Read Online Windstar by Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
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the heat. It took her a good minute or two before she had her hammering heart under control well enough to add the cornstarch to the mixture to thicken it.
Supper ready, she came in to ask him where he wanted to eat.
“Right here,” he said.
She asked if he wanted to fix his own plate and he told her to do it for him. He was engrossed in the pay TV series Cottonwood and when she brought his plate of pork chops, creamed potatoes, sugar snap peas and roll to him, he patted the seat beside him.
“You sit here,” he said, staring at the screen.
After bringing him a glass of tea, she brought her own food in and sat down beside him.
“Albert Sweargen is a hoot,” Rory exclaimed. “Ian really brings the character to life, doesn’t he?”
“I’ve always been a fan of Mr. Shane’s,” she replied as she cut her pork chop.
“You’ll meet him when we go to London next month,” Rory told her.
They were silent as the western played out before them. Finally as the credits began rolling, she looked at him.
“You’ve got to stop teasing me so strongly,” she said.
He paused with a chunk of potato at his mouth. “Why?”
“Pretending to be dreaming I was Clarinda ….”
“I wasn’t pretending,” he said. “I really was dreaming I was about to have sex with you and was damned mad I got interrupted.”
She sighed. “You poor, delusional man. You need to get out more.”
He stuck the potato in his mouth. “Do you find it odd that I would dream of making love to you?”
“Perhaps Angela Jolly or …”
“Ah, no,” he said and she remembered he had once done a movie with the beautiful star.
“Well, now I know how bad your nightmares can be,” she said. “No wonder you looked so upset when you woke up. Having me beneath you must have been terrifying.”
“Who said you were beneath me, wench?” he asked. “You was straddling me dangly and riding like the wind with your sweet tits bobbing ….”
“Oh, shut up!” she said and propelled herself off the sofa. She stomped into the kitchen and began cleaning. She didn’t expect him to follow her and he didn’t.
Rory finished eating and brought his empty plate to her. She was at the sink washing the pot the potatoes had cooked in and ignored him when he came to stand beside her, his hip against the counter.
“I really did dream of you,” he said, his feet crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest.
“That’s not funny,” she said, scrubbing angrily at the pot.
“It wasn’t meant to be. Why do you find it so hard to believe?” he asked.
She paused with the heels of her hands on the edge of the sink and turned her face toward him. “Look at me,” she said. “Do I look like a woman who would inspire lustful dreams in a man like you?”
His forehead creased. “What’s that supposed to mean? What is a man like me?”
She snorted. “ Community Magazine’s Most Beautiful ….”
“That’s all a bunch of ripe shite,” he said, giving the word the Gaelic pronunciation with a sneer.
“ Period Magazine’s ….”
“Another pile of it,” he stated.
“ First Magazine said ….”
“Fuck me,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“ Applause , US , TV Listings …”
“What have you been doing?” he demanded with a laugh. “Stalking me, wench?”
“I dream about you!” she said, staring him in the eye, no doubt shocking him from the look he gave her. “I’ve dreamed about you making love to me for years. I’ve seen all your movies and have copies of nearly all of them. I have all your records and I have a scrapbook of your pictures and….”
He had her in his arms before she could finish and his tongue was parting her lips, slipping inside even as her soapy hands pushed ineffectively at his muscular biceps. She strained to get free of him, but he would not allow it. He turned so she was against the counter and he was leaning into her, pressing his body against hers, one hand at the back of her head to hold her
Supper ready, she came in to ask him where he wanted to eat.
“Right here,” he said.
She asked if he wanted to fix his own plate and he told her to do it for him. He was engrossed in the pay TV series Cottonwood and when she brought his plate of pork chops, creamed potatoes, sugar snap peas and roll to him, he patted the seat beside him.
“You sit here,” he said, staring at the screen.
After bringing him a glass of tea, she brought her own food in and sat down beside him.
“Albert Sweargen is a hoot,” Rory exclaimed. “Ian really brings the character to life, doesn’t he?”
“I’ve always been a fan of Mr. Shane’s,” she replied as she cut her pork chop.
“You’ll meet him when we go to London next month,” Rory told her.
They were silent as the western played out before them. Finally as the credits began rolling, she looked at him.
“You’ve got to stop teasing me so strongly,” she said.
He paused with a chunk of potato at his mouth. “Why?”
“Pretending to be dreaming I was Clarinda ….”
“I wasn’t pretending,” he said. “I really was dreaming I was about to have sex with you and was damned mad I got interrupted.”
She sighed. “You poor, delusional man. You need to get out more.”
He stuck the potato in his mouth. “Do you find it odd that I would dream of making love to you?”
“Perhaps Angela Jolly or …”
“Ah, no,” he said and she remembered he had once done a movie with the beautiful star.
“Well, now I know how bad your nightmares can be,” she said. “No wonder you looked so upset when you woke up. Having me beneath you must have been terrifying.”
“Who said you were beneath me, wench?” he asked. “You was straddling me dangly and riding like the wind with your sweet tits bobbing ….”
“Oh, shut up!” she said and propelled herself off the sofa. She stomped into the kitchen and began cleaning. She didn’t expect him to follow her and he didn’t.
Rory finished eating and brought his empty plate to her. She was at the sink washing the pot the potatoes had cooked in and ignored him when he came to stand beside her, his hip against the counter.
“I really did dream of you,” he said, his feet crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest.
“That’s not funny,” she said, scrubbing angrily at the pot.
“It wasn’t meant to be. Why do you find it so hard to believe?” he asked.
She paused with the heels of her hands on the edge of the sink and turned her face toward him. “Look at me,” she said. “Do I look like a woman who would inspire lustful dreams in a man like you?”
His forehead creased. “What’s that supposed to mean? What is a man like me?”
She snorted. “ Community Magazine’s Most Beautiful ….”
“That’s all a bunch of ripe shite,” he said, giving the word the Gaelic pronunciation with a sneer.
“ Period Magazine’s ….”
“Another pile of it,” he stated.
“ First Magazine said ….”
“Fuck me,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“ Applause , US , TV Listings …”
“What have you been doing?” he demanded with a laugh. “Stalking me, wench?”
“I dream about you!” she said, staring him in the eye, no doubt shocking him from the look he gave her. “I’ve dreamed about you making love to me for years. I’ve seen all your movies and have copies of nearly all of them. I have all your records and I have a scrapbook of your pictures and….”
He had her in his arms before she could finish and his tongue was parting her lips, slipping inside even as her soapy hands pushed ineffectively at his muscular biceps. She strained to get free of him, but he would not allow it. He turned so she was against the counter and he was leaning into her, pressing his body against hers, one hand at the back of her head to hold her
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