by Naima Simone
“I can take care of myself,” she said, her voice a decimal above a whisper. “And I asked you to call me Sophia.”
That’s right. Giovanna was the model, the persona. Sophia was the tatted, pierced, guarded but passionate woman beneath. If he were smart, he would insist on calling her Giovanna. Keep the fact that she was a model whose visibility could only be boosted by dating a pro football player front and center in his mind.
Yeah, if he were smart…
“I know you can, Sophia,” he deliberately added the name. Screw it. Calling her Sophia was a small concession. Besides, Sophia somehow seemed to fit this version of her more. “But sometimes don’t you want someone else to handle the load? Ease the pressure of the day, touch you, make you forget?”
Soft puffs of breath echoed in the room like the report of gunshots. Her chest rose and fell, wide eyes fixed on him. The term “deer in headlights” came to mind.
“I’m not having sex with you again,” she stated, panic—if he wasn’t mistaken—edging her voice. Though he couldn’t help but notice that her gaze skimmed down his body, the arousal darkening her eyes unmistakable.
“Who said anything about sex?” he asked, even as his mind and dick seemed to throb in protest. “Where’s your mind at, Sophia?”
The alarm evaporated from her expression, replaced by a scowl. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed to one night.” Her frown deepened. “And do I even want to know how you found this address?”
He shrugged. “Probably not. And we agreed to one night of sex. I’m not here for that. I want to invite you to dinner.”
“Dinner?” she repeated, skepticism soaking her tone like a wet, heavy blanket.
Her suspicion didn’t disappear. Smart woman. Because he—who despised lying—was doing it through his teeth. All he could think about was having her under him again. Then, after a breather, over him. Then in front of him. Hunger clawed at his gut like a caged beast demanding to be fed.
“Yes. Have you eaten?” Not exactly the kind of craving he wanted to satisfy, but maybe she would lower her guard if he played nice.
He saw the indecision playing out on her expressive face. Also noted the moment she decided to tell the truth. “No,” she grudgingly admitted. She shook her head. “This is a bad idea. Just…bad,” she said in a low voice.
“Why?” He moved even closer, this time surrendering to the need to just touch. Pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he tilted her head back as he shifted into her personal space. Eliminating it. “What are you afraid of, baby?”
“That,” she whispered. Her lids lowered, hiding her eyes from him, and he almost demanded she open them. “Zephirin, I…” She exhaled a shaky breath and stepped back, dislodging his hand from her face. Tunneling her fingers through her hair, she nearly toppled the bun on top of her head, but she didn’t seem to notice. Pivoting, she crossed the living area and halted in front of an arched window. “I’m so not who you think I am,” she murmured, voice so low he barely caught her words.
“Then let me find out,” he said, staring at the rigid line of her spine. “Introduce me to Sophia. Introduce her to me.”
“And if you don’t like her?”
“I will, if you give me the chance. Trust me with her, and I won’t reject her.”
A sense of urgency vibrated under his skin like a forewarning that if he didn’t convince her now, he would lose the opportunity to discover all the hidden passion in this woman. Unable to remain where he stood, he traced her steps and didn’t stop until his palms flattened against the wall above her head, and his chest was pressed to her back. She stiffened but didn’t move away. He lowered his head, his mouth hovering next to her ear. Her flower and fruit scent, the same that had been more condensed, muskier with her arousal the night before, enveloped him in a warm, sexy embrace. The two dark brown beauty marks behind the curve of her ear taunted him, begged for his tongue.
He swallowed the growl that rolled up his chest and into his throat. “Dinner. That’s it.”
She turned, facing him. He could easily read the indecision in the gaze that met his. “That’s it?”
“Yes,” he said. The urge to touch her surged within him, brutal and demanding. He surrendered to the need and brushed the full curve of her bottom lip with his thumb. But that was all he allowed himself. He shifted back a small step. “Sophia, you’re focused on your career, and so am I. Everything else takes a back seat to it. I’ve let relationships…” Fuck me up. “…distract me before, and I’m not willing to risk my career like that again. I can’t offer anyone a long-term commitment. I want to be as upfront with you as you were with me last night.”
She studied him for several long, quiet seconds. “And you don’t want to risk getting into a relationship with someone who could lie to you…again.”
He didn’t reply to her amazingly accurate assumption. But from the understanding that seemed to shadow her eyes, he didn’t need to.
Another moment passed. Then another. But finally… “Okay. Dinner.”
He breathed.
Chapter Nine
She was going to hell.
Sophia sat at the marble bar in Zephirin’s state-of-the-art kitchen, watching him prepare their meal with an efficiency that struck her as endearing and a little intimidating.
And hot. Good Lord, definitely hot.
As someone whose diet consisted of anything not cooked by her, she appreciated the coordination and weird kind of beauty that went into it as he prepared several dishes at once. Shifting from the stove to the huge island in the middle of the room and back. Chopping vegetables and sautéing them. Baking fish. He was poetry in motion, and though she’d never seen him play, she could easily imagine him showing the same grace and economy of movement on the field. For such a huge man, he moved with a fluidity that was both poetic, elegant, and powerful.
Or maybe it was just Zephirin.
Aaaand her ogling reminded her of exactly why her soul was sentenced to eternal damnation.
This lust and fascination for this beautiful, sin-wrapped-in-flesh man.
Back at Giovanna’s apartment, she should’ve said no to his invitation. Put her foot down. Remembered that not an hour earlier, she’d promised her sister she would end whatever the…thing was between her and Zephirin. The fact that she’d had to lie to him about the apartment should’ve been a clear and blaring reminder of why even entertaining seeing him again fell under the heading of Worst Fucking Idea Ever.
“I’ve been lied to so often, the truth is my white whale.”
For a moment, when he’d asked her to trust him, promised that he wouldn’t reject her, she’d almost confessed everything. The favor for her twin to take her place on the photo shoot. Her decision to take one night for herself with him and not see him again. Why she’d snuck out of his bed after hearing him whisper her sister’s name. Everything.
But then she’d remembered those bleak, hard words he’d stated in the bar. This was a man accustomed to being lied to, to having his choices stolen from him. And he would see her as one more thief. And coward that she was, she hadn’t wanted to see his disappointment…his disgust.
Hell, if she had one ounce of the sense that people believed she possessed in spades, she would’ve rejected his offer for dinner. Cauterized the harm.
But knowing and doing were two different things. She should’ve said no and shown him the door—her sister’s door. But after he’d asked her to introduce him to Sophia, the cracks and fissures fractured her already flimsy barricade of resistance. More than anything, she wanted him to meet her—the real her. But right on the heels of that longing came the voice reminding her that Zeph wouldn’t like the “real her.” In that Google search, she’d also seen the women he’d been pictured with. Gorgeous, stylish, poised, and confident. Women like Giovanna, not her.
And yet, here she sat. Watching him. Lusting after him with the words “no sex” reverberating in her head like a mantra. Even as her wet
panties mocked her.
Hell. She smothered a snort. Forget going to hell. She was in it.
Yet the realization didn’t stop her from staring at the fit of the jeans over his trim hips, thick thighs, and ass. She suppressed a groan. That ass. Her fingers had clutched the firm flesh last night, and she swore she could still feel the hardness of it against her skin now. Swiftly, she dragged her gaze up to the T-shirt that hugged the muscles of his shoulders, upper arms, and wide chest. Ink painted his lower arms. The V-neck offered her a peek at the powerful column of his throat and collarbone, also baring the slim necklace with its pierced dime that nestled in the shallow dip at the bottom of his throat. If someone had told her she would be jealous of a coin, she would’ve offered them a Xanax and a glass of wine.
“Can I ask you a question?” She propped her elbows up on the bar top. He glanced up at her from stirring vegetables and nodded. “What does the dime mean? Is it something special?”
“My grandmother gave it to me before I left for college. It’s an old Creole superstition. Wearing a pierced dime around your neck is supposed to ward off the devil.”
Sophia blinked. “Um…wow.”
He huffed out a low laugh. “When I pointed out that as a Catholic, she shouldn’t believe superstition, she told me this had nothing to do with God and everything to do with the devil, so just shut up and wear the damn thing. And that’s a direct quote.”
The humor and obvious love in the deep timbre of his voice had her chest squeezing even as she loosed a bark of laughter. “She sounds amazing. Feisty.”
“She is,” he murmured. “She’s my rock.” Switching the flame off underneath the food, he arched an eyebrow. “Tell me something about you.”
Right. She was supposed to be introducing herself to him. The real her. The her that he could truly never know because she’d been lying to him about herself since the beginning. The her that would probably bore him in three-point-two seconds flat.
Shoving the thought—and the guilty twist inside her—aside with the power of a backhoe, she shrugged. “I speak several languages.” She’d grown up in a Spanish-speaking household as her parents were both Puerto Rican. Still, since she was younger, she’d always had an affinity for different tongues. They fascinated her, challenged her. And when she’d been a kid, she’d had dreams of traveling to foreign countries, visiting all the cities that had always fascinated her. London. Paris. Madrid. Manila… Middle Earth. “Five including English…and if you count Elvish.”
He stared at her. Blinked. “Excuse me? Elvish? As in pointy-eared, long-haired, bow and arrow elves?”
Again, she shrugged, suddenly wishing she’d kept her mouth shut instead of opening it and proving what a geek she was. Hell, half the people she worked with were fluent in Klingon.
“Don’t get shy now.” A corner of his mouth quirked as he turned fully toward her and planted his palms on the bar. “Say something. Please.”
“Lle naa vanima edan.” You are a beautiful man. A sentiment she was too embarrassed to confess in English.
Slowly, a full-fledged, heart-stopping, gorgeous grin spread across his face. Goddamn. No wonder the man didn’t do that often. He had to use his smile like the nuclear codes. Carefully, rarely, and only in important circumstances. Otherwise, this world would be rendered to ash from all the exploding ovaries.
“Damn, that’s sexy as hell,” he said, shaking his head, still wearing that coronary-inducing grin. “What did you say?”
As if she’d reveal that. “Learn it if you want to find out.” She issued the challenge with a tilt of her head.
“Maybe I will,” he replied, and the soft tone conjured an image of him snatching up a thrown down gauntlet. Although the idea of him actually learning the language of—how had he put it?—“the pointy-eared, long-haired, bow and arrow” race of Tolkien fell somewhere between ludicrous and really ludicrous.
“What are the others?” he asked.
“Yo quisiera lamberte su cuerpo entero.” Spanish. I would really love to just lick you all over right now. “Mais c’est fou de te vouloir.” French. But wanting you is crazy. “Pero hindi ko matulungan sarili ko.” Tagalog or Filipino. But…I can’t help myself.
He studied her, and while she wanted to duck her head and avoid his scalpel-sharp scrutiny, she met it. Only because he couldn’t know the revealing words she’d uttered in the different languages.
“Why is it crazy to want me?” Her face must’ve betrayed the shock blasting through her, because he added, “I’m Creole. I know some French.”
She glanced everywhere—anywhere—but at him. How could she tell him the truth? That wanting him was crazy because he believed her to be someone else. And the more time she spent with him, the longer she let him think she was her twin, the deeper in lies she sank…and dragged him with her.
But no way in hell could she admit that. She cleared her throat, stalling for time. Praying a credible answer would materialize. “I—”
The timer on the oven dinged, announcing the fish he’d placed inside twenty minutes earlier was done. Oh thank God. Saved by the bell. Literally.
He transferred his attention to the food, removing the dish and setting it on top of the stove. But seconds later he returned with a chunk of pink, flaky meat pinched between his fingers.
“Open,” he ordered.
She complied without hesitation, and he slid the piece of salmon between her parted lips, setting it on her tongue. He didn’t remove his finger…made her lick the underside of it as she swallowed the food. And he still didn’t withdraw. In that instant, she had a choice. Remind him—and herself—of her “no sex” rule. Or indulge in this small, not-so-innocent flirtation. She didn’t have to let it go any further.
Okay, so she’d started not only lying to Zephirin, but to herself, too.
Still didn’t stop her from curling her tongue around his finger. From sucking on it. Drawing it deeper. Stroking it. Grazing it with her teeth.
Didn’t stop her from closing her eyes and enjoying the hard, calloused texture of skin. From substituting his finger for his cock in her imagination. Except even her dreams didn’t stretch that far. Her biblical knowledge of him couldn’t forget how much thicker, heavier, wider his flesh was.
Her breath like a buzz saw in her lungs and head, she pulled back…but not before treating herself to one last lick. She lifted her lashes and almost toppled off the bar stool. The explosive heat in those golden eyes was a punch of lust straight to her chest. His mouth formed a hard but sensual line, his jaw clenched tight. She’d seen lust on him last night, but under the glaring lights of the kitchen, the emotion appeared harsher. Hungrier.
She clutched the edge of the counter as if holding on for dear life. Didn’t let go even as he rounded the bar. Even as he crowded her against the marble, his chest pressing against her spine as it had earlier at her sister’s apartment. His arms bracketing hers, his large hands settling on either side of hers. She felt…covered. If they were in bed, she would’ve been mounted. The image sizzled along her synapses, causing them to misfire. She blamed the phenomenon on her inability to move out of the cage of his arms and body.
“Do it again.” The low, rumble of his voice vibrated against her back, over her skin. She shivered as he rubbed the tips of two fingers over her bottom lip. “Let me in.”
Unable to deny him, or herself if she were brutally honest, she opened her mouth. Permitted him to penetrate, to fill her. His groan rolled through her, sliding under her shirt and stroking her skin. Knowing that his eagle gaze watched his fingers disappear inside her was a caress to the aching, pulsing flesh between her thighs. She squeezed her legs together, but all the gesture did was remind her how empty she was. How desperate she was to have him bury his cock in her sex as slowly and deliberately as his fingers did her mouth.
As she’d done moments ago, she sucked him, savoring the hint of spices from the food he’d prepared. Moaning at the darker, more unique flavor of him. She raked hi
m with the edge of her teeth, lapped at the slight abrasion. With a low growl, he withdrew his hand until his fingertips rested on her lip…then pushed back inside, demanding more of her touch.
“Damn, that’s so pretty.” His gritty praise sent pleasure stumbling through her. “So goddamn pretty.” He repeated the strokes, imitating the erotic possession of his body over hers from the previous evening.
At some point, she’d released her hold on the counter and grasped his thick wrists, her nails digging into his skin.
“I thought about this all day, Sophia. Had a shitty practice because I couldn’t focus.” He didn’t cease taking her mouth. His thrusts between her lips shortened, hardened. And she loved it, sucked harder. “Not with images of you taking my dick just like you are now in my head. Beautiful. Sweet. And hot as hell.”
Jesus, he had to stop talking or any moment, she would go up in flames. Her sex clenched, quivering in readiness for a deep, rough ride. One more night of sex. Just one. Then tomorrow, she would walk away. Like she should’ve tonight if she weren’t so damn weak.
She shifted, tried to turn around in his arms, but he prevented the movement with his body. One hand burrowed through her hair, tangling, gripping. He tugged her head back and withdrew his fingers from her mouth. Slowly, he trailed the damp tips down her chin and neck, coming to rest in the point of her shirt’s V neckline. He paused, and she was acutely aware that with a shift of only centimeters to the left or the right, he could be teasing her nipples into tighter points.
She bit her lip, unable to think of another surefire way of trapping the plea inside her.
“I want to renegotiate,” he murmured in her ear. “One night wasn’t enough for me. I didn’t get a chance to discover everything about this gorgeous body. Didn’t get the opportunity to find out what makes you shiver, scream…come. So here are the terms.” He brushed his lips over her jaw, giving her just a hint of tongue. “We fuck until we get our fill. You don’t want strings? Fine, neither do I. You want to walk away whenever you’re done? Me, too. But until then, you let me have you. And you can have me in return.”