The Guy Next Door: Ready, Set, Jett\Gail's Gone Wild\Just One Taste by Lori Foster

Author:Lori Foster [Foster, Lori]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Contemporary, Fiction, General, Man-Woman Relationships, Love Stories; American, Spring Break
ISBN: 9780373775569
Publisher: HQN Books
Published: 2011-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

GAIL STOOD BEHIND THE red-velvet rope that dissected Ernest Hemingway’s bedroom. She stared down at the double bed that he’d shared with his wife. Or wives. Or, technically, his mistresses prior to becoming his wives. She studied the simple white chenille bedspread and matching pillow shams, picturing what the scene would have looked like all those years ago, the covers rumpled up and soaked with sweat from unbridled—and possibly even illicit—lovemaking.

She immediately straightened, looking around the room to make sure no one had witnessed her mental debauchery. What in the world was her problem? When had she become such a slattern? Why did she have sex on the brain?

One quick glance at Jesse, and she had her answer. He stood so close to her side that the skin of her arm felt hot. Technically, she felt hot all over. She needed to get a grip. She needed a cool glass of water.

“That’s a damn small bed if you ask me,” Dr. Purdy said, the second statement he’d made all morning. “Can’t get too creative in a bed that small.”

“Oh, you!” Lana said, giggling.

Gail could see the corner of Jesse’s mouth curl up in a faint smile, and he looked everywhere but at her.

“As I was saying,” he continued. “Hemingway had a ramp installed from the bedroom to his pool house studio, so he didn’t even have to…”

Gail wasn’t paying attention to Jesse’s words. She couldn’t hear much anyway because the seductive sound of the man’s baritone had caused the inside of her skull to hum. She decided to look at anything but the bed. Her eyes traveled to the way Jesse’s shirtsleeve had been rolled up on his muscled forearm. Then they strayed to the front of Jesse’s shorts. That had been a mistake.

She dabbed at her damp forehead, praying that no one in any of the tour groups converging in the Hemingway House could sense her private struggle. Of course they couldn’t. To everyone gathered near the velvet rope, Gail was just another visitor strolling through Hemingway’s bedroom. No one had any idea that she, Gail Chapman, PhD, was having a life-altering crisis.

Suddenly, the room began to reel. It felt as if her world was coming off its axis. Hemingway’s bed mocked her. It was nothing but a monument to uncontrollable desire and wild sex and everything she’d been doing without for too long, and it was all she could do not to start panting and howling like some kind of rabid animal.

She didn’t dare look at Jesse again. She didn’t have the courage. She kept her eyes down and her bag clutched tight as people moved around her.

“Gail.” Jesse’s deep voice had become a whisper, just for her, so close to her ear that she could feel the heat of his breath.

Slowly, cautiously, she looked up at him, and his sultry blue eyes wrinkled in a smile. Gail found herself counting the short silvery hairs sprinkled through the dark stubble on his chin and cheeks, and wondered if the barely there beard would feel rough to her fingertips.

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