All Night Long (Man of the Month 9)

For a second, she thought that he was going to walk away. But then he took her hand, yanked her close up against his body, but twisted her arm behind her back. He held her that way--trapped, muscles bound and tight--as he bent his head to quickly kiss her.

"We're in public."

"Then you have two choices. Let me go, or take me someplace private." With her free hand, she took his, then guided his hand up her thigh, over the band of the stockings. Then all the way up to her slick, wet core.

He exhaled. The simple sound strained and heavy with eroticism.

"I can't do this. I'm running for office."

"Pretty sure there are lots of politicians who do exactly this." She released his hand and was gratified that his fingers continued to tease her sex. Then she put her fingers to work on his fly, and when it was open she slipped her hand in, intending to set him free.

"Fuck." In one deliberate motion, he stepped back, breaking all contact between them. "Selma, I--I don't know what game you're playing, but no. I'm not getting on the Selma-go-round again. Not when I have so damn much to lose. I really am sorry. I think you know I want you. You've certainly felt the evidence."

And then, for the second time in less than twelve hours, he walked away from her.

As far as Selma was concerned, he'd just thrown down the gauntlet. "Challenge accepted," she whispered. Then walked down the hall as she considered Plan B.

Chapter Five

Easton's entire evening could be summed up in one word--frustrating. Not only had Selma given him an inconvenient raging hard-on, but by the time Easton returned to watch the Man of the Month contest, Landon was already being crowned Mr. August--and there'd been no sign of Taylor's stalker.

"Sorry," he'd said to her on the way out. "It seemed like a perfect plan."

She'd shrugged, seeming both disappointed and relieved. And now, in his car, Easton felt essentially the same way, though for entirely different reasons.

He was disappointed that he didn't have Selma naked and beneath him. But he was also relieved to know that he'd made the right decision. Clearly, he had no self-control where Selma Herrington was concerned. She was his Kryptonite, and if he hadn't walked away, God only knew what kind of scandal he'd find himself wrapped up in during this campaign.

So, yeah. Good choice.

Even if it did mean that he was still craving her.

It was a short drive to his house in Rollingwood, a small community in South Austin, and when he pulled into the garage, he was sure of only two things. One, that he needed a long cold shower. And two, that a double bourbon really wasn't going to be enough to take the edge off.

He entered through the utility room, then dumped his briefcase on the bench that lined the hall leading to the butler's pantry before he continued through to the kitchen. Built in the fifties, the original architect had been an admirer of Frank Lloyd Wright, and the house had a contemporary/retro feel. Easton had done very little to it other than update the appliances and put on a fresh coat of paint.

&n

bsp; The backyard was a different story. He'd done much of the work himself, working with a few day laborers to build the terraced back yard from the hill that backed up to the rear of the house. Now, he had a wonderful covered patio with an outdoor kitchen, a narrow lap pool with a hot tub on one end, and a stunning garden that rose up to the sky and was filled with flowers and herbs.

He hadn't realized until he'd started house hunting how much the place would mean to him. But after being nomadic with his parents after they lost their business, he'd craved roots. And now, simply walking through the doors of his home made him happy.

And, thanks to the lucrative nature of the career he'd chosen, his parents no longer had to rent. He'd bought them a small home in their Connecticut town, his only regret that they didn't want to move down to Texas where, as they said, they'd never get to watch the seasons change.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door out of habit, but it wasn't food he wanted, and he continued through the open-style house from kitchen to living room until he reached the built-in bar. He pulled open the cabinet at the bottom and pulled out a bottle of Dusk Flight Rye--ironic, since that was one of Selma's better-selling small-batch labels, and the woman was clinging to his thoughts. But damned if it wasn't his favorite.

The bar had a small ice-maker, and he poured two shots over ice, then pressed the remote to open the blinds that covered the sliding glass doors that made up the entire back wall. He expected to see only the slight dotting of lights that marked the walking path up the terrace. Instead, he saw the unmistakable watery blue glow from the hot tub.

Frowning, he pulled out his phone, wondering if he'd accidentally turned the tub on remotely. But, no, the app was closed.

Someone else had started the tub manually.

And he had a damn good idea who that someone might be.

With a sigh, he slid open the door, then stepped onto the brushed concrete patio. In front of him, the lap pool sat dark, the wind making only the slightest ripples on the water.

To the right, however, blue light filled that corner of the yard, rising from beneath the steaming, bubbling water to cast exotic shadows on the underside of the house's eaves. And there, with water up to her neck and her arms stretched out on either side of her, sat Selma.

Easton pinched the bridge of his nose, then walked toward her. "What the hell are you doing here? For that matter, how did you know where I live?"