a pile of bedding she’d clearly cast aside, she made out the outline of a long, lean frame topped by broad, tanned shoulders and a shock of tousled salt and pepper hair. Jo sank her teeth into her bottom lip and turned back to the safety of the painting.

  The pale pastels were no match for the gaudy frame. Afraid the rush of sympathy had little to do with the décor, she tucked her chin to her chest and blinked the last of the superglue from her lashes. The black bra and panties she wore looked harsh against her sun-starved skin. Skin nowhere near as young and firm as it had once been. This body belonged to Jo, not Josie. And like the painting in its frame, the pale, delicate shell Jo lived in these days was no match for Josie and her antics.

  Moving cautiously, she peeled back the rumpled sheet and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Her overwrought nerves found a little comfort in the glimpse of dark boxer briefs she caught as she slipped from the bed. Standing next to the bed as still as a statue, she stared at those broad, lightly freckled shoulders as she scrounged for details.

  They’d danced. She knew that much for certain. A scene in a stainless steel bathroom stall flashed in her head. She prayed it was from some long-forgotten porno flick she must have seen somewhere in her sordid past. The woman she was now had absolutely no business kneeling in front of some strange man with his pants caught tight around his thighs. She must have imagined his hands in her hair. The hard, smooth length of his cock sliding over her tongue had to be a remnant from a distant memory.

  Or was it?

  Was it possible for one night, with this gorgeous man, she was the good-time girl she used to be?

  Jo squelched the urge to laugh at herself. The question was too ridiculous, and the vague hope was nothing but a big, fat joke. Judging by their state of undress, not only possible, but highly probable.

  Panic squeezed her throat even as arousal stirred low and deep in her belly. She closed her eyes, but it was no good. The memory was too vivid to escape. Her beleaguered heart raced as she relived the moment. The thick head of his cock nudging the back of her throat. The musky scent of aroused male flooding her senses. She could still taste the salty tang of him filling her mouth, the buzzing numbness in her lips, Greg calling her name.

  But Josie wasn’t her name anymore. She didn’t know when it happened, but she ceased to be Josie a long time ago. These days, she was just Jo. Good old Aunt Jo. Always the responsible one. The one everyone counted on for everything from tying thousands of Jordan almonds in tulle bundles to setting her own needs, wants, and desires aside so everyone else was free to chase theirs.

  She trapped the giggle threatening to squeak past the lump of bitterness in her throat with her fingertips. Damn hard to play the martyr when she’d awakened in a stranger’s bed wearing nothing but her underwear.

  As if reading her mind, her companion snorted and rolled over.

  Not a stranger, exactly. Greg. Gregory Stark. Her new nephew’s father.

  The dark shadow of heavy beard had been a mere hint the previous night. Now the stubble was a promise. The tender pink patch on her breast was no mystery. Neither was the residual tenderness in her lips or the dull ache of muscles long forgotten. A tiny step forward improved the view greatly. The sheet riding low on his torso was a special added bonus. He flung one arm wide across the bed, his golden skin a warm contrast to the stark-white linens. His fingers flexed. A frown creased his brows. Blue-black lashes fluttered, fanning the fire the slow stretch lit under her.

  The moment he settled, she leapt into action.

  She snapped the wrinkles from her dress and slipped rubber band arms into the sleeves. Shaky fingers fumbled the button. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted one shiny red shoe. Unfortunately, its mate was nowhere to be seen. Jo planted a hand on the mattress and lowered herself onto aching knees to peer under the bed. No dice. She rocked back, sitting on her heels as she surveyed the clothing-strewn floor. Still nothing.

  A low, gravelly groan jolted her from her search. Poking her head up, Jo watched as Greg curled his hand over his eyes. Panic choked the breath from her lungs. Acting purely on instinct, she flung herself forward and began to crawl past the foot of the bed. The heel of her shoe gripped tight in her hand, she sat back against the mattress and surveyed her options.

  When last seen, the handbag containing her lipstick, ID, and cab fare was tucked safely under the linen draping of a ballroom chair. She’d surrendered her coat to the goth chick working the hotel cloakroom. Sliding onto her stomach, she peeked under the bed skirt. Still no sign of her shoe. The bed creaked. Spurred by yet another pain-laced groan, she began to belly crawl toward the door. The chime of a cellular phone drew her up short a few feet from her goal. Jo flattened herself against the wall, hoping to make herself as invisible as she’d been for the past sixteen years, but she gasped when it r
attled and shifted under her weight.

  Her pickled brain leapt to the obvious conclusion: earthquake. A quick, hard shake left her a bit more sober. The wall wasn’t moving due to a shift in tectonic plates. She’d backed up against the closet. Greg snuffled in response to the phone’s alert. Closing her eyes, she went for the Hail Mary. Literally and figuratively. Blasphemous or not, the words to the prayer she learned in catechism ran through her head as she reached for the handle on the closet door. A healthy dose of lip smacking interrupted her fervent prayer, but it was just as well. She’d forgotten the rest anyway.

  The sound of sheets shifting forced her to forego stealth. With all the grace of a six-year-old wannabe gymnast, she rolled into the closet and pulled the door closed behind her. Releasing the tension on the handle gently, she exhaled in a breathy whoosh when it came to a stop. The second she pulled her hand back, the damn latch clicked loudly.

  The crack of metal on metal reverberated through the silent room. Her lone shoe clamped to her chest, she hunkered in the corner of the empty closet, holding her breath when the bedsprings squeaked. Her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she resisted the urge to out herself when he called for her in a rough, raspy baritone.

  “Josie?”

  Chapter 4

  Greg shot upright then instantly regretted the action. Holding the heel of his hand to his forehead, he froze, hoping to stop the sloshing of his brain.

  “Josie?”

  The hopeful question was met with nothing but silence. And sunlight. Blinding, painful sunlight. He squeezed his eyes shut and drew deep but cautious breaths, trying to fill his lungs with precious oxygen without disturbing too many molecules. Stone still, he took stock. His hair hurt. And his knees. And he had a weird stabbing pain in the back of his thigh.

  He slid a hand under his leg to massage his hamstring and came up with a bright red stiletto heel. Wetting his parched lips, Greg eyed the shoe speculatively as he rubbed the ache away. “One mystery solved.”