Whet your appetite for Deborah's books with these tasty excerpts.
"Where is everyone?""Heading to another bar or home."
"Oh. Party's over?"
"Guess so. I'll walk you to your car, unless you want me to drive you home. How much did you drink?"
"A margarita. I'm sober."
"Maybe I'll just follow you to make sure you get home okay."
"I'm all grown up, Jack. I don't get tipsy on one watered down drink." She headed for the door and he fell into step with her. The parking lot wasn't as full now. When she'd arrived, it had been packed and she'd ended up parking behind the building. Jack walked with her to her one-of-a-kind vehicle. She unlocked the door and turned to face him. "Thanks. I'm good." When she said that, his brows dipped, shadowing his eyes even more. She felt rather than saw the shift of his mood. The air around him seemed to sizzle. He lifted his hands and placed them on either side of her against the Thing.
"This is one ugly car."
"Says you." It was hard for her to talk past the pulse in her throat. She rested a hand strategically and purposefully on his chest where his heartbeat could be felt. His blue chambray shirt was soft against her fingertips. She looked at him through her lashes and smiled.
"We shouldn't be doing this," he said.
"What? Touching?"
"This." He leaned in closer, nuzzling her hair, breathing her in. "I'm your boss."
"Not now, you aren't. You're Jack Nast and I'm Sam Striker out here in the dark. Touching."
He moved quicker than she thought he would. A guttural sound, almost like a growl, vibrated in his chest and then his mouth was on hers, covering hers, searing hers. She slipped her arms around his waist and tasted peppermint on his lips. He was solid against her palms as she stroked up his back, skimming over his shoulder blades and along the curvature of his spine. She yearned to feel his skin slide hotly against hers. His hands moved to either side of her head, positioning her mouth where he wanted it, his fingers tangling in her long hair. He didn't dive in with his tongue. Instead, he teased her, lightly painting her lips and nudging the corners of her mouth. She flattened herself against him, needing to be closer, wanting to burrow into him. She felt his arousal, hard as steel, and just knowing she'd done that to him made her smile against the heat of his mouth on hers.
"I want to fuck you into next week," he rasped against her lips. "I want to go at you long and hard. Take my sweet time. Make you sore."
Jesus. Could she orgasm just from hearing him say such things to her? She lifted her lashes to stare into his oceanic eyes. "Who's stopping you?" she challenged him because she was in. All in.
"Not who. What." He fanned his long lashes slowly and his fingers flexed against her scalp. "Like I said. We can't be goddamned fools, Sam. I'm your boss."
"Like I said. You're not my boss right now. You're Jack Nas-ty." She smiled at the reference. "And you are kind of nasty, huh?" She smoothed her hands through the sides of his hair. It was soft and curled around the base of her fingers. "In a good way."
He tipped her head back, making her look into his eyes again. "You like it dirty, baby? You like it a little rough?"
"Talk's cheap. How about some action?"
One corner of his mouth lifted and he shook his head. "I don't know what to make of you. I can't decide if you're a risk taker or a prick teaser. Maybe some of both." He gathered fistfuls of her hair and moved her head back more until it touched the car behind her. "But I get the feeling that if I shoved you into the back seat of this piece of shit car and tried to bury my face between your thighs, you'd stop me."
A cold finger of trepidation slicked down her spine. Damn it. He was right. She was talking a lusty game, but what he'd described made her back off instead of lunge forward. Oh, she wanted him, but not like that. Not all tawdry and cheap.
"I actually own a bed back at my place," she whispered, her voice losing some of its previous brass.
He released her hair to drag his fingertips along her jawline and down her neck before settling his hands on her shoulders. "So much for getting down and dirty." He chuckled. "Tangling limbs with you in that bed would cause me all kinds of trouble. You're Lucy's friend and Lucy would pitch a fit about me taking advantage of you. You're my employee and I know better than to fuck the help. The crew would get wind of it and give me everlasting grief. Yeah. You would cause miles of misery for me. Besides that, you don't have any business inviting me to your place. You don't know the first thing about me." He shoved away from her and reached for the door handle. "You're right. You're sober. Go on home, Sam."
Dressed in an impeccably tailored navy blue suit that simply had to be a Tom Ford, pale yellow shirt, and blue, yellow, gold, and green plaid tie, Matthew Birdsong had never looked better. His windblown blond hair fell in perfect disarray and his five o'clock shadow was as sexy as hell. He carried a leather satchel and a hardback book. Pat Conroy's stupendous Prince of Tides."That's one of my favorite novels," Zaney said, nodding at the volume he held.
He seemed confused for a second and then he caught up with her line of conversation. "The book. Right. I'm about halfway through it." He leaned down and offered the back of his hand for Frito to sniff. Obligingly, Frito inched forward, took a whiff, and then licked his fingers, making him chuckle.
Zaney's toes curled in her sneakers at the deep, rumbling sound emanating from his chest. Everything about him was swoon worthy.
"We're friends now? Good." He rubbed Frito's folded-over ears and angled a glance up at Zaney. "What did you mean when you said, ‘Oh, it's you'?"
"Uh." She knitted her brows and tried to look puzzled. "Did I say that? Huh." Then she shrugged. "I'm your neighbor."
"Yes, I know. I'm Matt." He stroked the wiggly dog's head again. "And this is?"
"Frito Pie. We haven't actually met. Formally, I mean. I live across the hall in 1-B. I'm Zaney."
He straightened to tower over her. Now that he was close enough, she realized that his eyes weren't sky blue, but aquamarine. They glimmered with – what? Amusement?
"Zaney. Is that your clown name?"
She blinked and then chuckled at his audacity. "My clown name? No! That's a new one. Most people think it's fake." She flipped a strand of her hair. "Zaney, redhead cliché and all that. Actually, it's Zandra, but my mother started calling me Zaney when I was a baby. Nothing fake about me." She gestured down her body and almost laughed again when Birdsong's gaze followed and lingered on her boobs. "I don't need a stage name because I'm not an actress."
His gaze bounced back up to her face. "Oh. I assumed you were."
"Why?"
He looked at her – really looked at her – and a tingle raced up her spine. "You're pretty and I could see you on stage."
Her mind went blank for a moment and then she felt delight burst through in a huge smile. "Thanks. And might I say that there's nothing hotter than a man in a beautifully turned out suit who reads novels and pets dogs."
He blinked those greenish/bluish eyes slowly and a grin kicked up one corner of his mouth, making her study his lips. Everything about him was pretty or handsome. Even his mouth. Wide, but not too wide, with a slightly curvy upper lip and a plump lower one. Oh, and his lashes! Good God, they were long and thick. Long and thick. She jerked her mind away from there by reminding herself of the many, many women who had paraded in and out of his apartment.
"Ummm, well, thank you for sharing that observation, Zaney."
"No prob." Had she said too much at the wrong time? She had a bad habit of that. "Just being honest."
Chuckling and shaking his head a little, he pulled his keys from his trouser pocket as he stepped toward his apartment. "And might I say that's an admirable trait."
"And speaking of crazy names." She glanced sideways at his mailbox slot. "Birdsong? Were your ancestors early members of the Audubon Society or Native Americans?"
He grinned. "Heck if I know. My best guess is that at Ellis Island they couldn't get anyone to understand how to pronounce, much less spell, their Swedish or Norwegian name, so someone made a wild guess and wrote in Birdsong. I don't think any Indian tribe would claim us."
He was friendlier than she'd expected and she could see why he had no shortage of available pillow partners. "Well, I like it. It sings to me."
He tipped his head and curiosity was evident in his expression. Something else, too. Interest? "Good to meet you, Zaney." At his apartment door, he glanced at her again, giving her another grin before he went inside.
