Breathe (35 page)

“Ow.” She rubbed the spot to soothe the sting, then looked up to find Elijah frowning at her. “Sorry. I just wanted to make sure that this was real.”

Some of the same emotions that she was feeling flickered over Elijah’s face. He dangled the necklace from his fingers, letting the gorgeous metal and glass catch the light.

“Last chance.” His words were light, but Samantha knew him well enough by now to hear the trace of apprehension behind it.

Narrowing her eyes, she grabbed for the necklace, scowling when a now grinning Elijah held it out of her reach.

“Mine.” Samantha put everything she felt into the one word, looking up into the face of the man that she loved.

He spun her gently, then finally, finally settled the necklace around her throat. The ball of glass settled into her collarbone as if the piece had been made for her—and knowing Elijah, it probably had.

She trembled as his fingers danced over her bare skin, settling the necklace into place, then securing the clasp. He spun her back around, then traced his fingers down the line of white gold.

“Mine,” he agreed, and after staring at each other for a long moment, they both broke into grins.

“Want a drink before we go play?” His fingers skimmed from the necklace down, dancing over the swells of her breasts. Samantha felt her body tighten—she wanted to go play
now
.

The last month had taught her that some things were worth the wait, so she smiled and took Elijah’s hand.

“Know anywhere I can get a decent glass of wine?”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A big thank-you to the usual suspects for all their help with this book! To my super editor, Kerry Donovan, without whom this book would . . . well . . . suck. To my agent, Deidre Knight, who inspires me daily. To Suzanne Rock, the best critique partner in the world. To Sara Fawkes and Avery Aster, as well as Barbara J. Hancock, D. L. Snow, Juliana Stone, and Amanda Vyne for cheering me on (and listening to me whine). To my husband, Rob, for getting the kidlet out of the house so that I could get some work done. For my parents and the staff at their business for letting me hide out in a back office when the getting-the-kid-out-of-the-house thing didn’t work so well. And finally, thank you to Brenda Novak, who has supported me through my son’s recent diagnosis of type 1 diabetes, and who helped me translate the medical terms into understandable language for this book.

Lauren Jameson
is a writer, yoga newbie, knitting aficionado, and animal lover who lives in the shadows of the great Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada. The author of the serial novel
Surrender to Temptation
, she has published with Avon and Harlequin as Lauren Hawkeye and writes contemporary erotic romance for New American Library.

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www.laurenjameson.com

www.laurenhawkeye.com

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Keep reading for a special preview of Lauren Jameson’s

SURRENDER TO TEMPTATION

Coming in print in April from New American Library!

Now available from Intermix wherever e-books are sold.

A
ll I wanted was to feel sexy.

Grimacing, I pulled the confection of openwork silk off of my shoulders and down. What had I been thinking? A girl with some curves—namely, me—couldn’t wear ruffles. This whole endeavor was a terrible idea.

My bangs were sticking to my forehead with sweat as I tugged the lingerie back over my head. I contemplated dropping it to the ground and stomping on it in frustration, but repressed the urge and hung the lingerie back up, nice and neat, on its plastic hanger.

That was what I always did, after all—shoved my real feelings away, smiling prettily when I wanted to scream.

Frustrated and close to tears, I eyed the last item that I’d brought with me into the dressing room at Magnifique, the fancy lingerie boutique that I’d passed by on my way to work every single day for the last year. That item was also lace, but instead of being heavily ruffled and made for a woman with the build of Barbie, it was a deep indigo, made of soft silk, and sophisticated instead of cute. It would skim the body and accentuate curves.

This one had to work. It just had to. How was I ever going to convince my ever so proper boyfriend to make love to me in a position other than missionary if I couldn’t find something to entice him with?

Inhaling deeply and avoiding the sight of my naked flesh in the mirror, I tugged the slip off of its hanger and over my head. It felt lovely, the material moving in a sensual glide over my skin.

With my eyes squeezed shut, I turned back toward the mirror, sucked in my tummy, and, after a lengthy internal pep talk, peeked at the reflection staring back at me.

“Oh.” The woman in the mirror smiled with surprise and pleasure at the same time that I did. Smoothing a hand over the length of my now-messy blond ponytail, I scanned the image nervously, looking for the flaws that I saw every day—the swell of my stomach, the slightly too heavy breasts, the hips that were a hint too wide.

I saw none of them. The incredibly sheer lace kissed my curves rather than clinging to them, and this made my waist, my belly, and my hips all look just right. My breasts rose enticingly out of the low neckline, and the hem of the little slip hit midthigh, covering my butt yet hinting at more.

I looked . . . Well, I looked hot.

It was a strange sensation.

Before I could convince myself otherwise, I stripped off the slip and put my office clothes back on. The knee-length skirt, blouse, and cardigan sweater were all solid black—bright colors made me feel fat. The monochromatic look worked just fine for the office, however—Cambridge–Neilson and Sons, the law firm where I was an administrative assistant.

The law firm where my boyfriend, Tom, was a junior partner. The slip that I was buying was in an effort to please him.
No
, I corrected myself as I brought it nervously to the front counter, it was about pleasing
me
. About looking—and feeling, I supposed—sexy enough to entice Tom to be a little more adventurous in the bedroom.

To possibly, maybe, encourage him to do some of the deliciously naughty things that I thought about nearly all of the time. Dreamed about, too.

“Your total comes to two hundred dollars and seventy cents.” I’d been playing it cool until that moment, acting like I bought expensive lingerie all the time, but the sum that the tall, slender brunette salesgirl announced very nearly made me choke.

Two hundred dollars? For that little scrap of lace?

I couldn’t afford it. I should have just let it be. Did I really want to spend that much in order to please Tom?

The salesgirl, whose nametag read B
ERNADETTE
in swirling cursive, saw my wistful glance at the swath of midnight blue that she was wrapping in silver tissue. I forgave her the stylish boots and the fresh salon haircut when she gave me a kind smile and said, “It’s expensive, but we’re all worth it, aren’t we?”

I thought of how I looked in the slip, and then thought of someone looking at me while I wore it. Of his dark eyes taking in the way the blue set off the pale cream of my skin, of the way my nipples flushed through the soft lace.

Yes. I had to have it.

“It’s fine. I’ll put it on credit.” Rummaging through my large leather satchel, I finally found my wallet. It caught on a cardboard envelope as I pulled it out, and the print that I had just picked up from the photography place next door slipped out and onto the counter.

Bernadette glanced over, and I saw her study it for a moment longer than necessary. “He looks familiar.”

I turned to study the picture, too. It was of Tom and me posing rather seriously at the beach. It had been a rare unplanned moment in our courtship, on a business trip to Los Angeles, when I had begged him to pull the car over so that we could watch the sunset. Surprisingly, he had agreed. With the sun setting behind us in a riot of glowing shades, and the angle clearly showing that the picture had been taken by one of us with a cell phone camera, it should have been a romantic shot. Instead, we looked so incredibly austere, so at odds with the sunset and the ocean, that the whole thing seemed rather silly.

Still, it was the best picture that I had of us together. I was going to frame it and keep it on my desk at work. We had been dating for over a year, after all.

“Hmm.” Before I could reply, Bernadette snapped her fingers, even as she expertly nipped my credit card from my hand and ran it through her point-of-sale machine. “Yesterday! He was in yesterday. Big spender.” When she caught what I’m sure was my surprised expression, she clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled sheepishly. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. Now I’ve ruined whatever surprise he had for you.”

“Surprise. Right.” Brow furrowed, I took the candy pink–and-cream-striped bag that she handed me, nodding my thanks before walking away.

I was quite certain that she was mistaken. I would have let it go at that, but the woman’s statement niggled at my mind all the way back to work, and then as I sat at my desk, slowly pecking away at the handwritten letter that one of the lawyers needed typed up.

Never had Tom bought me expensive lingerie. He’d never bought me candy or flowers, either, for that matter. He just wasn’t that type of guy and, foolishly, early on in our relationship, I had told him that grand gestures weren’t important to me.

I hadn’t lied—they weren’t important . . . exactly. But a soft inner part of my heart still craved some kind of sweet gesture from time to time—something that told me I was being thought of when I wasn’t there.

I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t ever receive one of these gestures from Tom. Yes, Bernadette was mistaken.

But another thought formed in my mind as I worked my way through the afternoon. What if . . . what if . . . ?

No. Tom wouldn’t do that. Tom loved me.

“Hi, Devon.” One of the senior lawyers chose that moment to walk by. Though quite possibly paranoid, I was convinced that she gave me a pitying glance, barely masked by her small smile. That was what settled my mind.

Begging off early with the excuse of a headache, I hurried down to my car.

I would just go home—the home that I had not yet moved into, actually—and see Tom. Once I saw him, all of this silliness would fly out the window, I was sure.

And, I thought as I looked sideways at the Magnifique bag on my passenger’s seat, maybe I could model my new slip for him.

•   •   •

I
almost felt as if I should ring the doorbell. Tom had given me a key the previous week, after we had decided that my moving my meager belongings into his place was a sensible idea, but I hadn’t yet used it. I suspected that I’d been clinging to my independence—I loved my little studio apartment, the one that I’d already given notice for, but Tom had pointed out that it wasn’t nearly big enough for two people. Plus, his was closer to the office.