across from him, drinking wine, waiting on her future husband to show up, and wind up with a wet spot. Stop. She would not sit around fantasizing about this man. It was wrong. Guilt churned in her gut. Thinking about Simon turned her on faster and hotter than Elliott’s actual touch.
She only had to make it through the evening. A few short hours. And next week she was signing up for therapy. Alison, one of the executive secretaries, saw a therapist weekly. First thing Monday morning she’d ask Alison for a referral. This thing for Simon was getting out of hand. God knows what would happen if he’d offered a smidgen of interest or encouragement. What kind of woman ran around in perpetual lust for her fiancé’s best friend? And it had actually started her thinking, quite hard, as to exactly how she felt about Elliott and whether marrying him was such a good idea. She and Elliott were good together. They got along well. They had fun. But it was nothing like the dark passion with Simon that haunted her dreams. Toss in a vague sense of discontent with her bedroom time with Elliott….
Did she break it off with someone based on hot dreams about someone else? Which came first? Her discontent with Elliott or this dark sexual attraction to Simon? Was she truly attracted or just scared of commitment? Definitely time for a therapist.
“Good wine. Thanks,” Simon said.
“Sure.” Nervous, she swigged her wine instead of sipping and promptly choked. Then choked some more. Dammit, she couldn’t catch her breath.
Simon skirted the chest and took her wineglass from her. He knelt down and, as if conditioned by her dreams, she automatically spread her legs to accommodate him. He grabbed her shoulders. “Can you breathe? Nod your head.”
She nodded yes. But he didn’t take his hands from her bare skin. Finally the choking fit ended. She was left with him kneeling between her thighs, his fingers curled around the curves of her shoulders, her face hot with humiliation, her body hotter still at his proximity.
“I’m…fine,” she said, her voice wavering. Not from her choking spell but from his touch, the brush of his body against her bare legs. The reality of his touch was a thousand times more potent than a mere dream. Did his hand tremble against her shoulder or was it her own reaction?
Simon released her and stood abruptly. Still between her legs, he looked down at her. “You might want to save the chugging for Kool-Aid or beer,” he drawled. He turned on his heel and picked up his own wineglass to sit once again on the sofa.
Bite me. Tawny hated him at that moment. How could he be so concerned and considerate one minute and then snide and nasty the next? She ignored his comment and focused instead on Elliott. She glanced at her watch. Almost nine-fifteen.
“Elliott should be here soon. I hope so. I’m starving,” she said. Yeah. Simon had just spent the day photographing one of the skin-’n’-bones set and she’d just presented her well-padded ass as starving. “Well, not starving, obviously, but hungry.” She simply couldn’t say or do anything right in front of him.
And then it didn’t matter because she wasn’t in front of Simon. She was in utter pitch-black darkness and sudden silence.
“What the hell?” Simon said.
Her sentiments exactly.
“SIMON?” PANIC FILLED HER voice.
“I’m right here,” he said. He stood, blind in the dark. He bumped his shins against the chest. Cautiously he put his wineglass down.
Damn good thing he did because Tawny grabbed onto his arm, startling him, the uncustomary tremor in her voice reflected in her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a thing about the dark.”
Moving slowly, he felt his way around the furniture until he reached her side. He’d never experienced such absolute darkness. He couldn’t see her, but he felt her body heat, smelled her perfume, felt her energy pulsing in her hand on his arm, heard the soft pant of her panic. “A thing?”
“Yeah, I don’t like it worth a damn.” Her laugh verged on pathetic and tugged at his heartstrings. As if everything she did didn’t tug at them. “Curiosity got the better of me and I managed to lock myself in a closet for a couple of hours when I was four. I was terrified. Ever since, the dark freaks me out.”
She laughed again, and if he hadn’t been so tuned in to the nuances of her voice, he might’ve missed the nervousness still lurking behind it. Against his better judgment—touching her, as he’d found a few minutes ago, was definitely bad judgment—he caught her hand in his. “It’s okay. I’m here. Does your building lose power often?”
“Twice before. But it was always during the day.” Her voice sounded surer, less panicked, and her hand was steadier. She tried to pull her hand from his. “I’m fine now.”
Her slight breathlessness gave her away. She wasn’t fine, but she was doing her best to give that impression. He fought the urge to pull her closer, wrap his arms around her soft vulnerability and reassure her everything was okay. Instead he contented himself with clasping her hand tighter. “Well, I’m not. I’m blind as a bloody bat in here. Where’s your flashlight?” he asked.
She turned into him and her cheek brushed against his shoulder, setting his heart racing. It was agony to be so close to her, touch her, smell her.
“I don’t have one. It got broken when I moved and I keep forgetting to replace it.” Her breath feathered against his neck and her hair teased along his jaw.
“Okay. No flashlight. Move on to plan B. Where’s a window?”
Her fingers curled around his. “My bedroom. There’s one in the bathroom, but it’s small.”
“Okay. Lead on to your bedroom.” Despite the dark, he closed his eyes when he spoke. Under different circumstances…
“This way.” She tugged him by the hand and within seconds he ran into something hard.
“Ow. Damn.” Obviously the wall.
“Sorry,” she apologized, her disembodied voice beside him.
He rolled his shoulder. “I take it you didn’t hit the wall.”
“No. I’m in the doorway.”
Brilliant. She was laughing at him. Actually banging into walls was rather funny but hard on the shoulder.
“Walking beside you isn’t going to work. I’ll walk behind you.” He braced his hands on her bare shoulders. In the dark he could well imagine her naked. Correction. It was as if she was naked, the way he’d imagined her so many times before. Her shoulders were soft, her skin like warm, supple suede. Her scent surrounded him, seduced him. He ached to pull her back into him, to lower his head and kiss the delicate skin at the back of her neck, shower kisses along the curve of her shoulder. He wanted to absorb her heat, her taste, her.
Longing pierced his very soul. To have her in his arms but still out of reach was cruel beyond measure. Just one taste of her… He leaned forward and she swayed ever so slightly back into him, tensing beneath his fingertips. Wisps of hair brushed his face. What the hell was he doing? He jerked his head back.
“Simon?” The husky way she said his name always curled heat through him.
“Give me a second to get my bearings.” Clothes. He needed to touch
