The Sweetest Taboo Read Free Page B

on remembered images of candles and crushed cupcakes and little toy trucks—and counted forward.

    Even now he had no idea how old he really was. All those ages and dates were as much a part of his imagination as Raleigh Slater.

    Or as much as the fictional fantasies he wove of Erin Thatcher.

    Sebastian reached for the bar of soap and ran it over his chest and armpits, working up a lather before stepping back beneath the spray to rinse. He kept his eyes closed, the hazy fog so thick he couldn’t see much of anything. He could barely even breathe. His skin burned from the stinging heat of the water. And from the mental picture of Erin. A picture of her sharing the heat and the steam. A steam that intensified as blood pulsed through his veins.

    He stepped out from under the shower, moved to the back of the spacious enclosure and reached again for the soap. Suds slid down his slick skin, through the hair growing low on his abdomen into the thatch cushioning his sex. His hand was warm and soapy when he took his dick in his hand. He leaned his forehead on the forearm he’d braced on the wall and spread his legs.

    Water pummeled his back and his buttocks as he began to stroke away the tension he’d had building for days. Eyes screwed up tight, he imagined Erin on her knees, her short sleek auburn hair slicked back, her big silver-bright eyes looking up into his, her mouth forming the perfect O, her lips plump and pink and wrapped around him.

    He wanted to get her on her knees. He wanted to see the cherry ripe tips of her breasts pucker and pout. He wanted to know how much of her body she shaved and how her baby bare skin would taste when he sucked her into his mouth.

    Sebastian threw back his head and silently roared, straining beneath the release that grabbed hard between his legs and jerked his lower body forward. He thrust hard, thrust repeatedly, spilling himself into the soap-scented steam when he wanted more than anything to spill himself into the welcome warmth of Erin Thatcher’s body.

    2

    “I’M GOING TO HAVE TO clone myself or forget ever getting the rest of this party planned.”

    Erin shoved empty mugs and pitchers into a tub beneath Paddington’s bar, a full circle in the center of the high-ceilinged room with interior walls of exposed red brick. Booths ran along both the left and the right, and clusters of tables sat scattered across a high-gloss concrete floor that reflected track lighting from overhead beams.

    Frustrated, she shoved the heavy glassware a little too hard and ended up splashing beer the length of one pant leg. “Great. Just great.” Count to ten, Erin. Count to ten. “And, of course, I didn’t get to pick up my dry cleaning and don’t have a change of clothes in the office.”

    Cali Tippen, the wine and tobacco bar’s number one waitress and Erin’s number one friend, dumped her empties into the trash and spun her serving tray onto the bar before offering Erin a commiserating pat on the back along with a clean rag. “Eau de Budweiser, huh? I doubt anyone will notice it over the Parfum Merlot or the smoky essence of Le Cigare Cubain. ”

    “Tell me about it. The smoke in this place? Even with the phenomenal exhaust system I installed during the remodeling, I go home reeking.” Erin grimaced. “And I’m still looking for a daily shampoo I can use daily.”

    She sighed. She pouted. Neither did her any more good than did the shampoos. She was never going to get over missing Rory. His matter-of-factness. His ribald humor. His huge meaty hands that crushed despair and meted out comfort with the same soothing touch.

    A touch Erin longed to feel again. Especially on eat-a-worm days like today when every time she turned around she expected to see him looking over her shoulder, reassuring her that he was happy with the way she was running his place.

    His place. Not hers.

    She shook off a rush of melancholy. Chin-length strands of hair brushed the skin beneath her ear, a