Page 96 of Plane Passion

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Mrs. Millie Pritchard.

She liked the sound of that.

Ernie put her down slowly, gently and pulled her flush against him as he leaned back on the door and turned the lock.

Good Lord, it was hard to think with him so close. He flooded her senses—the feel of his muscles, his scent, the taste of his skin. And she was tasting—his lips, his neck, his earlobe—any exposed skin she could find.

She took off his fedora and flung it behind her without looking. He did the same with her cloche hat.

Grabbing his lapels, she claimed his lips and delved with her tongue, her passion eliciting a low rumble as he surrendered to it. Something wild and hungry within her drove her on to greater fury. She bit his lower lip, and he responded by devouring her. One hand held her head as he kissed and nipped at her exposed neck. The other squeezed her buttock, pressing their hips together through all the infuriating layers of cloth.

“Too much clothing,” she murmured.

“Agreed,” he mumbled into her neck before pulling back.

She tore at the buttons of his coat until they came undone, sliding the coat down around his shoulders. There was a suit jacket underneath. That had to go too.

Down to his sweater-vest, he took over, frantically unbuttoning her new blue coat. Why did she get one with so many buttons?

Casting it aside onto a luggage stand, he took in her dress.

“More buttons?” he asked in mock outrage as he went to work unbuttoning her front.

At last, he slid the dress down over her shoulders, and she stepped out of it. She was down to her cream satin and lace step-in chemise, her satin garter belt, her stockings and boots.

He put his hands on her shoulders, maneuvering her back so that he could look at her.

“Millie Aldrich, you certainly do not disappoint. Good God.”

She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the impressive bulge in his pants.

Reaching out, she took his hand and led him to the twin bed on the left—the same side he’d taken at the Brockerhoff.

“Help me with my boots?” she said, taking a seat and running a leg up his calf.

“Uh-huh,” he said, looking dazed as he knelt before her.

Oh, good. He was properly addled.

As he unbuttoned her boot, he stared up at her as if she were some heavenly apparition. After sliding the boot off, he grazed his fingers up her calf and thigh until he reached the bare skin just above her stocking. There, he stopped and tantalized her, so close to the center of her pulsing desire it was agony. Then he took his fingers away, the cad.

He went to work on her other boot, once again tracing up her leg and once again stopping short of what she wanted. Unfastening one garter and then another, he rolled her stockings down her silky-smooth legs. She would have to remember to thank Beth for insisting on the waxing and milk bath at the Salon d’Oro. Her pristine legs ended in perfectly pedicured toes.

Nestled between her legs, he looked up at her like a starving man.

Touch me, Ernie. Taste me. I’m yours.

Instead, he stood up, pulling her to stand with him.

“Mrs. Pritchard?” he said, tracing a finger down from her collarbone to her right nipple, which he lightly pinched.

“I’m not Mrs. Pritchard yet,” she said, leaning into his touch.

“Maybe not officially, but you’re mine and I’m yours in every way that matters.”

He continued to fondle her in the most devastatingly delicious way.