Her eyes meet mine again, hot and hinting at her own desire to leave the guests behind and slip away for our own private dinner, and I once again kick myself for making this a public spectacle.
Lana rises from her seat, and the lights in the dining room flicker off.
Lightning makes a dramatic entrance from the side windows in a gift from the heavens that I could not have timed better had I scripted it in, and then all is dark again.
A woman screams.
Gasps follow, which are quickly drowned out by the thunder crashing upon the house.
Bea grabs my thigh.
My cock springs to attention so quickly that I get a pain in my gut.
Naturally.
I’ve been fantasizing nonstop about Bea touching me more, and now she’s grabbing my leg, quite high in fact, and I would like to pull her into a dark room and kiss her until we’re pawing each other’s clothing off and going at it like rabbits.
But her breathing is suddenly unsteady, and while I’m having fantasies of her naked and sweaty, she might be on the verge of a panic attack.
“It’s part of the event,” I murmur, leaning into her and inhaling her perfume as a thump sounds. “All is well.”
She blows out a slow breath. “Right. Right.”
She doesn’t move her hand from my thigh.
So I take advantage of the moment to cover her hand with mine while the thunder subsides and my guests murmur amongst themselves.
Such soft skin. Capable hands. I’d like to trace her fingers with my tongue.
Again.
And then I’d like to trace every other part of her with my tongue as well.
I’m cataloging those parts in my brain when thunder crashes outside again and the lights flicker back on.
Lana is gone.
Daphne is gone.
And I have a raging erection that is preventing me from rising and announcing the start of the murder mystery.
Everyone stares at me, and it’s as though I’m a fledgling thespian who has forgotten to memorize his lines.
And I realize there’s a problem bigger than my flagpole of a cock.
My dead body is missing.
It’s supposed to be draped across the center of the table.
“Ah,” I start, only to be interrupted.
“Woooooooooooooo,” a creepy voice woo-woos from the hallway. “I am the ghost of Devyn Persimmon, the first person murdered in the Grand Persimmon Hotel, and I am here to tell you?—”
“Ahhh! She’s dead!” Quincy Thomas screams.
He flings his chair back, toppling it, and I forget all about the boner situation as I leap to my feet too.
Lana is supposed to be?—
