Page 73 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

His tongue delved into her mouth, taking and giving pleasure. She groaned, the ache in the pit of her belly, between her thighs, growing hotter. Tighter. If he touched her there now, she would come. Just like that. She wanted him that much.

Then take him back home and fuck him. Tonight. Now.

With more effort than it should have taken, she broke away from the kiss, holding him at arm’s length, her palms pressed flat to his hard chest. “Dylan, if we don’t stop kissing…” She paused, her pulse so fast, so loud in her ears she could barely hear the words forming. “I want you. I want to make love to you. But…”

A frown pulled at his forehead. His Adam’s apple jumped up and down his throat. He drew a slow breath, his chest swelling under her palms. “Annie.”

The single word passed his lips. Low, deep and cut with that accent. That Australian accent.

Monet’s pussy throbbed. Her clit ached with engorged need. She let her hands slip down his chest to his belt, over his hip. “Annie,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his broad chest.

Damn it, she’d never been so dismayed to hear her best friend’s name.

“How ’bout we go back to your apartment and make a phone call?” He tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her head, giving her a small smile. “Whether they answer or not, I need to get something off my chest.”

Her breath grew shallow. “And what’s that?”

“How fucking much I want to make love to you.”

She stared up into his eyes, nodded once and then, her fingers threaded through his, began to walk to the gallery’s exit.

She’d never been so nervous about going home. Or so damn excited.

The taxi ride took forever. Or at least it felt that way. Neither she nor Dylan said a word. They sat side-by-side, his palm resting high on her inner thigh, his fingers ever so slightly brushing the damp lips of her pussy through the silk of her trousers. She didn’t cup his crotch or caress his hard-on, no matter how much she wanted to. It would only take one feel of his bulge—trapped beneath the expensive fabric of his suit—and she would unzip his fly and straddle his hips, impaling herself on his rigid cock. Right there in the cab.

So instead, she drove her nails into her palms and counted the city blocks until they pulled up in front of her apartment.

Tommy opened her door before she could, his gaze flicking to Dylan, back to Monet and then to Dylan again.

She paid the cab driver. At least, she assumed she did. She couldn’t remember getting from the sidewalk to her front door. She had a vague memory of old Mr. Lichtenstein from 41B traveling up in the elevator with them, but it was just that; vague.

All she could think about, all she could concentrate on was Dylan. His presence beside her, his fingers threaded through hers, his palm pressed to hers.

Dylan. The man who was meant to be with someone else, someone special to her.

Dylan. The man she couldn’t exist another moment without.

By the time they made it to her apartment, she couldn’t control herself any longer.

They fell through her door. If anyone had asked her if that was possible, tumbling across a threshold, hands fighting with clothing, tongues mating, the kind of thing Hollywood constantly showed couples doing, caught up in the throes of ravenous sexual need, she would have laughed at the cliché.

She wasn’t laughing now. She was burning up with her need to be naked, to have Dylan naked, to be sliding up and down his cock as he sucked on her breasts.

Oh God, she wanted this so badly.

Her heel caught on the living room rug and she stumbled, Dylan catching her before she could hit the floor. She laughed into his mouth, loving his strength, his reflexes, his utter masculinity.

Lovinghim.

The thought slammed into her. Hard. Hard enough to make her gasp. She pulled away from him, her stupid heart once again forgetting it was meant to be in her chest, not smashing into her throat. They stared at each other, both fighting for breath.

And that’s when Monet heard it. The soft little beep that indicated she had a message on her answering machine.

She hurried across the room, knowing Dylan followed her. By the time she’d hit the play button on the device, he was pressed against her back, his lips traveling the side of her neck as his hands wandered her hips, her belly, her breasts.

“Hi, Monnie,” Annie’s voice said from the machine’s speaker, the distance between New York and Australia obvious in the faint scratchiness of each word.

Behind her, Dylan froze. Monet’s heart stopped. Her mouth went dry.