The Sex Files. Jule McBride
Чтение книги онлайн.
Читать онлайн книгу The Sex Files - Jule McBride страница 8
Closing the curtain, he climbed into bed again, uttering a frustrated grunt when the water surged beneath him. Who had he seen in the window? he wondered as he drifted.
“Here…let me help you, Oliver.” Her breath was closer now, so near that he caught whiffs of peppermint. At first, he thought it was toothpaste, then a breath mint—and then Oliver remembered the mentholated massage oil. Burying his face in a pillow, he realized the soft cushions were really Cameron’s breasts…
“You don’t mind if I lie beside you, do you, Oliver?” she was whispering.
“Be my guest, Cameron.”
Naked, she glided a thigh over his hip. He was throbbing as he slid a hand between their bodies, gently guiding himself inside her slick, wet heat. Moments ago, he’d been ready to explode, and now, once more, with her hands reaching between them to stroke him, he was teetering on the brink.
He gasped as her hips rocked. She whispered, “Take me deeper, Oliver. Deeper. All the way.” He lost control then. Suddenly, his mouth was everywhere. It closed possessively over her lips, and after he’d plundered her mouth, he dripped liquid kisses down the length of her neck until he went low enough to lather her breasts, lightly scraping his teeth against the puckered tips—gently biting, urgently coaxing. She arched and panted, begging him, “Love me, Oliver. Oh, please love me. You’re so hot. I can’t get enough of you.”
He couldn’t get enough of Cameron, either. Flames seemed to lick inside his limbs, and the wild need for her was spinning inside him like a dancer. He danced along with her, his mind turning somersaults, then fading to black as he thrust harder, quicker, deeper. He was so close, almost there…
He was fast sleep when he came.
3
“WHERE ARE YOU?” Peggy Fox whispered, hugging her green raincoat to her waist to stay warm and nervously pushing away the strands of blond hair falling over her eye. How could she have lost Oliver in the crowd? Just a second ago, he’d been standing across Sixth Avenue, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.
Now he was gone. She shuddered, either because of the chill air and fog, or because she couldn’t decide whether or not to approach him. As soon as she’d left the Plaza Hotel, things had taken a turn for the worse. She’d found where Oliver was staying, all right—a downtown apartment on Barrow Street that belonged to the sister he’d mentioned on TV—but before she could solicit his help, one of the men he worked with had chased her through the subway. He was a tall, bald, massively built black man who bore a striking resemblance to Bruce Willis.
“Halt!” he’d yelled. “I’m Kevin Hall. FBI. You’re wanted for questioning.”
She’d bolted, somehow losing him. But why was an agent chasing her? And why would she be wanted for questioning? She hadn’t done anything wrong. If Kevin Hall thought she was guilty of something, did Oliver Vargo think the same?
He, too, had spotted her in the subway, in the West Fourth Street station, and he’d given chase, although unlike Agent Hall, he hadn’t looked as if he wanted to arrest her. She’d had the distinct impression Oliver had realized she was following him, but until she knew for certain what was going on, she meant to play her cards close to the vest. Which was why she’d been spying on Oliver from Grand Central; unfortunately, from what she’d seen so far, he was chummy with Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall. Maybe that didn’t mean anything, though. The men were co-workers, after all.
Still, all this had thrown a wrench into her plans to contact Oliver, and now she felt even more ambivalent about going to the police. Why was an FBI agent chasing her? Her eyes darting, she searched the street as people surged around her. Oliver couldn’t have gone far. Moments ago, she’d tried to get closer to him by crossing the street, but both sides of Sixth Avenue were barricaded by police officers and saw-horses. Oliver had to be as trapped by the crowds as she.
The parade was a sight to behold, nothing like the well-known Macy’s parade. Here, in Greenwich Village, the atmosphere was more akin to Mardi Gras. Downtown revelers were costumed, dressed as turkeys, pilgrims and Native Americans. Irreverently ignoring the usual solemnity of the family holiday, the merrymakers scattered firecrackers in the street while a jazz band played the Wizard of Oz theme song.
She glanced around nervously. Oliver had seemed to recognize her in the subway, but maybe he’d just been running late and trying to catch a train. Now, even though she was wearing a simple, black Lone Ranger’s mask she’d bought from a street vendor, she feared the disguise would never fool Oliver Vargo, much less Susan Jones. Was the woman looking for her? If Peggy was found, would Susan try taking another shot?
Stress was taking its toll. Shivering, Peggy wished she’d eaten dinner. She was hungry and cold, even though the temperature was hovering in the forties. The wind had picked up, turning brisk, and the rain had tapered to an icy drizzle. The skimpy white dress beneath her coat had gotten damp.
She hugged her arms around herself. “Where are you?” she whispered again. How, in all this madness, was she supposed to find Oliver? She could only pray he wasn’t really as friendly with Miles as he’d looked when she’d spied on them. If it was Peggy’s word against Miles’s, who would Oliver be most inclined to believe? Peggy Fox, whom he’d never even met—or one of his own colleagues, a man he lunched with every day?
Shoving ungloved hands deep into the raincoat’s pockets, Peggy shivered again. Despite the body heat enveloping her, the gutters were gushing and her feet were soaked. She wanted to return to the hotel, take a shower and dry her wet clothes on the steam-heat registers. Just as she turned, preparing to fight her way through the crowd and back to the hotel, a hand curled around her upper arm.
Susan Jones! Fear bubbled in her throat as the fingers tightened purposefully. The woman had found her! Peggy was about to die! Her body tensed, and her throat closed in panic. She waited to feel a gun prodding her ribs. Cocking her head, she strained her ears. She didn’t know what command she expected. Don’t say a word, Ms. Fox. Just do exactly as I say, maybe. Or, One wrong move and you’re history. Or even worse, If you tell anyone what you know, your mom and Aunt Jill will pay.
She wished with all her heart that she hadn’t caught Miles in bed with Susan Jones—and that she hadn’t seen the money in the suitcase. Pain sliced through her. Her mom and Aunt Jill would be devastated if something bad happened to her. She’d do anything she could to protect them. When no one spoke, she tried unsuccessfully to wrench around, realizing in the process that the tall, hard body pressed against her back was decidedly male, which meant it wasn’t Susan Jones.
Was it Miles? Had she spoken his name aloud? She was so scared, Peggy wasn’t sure. Or was this his sidekick, the black man, Kevin Hall? Trapped by the crowd, she couldn’t turn. Or run. Or hide.
She squirmed, but every inch of the man’s muscular body moved with her. It was definitely the wrong time to notice how well suited she and this stranger were, at least from a physical perspective. His thighs molded to hers, his lap curved over her behind, his solar plexus fit into the groove of her spine, and finally, the steady thud of his heart seemed to take up residence inside her own chest, in the space just below her left shoulder.
Her pulse was racing, and when she sucked in another breath, hoping to calm herself, she knew it was useless. The man leaned closer, angled his head down, and she felt his breath against her neck; in the cold night, it was as warm as a fire. Suddenly, her heart ached. A wave of homesickness brought tears to her eyes. Blinking,