Tempt (Secrets and Lies #1) - Ainsley Booth Page 0,1

are done. It’s not the best work I’ve ever done, but it’s entertaining and hot. Good enough. I fire the document off to my editor with a note that I’ll be out of the office for the next four days and would be happy not to get it back for the final pass until after the new year.

Then I sneak a quick glance across the table. At him. He’s still buried in his phone. His hair is ridiculous. He probably spends more on his cuts than I do mine.

His suit looks expensive. So do his shoes, his tie… I’d rather imagine him in jeans. Fitted ones that hug his thighs. A Henley with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearms. Corded, tan from time in the sun. A light dusting of dark hair that looks soft and feels softer.

I can’t help it.

This is what I do. I see people and they turn into sex in my head. It was only in the last few years that I figured out I could actually do something with the super dirty vignettes that form unbidden in my mind.

Jeans, a rolled up shirt sleeve. That burning gaze—there’s a lot to work with there.

No words, no explanations. Just a hot sex scene set to a dirty, thuddy beat.

We’re in a dance club, yelling over the music, and then, when that proves frustrating, Mr. Searing Gaze takes me—no, not me—takes my character by the hand—no, the wrist, his fingers hot and firm as they manacle around her flesh—and leads her to a nook off a dark hallway.

I write and re-write, typing words quickly, then deleting some of them before madly dashing out more.

The dark hallway is still loud. Too loud to be heard, but that’s not his goal. He wanted privacy, and now they have some.

He asks with his body—can he touch her? Should he kiss her?

Yes. No. Do it anyway. She leans in anyway and gives him her mouth, her legs, a grind of her sex. He finds her waist, then higher. Her breasts. Her nipples, and then—

The train slows to a halt. I lift my hands off the keyboard, the fantasy word blitz temporarily pausing.

I glance out the window, but there’s nothing to be seen. No lights, no town. No stop was announced, and we’re only an hour and a half outside of Toronto. Not quite to Kingston. Maybe we need to let another train pass before we can continue.

The perfect head of hair doesn’t look up.

I take a deep breath and go back to the story, but without the white noise of the train rushing along the tracks, I can’t do it. As if he could hear the filthy words I’m spinning on this side of my computer screen if it were too quiet in our little mini compartment.

Maybe I don’t need to write anything else tonight anyway. I’ve got enough for a Christmas gimme to my blog followers. I’ll polish this up when I get to the hotel, then post it before bed.

Then the train jerks backwards, and my computer skitters off the table between us, sliding precariously towards the aisle.

He catches it deftly, and I stand up, reaching for it. “Sorry.” My heart pounds in my chest, because oh God he’s holding porn about himself, but he doesn’t know that.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, handing it over.

And then the train jerks again, forwards this time, and I tumble back into the leather seat, clutching my laptop to my chest.

He swears under his breath and looks around, then back to me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” I peer out the window again, but it’s pitch-black out there and bright in here. I can’t see anything. “That was…sudden. Twice.”

“Yeah.” He looks me over, like he’s sizing me up. Both for injuries—and I really am fine—and also for how to handle this new talking thing. I smile tightly and take off my headphones, which had fallen around my neck in the whole yanking forwards and back anyway. He taps on his phone screen, then rolls his neck with a groan. “There’s been a collision up ahead on the tracks.”

“How do you know?”

He turns the phone screen so I can see it. Twitter. “Hashtags.”

I’m not sure why the train staff haven’t said anything. “Maybe it’s just a short interruption to service.”

“Maybe.”

I clutch my computer tighter.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yep.”

“Good. I—” He’s interrupted by the intercom.

“Bon soir…” The announcement was read out in French first, which I don’t speak, so I listened patiently until it