Desolation Road (Torpedo Ink 4)

She knew she shouldn’t be around him. He left her breathless and tongue-tied. If she had girlfriends, she would be over at their houses every night after work so she could share the mythical pictures she would secretly sneak of him like a crazy stalker. They would have dropped by the library to see him and giggled like schoolgirls.

Instead, she acted the part of the librarian. Dignified. Hiding behind the glasses she didn’t really need. She had that role down perfectly. No giggling. No snapping contraband pictures to stare at in the middle of the night and fantasize over and pretend she might actually have some sort of a love life. Worse, get out every single toy known to single women that wouldn’t help because he was too gorgeous, and nothing ever was going to match the real thing. But as long as he kept coming to her library, she was going to do some daydreaming; no one could take that away from her.

He liked science fiction. He read psychology books. Not self-help books, but the real thing, industry books. He also read a lot of obscure reference books on the pyramids of Egypt. The building of them. She knew because she watched his every move, and sometimes she helped him find the books he wanted. Up close, he smelled like sandalwood, and at night, when she was alone, she couldn’t get that scent out of her mind. She knew she would always associate it with him. Man. Muscles. And sex. Worse.

Yes. It did get worse because she’d looked down his body. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t mean to. She practiced keeping her eyes up on his chest. But she handed him the book and her gaze just dropped and there it was … in all its glory. Hard as a rock. The full ultra-impressive package. So now, she had it all to take to bed with her. And quite frankly, it sucked that the man wasn’t in bed with her as well.

He would ask her for help in finding a particular book, and when he did, his voice was mesmerizing. Velvet soft. She swore she felt the sound sliding over her skin. Stroking her. An actual physical sensation. A little shiver always slid down her spine and a very inappropriate flutter in her sex accompanied that shiver. Now that she knew what he had, her wayward gaze strayed often and her panties went damp more than they should have. She had no respect for herself. None. But that didn’t stop her.

She’d never had that kind of reaction to any man, not in college and not when she’d traveled to other countries. His voice was always pitched low, very soft, but it was commanding, and she heard a little twist of his words as if he had an accent under the English pronunciation, but she couldn’t place it. She’d never heard a voice like his before, and she’d traveled extensively. He was very much a gentleman, and yet he gave off an extremely dangerous vibe. She’d been around dangerous men and she would have placed him right there with them, but she didn’t know why. He seemed as if he’d be more at home in a suit and tie than casual clothes. And he wore his clothes like a model.

She had a lot of time—too much time—to think about him when she went home from the library and sat alone in her reading chair, surrounded by her books and little else. He was the fastest speed-reader she’d ever seen in her life and she knew he was for real. At first, she thought he was faking his ability to read that fast, but then she realized after time that he clearly was reading the books and must be comprehending what he was reading.

She was impressed. She’d taken several speed-reading courses and, in the end, had gone with the advice of the fastest reader in the world, learning from his books. She picked up things fast, she always had. The more time spent, the faster she learned. It was a gift she had, and she used it often, which made it all the more readily available to her.

She’d made certain to touch him. The first time had been a brief brush of their fingers as she handed him a book. Frankly, she hadn’t been certain if he’d made that initial contact or if she had, but she would never forget it as long as she lived. The spark had gone up her finger to every nerve ending in her body, spreading like a wildfire, bringing her to life as if she’d been asleep—or dead—her entire life and it had taken him to wake her up.

She had been dead. She’d chosen to be dead. She’d shoved the woman in her aside out of necessity and become what she had to be. Now she was simply surviving. Until he walked in. She had no idea what to do with him—but she wanted him. She’d sworn she would never—not ever—go there again. Put herself in a situation where the dark things inside of her had a chance to escape. She’d seen the results of that, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him … wanting him.