Hot Spot by Susan Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

tonight." He swept a hand downward, indicating his khaki shorts and black T-shirt. "Am I forgiven?"
    "Oh,yeah-definitely."
    He heard the small impatience in her voice, the horny wistful-ness, too, and pulling her close, he brushed her mouth with his. "How much do you want to see the fireworks?"
    "We could watch them from my bedroom." There. She'd been wanting to say that for a very long time.
    Her breath was warm on his mouth, the length of her body pressed into his, her breasts softly cushioned against his chest. "Awesome."
    His erection was instant and gloriously large, and if ever she might have had misgivings, they were all summarily dismissed. She wanted to feel that—it… his awesomeness inside her— because size really
did
matter unless you were five feet tall and ninety pounds. And now that she'd come in contact with his impressive erection, she suspected he was adored for more than his handsome good looks. "Follow me," she said—on track, in full pursuit—feeling tingly and wet and more ready for sex than she'd felt for a very long time. She really should thank her lucky stars that Danny Rees was a comic book collector.
    Some people believed in destiny.
    She believed in gypsy fate.
    It was a family thing.
    And tonight she was definitely grooving with Fate.
    "I'm really glad you had a comic book store, or I might never have met you," he said as they walked from the porch into her store.
    See. There. Gypsy fate smack dab in your face. "I know," she calmly said as though she wasn't remembering all those nights her grandma shuffled the cards and played solitaire to see what tomorrow would bring. As though reading tea leaves was an everyday occurrence in Stillwater. "I'm glad, too."
----
SIX

     

    THEY HELD HANDS ALL THE WAY UP THE STAIRS, and their handclasp seemed natural—not awkward or clumsy. Like they knew each other forever instead of only a week… or only a few hours, if anyone was actually counting.
    Although she certainly wasn't.
    The hallway ran north and south from the top of the stairs. It was carpeted in blue-and-white rag rugs because her favorite house was the Swedish painter Carl Larson's house, even though she'd only seen it in books and he'd died about a hundred years ago.
    And as if she wasn't already feeling this incredible compatibility, Danny said, "Nice rugs. Have you ever been to Sweden?"
    She practically came right there, because as everyone knew, sex was sex for men, but for women sex was about some otherworldly, perhaps unexplainable
connection
!
    She stopped in her tracks. Inhaled. Told herself not to blow it by coming precipitously in the hallway and then said in a breathless voice, "How did you know?"
    "I've been there," he prosaically replied, like men did without a thought for mystical ramifications or female sexuality. "Your rugs remind me of Sweden."
    This wasn't the time—on such short acquaintance—to explain her theory apropos male and female sexual compatibility. Or expose her slightly bizarre family, who had this tendency to give gypsy fate a great deal of relevance when no one in their right mind did. "I see," she said, tamping down all the outre thoughts in the forefront of her mind, trying to sound normal. "They're not actually from Sweden," she added, as though either of them cared.
    "I like them anyway," he said, as capable of making banal conversation as she. Although, less susceptible to spiritual connections, he was damned hard-pressed not to pick her up, carry her to her bed, and have sex with her in less than three seconds.
    Not a normal sensation for him—that degree of impatience and unbridled lust.
    He tried to disengage from his ramming speed mentality.
    Unfortunately, he'd been thinking of little else all day, and sublimation wasn't working.
    How bad would it look
, Stella wondered,
if I said, "I can't wait," the moment we entered the bedroom
? "I can't wait," she heard herself say as they walked into the room—her libido apparently immune to discretion.