Afternoon Delight by Anne Calhoun Read Free Book Online Page B

coursed through him, undeterred this time by work. His cock lifted and pulsed when he shoved off pants, boxers, socks, and boots in one push. Ignoring it, he stepped into the tall, thin box of a shower and ducked his head to wet his hair. Dinner was twenty-four hours away. He could wait that long.
    But her challenge threw off his sense of time, made him aware of its edges, the changes in current he’d learned to ride out. She made him think about what was coming, anticipate the future more than he had in a long time. Both sets of his grandparents lived in a six-block radius. They’d watched him grow from a long, gangly infant into a New York City paramedic, and he’d watched them decline from vitality into dementia and a host of age-related illnesses before slipping away. It happened. The joys of a long life came with the sorrows of decline; combined with what he saw on a daily basis, that was reason enough to stay in the present. His present—the job, a sweet, sexy girl with the same attitude, basketball games as the weather warmed up—was all he needed.
    He remembered Sarah sitting on her heels at his feet as she unlaced his boots. Electric heat shot through his veins, pooling low in his pelvis. It was entirely possible he’d never be able to take off his boots again without thinking of Sarah at his feet, her hair losing the battle with gravity, her face serious and focused as her hands worked at his laces. Serene. That was the word. She looked serene, completely present, an attitude he would have entirely overlooked if he’d met her at a bar or in a more adrenaline-jacked situation, like the St. Patrick’s Day parade. But then she’d beaten him, using his own cocky attitude against him.
    Losing, and slowly at that, was fucking hot.
    Water coursed over his body. He followed its path with the soap, and a quick wash turned into a couple of slow strokes, working his thumb over the head. His balls tightened, lifted, the water warm, his shaft slick with soap and thickening in his grip.
    He’d wanted her again mere moments after she left, and when it came down to it, fuck cleansing his palate. She couldn’t possibly be serious, couldn’t mean to deny him this, something as natural as breathing, as elemental as desire. Lost in the memories, he thought about the few things they’d done and the many, many things yet to do when he had the full use of his hands and body and mouth to turn her inside out.
    He came with a gasp, release thudding through him as his cock jerked in his grip.
    Sanity returned. “Fuck,” he said, then bent his head forward under the spray. The thing was . . . rubbing one out didn’t stop him from thinking about his upcoming date with Sarah. He was still focused on the future, but now with a sense of sheepish dread.

Chapter Three
    Bottle of wine in a brown paper bag, he took the train to Borough Hall and walked the rest of the way to her address. She opened the door barefoot, dressed in a denim skirt and a sweater belted over a tank top. Her hair was loose, wild corkscrew curls tumbling around her shoulders. She caught it in both hands and settled it between her shoulder blades in a practiced, automatic move. “Hi,” she said. “Did you have any trouble finding us?”
    â€œI worked at a Brooklyn station for a couple of years,” he said.
    â€œOh, you brought wine. Let’s have a look.” She studied the bottle. “Fire Island. That’s near here, right? Thank you.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. Want me to open it?”
    â€œPlease. If I don’t turn the mushrooms they’ll scorch.”
    He looked around the space as he followed her into the apartment. The living area was one big open room, with a gorgeous, open view of the East River and the Manhattan skyline. The kitchen windows overlooked the street but were high enough that the street noise was muted. The room was furnished in overstuffed