“The spell is working, then.”
Flynn chuckled low in his throat, guided her up against the wall. One hand slipped inside her coat and went around her waist as he edged his knee between her legs. With his other hand, he caught hers and dragged it up the wall, holding it above her head. Rachel’s enormous bag slipped from her shoulder and landed with a thud at their feet.
Laughing, they both looked down, and much to Rachel’s chagrin, the little illustrated book she had intended to send to Robin for several days now, had landed, faceup, on his foot—The Art of Making Tantric Love, with Illustrations and Notes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rachel moved quickly, but not quickly enough. Flynn picked up the book as Rachel shoved several questionable items back into her bag and tried frantically to think of a good reason why she might be on a lovely date with a sex book in her bag.
She popped up with her bag. “Oh hey, there’s that silly thing!” she said, laughing a little like a hyena. “I know what you must be thinking.” She tried to snatch it from him, but Flynn moved it just out of her reach and cocked one inquisitive brow.
“That,” she said, shaking a finger at the book, “that is a . . . very . . . funny . . . story. Yessir, a funny story. Not what you’re thinking”
Flynn looked at the book again. “I think I’ve heard of this.” He opened the book—and his eyes went a little round.
Rachel leaned in, peeked at what he had turned to, saw it was one of the many getting-in-touch-with-your-lover’s-sexual-being positions explained. This was so just her luck.
“Okay. Here’s the thing,” she started, but Flynn had turned away, was walking into the tiny little living area with the book, studying it.
“Frankly, I’m rather certain this is impossible,” he said, more to himself than to her as he pointed at something.
Rachel was instantly behind him, straining to see over his shoulder. “See, the whole thing about Tantra is getting in touch with the universe, which I was trying to explain to my sisters one night, but they have a very rude habit of not actually ever listening to me, and all they heard was—”
“Look here,” Flynn said, pointing to the next page and turning it sideways. “What do you make of it?” He turned the book upside down, shook his head. “Really, if one was to contort oneself in such a manner, I can’t imagine that an injury wouldn’t result from it, eh? Nor can I think it would be particularly enjoyable.” He looked at Rachel. “But perhaps I’m missing something. What do you think?”
“I, ah . . . I’m not really, ah . . . sure.”
“Really? Well, speaking strictly from the male point of view, this one looks rather painful.”
“Pain is definitely not part of Tantra,” Rachel said, waving her hand dismissively at that particular picture, wishing to God he’d put it down. “Which is what I was trying to explain to my sisters, and I finally said, look, you’ll just have to see for yourself, and I’ll send you—”
“Now that,” Flynn said, ignoring her as he went on to the next page, “is infinitely doable.” And he flashed a smile—not the charming, boyish smile she was accustomed to, but a very wolfish, sensual smile that definitely made her curious about the picture.
She stopped trying to explain it and pulled his arm so she could see the picture. “Oh. That,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “It does seem . . . doable,” she said, and tilted her head a bit. “With the right foot gear.”
Flynn laughed, turned his wolfish grin to her again. “Honestly, you leave me gobsmacked more times than not,” he said, and tossed the book carelessly onto the couch. He put his hands on his hips, looked at her in a way that made her heart suddenly wing a thousand beats a minute. “I really had in mind a sort of quiet evening. A little music, a little Scotch, chatting up our favorite movies—”
“Braveheart,” she muttered.
“But now I fear I can’t possibly do anything but imagine you . . . like that,” he said, nodding toward the book.
“I, ah . . . I think I have the same problem.”
“Then there is only one thing to be done for it,” he said, advancing toward her, head down, that sexy lock of hair hanging across his brow. “We simply must explore what we’ve both wanted to explore all evening.” He reached for her, pulling her to him.
Rachel was seething with desire, literally boiling with it. He pushed a curl from her forehead, cupped her face in his hand, and kissed the corner of her mouth. “But where exactly might a genius begin,” he asked as he kissed her brow, “if he wanted to experience the full monty of tantric sex?”