ColdNightsHotBodies Read online

  Cold Nights, Hot Bodies

  Lily Harlem

  All my life I’ve been the quiet bookworm, the office mouse. It hasn’t bothered me. Immersing myself in erotic novels has kept me wriggling on the edge of my seat at work and firmly entrenched in my own fantasy world at night.

  Though one thing is bothering me—my damn virginity. If only I could find a sexy bedroom expert to introduce me to the delights of having a lover. Someone handsome and charming, who can rival the hunky alpha males in my books. I have a very vivid, very well-fed imagination—he’ll have to keep up.

  Then, one bitterly cold night, thanks to a devious, conniving, so-called friend, the perfect opportunity to rid myself of this pesky virginity problem comes along. Before I know it, the heroes in my novels have come alive in the person of Shane Galloway, who’s pleasuring me with every trick in the book and wheedling into my heart in the hottest ways possible.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing

  www.ellorascave.com

  Cold Nights, Hot Bodies

  ISBN 9781419935985

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Cold Nights, Hot Bodies Copyright © 2011 Lily Harlem

  Edited by Jillian Bell

  Cover design by Syneca

  Photographs: CuraPhotography/Shutterstock.com

  Electronic book publication December 2011

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for, author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Cold Nights, Hot Bodies

  Lily Harlem

  Chapter One

  His strong, masculine arms embraced her nakedness as he forged in farther and deeper. Each powerful thrust of his hips created a starburst of sensations that lapped at her most intimate flesh and floated her higher.

  “Oh, Tobias, oh, yes, yes, Tobias,” she cried as he upped the tempo to match the racing of her heart. “Please, don’t stop, not now it’s so…” Saffron squeezed her eyes shut and became lost in the spectacular firework display behind her lids.

  Tobias groaned long and hard in her ear. His hot breath ruffled through her hair. Suddenly she was there. It was as if time stood still, everything else ceased to exist. There was just her and Tobias, lying on the soft chaise on his yacht deck with the moon dancing above them. Then, in a glorious release, her whole body went into a series of powerful spasms, clutching him, pulsating around him. It was like nothing she had ever felt before.

  He sought her mouth and plundered his tongue in as he curled his hips under and pumped out his own pleasure to mix with hers.

  Saffron clung to her new husband with all four of her limbs, her ankles locked over his buttocks and her arms clutching his smooth shoulder blades. A single tear squeezed from her eye.

  Tobias lifted his head. “Are you crying?” he asked in a soft, breathless voice.

  “No, it’s just―”

  “You are. Did I hurt you? Oh, Saffron, I’m so sorry. I tried to be careful, keep it under control, but you are just so perfect, so utterly divine it drives me wild.”

  Saffron put her finger to his lips and pressed. “Shh, my darling, you didn’t hurt me, well not after the first bit.” She paused to smile shyly. “It was just so special, so loving and so…” She couldn’t find the words to describe the consummation of their marriage.

  “Amazing.” He grinned.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, it’s supposed to be amazing your first time.” He kissed her tear away.

  “Does that mean it won’t be the second time?” Saffron whispered as her heart swelled with love for the man she’d just given her virginity to.

  “Oh, it will be amazing the second time all right,” Tobias murmured, shifting his hips.

  Saffron gasped as she felt him hardening again. A fresh wave of desire washed through her.

  “In fact,” Tobias murmured, “it will probably be more so when I get you to turn around and bend—”

  “Ashley, Ashley, for goodness’ sake get going, will you?”

  I lifted my concentration from The Millionaire’s Virgin Bride, hastily minimizing my screen and turning to Dawn, who stood by my desk with her hands on her hips, frowning.

  “Yep, just on my way now,” I said, squirming on my seat. The story had me buzzing all over. My knickers were damp and my heart pounding. Tobias was just so perfect. Handsome and manly but also sensitive and caring. As he’d cupped Saffron’s breasts and stroked over her nipples that first time, I could almost feel the calluses on his palms scratching over my own slight breasts.

  “Are you reading that fluffy romantic stuff again?” Dawn asked, flicking her long blonde hair over her shoulders and reaching for her cerise leather handbag.

  I’d been rumbled. No point denying it. “Yeah, it’s a new release from my favorite author,” I said, trying desperately to act as though I wasn’t turned-on by a fictitious character taking his wife’s virginity.

  Dawn rolled her cherry-glossed lips in on themselves. “You need to go get yourself some real-life action,” she said, her blue eyes sparkling. “Instead of always reading about someone else’s fun.”

  I resisted a sigh. It was all very well for someone who looked like a glamour model to say that. With her silky hair and tanned skin, hourglass figure and great sense of style, Dawn could have any guy she wanted, and frequently did. Finding romance and all the yumminess that went with it wasn’t a problem for her.

  Okay, so I should be more confident. I should wear more “hip” clothes and get myself out there looking for a man. And I knew I should follow her well-meant suggestions about makeup and chat-up lines, but it was just so difficult to leave my mousy comfort zone. I liked it here, it felt safe in my little hole, and my stories distracted me from the man drought in my life. “I know,” I said, hoping we weren’t going to have the same conversation we’d had a million times already. “I really should.”

  Dawn opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Instead she tugged at her bottom lip with her teeth, studied me for a moment then turned and walked away.

  “Dawn,” I called when she reached the door. “Have a great Christmas.”

  She smiled over her shoulder as if she knew something I didn’t. “You too, Ashley, but right now you have to get going. You’ll be late. And don’t forget your bag.” She pointed at my navy holdall lying beneath the coat hook. “I’ll see you in the New Year.”

  My stomach lurched as I glanced at the c
lock. Damn, it was gone five. It was always the way once I got involved in a Margaret Rider book. Time stood still for me but kept ticking for everyone else.

  I pushed back my chair. Zipped my laptop into its case and dragged on my thick winter coat. It would take three hours to get to The Fenchurch Hotel in Lower Creaton, maybe longer if the traffic was bad—which it was bound to be heading toward the Cotswolds on a Friday only a week before Christmas.

  I had to go to The Fenchurch. I didn’t want to, I had no choice. My workmates thought I was lucky, a night in a posh hotel and a slap-up meal all at the company’s expense. But for me it was torture and it was the second year running I’d been the most productive non-sales employee. In other words, I’d handled the fitting of the most security systems, and so this was the second year running I’d won the Christmas treat.

  Quickly I scooted past empty desks—some lay tidy and ordered, others littered with paperwork and potted plants. My overnight holdall was heavy as was my laptop case, and I struggled with the elevator buttons. I made it down to the foyer, said good night to Samantha the receptionist, and stepped out into the office parking lot. Cool wetness brushed my cheeks. Floating down from the dark sky were hundreds of sparkling white snowflakes.

  Great, now it would take me even longer to get to the Cotswolds.

  Climbing into my faithful neon-blue Volkswagen Beetle, I whacked up the heating and navigated through the London traffic. After an hour I hit the M4, turned on the radio and was soon singing along to Wham’s Last Christmas. As snow danced in the red taillights of the car in front of me, I dreamed of a log cabin and a handsome man—Tobias would do me just fine. I could get snowed in with him quite happily.

  I imagined a roaring log fire at my side and a thick fur rug beneath my naked back, pictured his rugged, unshaven face hovering over me as he promised to take it slow my first time. His dazzling blue eyes would be glazed with lust as he pushed into me, stretching me with his thick manhood, taking me to a place of ecstasy I’d never been to before.

  The song ended and I shivered out a breath even though the car was quite hot. My nipples had tightened beneath my sweater and a pulse beat a steady rhythm in my pelvis. Just thinking about Tobias had me aroused. It felt sweet, it felt nice. I took a slug from my water bottle. If these feelings were good in my imagination, what would it be like for real? I was twenty-three and I knew one day I would find out what sex was like. Sooner or later I would come out of my shell and grab myself a hunky hero to shag senseless. Dawn always talked about me finding love and romance. It wasn’t that I didn’t want love and romance, I did, but I also just wanted to do the deed. Get down and dirty, naked and sweaty with someone who knew what he was doing and would get it just right.

  Trouble was, guys rarely glanced my way. Who could blame them? I had fine light-brown hair, usually pulled back into a low ponytail. I had no skill when it came to applying makeup, so I didn’t bother, and my figure was on the skinny side. There was a definite lack of curves that didn’t appear even with baggy clothes. Plus, if a guy in the office or out on the street did look my way it was always a geek I wouldn’t even take off my raincoat for let alone my knickers.

  No, I was waiting for Tobias the passionate millionaire, or sexy Sebastian from Ride into the Sunset, or even bad boy Captain Hawkeye from Swashbuckling on the High Seas. They were real men. Men for whom satisfying the women in their lives was all that mattered, after, of course, they’d ensured their millions were well invested, the bad guys caught, and the pirate ship packed full of loot.

  A stern voice on the radio warned delays. I sighed, but no sooner had I resigned myself to walking into dinner late than the slip road for my turning appeared. Luck was on my side. I clicked my indicator and whizzed off the motorway. If I remembered correctly it was only a couple of miles to The Fenchurch from here.

  The hotel lobby was warm and welcoming after my scramble across the snow- carpeted parking lot. The low lighting glowed and heat from a roaring fire wrapped like a blanket around my cold shoulders. I pulled in the scent of pine from the enormous fir tree decorated with large gold baubles and glanced at the ceramic angel perched on the very top.

  After checking in at the high, mahogany reception desk, I took the elevator to my top-floor room.

  Pushing open the door, I gasped and my heart did a flip of excitement. Wow. This was so much better than last year’s room. This was a suite—a huge, luxurious, decadently furnished suite.

  I stepped in and let the heavy door swing shut. A long, burgundy sofa dotted with plump cushions sat before a plasma TV and an artificial fire flickered gently from a marble hearth. A shiny, round table held a vase of enormous ruby roses nestled amongst lush green fronds. Within the rose petals, clear crystals sparkled like ice chips. I dropped my holdall and laptop bag on the sofa and bent to inhale their scent—powder and earth, sweetness and fern.

  Still in awe, I wandered through a door to my left and widened my eyes farther. An enormous four-poster bed stood before me covered in a red-and-green checked eiderdown. Matching voile curtains draped from each of its posts. It looked like something from my favorite Regency historical, The Insatiable Duke of Harrington.

  I kicked off my sneakers and flopped on the bed, spreading my arms and making a snow angel on the covers. “Yippee,” I said, looking up at the sagging tartan canopy.

  It crossed my mind there must have been a mistake. This wasn’t my room. Should I go down to reception and check?

  Standing, I studied myself in a large mirror and pulled my hair from its band so it hung in a slight wave around my black roll-neck sweater. No. Why should I? This sort of wondrous mistake never happened to me. And it was about time it did. I would stay here and if someone came and told me to move to another room I would. But unless that happened I’d enjoy my one night of sumptuous luxury. In fact, I’d read the bedroom scenes again from The Insatiable Duke of Harrington once I’d got dinner out of the way. I’d pour myself a nightcap and pull up that particular e-book for a good steamy session of literature. Maybe even indulge in a few chapters of His Maid’s Desires too, if I could stay awake long enough.

  Squaring my shoulders and happy with my decision, I glanced at the clock. I had twenty minutes to get out of my “dress-down Friday” jeans and into my smart evening outfit.

  I dashed into the bathroom, paused briefly to admire the opulent gold taps and the double shower cubicle, then jacked on the faucet. Tearing the complimentary shower-cap from its cardboard box, I rammed my hair into it and jumped into the steaming water. The hotel shower gel was spicy and rich and the white suds moisturized my skin as they slid down my breasts and legs. I didn’t linger, I didn’t have time, so I stepped out, reached for a fluffy towel and began scrubbing my teeth with the conveniently provided toothbrush and paste.

  Dinner shouldn’t take longer than a couple of hours, then I could slip away early. As long as Derek, my regional manager at Safe as Houses, saw me at the beginning of the evening, he wouldn’t notice if I wasn’t there at the end. No one would notice. No one ever did.

  Naked, I walked across the bedroom and into the living room to retrieve my smart black pants and my plain white blouse from my holdall. Opening the bag, I dipped my hand in. Felt soft material and tugged. But instead of black or white emerging from the zipper it was a bright red piece of clothing.

  “What the…?”

  I didn’t own anything that color. I tugged a little more, then held the offending garment out at arm’s length. It was a dress, a short flame-red dress with thin shoulder straps and a label on the back that read Jigsaw. It wasn’t mine. How had it got into my bag?

  I stared at it as though it might tell me the answer. It didn’t, so I tossed it onto the sofa. I didn’t have time for mysteries. Instead, I delved back in to find my pants and blouse. My hand hit a hard shoe. I’d packed patent black Courts with half-inch heels. But the shoe that appeared wasn’t a Court, nor did it have a half-inch heel, nor was it black. The shoe in my hand was the same star
tling red as the dress and the thin, shiny silver heel was at least two inches. I turned it over. Where had it come from? It looked like the shoe from my favorite story of the year before, Stolen and Seduced.

  Retrieving its twin from the bag, I set the unfamiliar shoes down on the floor. I’d never worn anything like that and couldn’t imagine I ever would. My shoes must be buried at the bottom somewhere. Clicking my tongue in irritation, I slid my hands around, over the base and into the sides, but there were no more shoes in the bag. Instead, I pulled out a thin cardboard envelope, the clear window displaying a crisscross of black netting. “Fishnet hold-up stockings—pull resistant and guaranteed not to slide” the label boasted.

  A flush of heat washed over me.

  Fishnet stockings!

  This wasn’t my bag.

  I glanced at the holdall as though it was an alien entity. But it had the same frayed handle as mine and the same ink stain near the base.

  It was mine.

  I turned the stocking pack over. On the base of the pack was a handwritten note in a neat, boxy scrawl I recognized.

  My dearest Ashley,

  Please forgive me but I’ve done this for your own good. It’s time to come out of your hole and let the world see you for the beautiful and amazing woman you are. Please, I beg you, wear this dress, the shoes and the stockings to dinner tonight—they are all your size. You will look stunning. You will wow the entire company, the best of whom are gathered at The Fenchurch. No one will ever overlook you again.

  Please, for me, even if for one night only—shine, my dear friend, shine.

  Love, because that is the ultimate goal, Dawn x x

  PS—There is makeup in the side pocket, the perfect shade of lippy for you, trust me. Some volume spray for your hair and don’t worry, your dull pants and plain Jane shirt will be quite safe with me for the night!!