Megan Hart: An Erotic Collection Volume 1 Read online

  * * *

  In the pause between customers, Eve gave in to temptation. She’d read the memos and knew the consequences, but now...she had to. She had to see if he’d commented since the last time she’d checked, just before leaving for work.

  With an eye on her queue, she logged in quickly to her blog. She didn’t have access to her personal e-mail here and would have to be content with refreshing her browser. She opened her last entry and experienced the familiar roller-coaster drop of her stomach when she saw the number of comments had risen by a few, but she had to take the time to enter a new customer chat before she could check.

  Back and forth she went, cutting and pasting responses to stupid questions that made her jaw ache and her head pound. Refreshing her browser. New comments but none from Tell_me.

  Her stomach hurt.

  She cursed herself. It was an online thing, nothing more. She had lots of comments from lots of people. What was so important about his? About him?

  At long last his familiar icon appeared and she held her breath, almost too afraid to read what he’d written. The counter clicked on her queue, her response time to the current client too long. It would show up on her performance stats, but Eve didn’t care. Let the moron who couldn’t figure out how to hook up his printer wait a minute. Maybe he’d get a clue in the meantime.

  What makes it magic?

  Her fingers flew. Magic can’t be defined, can it? Or it loses what makes it magic.

  Would knowing me make it more magical?

  He was replying in her blog to the private instant message exchange they’d had the night before. Eve imagined a tone of dry sarcasm, but that was the problem with written words. Without the benefit of inflection or facial expressions, they could be so easily misinterpreted. He could be angry, not amused or curious.

  Part of the magic is the mystery, don’t you think?

  She expected him to agree. She wanted him to agree. After all, he’d always given her what she wanted.

  No. I don’t.

  Eve didn’t know how to respond. Her queue wasn’t getting any shorter, and she had to finish off her open chat. She stumbled on the keyboard, making too many typos. She inserted the wrong text into the chat and had to apologize. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a “no” from a client when she asked if she’d been helpful, but it was the first time she knew she deserved one.

  I want it to be that way.

  And it’s all about what you want. How could I forget?

  There was no mistaking the tone this time.

  If you don’t like it, she typed before she could stop herself, you don’t have to read this blog.

  Eve closed her browser abruptly so she wouldn’t know if he replied, and told herself she didn’t care. She got back to work, but it was a long, long day.

  * * *

  She wouldn’t IM him. She just wouldn’t. Not if her house were on fire and he really was a fireman.

  She was going to ignore the bouncing yellow smiley face of her instant message program. Absolutely. In fact, Eve was going to do something unheard of. She was going to get away from her computer and do something else tonight. Read a book. Take a bath. Watch bad TV.

  Anything, anything, but talk to him.

  She made herself some dinner that didn’t come from a box or a can. She threw in a few loads of laundry. She read a magazine, but restlessly, flipping past ads for “sexual intimacy” videos and articles on how to please her man.

  When she got back to her desk, the yellow smiley chastised her. She clicked on it and read his message to her. He’d sent it hours ago. Surely he wouldn’t still be waiting?

  You didn’t post tonight.

  I didn’t have any inspiration.

  Because of me?

  Yes.

  I’m sorry. I just want you to know me, that’s all. For real. Not just words on a screen.

  I don’t think it’s a good idea.

  Why not?

  That was a good question. Too bad she didn’t have a good answer. He didn’t wait for one.

  I can make you happy.

  What makes you think that?

  A minute passed.

  Because I know what you want.

  Reading a blog isn’t the same as real life.

  You could let me try.

  But she couldn’t, could she? She didn’t know his name, or where he lived, or what he looked like. And wasn’t that what she wanted, really? An anonymous, faceless lover who gave her what she wanted, all the time, without needing anything from her? As long as she didn’t know who he was, for sure, she could still have that.

  Right?

  Her mouse hovered over the small “X” in the corner of the chat window, preparing to close it without answering him, but she couldn’t do it.

  I’m sorry. I can’t.

  What are you afraid of?

  Being disappointed, she typed. Being let down.

  I won’t disappoint you.

  You can’t know that. Nobody can.

  I can be what you want.

  Eve closed the window. He didn’t ping her again. She stared at the computer screen for a few minutes, then opened her blog and began to type.

  * * *

  This is what I want.

  Far away there is the sound of machinery. A mower, or a tractor. But inside the barn the only sound I hear is the rustle of the hay as you thrust the pitchfork into the pile, the sweet chirp of nesting birds high in the rafters, the quiet snuffle of the horses pawing at the earth with sharp hooves. The occasional hitch of your breath as you work.

  I spy on you from the doorway. I don’t want you to turn around yet. I like to watch the easy way you move. How strong you are. My eyes follow the bunch and curve of your muscles as you strain.

  You wear low-slung denim, low on the hips I want to bite. Worn work gloves protect the hands that have moved so often over my body and brought me such pleasure. You grunt, teeth caught for a moment in your lower lip as you concentrate on your task. You haven’t seen me, and that’s all right.

  For now.

  Dust dances in the shafts of sunlight, golden, buttery, that have found their way through cracks and crevices in the walls. The barn is old, made of stone quarried a hundred years before you were born. A hundred and almost thirty before we ever met.

  Yet here we are, inside it, in the sunlight. A horse neighs from a stall far down the aisle and you turn.

  And smile.

  You straighten, bare-chested and gleaming. I could reach forward and pluck the stray piece of straw clinging to the rim of your collarbone, but I leave it for now. For now, I don’t touch you.

  You say my name and the pleasure in your voice is so rich I feel as though I can reach out to touch it. You’re glad to see me; I want you to be glad to see me.

  You lean on the pitchfork to stare, and I can guess what you see. My dress is white, sheer, with thin straps of lace that will tear when you tug them. If I let you tug them. I haven’t yet decided.

  You don’t ask me what I’m doing here, which would be a foolish question, indeed. You already know. You knew the moment you turned and saw me standing in the doorway; when your eyes caught the shape of my body, outlined beneath the white eyelet. When your gaze traced the curve of my hip, the place your hand fits so perfectly.

  You knew.

  The barn is silent but for the soft chirping of nested birds and the far off drone of the tractor, for the occasional stomp of a hoof...and now, for your breath as it catches in your throat and trips on the syllables of my name.

  There is a room in the back, fragrant with the scent of leather and horses. Momentarily blinded, I blink against the shadows. I don’t need to see you to know where you are.

  Inches apart we face one another. Now is the time for me to reach for single, lonely piece of straw stuck to your skin with the sweat of honest work, and I let my fingers skim up your side, over your belly. The straw bends between my fingerstips when I pull it off you, and it’s dropped, forgotten, to