He walked with swagger.
With confidence.
With ridiculous sexiness. And he was mine. Every part of him—that body, that face, his bold, daring mouth—and his mind, too. When he reached his room, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m so glad you don’t wear a robe.”
“Yeah, why is that?”
“So I can ogle you as you strut down the hall in nothing but that towel.” I pressed my teeth into my lips, savoring the sight of him. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”
He shook his head, cupped my cheek, and brought his nose to mine. “No. Why don’t you show me?”
It’s a wonder we ever made it to class with the way we couldn’t stop touching each other.
But yet, we somehow juggled it all.
I’m not sure if it’s the past or the present, the memory of that morning shower or the moment right now with him in the nude. I don’t know which one compels me more, or if both drive me. But my hand is on his chest, and my heart is in my throat, and my body crackles.
I push hard on his pec. He stays rooted to his spot. I push again, though there’s nowhere for him to go. He stands stock-still. Then I grab his nipple and I pinch.
He lets out a small yelp.
“I seriously can’t believe you.” I do it again.
He winces, but maintains his ground. “Believe me.”
“What are you thinking, coming to my business naked? Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m completely sane,” he says, and I twist his nipple once more for good measure.
He grabs my hand, covering it with his bigger one, tugging me even closer. I gasp. The feel of his hand on mine sends a charge through me. I’m not just touching him now. We’re touching each other, and all at once, the drive to hurt him melts away. Fact is, I never wanted to hurt him. I only wanted to have him. And now that I’ve sorted out my shock, my annoyance, my frustration, my I-can’t-believe-you-had-the-nerve-ness, I’m simply done with it.
With his hand on mine, I give in.
“You’re crazy,” I say, but it’s hardly a protest as I spread my hand wider, no longer pushing him away. Instead, I dig in. I press. And then I drag my fingers down over the hard wall of his pecs.
He feels like coming home.
I wanted to shut him out to protect myself. It’s a natural human response. We are programmed to fight for survival, and he represented pain, a threat to my well-being, the spiked bat that would hurt me.
But I’ve been trained to look at both sides of a situation. To handle either aspect of a debate. To argue the pros or the cons. Those skills rise up in me once more as I consider the other side of his stunt. Yes, he might have embarrassed me. But on the other hand, he’s the one who let down his guard and showed me, in his own very Tyler way, how vulnerable he could be.
Baring all took away the threat of pain. I can no longer see him as a Molotov cocktail for my heart when he’s willing to chase me down the hall without even his skivvies on.
I don’t keep the light on red. I turn it to yellow and proceed with caution.
My fingers travel to his abs, and I trace the top row of his six-pack. My breath hitches. My skin flares with heat.
I have to fight the urge to bend and run my tongue over the grooves. Instead, my fingers do the walking. Down the middle, over the muscles, and to his waist. I don’t look in his eyes. I can’t. I won’t venture further south, either, even though I’m keenly aware of his hard cock, thick and pulsing mere inches from me. A weapon of mass pleasure.
I want to kiss him so badly. Want to touch him everywhere. I want to smash into him and reconnect with this frustrating, brilliant, vexing man I once loved—falling in love with him was like floating in the water under a clear sunlit sky. He warmed me all over.
But there are things to say. “It’s not you being naked that drives me crazy,” I say in a whisper.
He tucks his finger under my chin and lifts my face. “Tell me what drives you crazy,” he says. His voice is an invitation, like my answer matters. Like I matter. And although I felt like I didn’t mean a thing to him when he cut me from his life, I can tell I mean something to him now.
As the pitter-patter of gently falling rain sounds on the speakers and the room nearly hums with this electric energy, I part my lips. “What drives me nuts is that I might seem like a hard-ass.”
He recoils and shoots me a stare like I’m crazy. “Seriously?”
I nod. “Here you are, naked, and gorgeous, and contrite, and asking for one date, and if I say no, I’m the total hard-ass.”
“To who?”
“To anyone.” I point my thumb at the door. “To everyone who said to give you a chance.”
“They’re not here right now. It’s you and me.”
“But I feel like I can hear people saying, ‘Give him a chance. It’s one drink. He’s naked in front of you. Just go out with him.’”
The corner of his smile lifts. “They probably are saying that. But what do you say? Do you say ‘you should give him a chance’?”
A tiny grin tugs on my lips, too. “Maybe . . .” I tease as I drag my nails down his chest once more, and this time I’m rewarded with a groan. A low, dirty groan that sends a wild thrill through me. He inches closer, his thick hard-on pressing against my yoga pants. I fight back every carnal instinct telling me to slide my body against his. To wrap my arms around his neck. To crush my mouth to his.
I don’t know if he’s changed.
But more than that, I don’t know if I have.
All I know is this: he’s more than earned a drink, and that’s not simply because he’s aroused me like no one ever has. “But right now I say you’re getting the hardest deep tissue massage of your life, and you better leave me a great tip,” I say playfully. Then I swat his ass.
Oh, my.
That’s one firm cheek if I ever felt one.
And I want to get a full-on view. Not to mention a hands-on one, too.
I pat the massage table. “Hop on, Mr. Pollock.”
He smiles, doing as told. And there he is, facedown, ass-up on my massage table. The verdict is in. He is the proud owner of a perfect, round bubble-butt—hard, sculpted, and totally squeezable.
I could objectify him all day long.
But I’ve done enough of that. For the next fifty minutes, I focus on my job. Covering him up to the top of his cheeks, I run a hand down his back. A sexy growl rewards me as he shifts his body, adjusting to being facedown on the table.
I step away, reaching for the bottle of vanilla massage oil on the counter and drizzling some into my palm. I press my hands on his shoulders, and I begin there. For nearly an hour, I dig into his muscles. I unknot the tension I find in his right shoulder, above his hip, and along his spine. He sighs, he murmurs, he even drifts off to sleep at one point. I can tell from his even breathing. With him in dreamland under my hands, the rainfall our aural companion, I let myself relax, too, and reflect on the past week.
I didn’t expect to bump into him in the park, obviously.
I didn’t think he’d track me down online, determined to set the record straight.
And I certainly didn’t anticipate he’d send me a salad, deliver a potted plant of lilacs, and chat with me on the phone.
But above all, this is the unexpected. And I find I like it.
More than I thought I would when he strutted into the hall, his hand covering his package.
I might have some explaining to do to my employees. But I don’t have anything to explain to myself. I want to know what happens next.
When I finish and he rouses from his slumber, his voice is gravelly and morning-husky. “I think I dozed off.”
“You did, sleeping beauty.”
He stretches and flips over, enjoying a deep inhale. “Wow. You’re fucking amazing, Delaney. I feel like a brand new man.”
The metaphor is not lost on me, but only time will tell if that’s true.
“That’s my goal.” There’s something about havi
ng had my hands on him in this capacity that feels even better. Not a sexual touch, but a healing one, where I work the kinks from muscles, and he lets me be the caretaker for his body.
I lift my chin and ask him a question. “Mr. Pollock. Tell me something.”
“Anything.”
“What time do you want to meet for that drink?”
His eyes sparkle, and he says eight tonight.
I shake my head. “I’m busy. Tomorrow?”
“Done.” He sits up, and I can’t help but wonder if we’ll kiss or touch or anything. If he’ll drop his lips to my forehead. The tingles racing down my spine make me want to sing “Kiss the Girl.” But the past, the present, and the unknown future tell me that now’s not the time.
“I have another appointment,” I say. “Be sure to drink a lot of water. We released a lot of toxins from your body, and you want to flush them out. Have some water, a piece of fruit, and sleep well tonight.”
He nods, and I point to his clothes. “I’ll leave you now so you can get dressed.” I turn toward the door, then halt, and set my hand on his shoulder. “And Tyler?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for being my ten a.m.”
“Thank you for putting your hands all over me.”
As I leave, softly closing the door behind me and giving him his privacy, I find myself unexpectedly delighted.
Especially since the butterflies in my belly are flying high.
8
Delaney
* * *
“And you didn’t touch it?”
Penny stares at me through narrowed eyes, asking me once more the question that has evidently bedeviled her since we met at Blue Suede a few minutes ago in this hastily called shoe-shopping session with my girls. Minus one—Nicole isn’t here.
“No, I didn’t touch it,” I say, emphasizing the last syllable as I turn away to scan the white cubes in this shoe boutique on Columbus Avenue.
I eye some tan suede pumps with a silver stripe along the side. Pretty, but too monotone for a date night. I spot a pair of black leather Mary Janes with two straps over the instep. Promising.
I arch an eyebrow at Penny and point at the shoes. “Too sassy or just right?”
“Try them on. They have totes potential.”
My eyes land on a pair of red beauties next—fire-engine-red peep-toes with a sling back and a cardboard placard that says “Made in the USA.”
I crane my neck heavenward. “Dear God, please let these red shoes come in my size, feel like soft pillows, and make me look like a sexy angel.”
Because I love made in the USA products. For many reasons. Not only am I a big fan of making goods right here in the homeland, but also because that means less waste, less transport and shipping. A total win-win.
That is, if the shoe fits. And the shoe rarely ever fits my boats.
Penny grabs both pairs as a wispy-thin saleswoman floats over to us.
“I’m Jane. May I help you?”
Penny smiles and hands her the shoes. “Size ten, please.”
What can I say? I have huge feet, and I have no clue how it happened. I don’t have the excuse of being very tall. I’m simply a five-seven gal with size-ten flippers.
“Let me see what I can find,” Jane says, flashing a perfect grin that shows off straight white teeth. She heads to that magical land in the back of shoe boutiques. Seriously, how is it possible for any shoe store to house as many pairs as they need unless there’s an enchanted lair in the back or a portal to another dimension full of boxes of shoes?
Penny grabs my arm and tugs me into a corner beside a display of fuck-me ankle boots. “Ooh, touch these,” she says, her hand darting out to stroke a dove gray pair.
I join her and moan softly. “Like velvet.”
“See my point? You couldn’t resist touching the shoes.”
I laugh. “You set a shoe trap.”
“So explain to me how it worked this morning. I want to understand how it went down.”
“I’ve already told you. He showed up in my spa this morning, then stripped down to nothing but a smile and asked me out.”
“Totally clear on that part.” She narrows her brown eyes. “Now, tell me the part about how you somehow developed Superwoman-esque resistance and refrained from either, one, dropping down to your knees and taking him in your mouth, or two, at the very least, stroking his free-range dick.”
I laugh as I check out a pair of black leather boots with a sleek zipper up the back. “I don’t think giving a blow job at my place of work is in the best practices handbook for small business owners in Manhattan.”
She huffs. “Fine. But what about my second point? You didn’t want to wrap a hand around it? Just to test it? I’m not saying you should have done any handiwork. But, dear Lord, it was pointing at you.”
“Amazing how I was able to control all my baser instincts.”
“How? I’m completely serious. Not because I think you’re some crazy perv”—her voice softens—“but because I know how much you liked him. How attracted you were to him. And for him to just get into his birthday suit for you . . .” Penny’s voice trails off, and she blows out a long stream of air like she’s mystified.
“I was wildly attracted to him, and look, I’m not going to lie—I still am.” It feels good to admit the truth. “But I needed time to process his nudity.”
“Have you processed it now?”
I smile. “Shoe shopping helps me process everything.”
Because . . . shoes.
“Fair enough.” Penny grabs the black zippered boots. “I saw you staring at these. Let’s try them on your flipper-feet.”
“I love that you have no problem mocking my clodhoppers.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, making sure I see her little bitty ears. “You’ve seen my ears right?”
I laugh. “They’re cute.”
She shakes her head. “They’re tiny. They’re like mouse ears. One of the many reasons I grew my hair out years ago. Anyway, I want you to know that once we finish this emergency shopping session, I’m going to order you a gold medal trophy for resistance.”
“I look forward to displaying it proudly on my shelf.” I wag my finger at her. “But don’t forget—I did touch his chest and his abs.”
“Oh, that’s true. I’ll make it a silver medal.”
We wander to a plush, blue suede couch, as the saleswoman returns from the enchanted storage room, her arms laden with boxes of shoes.
“Here you go,” she says brightly, handing me the red shoes and the black Mary Janes. “I brought you the red peep toes in a ten, and the Mary Janes in a nine and a half because we don’t have them in a ten.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though her effort is futile. Sales women always think a nine and a half is the same as a ten. But I have never jammed my hooves into anything less than a full and proper ten. It’s a myth that women with petite feet cling to—the mistaken notion that one half size smaller will fit just fine. But we big-footed ladies know that single digit sizes will never fit our German-shepherd-puppy paws.
Penny hands Jane the black boots. “And we saw these beauties and couldn’t resist. Can we try these in a ten, please?”
Jane’s expression turns crestfallen, placing a hand on her heart. “Oh, I’m so sorry. They only go to nine.”
I sigh. The curse of banana boats.
Penny’s eyes light up. In a stage whisper, she says to Jane, “Then just bring them back in a seven.”
I fix her with a searing stare. “You are the luckiest bitch in the world.”
She blows on her fingernails as the saleswoman takes off once more. “I’d still trade you my ears for your feet.”
I run my finger over the shell of her ear. “Stop it. Your ears are perfect.”
She taps her toe to mine. “So are your feet.”
“Fine. We’re both awesome.”
“We absolutely are,” Penny adds.
I open the box of red
shoes and tug the silica gel packs and the stuffing from the left one. “But seriously, though. What do you think? And I don’t mean about the physical stuff. Obviously we’ve established the connection is still there. What do you make of the whole effort he’s gone to?”
Penny inhales and downshifts to a more serious tone. “It’s kind of like a grand gesture. Only he had to do it at the start, not at the end.” She sets her hand on my arm. “And I do love that he’s not just making lip service about wanting to see you again. He sent you a salad. Your favorite salad at that. He sent you lilacs. And he sent you himself, in all his naked glory.”
I scrunch my forehead. “So the lilacs and salad and nudity are all on the same level?”
Penny scoffs. “No. The flowers and the salad—let’s be honest, those are a total swoon. But him risking being naked in public for you.” She fans herself. “That’s the big gesture.” She drops her voice. “I mean, it was big, right?”
I pretend to zip my lips. Then I nod the answer. Yes.
“That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not only a big gesture. It’s a you-can’t-ignore-me gesture. The man clearly wanted you to take him seriously, as in pay-attention-to-me-because-I’m-not-going-away.”
“He was kind of hard to ignore,” I say with a waggle of my eyebrows.
Penny holds up a hand, and we smack palms.
She clears her throat. “But seriously, I do think he’s making a big play for you. And I’m impressed. But don’t tell Nicole I’ve become head cheerleader or she’ll have my neck.” She scans the shop like Nicole might be listening, picking up a pair of brown leather pumps and searching underneath them. “Just making sure she didn’t bug this shop.”
The Hot One Page 7