What Happens After Dark Read Online Free PDF

The institutional blue gray carpet was new when she moved in two years ago, the white paint job as well. She had the requisite couch and loveseat, though she didn’t entertain, and a fairly new flat screen TV.
    Luke leaned close to inspect her needlepoint over the sofa, a historical horse-and-carriage scene outside a manor house. “Your work?”
    Bree actually blushed. “Yes.” Needlepoint soothed her.
    “I never would have imagined you sewing.”
    Why? Because being a promiscuous slut and needlework didn’t go together? She didn’t say that. Instead she pointed to the others on the walls. “I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.” It had always been a relaxing hobby. Some might have called it monotonous, but she loved how it was always so easy to make it perfect, each stitch the same, the finished parts growing beneath her fingers.
    “I’m impressed.” He smiled, wandering backward through the living room until he entered the dining area.
    She had a table-and-chair set from IKEA. She’d had only her parents over to dinner, once, when she first moved in. For the most part, she ate dinner on the sofa in front of the TV.
    “I’ve got some wine.” She held a hand aloft, indicating the kitchen. They’d had sex, done so many dirty things together, and yet she felt as tongue-tied and nervous as a first date.
    He laughed. “I forgot. The man’s supposed to bring a bottle of something. How remiss of me.” Then he leaned in and sniffed her hair. “Christ, you smell good. And I love the tight leggings.”
    She was barefoot, but still, her lips were almost on the same level as his. Some men didn’t like that she was tall; it made them feel inferior. It had never bothered Luke. She gazed at his mouth, wanting his kiss, but she never initiated. Instead, she brushed a hand down her white Lycra top to the waistband of the leggings resting at her hips. “I know you like this shirt.” She’d dressed for him. He loved the fact that all he had to do was tug on the Lycra to expose her breasts. She wasn’t big, but she had tight nipples that peaked against the material, tempting him, she hoped.
    He didn’t take the bait, turning to the kitchen instead. “Nice,” he said, and he could have been talking about her clothing or her cabinets as he drew his hand across the wood surfaces. He opened one, then another.
    “What are you doing?” She didn’t know why it made her nervous; she didn’t have anything to hide, at least not in her cabinets.
    “I want to see what’s in your cupboards. Wow, you actually cook.” He turned the spice carousel; she had everything from nutmeg and cardamom to cayenne and Italian spices. On the shelf above sat her bottles of soy sauce, sesame oil, red wine vinegar, cooking sherry, and more.
    “I like to make stir fry,” she offered.
    “Needlepoint and cooking.” He quirked a Spock-like eyebrow. “I’m learning so much about you.”
    “Maybe you need to check the fridge, too,” she said dryly.
    He did just that. “You like vanilla yogurt. A lot. And milk.” Bent down to look inside, he turned his head back up to her. “Two gallons ? Do you have kids you didn’t tell me about?”
    Her skin felt hot. “It’s cheaper if you buy two gallons at once. I like to make my mocha in the morning.” She had a routine. Every morning, she made her own mocha for the drive to work; Starbucks every day was a thousand dollars a year. Besides, she liked routines. They were soothing, just like needlepoint and cooking. If you had a routine, you were in control.
    “Thrifty but with expensive tastes, I like it.” He opened the lettuce drawer, maybe to see if she had rotting vegetables inside.
    She stepped back. “Why are you doing this?” He made her feel claustrophobic in her own home.
    He straightened, closed the fridge, the soft pfft of the door filling the kitchen. “Doing what?”
    “Looking in everything. Checking me out.”
    He cupped her chin, his touch sending a shiver through her.