The Temptation of Rory Monahan. Elizabeth Bevarly

goddess-like about the attire. Coupled with the dark-blond hair caught at her nape and the deep-gray eyes unadorned with cosmetics, she was by no means a remarkable-looking woman. But her mouth was rather good, he noted, not for the first time, wide and full and lush, and the sight of it now roused deep inside him something hot and wanton and demanding and—

      Ahem.

      Where was he?

      Oh, yes. He was leaving the library to go home. Alone. Where there wouldn’t be anyone with a full, lush mouth, dressed as a goddess, waiting for him.

      “Good evening, Professor Monahan,” Miss Thornbury greeted him warmly at his approach.

      “Hello, Miss Thornbury,” he replied, as was his custom.

      “How’s the research going?”

      “Very well, thank you.”

      As was likewise the custom, they chitchatted as they passed through the main entrance—evidently she’d forgotten the details of their earlier interlude, too, because she made no reference to it at all as they spoke—and then she locked the doors behind them. As was not customary, however, she juggled a large, unwieldy box under one arm as she performed her nightly routine. Rory was about to offer her some assistance when the box pitched forward, dumping its entire contents onto the walkway just outside the entrance. An assortment of glossy magazines fanned out between the two of them, and immediately he stooped to help her pick them up.

      “I didn’t realize you were such a fan of Metropolitan,” he said when he noted what the majority of the magazines was.

      Somehow, Miss Thornbury just didn’t seem the Metro Girl type, even with the translucent gown thing going. On the contrary, the models depicted on the covers of Metropolitan were much more scantily dressed than even his goddess-vision of Miss Thornbury, and they wore cosmetics that had evidently been applied with trowels and other such garden implements. But even at that, not a single one of them had a mouth that was as lush and as ripe and as erotic and as hot and as—

      Ahem.

      Where was he?

      Oh, yes. None of them had a mouth that could compare with Miss Thornbury’s.

      She expelled an exasperated sound as she, too, dropped to her knees to join him in gathering up the scattered periodicals. “I’m not such a fan of Metropolitan,” she said, sounding a bit breathless for some reason, though what that reason might be, Rory could scarcely imagine. “But our illustrious mayor,” she continued, “has decided these are inappropriate for the library, and she’s ordered them removed.”

      Rory nodded, finding the revelation not at all surprising. “I did get the impression upon meeting Ms. Trent that she was something of a…of a…a, um…”

      “A prude?” Miss Thornbury offered helpfully—and not a little acerbically.

      Rory smiled. “Well, yes, I suppose that would be a suitable enough word for her.”

      “Mmm,” the librarian murmured. “I can think of a few others for her, as well. Ultraconservative. Right winger. Dictator. Fascist.”

      Rory chuckled. He’d never seen Miss Thornbury so passionate about something. And now that he did see her so passionate…

      Well, he hastily decided that it might be best not to dwell upon it.

      “I think Ms. Trent is just trying to make a good impression on the community,” he said instead. “She is, after all, Marigold’s first woman mayor. And she’s also the youngest mayor we’ve ever had. And she did run on the family-values platform.”

      “I don’t think it has anything to do with making a good impression, or even family values,” Miss Thornbury said. “I think it has to do with her being completely terrified of her own sexuality.”

      Miss Thornbury reached forward for a magazine at the same time Rory laid his own hand on it, and in the ensuing volleying for possession, their fingers somehow tangled together. That scant physical contact, coupled with hearing the word sexuality emanating from Miss Thornbury’s luscious lips, made something go tight and hot and urgent inside Rory. And suddenly he remembered very well the details of their earlier interlude. He remembered, because that same tight, hot, urgent sensation had shot through him then, too, the moment his hand had touched hers.

      Good God, he thought as the sensation shook him for a second time. What on earth was that?

      He glanced up at the same time Miss Thornbury did, only to find her blushing. And somehow he knew—he just knew—it was because she had experienced a similar reaction herself. How very, very odd.

      And how very, very interesting.

      “I am so sorry I said that,” she apologized, her cheeks going even pinker. He couldn’t help but note, however, that she did nothing to untangle their fingers. “I spoke out of turn,” she added quickly, huskily. “I never should have said such a thing about Ms. Trent. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

      Well, clearly, Rory thought, she’d been thinking about sexuality. The mayor’s, if not her own. Though how one could think about someone else’s sexuality without at least giving one’s own some little consideration was beyond him. Not that he himself spent any gratuitous amount of time thinking about anyone’s sexuality, he quickly reminded himself, but on those few occasions when he did, he could never think about someone else’s sexuality without allowing his own a quick run. Which meant that at the moment he was pondering not just the mayor’s sexuality but his own sexuality, too, and also, since she was the one who brought it up in the first place—if one could pardon the incredibly tacky pun— Miss Thornbury’s sexuality, as well.

      And that brought him right back to the translucent goddess gown again, only this time it was infinitely more translucent than it had ever been before, and it was dropping far too seductively off one shoulder, and it was dipping dangerously low over her lush breasts, and as for that one firm, naked, creamy thigh, well—

      Ahem.

      Where was he?

      Oh, yes. Miss Thornbury’s sexuality. No! His own sexuality. No, not that, either! The mayor’s sexuality. Ah, yes. That was something he could think about safely. Essentially because Isabel Trent, as far as Rory was concerned, anyway, had no sexuality to speak of. And still Miss Thornbury had not freed her hand from his, and somehow Rory found himself reluctant to perform the task himself.

      “I…I…I…” Miss Thornbury stammered. But she seemed not to know what else to add, so she clamped her mouth shut tight.

      Which was a shame, Rory thought, because in doing so, she ruined the sensual line of those full, ripe, rosy lips, lips that just begged for a man to dip his head to hers and cover her mouth with his and taste her deeply, wantonly, demandingly—

      And good God, where was his head this evening?

      Quickly Rory released her hand and surrendered the magazine to her—but not before he caught a headline that screamed, Love Your Man Orally TONIGHT! which just brought back that translucent-gown thing yet again and, worse, the ripe, luscious-mouth thing again, both with much more troubling explicitness than ever before.

      “I really must be going,” he said suddenly, rocketing to his feet. “I have to get home and prepare an oral sex— I mean an oral sexam, uh…oral exam—for my students tomorrow.”

      And before Rory could further humiliate himself, he spun on his heel and fled.

      Miriam carefully sipped her hot Sleepytime tea, snuggled more deeply into the cool, cotton pillows she had stacked between her and her headboard, listened to the soothing strains of Mozart that drifted from the stereo…and squirmed a bit on the mattress as she read about loving her man orally TONIGHT! Honestly. The things they printed in magazines these days. She’d seen college girls reading Metropolitan magazine and hadn’t thought a thing about it. Now…

      Well, now Miriam was thinking that the girls growing up in Marigold today knew a lot more about things