Read Online It Started with a House... by Helen R. Myers - Free Book Online

fumbling with the top button of his jeans. The barrier of that little bit of lace between her legs nearly had him shredding them. Once he’d stripped her, he finished opening his jeans and lifted her over him.
    â€œGenevieve,” he rasped in half apology, half plea.
    â€œPlease,” she whispered.
    He tried to be careful; she was so tight, but she was also wet and hot, and wrapping her legs around him. He lost his head. Locking his mouth to hers, he pressed her harder against the wall and drove into her repeatedly, devouring her moans and, after two more thrusts, her cry of ecstasy. The next thrust brought his own.
    As the all-consuming wave of passion receded, their hearts continued to pound as one. Marshall buried his face in Genevieve’s hair as he fought to catch his breath. He didn’t want reality to intrude, didn’t know what he would do if he looked into her eyes and saw regret. Pressing an openmouthed kiss against the curve between her neck and shoulder, he felt himself pulsate inside her as his appetite stirred anew. “Give me a few more seconds and I’ll do this properly on, if not in, the bed,” he said, thinking he hadn’t recovered this quickly since he was eighteen.
    The promise was barely spoken when the front doorbell rang.
    â€œWhat the hell…?” he began.
    Â 
    â€œMurder,” Genevieve moaned. Reality came more quickly to her—like an icy slap. “Let me down.” Even as she unwrapped her legs, Marshall protested.
    â€œLet’s ignore it.”
    How could they? “My car is in your driveway, and I’llbet you that’s my mother out there.” There wasn’t time to explain how she knew. Once he knew Sydney Sawyer, he would understand. “Go! I’ll follow as soon as I can.”
    He went, making himself presentable along the way. By the time Genevieve turned on the lights again, she heard the water running in the next bathroom, which told her that he’d paused to freshen up himself.
    She quickly fastened her bra and jacket, and stepped back into her panties. Her mind was racing like a Grand Prix driver thinking of how she could explain to her mother being back in Marshall Roark’s bedroom, but then she caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror.
    She gasped in horror. Her white suit had an O around her left breast. She might be able to get out the wine with a little work, but not now. Not without leaving a wet mark that would be another dead giveaway to her mother, whose vision even in low lighting— please, Marshall, don’t flip on every freaking switch in the place —was second only to an X-ray machine.
    Upon hearing a painfully familiar soprano voice, Genevieve uttered an expletive under her breath. Yes, that was definitely her mother.
    Glancing back at her reflecting, she winced. “Poor suit,” she murmured, knowing what she had to do. Taking up her glass, she doused the front of her jacket with most of the remaining wine.
    The effects were as awful as she expected they would be, but at least the incriminating stain was hidden. Quickly wetting the washrag on the counter, she went to join Marshall and his untimely visitor, or more likely visitors, since wherever Sydney was at this hour, Bartcouldn’t be far behind. All the while she dabbed at and fussed with the stain.
    â€œI’m sorry, Marshall,” she said, emerging from the hallway. She pretended to be oblivious to what else might be going on as she entered the living room. “I think your carpet is safe, but—” she timed her glance up, so she could pretend surprise at seeing her mother and Bart “—oh. What are you two doing here?”
    They looked as if they were back from an upscale bowling tournament, both dressed in matching gold designer sweat suits. Of course, her mother wore at least a pound of gold jewelry that sparkled and jangled with her every move. Her strawberry-blond helmet hair was