Read Online Man of Her Dreams by Tami Hoag - Free Book Online

wearing now.
Well, tough,
she thought. She wasn’t exactly pleased with his counterstrategy either, but if she had to make love with him smelling like a show jumper, then so be it.
    Ry sat down on the bed with his back to Maggie, careful not to let his hip brush against her. When he leaned over to lift one of her feet, she rolled into him—and his hip wasn’t the only thing she came in contact with.
    â€œDammit, Mary Margaret.” He managed to speak with his jaw clenched.
    Maggie gasped at the feel of his manhood, rock-solid, against her hip. A thrill of anticipation shot through her, settling low in her belly in a tight aching knot. She had to force the air back out of her lungs. “I can’t help it if you sink the mattress like a ton of bricks.”
    Swearing under his breath, Ry scooted nearer the edge of the bed until he was darn near falling off. He poured a dollop of the foul-smelling liniment into his palm and began working on Maggie from the feet up, telling himself it wasn’t any different from rubbing down one of his hunters.
    The hell it wasn’t.
    His fingers worked over the arch of her foot, up to her ankle, and on to her shapely calf. Her skin was as soft as satin, warm to the touch. As his imagination told him what it would feel like to have her legs wrapped around him, the massage gradually changed from therapeutic to sensual. The movements of his hands slowed from vigorous rubbing to languid caressing.
    Lord, it turned him on to see her stretched out on his bed! Heat poured over him in a shower of pinpricks down his back. What sweet heaven it would be to have her there every night, to take her in his arms, and spend hours loving her.
    Loving her.
    Denial and desire clashed inside him. Ry shook himself out of the fantasy. His fingers dug into the backs of her thighs.
    â€œOuch!” Maggie complained, tensing at the pain. “Will you watch it? That leg isn’t going to win any prizes jumping fences, but I’m rather fond of it, myself.”
    â€œSorry.” He abandoned her thigh for her other foot, stalling. The longer it took him to get to her softer parts, the more in control he would be by the time he got there. At least that was what he tried to tell himself. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Maggie as a giant lump of bread dough—something without personality, without sex appeal.
    Maggie began to relax as Ry’s fingers worked magic on her stiff, sore muscles. Drowsy, she let her gaze wander the bedroom. It was a comfortable room furnished with lovely old cherrywood pieces. The walls were a soft blue, and the area rug covering part of the wood floor was deep royal blue. The grouping of prints on one wall was obviously Katie’s work; Maggie recognized her partner’s decorating touch instantly. Everything else within her range of vision was pure Rylan.
    Basic male grooming tools were arranged neatly on his dresser. On the nightstand was a wineglass, a horse magazine, and a dog-eared copy of
Ulysses.
He was full of contradictions, her Rylan.
    Her Rylan. That sounded almost as nice as his massage felt. She closed her eyes and sighed. Heavenly. Inch by inch he was relieving her pain. The tension was seeping out of her body, her muscles forgetting all about Killer as they relaxed. As Ry began slowly working his way up her thigh, she let herself picture what was going to happen later on.
    Ry would start rubbing her shoulders, then she would turn over and he would loosen the towel. His stormy eyes would darken with desire, and he would lean over and kiss her. His hand would glide up over her hip, her waist, to her breast. She would help him out of his clothes, and he would stretch out on the bed with her and take her in his arms. His hard, muscular body would press her down into the mattress. It would happen the same way it did in the romance novels she read voraciously. It would be just the way she’d dreamed it a hundred and fifty thousand