by Mia Sosa
Mark didn’t disagree, but what he had in mind didn’t require them to make sense. He swept his lips across her forehead. “Sometimes the things that bring you the most pleasure make no sense.”
She buried her face in his neck and tightened her hold on the lapels of his jacket. “Well, let’s be seriously idiotic, then.”
The ding of the elevator surprised them both, and they broke apart. As they entered the loft, Mark tried to picture his place through Karen’s eyes. He’d never been nervous about bringing a woman to his home—until now. Which made one fact clear: Her opinion mattered to him.
She stood in the middle of the room and spun to give herself a panoramic view of the open space. “Very nice. I like splashes of color, so it’s a little austere for my taste. But it’s a perfect space for a single man. Speaking of which, where are the dirty gym socks?”
He laughed as he removed his tuxedo jacket. “In the hamper, where they should be.”
“No separate office space, though.”
“That’s the idea. I hate to bring work home with me. If there’s no office, I won’t be tempted to work here.”
She gave him a nod of approval. “Makes sense. And I like it. Tastefully decorated. Clean. What more could a booty call ask for?”
Though her eyes shone with laughter, her tone bore an edge he’d never heard before. He didn’t like it. “Karen, you’re not a booty call.”
She cleared her throat and looked down at her shoes. “I’m not? Then what am I?”
He closed the distance between them. “You’re a woman who’s attracted to me. I’m a man who’s attracted to you. We’re both about to experience big changes in our lives. You’re off to medical school. I’m trying to curb my bachelor ways. Let’s think of this as our last fling.”
“Until I head off to medical school?”
“Yes.”
“That’s in three weeks.”
He nodded. “Let me show you a good time for those three weeks. You’ll go off to medical school with no distractions and pleasant memories. Don’t you owe it to yourself to have a little fun before you focus on your studies?”
With her head angled in contemplation, she bit her lip and studied him. “In case you haven’t noticed, fun isn’t a high priority for me.”
“What about sex? Is sex a high priority for you? Because that’s part of the package, too.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The man excelled at saying exactly what she needed to hear. As soon as he’d said sex was part of the package, too, her lady bits perked up, eager to join the conversation. “That’s quite a package.”
He swept his arm in the air like a game show host. “And it could all be yours for the low, low price of spending time with me.”
She cracked a smile, no longer able to pretend she wasn’t taken in by his playfulness. “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Lansing, but with perks like that, there’s no way I can refuse. So when does the fun begin?”
His eyes turned smoky, and he stared at her under the veil of his long eyelashes. “First, we should seal the deal with a kiss.”
That was just fine with her, so she sauntered toward him, her anticipation building with each step. When she reached him, he slipped his hands under the curtain of her hair and tugged her close. Karen closed her eyes and lost herself in the kiss. His mouth mastered hers, and she followed its commands.
All too soon, he pulled back. “That was nice, but that wasn’t the kind of kiss I was talking about.” Without further explanation, he dropped to his knees and reached under her dress. “What’s it going to take to make you wet for me?”
He didn’t wait for her answer, not that she would have been able to form a coherent one anyway. Her clitoris throbbed, and all of her thoughts centered on coming against his mouth. His fingers trailed against her thighs and found their way to her panties. “Let’s dispense with these.” He tugged them down her legs as she held on to his shoulders.
Stepping back from her, he surveyed the room, his brows knitted in serious contemplation. “I need a place to feast on you.” His gaze settled on the kitchen counter. “Perfect.”
He lifted her onto the kitchen counter and dragged a stool in front of her. With a mischievous grin, he sat on the stool and placed her legs on his shoulders, leaving her completely open to him.
“You’re so pretty here,” he said as he tapped her center. “And you’re ready for me to slide my tongue over your clit, aren’t you?”
She squirmed on the counter. “I am, Mark. Please. Suck me now.”
He used his fingers to spread her outer lips apart and then his mouth came down on her. With gentle, decisive flicks of his tongue he teased her, never coming in contact with her clit. Her clit swelled under the lack of attention as though it wanted to highlight its availability to be pleasured, too. And Karen found herself sliding her body closer to the edge of the counter, hoping that, finally, he’d place his tongue on her swollen nub.
He lifted his upper body and stared at her face, his lips glistening with traces of her. “Tell me what you need, Karen.”
“I need your tongue on my clit, Mark. Please. I don’t think I can wait anymore.”
He obliged her, and Karen lost herself to the tiny bursts of sensation when his tongue flicked at her clit. “Oh, yes, Mark. That’s it.”
Humming his encouragement, he changed course and licked her slowly.
Karen dropped her head back. “Please. Suck it, too.”
And he did, drawing her nub into his pursed lips and sucking softly. Karen groaned and grasped the edge of the counter as her legs shook. “Mark, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” she chanted. Her muscles tightened in anticipation of her orgasm. And then he grazed her clit with his teeth, and the orgasm washed over her like a tidal wave. Karen squeezed her eyes shut and cried out. “Yes, Mark. Yes, yes, yes.”
She came back down from her high and blinked to clear her vision. “That was incredible.”
Mark raised himself from between her legs. “Are we having fun yet?”
“Definitely.”
He stood and undid the first button of his shirt. “There’s more fun to be had.”
Karen mentally cheered that bit of good news. She really liked his brand of fun.
* * *
A little over a week of fun later, Karen walked into the foyer of Marcel’s, an acclaimed French-Belgian restaurant in the city’s Foggy Bottom neighborhood. Mark had invited her to join him for “a quick bite” after work, and she’d happily accepted his invitation.
Over the weekend, they’d flown to New York to see the American Ballet Theatre’s performance of Swan Lake. Karen had been spellbound by the performance, and she’d experienced a small thrill when Misty Copeland, the company’s first African-American principal dancer, appeared onstage. On their return flight the next morning, Mark had peppered her with questions about her likes and dislikes, from music to foods. She’d mentioned knowing very little about French cuisine. A day later, he’d invited her to Marcel’s.
She was so distracted by her thoughts, she nearly bumped into the hostess’s podium. Very smooth, Karen. The hostess must have been trained to ignore the clientele’s embarrassing behavior, because she did nothing more than greet her with a warm smile. “Mademoiselle, you have a reservation this evening?”
“I’m joining Mr. Lansing. Mark Lansing.”
The hostess didn’t bother to scan the reservation manifest. Instead, her eyes wandered to a spot behind Karen, and then she dipped her head and smiled—as though she were in on a secret. “Ah, yes. Your party is here already.” She beckoned for Karen to follow her. “This way, please.”
When they reached the end of the long corridor that would take them to the main dining area, the hostess turned to her. “Please. After you.”
Karen entered the dining room, her eyes quickly adjusting to the dim lighting. The restaurant’s décor surprised her. She’d expected opulence and extravagance. Instead, it epitomized understated elegance.
The tables, each adorned with nothing more than a white silk tablecloth and a red glass candleholder, seemed to say, The food is the star here, and we’re just a backdrop. The gold-framed mirrors on the walls, spaced with mathematical precision, enhanced the classic ambience of the dining room.
What surprised her the most, though, was the realization that she and Mark were the sole dinner guests in the restaurant. She slowed her approach and regarded him with her mouth open. “You arranged this?”
He stood and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Hello to you, too.”
She moved into his arms, still reeling from the arrangements he’d made. “Sorry. Hello.”
He held on to her hand as she took her seat. “I thought you might enjoy a seven-course experience. That way you could decide whether you liked French food knowing you’d given it a fair shot.”
“Do you know the owner or something?”
“I don’t. But the restaurant is available for private dining.”
“The entire restaurant?”
He nodded. “For the right price.”
“But you didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” she said.
“No trouble. It was a phone call. Plus, I had my reasons.”
“Oh, yeah. What reasons?”
“They have a top-notch sommelier. With lots of experience recommending world-class whiskeys. I figured you could try them, and if you ended up dancing on the tables, no one would know but me and the sommelier.”
“You do have quite an imagination, Mark. Sounds like you’re angling for a private lap dance.”
He regarded her with a twinkle in his eyes. “The thought never occurred to me.”
“Right.”
A waiter appeared at the door to the kitchen. Mark beckoned him over. After the waiter had made the introductions and taken their selections for their seven courses, Karen reached over and held Mark’s hand. She was overwhelmed by the effort he’d put into making the evening special for her. “This is a wonderful surprise. Thank you for doing all of this.”
He waved away her gratitude. “Don’t give it a second thought. I promised to show you a good time. I plan to keep that promise.”
Right. She reminded herself that Mark had the means to spend more money on dates than most men. What she regarded as special, he regarded as commonplace. She would do well to remember that—because forgetting would lead her to want more from Mark than she could handle.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In a fit of anxiety over their upcoming move to the Maryland suburbs, Gracie and Ethan had asked Mark, Karen, and Mimi to come to join them for dinner at Gracie’s apartment. So tonight, Karen and Mark’s ability to keep a secret would be tested.
After checking on the roast in the oven, Gracie returned to the dining room and took her seat. “We just wanted to hang out with you guys before we become suburbanites and Ethan buys a minivan.”
Ethan turned to Mark, a wide-eyed look of terror on his face. “If you see me in a minivan, shoot me and put me out of my misery.”
Karen should have laughed, but with Mark a few feet away, crawling under the table to hide her distress would have been more appropriate. They’d had sex. Numerous times. Now they sat around Gracie’s dining table pretending they hadn’t explored each other’s orifices.
She welcomed Mimi’s presence. Mimi knew how to dominate a conversation, and Karen had no doubt Mimi would overshare before the night ended.
She glanced at Mark, who fingered the rim of his wineglass with two fingers. Those fingers held such promise. He glanced at her, and they froze on the glass. He turned his body toward Gracie and Ethan.
Mimi slapped her hand on the table. “Oh my God. I almost forgot. I have to tell you about my dream last night.”
Everyone straightened and listened.
“Okay. So in the dream, I’m having some sort of identity crisis. At first, I’m not exactly sure what it is, but it’s clear that I’m confused about my feelings about someone. Two women from my work take me to a bar. As I wait for the bartender to take my order, I realize that the bar is filled with nothing but women.”
As though mirror images of each other, Mark and Ethan sat up and gave Mimi their undivided attention.
Mimi guffawed. “I know, right? So anyway, the setting changes and all of a sudden I’m in the desert, looking like Harrison Ford in one of those Indiana Jones movies. I mean, I’m wearing a fedora and a leather jacket and everything. And I’m searching for something but then I fall into a trap and it’s dark and dingy and I have to light a match to see what’s in the cave with me.”
Gracie scooted her chair closer. “Oh, no. Snakes, right?”
Mimi shook her head. “No. That’s just it. I light the match, and when I can finally see, there’s nothing but naked men around me. And I deliver that line like I really can’t stand the thought of having all these penises around me.” Mimi leaned forward and sneered. “Dicks. Why did it have to be dicks?”
Gracie’s shoulders shook with laughter while Ethan and Mark grinned at each other.
Karen snorted. “Oh, Mimi. Don’t change. Ever.”
Mimi batted her eyelashes and basked in the praise. “So maybe I’m a lesbian?”
Gracie groaned. “Dreams typically aren’t that literal, Mimi. Did you have a fight with your boss again?”
Mimi pondered the question. “Now that you mention it, I did. The day before.”
Gracie rose from her chair. “Well, there you go. Excuse me a minute. I’m going to check on the roast again.”
Mimi took out her phone and swiped it a couple of times. “Karen. Check out my pics in Puerto Rico. The hot Marine is featured prominently.”
Karen stared at the photographs, but her ears focused on Ethan and Mark’s side conversation.
“So you haven’t called her yet?” Ethan asked.
Mark cleared his throat. “Not yet. I’ve been too busy. If I’m going to approach her, I should do it when I’m not slammed at the office.”
Ethan leaned back. “If?”
“Correction. When.”
The finality of his words made her stomach drop. The rational part of her understood that this had been his plan all along. The irrational part of her didn’t appreciate the reminder that he’d soon move on.
The scrape of Ethan’s chair caused her to jump.
“I’m going to check on Gracie.”
Which left Mimi, who stared longingly at the photographs of her three-day freak-a-thon. And Mark, who stared at Karen so intently, she wondered if she’d grown three heads.
“What is it?” she mouthed.
“I want you,” he mouthed in return.
Oh no. Not here. Definitely not here.
She shook her head. “Behave,” she mouthed.
He didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he pulled out his own cell phone and tapped away. “Sorry.” He gestured toward his phone. “Work is always with me, unfortunately.”
A buzzing from her purse made her suspicious that he’d sent a text that was not at all related to work. She fished for her phone and nearly choked when she read his text.
I want to fuck you so badly right now.
Another buzz.
That feeling of filling you to the hilt? I need that.
Her phone had turned into a vibrator.
I can’t wait to see that moment of ecstasy on your face again. I’ve stroked my cock imagining that moment.
She moaned when she pictured him doing just that. With a huff, she typed a response.
Mimi looked up. “Something wrong?”
“No. Just getting a little hungry.”
She hit Send.
What are you doing?
Yet another buzz.
I’m having fun. Don’t you like foreplay?
She tapped away. Calling it foreplay assumes we’ll be having sex tonight. That’s debatable.
Mark laughed as he continued to tap at his phone. After glancing at Mimi, he bowed his head again. “Excuse me. Just something funny going o
n. At work.”
If Karen could have reached him under the table, she would have kicked the shit out of him. But she’d get her retribution later. “All in due time.”
“What?” Mimi asked.
“Um. Nothing.”
Buzz.
Ethan returned, carrying the roast in a pan that had been blackened by Gracie’s frequent use over the years. Gracie, looking more mussed than she did when she went into the kitchen, carried two serving plates filled with vegetables and yellow rice. “Let’s eat.”
They dug into the meal as they chatted about Gracie and Ethan’s decorating efforts in their new home. Mimi called it a night before dessert, claiming to have a meeting with a client in the morning—on a Sunday. Right.
Mimi’s absence meant one less person to distract her from Mark’s presence. If they engaged in too much conversation, she suspected her face would reveal more than she wanted to. So she focused on dessert. “What culinary delight did you make for us?”
Gracie brushed off her shoulders. “Flan.”
The family recipe for the caramel custard—which bore a striking resemblance to crème brûlée—had been passed down for four generations. Karen clapped her hands in excitement. “Can I help you get it ready?”
“No need. It’s in the fridge, ready to go.”
Karen gestured for Gracie to get going. “We’re ready, I’d say.”
Gracie rolled her eyes. “I’m going, I’m going.”
When Gracie returned, she served the dessert. Ethan, meanwhile, busied himself making coffee in the kitchen.
“Have you ever tried flan before?” Gracie asked Mark.
He inspected the slice of flan. “Can’t say that I have.”
Karen held back a laugh at the dubious look on his face. “It’s an acquired taste. Kind of like Malta.”
Ethan returned with a tray of coffee mugs, having prepared cappuccinos for everyone.
“You guys are so together. Makes me sick,” Karen said. She sipped her coffee and licked the froth off her top lip. “Oooo. This is good. You really make me sick.” She peeked at Mark, whose steady gaze centered on her lips.