Read Online Seduced: The Unexpected Virgin by Emily McKay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily McKay
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front of the broad carriage house doors and climbed out. A flight of stairs led up the outside of the building to a second-story door. She knew instantly her instincts had been right. She paused at the top of the stairs before knocking. Music drifted through the closed door. She recognized the sultry guitar of blues musician Keb Mo, an artist she startedlistening to after reading an interview in which Ward listed Keb Mo as being on his current playlist.
She knocked. And then after a minute, knocked more loudly to be heard over the music. A second later, she heard a phone ringing and then the music was turned down. When Ward opened the door, he still held his phone in his hand. But she barely noticed that. Because he was shirtless.
His chest was lightly sprinkled with hair, his skin tanned and lean. Not bulky or over-muscled. Just… She blew out a breath. Just…yummy. There was no other word for it.
She knew plenty of men who waxed their chests. She’d lived in L.A., where every man strove to look like a Ken doll. Men took such pride in those perfectly smooth, almost boyish chests, seemingly unaware of how emasculated they looked.
There was nothing emasculated about Ward. Not. A single. Thing.
For the first time in her life, she understood the feeling other women had described of itching to touch a man’s chest.
Her fingers practically twitched with the urge to touch and explore. To taste. To lick. To…
Oh, crap. Was she drooling?
She clenched her hands tightly in front of her, choking back her more primitive urges.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how she looked at it—Ward pulled a sweater over his head and tugged it down, removing temptation. He gave a quick rub to his hair. Only then did she realize it was damp. Which explained why he’d been shirtless. Not that she’d been complaining.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said into the phone just before ending the call. He shot an exasperated look at her. “That was my housekeeper warning me you were here.”
He stepped aside to let her in. At least he had the good grace to look chagrined. As if he half expected her to give him a hard time for having his housekeeper give her the rigmarole.
But she figured she had enough to give him hell about without bringing that to the table. So instead she stayed quiet for a moment, taking stock of her surroundings.
From the outside, the carriage house was designed in the same style as the original house. Inside, however, they were completely different. The main house had been bright and well lit with a decor so crisp it bordered on institutional. As far as she could tell, the apartment consisted of a small living area and a tiny kitchenette. A hallway led to what she assumed was a bedroom and bath. A take-out box sat open on the kitchen counter, a bottle of Gran Patron Platinum and a tumbler next to it.
The furniture in the apartment was worn and a little shabby. The woods all exotic dark woods, the upholstery chocolate-brown and warm red batiks. Shelves lined the back walls, their surfaces stacked with books and knickknacks. Not the kind of things that a decorator would put out, but rather the sort that would be collected and displayed by someone who traveled a lot and collected memorabilia. Replicas of Greek Cycladic art sat side by side with bobble heads of famous musicians and composers.
There was little doubt. He may not stay in the house anymore, but he most definitely lived here.
As Ward shut the door behind her, she turned her attention back to him just in time to see him sliding his phone into his pocket. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a gray V-neck sweater. The kind a woman automatically wanted to stroke and cuddle against.
He smiled faintly and, for the first time since she’d met him, looked a little self-conscious. “If he asks,” Ward said, “can you tell Chase I moved back into the house?”
His request was so unexpected, Ana could do little more than shrug. “I…sure, I
She knocked. And then after a minute, knocked more loudly to be heard over the music. A second later, she heard a phone ringing and then the music was turned down. When Ward opened the door, he still held his phone in his hand. But she barely noticed that. Because he was shirtless.
His chest was lightly sprinkled with hair, his skin tanned and lean. Not bulky or over-muscled. Just… She blew out a breath. Just…yummy. There was no other word for it.
She knew plenty of men who waxed their chests. She’d lived in L.A., where every man strove to look like a Ken doll. Men took such pride in those perfectly smooth, almost boyish chests, seemingly unaware of how emasculated they looked.
There was nothing emasculated about Ward. Not. A single. Thing.
For the first time in her life, she understood the feeling other women had described of itching to touch a man’s chest.
Her fingers practically twitched with the urge to touch and explore. To taste. To lick. To…
Oh, crap. Was she drooling?
She clenched her hands tightly in front of her, choking back her more primitive urges.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how she looked at it—Ward pulled a sweater over his head and tugged it down, removing temptation. He gave a quick rub to his hair. Only then did she realize it was damp. Which explained why he’d been shirtless. Not that she’d been complaining.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said into the phone just before ending the call. He shot an exasperated look at her. “That was my housekeeper warning me you were here.”
He stepped aside to let her in. At least he had the good grace to look chagrined. As if he half expected her to give him a hard time for having his housekeeper give her the rigmarole.
But she figured she had enough to give him hell about without bringing that to the table. So instead she stayed quiet for a moment, taking stock of her surroundings.
From the outside, the carriage house was designed in the same style as the original house. Inside, however, they were completely different. The main house had been bright and well lit with a decor so crisp it bordered on institutional. As far as she could tell, the apartment consisted of a small living area and a tiny kitchenette. A hallway led to what she assumed was a bedroom and bath. A take-out box sat open on the kitchen counter, a bottle of Gran Patron Platinum and a tumbler next to it.
The furniture in the apartment was worn and a little shabby. The woods all exotic dark woods, the upholstery chocolate-brown and warm red batiks. Shelves lined the back walls, their surfaces stacked with books and knickknacks. Not the kind of things that a decorator would put out, but rather the sort that would be collected and displayed by someone who traveled a lot and collected memorabilia. Replicas of Greek Cycladic art sat side by side with bobble heads of famous musicians and composers.
There was little doubt. He may not stay in the house anymore, but he most definitely lived here.
As Ward shut the door behind her, she turned her attention back to him just in time to see him sliding his phone into his pocket. He was dressed in well-worn jeans and a gray V-neck sweater. The kind a woman automatically wanted to stroke and cuddle against.
He smiled faintly and, for the first time since she’d met him, looked a little self-conscious. “If he asks,” Ward said, “can you tell Chase I moved back into the house?”
His request was so unexpected, Ana could do little more than shrug. “I…sure, I
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