Show and Tell (3 page)
The doors were set even and odd in small alcoves, and he found his room number halfway down the hall. Dropping his suit carrier to the carpet, he rummaged in his briefcase pocket where he’d stashed the card key.
From beneath the opposite door in his alcove, a woman’s voice drifted up. Barely more than a whisper of sound. Or . . . Scott cocked his head . . . a moan? He chuckled, hoping to hell she wasn’t a screamer. He had to get up at the crack of dawn.
Once inside, he tossed his bag on the bed and carried his briefcase and PC to the desk. He wanted to do a last-minute check on his presentation before he turned in.
A murmur wafted up from the socket above the bedside table. He moved closer, then sat down on the edge of the bed. Without a plug in the electrical socket, it was a pass-through from one room to the other. And that was definitely a woman’s voice.
No, not a voice, just a gentle feminine moan. The couple next door was about to give him a show without the picture. Ha. Any minute now, he expected the wall to start banging. Yet there was only that low, breathy sound of pleasure. Damn, it was erotic in a kinky, voyeuristic way.
He couldn’t help himself. What red-blooded male could? Scott laid back, moving closer to the wall socket to listen. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been with a woman in a couple of months, but he could feel her voice like a stroke along his cock.
Lying on the bed, listening to her, his hands stacked beneath his head, he hardened in his jeans. The intensity of her moans rose. He no longer had to strain to hear. She panted, faster, the thread of her voice running through her breath. Yet the wall behind his head still didn’t shake.
Jesus, her partner must be going down on her. And she was loving it.
So was Scott. He rubbed his cock through his pants. She had the most seductive moan he’d ever heard. Not a wail or screech or even a scream, but a soft, throaty pant that fed blood to his cock. He closed his eyes, her voice filling his head as his fingers worked open the button fly of his jeans, then he delved inside his briefs until he was stroking himself to her rhythm. Her voice rose in a crescendo. As she cried out, he felt the throes of her orgasm as if her body milked his erection.
He almost came with her.
It was like jerking off to a porn movie. Except that her voice spoke of balmy Caribbean nights, curtains blowing in a gentle breeze, and the scent of the ocean washing over him.
He figured the wall-banging would start pronto. Yet there was silence. Maybe her partner was getting his condom. He couldn’t wait for their next act.
He had to laugh. He was such a freaking perv, but hell, he wouldn’t deny how much he’d enjoyed listening. There was something indefinable about her voice that called to him. Maybe it was the circumstance, the unexpectedness, the fact she was a total stranger, faceless, just a voice.
He’d been married for twenty-two years. Since the divorce had become final a year ago, he’d had two brief relationships, both of which had skirted the edge of kinky, a few toys, a blindfold, scarves for ropes. But he’d felt no connection, and neither woman had fulfilled the craving in him. The passion he’d felt in his youth, the passion he’d showered on his wife, Katy.
The passion that had died through the job changes, raising children, climbing the corporate ladder, the fights about money, kids, sex, then the silences that drove him crazy. He’d thought when both the girls went off to college, he and Katy could start over, have time for each other, rekindle what they’d lost. He’d wanted that with every fiber of his being.
Instead, two weeks after Lexa, his youngest, went off for her freshman year, Katy asked for a divorce.
Scott swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. None of that mattered much now. His life had turned on a dime, but he wasn’t one to wish for things he couldn’t have. He had Lexa and Brooke, and he adored his girls.
He’d hoped, though, that he’d rediscover the passion of his youth, that he’d find a woman with whom he could share himself. That might be expecting too much at the age of forty-five. Maybe it came once in a lifetime, and all that was left was good sex.
Which is what the lady next door seemed to be getting tonight. He was envious of her partner. Yet they were taking their sweet time getting to the wall-banging. He was pervert enough to want to listen.
Finally, she started to moan again. His cock twitched as if her particular sweet pitch had a direct line to his libido. Oh man, he wouldn’t make it through the next orgasm without coming.
He wasn’t sure how you could want a voice, but he did. Christ, if he were next door, he’d have her screaming. The head of his cock rose out of his briefs, a drop of come leaking from the tip without even a touch.
“Fuck me, baby,” he whispered.
She moaned louder. Higher. A touch more desperate.
He wrapped his thumb and forefinger around his crown and pumped, just that tight circle, as if he delved with short sharp bursts in her pussy.
On the other side of the wall, she went crazy. Panting again, moaning. He could almost feel her writhing beneath him on the mattress, and he pretended she was all his, imagining his cock sliding in her, her taste on his tongue. As if she could read his mind through the wall, she cried out with that same musical, breathy quality that made him a little nuts. He wanted that sound, he wanted his name on her lips.
She drove Scott to the edge with her voice, and still her lover was quiet as a mouse. Damn if he wasn’t glad. He didn’t think he’d enjoy hearing a man’s grunts and groans anywhere near as much as listening to her by herself. Her voice enthralled him, made him actually feel she was there for him alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Scott started to get it. She
was
alone. The lover in her bed was her own hand. Or her vibrator. Christ, he almost exploded then. Perhaps because he couldn’t see, the wall a solid barrier, her voice, her soft cries, evoked the most erotic images he’d ever known. Gorgeous legs spread, fingers buried, silky hair fanned across her pillow. His cock swelled, and he pumped faster. God, he wanted to do her. Worse, he simply wanted to watch her. A complete stranger. Learning who she was by the way she caressed herself. Her touch teaching him what she craved. His head back, he groaned deep in his gut.
was
alone. The lover in her bed was her own hand. Or her vibrator. Christ, he almost exploded then. Perhaps because he couldn’t see, the wall a solid barrier, her voice, her soft cries, evoked the most erotic images he’d ever known. Gorgeous legs spread, fingers buried, silky hair fanned across her pillow. His cock swelled, and he pumped faster. God, he wanted to do her. Worse, he simply wanted to watch her. A complete stranger. Learning who she was by the way she caressed herself. Her touch teaching him what she craved. His head back, he groaned deep in his gut.
And he knew if he didn’t give in to this once-in-a-lifetime impulse, if he didn’t beg her to let him watch, he’d regret it the rest of his days.
He made the move before he could actually contemplate that she might call the cops and get him arrested for being a pervert.
2
TRINITY rolled over and hugged the pillow. She could do better, she knew, because the two orgasms, though pleasant, had been a tad less than mind-blowing. She was left wanting . . . more.
It was sad, too, because the best orgasms she’d ever had were the ones she gave herself. It wasn’t her lovers’ fault, not even Harper’s. She couldn’t let go at the right moment. It seemed to take so long that she felt impatient. Then she’d fake it. Or the bliss didn’t last. There were a million reasons, most of which centered around not looking ridiculous or sounding like a braying donkey or getting out of control or . . . show anything less than the perfect image she wanted to display.
She tugged her nightshirt over her butt and snuggled deeper beneath the cushy down comforter. She might have fallen asleep in two shakes if someone hadn’t knocked on the door.
Who was it at this ungodly hour? Except the clock showed ten. It had to be room service wanting her tray. Trinity climbed out of bed. She’d forgotten a robe, and where had she thrown her undies? Whatever. The shirt covered her thighs.
Balancing the tray on her hand, she opened the door.
And almost dropped it. This was no hotel employee.
Oh my God. She didn’t have on any makeup, and she hadn’t even checked her hair in the bathroom mirror.
She had to look up, up, up, and she realized how Faith must feel all the time. Petite. It was kind of nice. The guy was at least six four, and he had the flat abs, muscled arms, and defined chest of a gym rat. His thighs in those tight black jeans were . . . yummy.
She shouldn’t be looking at a man thinking “yum-yum” when she’d just kicked her husband of six months out of the house for cheating on her. She also shouldn’t be searching for a wedding ring, either, yet she noted his hand was bare.
And he was looking at her as if he were doing the “yum-yum,” too. It felt good, really good. Which it shouldn’t, of course.
“Let me take that for you.”
Lord. That voice. Deep, it started a thrum in her chest. He was older, but in a Kurt Russell/
Superdad
kind of way. In other words, more than sexy enough to turn heads, with short, dark brown hair and a strong, square chin. She let him take the tray without a peep, admiring his rearview as he bent to set her leftovers in the hall outside the alcove.
Superdad
kind of way. In other words, more than sexy enough to turn heads, with short, dark brown hair and a strong, square chin. She let him take the tray without a peep, admiring his rearview as he bent to set her leftovers in the hall outside the alcove.
“I’m in the room next door.” He pointed as if he thought she couldn’t figure out where next door was.
She smiled politely. “That’s nice.” What did he want?
“I can hear you through the wall.”
He could hear her? What, was the TV too loud? But she’d turned it off half an hour ago. Then a flush rose up her neck.
“Oh.” What else was she supposed to say?
His chest expanded with a breath, then he raked both hands through his short hair before dropping them to his sides again.
“And it made me a little nuts,” he finished as if he hadn’t paused and she hadn’t said “oh.”
“I’ll try to keep it down,” she said in her most snooty voice while inside she was a mushy mess of embarrassment.
“I don’t want you to keep it down.” He breathed deeply again, his chest straining against his sky blue button-down, then held her with a penetrating pair of eyes a few shades richer than the brown of his hair. “I want to come in and watch.”
If she’d still been holding the tray, it would have crashed to the floor and splattered the remains of runny fried eggs all over the carpet and his tennis shoes.
“You’re joking, right?”
“No.” He held up a hand. “But don’t call hotel management. I promise not to touch you.” He stopped, laughed softly, and shook his head almost absently. “I can’t believe I’m over here asking for this anymore than you can believe I am.” Tipping his head back, he contemplated the overhead spotlight before dropping back down to meet her gaze. “I heard your voice.” Then he shrugged as if that said it all.
He’d heard her voice. Just her voice. “What if I’d turned out to be fifty pounds overweight with a face like a Gorgon?”
His lips flirted with a smile. “I’d still want to watch you and hear you make those sounds.”
“This is the weirdest proposal I’ve ever had.” But it made her sort of excited. Well, hell, there wasn’t any “sort of” about it. Her body started clamoring, “More, more, more.”
“It’s the strangest proposal I’ve ever made.”
“I’m—” She’d been about to say that she was married, but what difference did that make? Harper didn’t want her. She had this horrible, terrible feeling that even if she took him back, he’d be sneaking off to his lover the first chance he got.
In six months, he’d never made her feel desired the way this man did with his utterly preposterous yet tantalizing request. But really, she couldn’t.
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