white cloth.
Millie took the cloth and pressed it to Lance’s neck. “That’s what usually sets them off.”
“No, nothing. Just bad luck, I guess.”
“You’re sure?” Millie asked.
Lance nodded, groaning with relief as the ice dulled the throbbing heat of the sting.
Millie waved good-bye to the flower merchant and they continued walking through the market.
With the long boxes tucked under one arm, and his free hand holding the ice to his excruciatingly painful neck, Lance followed Millie back to the van. Not bad luck at all. Lance had felt her breath quicken at his closeness, at the smell of him. Thank you, little bee. Luck was definitely on his side.
“What a morning!” Millie said to Horse as she walked into the house and locked the door behind her. “Time for Mummy’s midmorning nap, baby.” She yawned, and stroked the dog’s gigantic head tenderly.
From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:
This morning, Will was stung by a bee at the flower market. It seemed to be quite painful. I had to suck out the poison.
Can’t blame the poor little thing. He did smell quite delicious, and his skin tasted so good. I had to stop myself from licking him. I wanted to press my nose to his throat and just breathe him in, bite at him.
There is something about him that is very appealing. I really must curtail my contact with this man. I can’t punish Will for my weakness.
I’ve been alone for too long. I thought I’d be immune to desire, and here I am, getting wet and bothered for sucking out a little poison! Maybe Serge is right. I do need a life.
In other news, we’ve got a small dinner for nine tonight. John Hubbert Roberts, the songwriter-composer, is having his fifty-seventh birthday dinner with his wife, two exes, and his five children, the youngest of whom is four. They asked for Italian food, or whatever we felt like serving.
They should all be so easy.
Chapter 11
Dance with her. Slow dancing is very, very erotic. Take her hands and pull her into your arms, slide your hands around her body, and embrace her. Pull her against you gently, while caressing her waist with your thumbs.
Do not grab her buttocks and squeeze. Do not grind your pelvis into hers.
Let her define the level of closeness most comfortable for her.
Let her feel the warmth of your body; synchronize your movements to hers.
Use the proximity to stir the fine hairs on her temples with your breath.
Do not huff and puff. You are not the big bad wolf.
Be aware that any halitosis problem you might have will be very apparent at this stage.
—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate
After the morning shopping, Lance arrived home with a sore neck and a buzzing headache. Still, it was a small price to pay.
He was right. The right scent combined with physical closeness was the trigger for Millie’s arousal. He found himself recalling the touch of her mouth, the gentleness of her fingers on his neck. An unexpected tenderness flooded through him. He took a deep breath and banished the image of her sweet round face clouded with concern. Concern for him, for Will. It was a lie.
Lance had breakfast, took an aspirin to dull the ache in his neck and logged on to check his e-mail. There were several contacts from prospective clients. Both his mother and Jane De Mondio had sent e-mails wanting to know how he was. His furious ghostwriter sent a long rant complaining about closing deadlines, and George sent him a brief message advising him that the wedding reception would be at nine in the evening on the seventeenth at Guilty Pleasures, period costume recommended.
Period costume? What the hell? Wait . . . this had real possibilities. Millie would surely never recognise him in a handlebar mustache and lamb-chop sideburns. It was a great idea.
He’d go as Arsène Lupin, thief of hearts. Or maybe, would it be presumptuous? The iconic, inimitable Sherlock Holmes.
Yes. Sherlock. A detective after his own heart—except
Millie took the cloth and pressed it to Lance’s neck. “That’s what usually sets them off.”
“No, nothing. Just bad luck, I guess.”
“You’re sure?” Millie asked.
Lance nodded, groaning with relief as the ice dulled the throbbing heat of the sting.
Millie waved good-bye to the flower merchant and they continued walking through the market.
With the long boxes tucked under one arm, and his free hand holding the ice to his excruciatingly painful neck, Lance followed Millie back to the van. Not bad luck at all. Lance had felt her breath quicken at his closeness, at the smell of him. Thank you, little bee. Luck was definitely on his side.
“What a morning!” Millie said to Horse as she walked into the house and locked the door behind her. “Time for Mummy’s midmorning nap, baby.” She yawned, and stroked the dog’s gigantic head tenderly.
From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:
This morning, Will was stung by a bee at the flower market. It seemed to be quite painful. I had to suck out the poison.
Can’t blame the poor little thing. He did smell quite delicious, and his skin tasted so good. I had to stop myself from licking him. I wanted to press my nose to his throat and just breathe him in, bite at him.
There is something about him that is very appealing. I really must curtail my contact with this man. I can’t punish Will for my weakness.
I’ve been alone for too long. I thought I’d be immune to desire, and here I am, getting wet and bothered for sucking out a little poison! Maybe Serge is right. I do need a life.
In other news, we’ve got a small dinner for nine tonight. John Hubbert Roberts, the songwriter-composer, is having his fifty-seventh birthday dinner with his wife, two exes, and his five children, the youngest of whom is four. They asked for Italian food, or whatever we felt like serving.
They should all be so easy.
Chapter 11
Dance with her. Slow dancing is very, very erotic. Take her hands and pull her into your arms, slide your hands around her body, and embrace her. Pull her against you gently, while caressing her waist with your thumbs.
Do not grab her buttocks and squeeze. Do not grind your pelvis into hers.
Let her define the level of closeness most comfortable for her.
Let her feel the warmth of your body; synchronize your movements to hers.
Use the proximity to stir the fine hairs on her temples with your breath.
Do not huff and puff. You are not the big bad wolf.
Be aware that any halitosis problem you might have will be very apparent at this stage.
—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate
After the morning shopping, Lance arrived home with a sore neck and a buzzing headache. Still, it was a small price to pay.
He was right. The right scent combined with physical closeness was the trigger for Millie’s arousal. He found himself recalling the touch of her mouth, the gentleness of her fingers on his neck. An unexpected tenderness flooded through him. He took a deep breath and banished the image of her sweet round face clouded with concern. Concern for him, for Will. It was a lie.
Lance had breakfast, took an aspirin to dull the ache in his neck and logged on to check his e-mail. There were several contacts from prospective clients. Both his mother and Jane De Mondio had sent e-mails wanting to know how he was. His furious ghostwriter sent a long rant complaining about closing deadlines, and George sent him a brief message advising him that the wedding reception would be at nine in the evening on the seventeenth at Guilty Pleasures, period costume recommended.
Period costume? What the hell? Wait . . . this had real possibilities. Millie would surely never recognise him in a handlebar mustache and lamb-chop sideburns. It was a great idea.
He’d go as Arsène Lupin, thief of hearts. Or maybe, would it be presumptuous? The iconic, inimitable Sherlock Holmes.
Yes. Sherlock. A detective after his own heart—except
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