Scarlet Lies by Lani Wendt Young

Author:Lani Wendt Young [Young, Lani]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lani Wendt Young

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The parking lot is crammed with cars. But no people. I’ve chosen my time well. Nobody in their right mind would be missing out on their chance to attack the feast on array inside. The night air is a welcome relief from the sticky confines of the crowded hall and I take a moment to breathe. My feet are dying in my stupid shoes and the fat squeezer is impeding my circulation in troubling ways.

A cautious look over my shoulder. No-one’s around. I slip my shoes off and hobble over to stand on the grass, wriggling my toes in the cool wet grass. Now for the torture girdle. I move into the shadows, put my hand up under my dress, a squirm, a wriggle and then an unpeeling of Spanx, down…down. The greedy fabric doesn’t want to let go of my fat folds and it hurts to drag it down my legs and step out of it. A quiet exult, “Yes! Free at last.”

“Isn’t that my job?”

His quiet voice from somewhere behind me has me leaping a few feet into the air with a muffled shriek. “What the hell are you doing, creeping up on people like that?!”

He’s standing there in the shadows with his hands in his pockets, moonlight glinting like fire on his shirt and the gleam of his smile. He’s laughing at me. I want to scream at him again when I remember I’m holding a crumpled piece of spandex. I quickly hide it behind me. “Your job? What are you talking about?”

He walks closer and I back away, bump into a tree. Can’t move any further. He’s standing right in front of me now. Close. Too close. I’m breathing heavily and trying to stop my guilty chest from heaving up and down in such an obvious fashion. This close and he smells delicious. Dammit, doesn’t this man ever smell bad? Why just for once, can’t he stink? Of stale BO? Garlic? Onions? Old socks? Cigarettes? Please…

And then he brings one hand up to lightly brush loose strands of hair away from the side of my face and I can’t think about smelly things anymore. Because all I can think about – is him. Everywhere, all over me.

He whispers, “Taking your clothes off. Isn’t that my job?”

My jaw drops and my every thought stutters. I’m aflame. He raises one arm above me so that it rests on the broad tree trunk behind me, so that he can better keep me captive. Not that any part of me wants to escape. Hell no. He’s not touching me. But the space between us is aflame with a million filaments of desire. All I have to do is lean forward the barest millisecond of distance and we would be touching. I want to so bad that it hurts.

Wild visions in my head. Of me pressing into his taut hardness, reaching up to fist handfuls of that russet hair as I lick the delectable skin of his neck, breathing in deeply of his intoxicating maleness.

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