Unruly Urges Read Online Free PDF

calculatingly.  I really should refresh my toenail polish .   I wiggle my toes around contemplating the next color.  Why does every business on the face of the earth have such horrendous hold music? I stick my tongue out at one of the fat chefs that hang on my sunflower yellow walls.  A shudder rolls over my shoulders as Frank Sinatra croons about New York, New York. 
    I glance at the clock on the wall.  Fifteen minutes?  Has the whole world’s air gone out today?  I know.  I know Frank.  I’d start spreading the news that my air is out if someone would pick up the godda ….
    “Oh, thank God.”  I groan aloud, my shoulders slump in obvious relief.
    A laugh rumbles in my ear.  “You sound desperate.”  If I wasn’t so uncomfortable right now, the sound of his voice would stir my juices perfectly. It’s deep and dark and full of all kinds of wicked promises.
    “I am!”  I mop the sweat from my brow with a new paper towel.  An entire roll lay in a damp heap on the kitchen counter near the sink. 
    “What can I do for you?”  The deliciously deep voice asks.
    My nipples pucker into hard peaks at all the things he could do for me.  My hand finds my left breast, my thumb flicking over the distended nub.  “My air went out during the middle of the night and I’m dying in here.” 
    “Luckily you called the right place.”
    “My brother gave me your number.” 
    “Who’s your brother?”
    “Ethan Jamison.”
    “Well, damn.”  I can hear the smile in his voice.  “I haven’t seen Ethan in years.”
    “Yeah, he reminded me that your family was in the heating and air business.”
    “I remember Ethan had three little sisters.”  He paused.  “Which one are you?”
    “Meghan.”  I take a deep breath.  “I’m the baby.”
    “Meghan.” 
    “Yeah, Meghan.”
    “Damn,” he answers.  “You were such a hot little thing.”
    I snort.  “Maybe I’m still a hot little thing.”
    “Are you?”
    I roll my eyes again.  I can hear the chuckle in his voice.  “I don’t know.”  I shrug.  “Sure.”  I rock back and forth on the balls and heels of my feet.  “I guess that’s in the eye of the beholder.”
    “That’s beauty.”  He chuckles.
    “Huh?”
    “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.”
    “Oh,” I say.  “Beauty, hotness.  It’s all the same thing.”
    “I suppose.”  His voice drops an octave, the sound vibrating down my spine through the phone.  “So did you go on to write the great American novel?”
    I frown, my bottom lip stuck between my teeth.  “I’m published.”
    “Oh really?”
    “Yep.”
    “What do you write?”
    “Umm…”
    “Come on,” I hear the grin again.  “Maybe I’ve read one of your books.”
    “I doubt it.”  My nose wrinkles, and my lips purse.  I’m silent for a few minutes, pacing around and around in circles in my kitchen debating on what I should say.  It’s not as if I’m embarrassed by my work.  I go to conferences.  My picture is on the inside back cover of all of my books.  So what’s the big deal?  The big deal is that he’ll probably think I’m some kinda slut.  All men seem to think that just because I write erotic romances, I’m a slut.  Easy.  Put out on the first date.  Yada , yada , yada , and all that jazz. 
    “Ah, come on,” he draws out.  “I’m not a total Neanderthal.  I do know how to read.”
    “Fine.”  I hear the annoyance in my voice.  “I write erotic romances.”
    “Come again?”
    “Erotic romances.”  I don’t know why I feel compelled to whisper.  My brow furrows and I hold myself still waiting for the usual response. 
    “Fuck,” he groans, his voice turned husky. 
    And there it is.
    “Sorry.  Not very professional.”
    “I’m used to it.”  I feel forced to add, “Happens all the time.”
    “I think that’s pretty cool.”  It’s almost as if he shrugged, even though I can’t see his shoulders move.  “Writing is difficult in any