Saffron Nights by Liz Everly

said. “Excuse me,” he said to the women. “I’m working here.” He raced up the steps, only to have Maeve shut her door in his face, after whispering a hoarse “good night.”

Chapter 19
    M aeve sat the empty plate down on her desk. She’d never even liked mushrooms. She hated them. But there was something about these particular mushrooms—what did they call them? As they had sautéed in the frying pan, she found the scent alluring. So, while things were getting hot and heavy in the kitchen with the other couple, she took the rest of the morsels and finished them in her room, stopping herself from licking the plate. She was ravenous.
    But was she horny? Hmm. The truth was she had been frustrated for several weeks—no time for sex, and no real opportunities for it, either. Plus, there was Jackson wandering around in shorts and tank tops, with those long lean muscles sliding beneath his gleaming skin. With him standing next to her at the stove, she’d already begun to feel something—a loosening below.
    As she sat at the table and looked at Mulani, who was beautiful, simmering, sighing as if she were the star in a porn flick, and playing with Jackson’s mind as she kissed his nemesis, it was all Maeve could do to not straddle him right then and there. It was as if whatever she’d seen in him during their saffron-infused night had intensified. He was pulling at her ovaries, every minute she sat there and tried not to look at him. Maeve simply had to leave the room. It was the only option. Their agent and publisher made it quite clear. Jackson had made it quite clear after she coldcocked him on the plane. Hell, it was clear to everybody and everything that it was not a good idea—except for her wild libido.
    She was in Hawaii with her partner-photographer, a world-class chef, and his assistant, a professional dream come true, and all she could think about was sleeping with Jackson. The air was charged with passion. How to explain it? Was it really the mushroom—or was it simply her state?
    A low rapping came to her door.
    “Maeve?” It was Jackson. Damn.
    “Go away,” she said, weakly, realizing how sharp and intensified the colors in her room were becoming. What the hell did the mushroom have in it? She bet the damn thing was more than an aphrodisiac, maybe it had some trippy qualities to it—psychotropics?
    Looking at the orange pillow on the sofa, it reminded her of the sun, no an orange, no a marigold. Oh no, it was just like a lollipop. Suddenly she began to think of tongues and lips.
    “Okay, okay, But we’re supposed to be working on this together. C’mon.” Jackson interrupted her thoughts.
    “I can’t let you in, Jackson,” she said, after what she thought was a moment more of considering the orange pillow.
    “Why not?” He persisted in invading her thoughts.
    “I feel strange. Those mushrooms . . . I don’t know.”
    She took a drink of water, then went to the sink and wet her napkin, placing it on her forehead. She was actually sweating. A cold shower is what’s called for, she thought.
    “Well . . . how do you feel?” he said, through door.
    How do I feel? How do I feel? She wanted to scream. I feel like I want to ride you into eternity. I want to have sex with you until neither one of us can walk. I want to feel you deep inside me. I want to feel your skin on mine, your breath on my neck, breast, or thigh. She shivered at the thought.
    “I’m going to take a shower,” she managed to say.
    He laughed. “That bad, eh? Well . . . I could help you out. We don’t have to, you know . . . have intercourse. There’s other things . . .”
    “Like I don’t know that?” she said. “Who do you think I am, some schoolgirl?”
    She moved across the floor to the door, plastered her body against it. He was just on the other side. She pictured him there, not more than two inches between them. As she laid herself against it, she felt at one with the door. Oddest feeling. She felt as if she