Under the Covers Read Online Free PDF

that out. He skipped to the next section.
     
    Exercise one: Getting in the mood. From the moment you walk into the room, or meet your man, offer him a look that tells him he's special. Attractive. Desired.
    During dinner, a walk together, a ride in the car, whisper in his ear how much you want him. Lower your voice to that intimate level you associate with privacy, the one you save for the dark.
    The intimate voice of a vamp.
     
    Like the voice Abby Jensen had used on the phone. He skimmed forward some more and found a section on exercises to set the mood.
     
    For the man: Play soft music in the background. Dance with her in your arms.
     
    Hell, he'd danced with Shelly. Once or twice. And they'd watched movies. Lots of James Bond flicks; those were his favorites. All the Die Hard and Rocky sequels, too. And Star Wars. God, he loved sci-fi movies. And he had taken her to that horror festival.
    Satisfied, he read on.
     
    Gently trace your finger, then your mouth over her fingers, her knuckles, down to the sensitive skin of her palm. Cradle her hand in yours, press it to your thigh, your chest. Let her feel the way your heart pounds when she's near. Whisper in her ear the naughty things you'd like to do to her. The ways you want to touch her. The ways you want to make her writhe with pleasure.
     
    This was ridiculous. He swiped at another bead of sweat and unfastened another button. No real man talked like that. Did they?
     
    Stroke the side of her cheek with your thumb. Touch her hair. Wind a strand around your fingertip. Kiss the soft ends and brush them against your rough jaw. Watch the hunger grow in her eyes. Feel her desire in her heated breath.
    Now, close your eyes and imagine her performing a slow strip tease for you. Murmur what you see, the things you like about her. Not just the physical aspects. The way she smiles. The way her eyes light up when it's raining outside. The way she caresses her own body. The soft, heady sound of her laughter.
     
    He groaned. Did women really want to hear that garbage?
    He was burning up, he realized. The damn air conditioner must be on the fritz. He'd have to call and report it. He shucked his shirt completely and stared at the next paragraph.
     
    Describe the strip tease. Her removing one item of clothing after another. Dropping them to the floor. Think about what you want to do to her and tell her in that bedroom voice. Whisper how her mouth would feel beneath yours, how her ripe, warm breasts will spill into your hands, how her breath will feel touching your own male hardness, how you'll fit inside her, how you'll pleasure her, how her voice will sound whispering your name in the throes of ecstasy.
    Wet your lips with your tongue. Say her name, letting desire echo in your voice. Tease her neck with soft gentle kisses.
    Trace a finger over her lips. Gently stroke her mouth with your thumb. Let her take your finger into her mouth and lick the tip, suckle the end. Imagine her doing this to your sex.
    Listen for her breath to hitch. Watch her breasts rise and fall, her nipples pucker for your touch. Brush the barest of kisses across her forehead. Her nose. Down her cheek. Into her hair. Her neck. The sensitive skin of her earlobe. Along her shoulder blade. Down her arm. Over her hardened buds. Near her heat. Bring your hand away before you touch her. Slowly move back to her mouth.
    Gently. A little more pressure now. Let her feel the urgency building.
    Cradle her jaw with your hands. Lower your mouth. Tease her lips apart with your tongue. Nibble at her lower lip. Then close your lips slowly over hers. And taste a slice of heaven.
     
    Hunter shifted restlessly on the sofa, momentarily envisioning Abby Jensen's mouth coming toward him. Her lips touching his. Her tongue...
    He slammed the book onto the coffee table. He would not let that woman's writing affect him. Hell, he was a journalist—he knew firsthand the power of the written word. He made his own damn living by twisting