Far Too Tempting

by Lauren Blakely

  “Do tell. What does worshipping my body entail?” I ask and I’m loving this, I am brimming with happiness, and I intend to savor every second of this night. Not only because I’m no longer a sexual cipher, but because he’s the one I want worshipping my body, and that’s partly because of how much fun he is. “Do you want me to let you in on a little secret about women like me?”

  “Tell me,” he says, fixing me with a faux-serious stare.

  “I have no idea what it means to have my body worshipped.”

  “Oh well, my little songstress,” he says shaking his head playfully. “This better make it onto your album because I’m going to show you exactly what it means. Allow me to begin with all the things I love about your body.

  “First.” Then he heaves a sigh. “I don’t know where to start. There are so many parts I love.” He shakes his head, like a dog shaking off water. “Let’s start with the way you smell. Like coconut whatever.”

  “Coconut dreams.”

  “Yes. That. I smell you”—he stops to trail his nose along my neck and inhale—“and I picture tropical sex with you.”

  “Like under a waterfall?”

  “Beach, waterfall, pool, sand. Wait. Not sand. Sand is annoying. Everything else. Next.” He trails his fingers along my hipbone and I shiver at his touch. “The curve of your hips. So fantastic for holding onto. Love them.”

  Then his eyes light up as he stares at my chest, and he’s a cartoon character lusting after a delicious meal floating by. His hands dart out and he cups my breasts. “Breasts are literally one of the greatest inventions ever. Seriously. I can’t even imagine a world without them. I would die,” he says in mock sadness, and I laugh more, as he lays his head between my breasts. “Soft, like pillows. They’re such divine creations. God bless breasts.” He sighs happily, then looks at me again. “Do you know what else I find immensely sexy about you?”

  “Tell me. Tell me,” I say greedily, because if I thought the sex was out of this world, then I’m truly in another solar system now. I could live inside this kind of praise. He leans in to my neck, then kisses the hollow of my throat. “This is a pretty exquisite spot on you.”

  I loop my hands around his shoulders and lean my head back, giving him more room to kiss my neck.

  “But I’ve nearly forgotten your legs,” he says, bringing his hands down to my ankles, then running them slowly up my legs. “I love your smooth skin. The lack of leg hair is definitely appreciated.”

  “I’m glad all that shaving I do is paying off,” I joke.

  Then he dips both hands into my hair, twining his fingers through my long strands. “All this long, curly hair framing your face. Hair I can hold onto while I fuck you.”

  I moan, liking that idea. “We should go again, then.”

  “Don’t even try to distract me from my mission to get you inspired.” He waggles a finger in front of me. Then cups my face in his hands. “You know what I really love about your body?”

  “What do you really love?”

  He rolls his eyes as if in pleasure, as if this is the crowning moment of his worship. “The fact that you don’t have stubble on your jawline. I can’t even begin to tell you how immeasurably attractive it is that you don’t have stubble,” he says, cracking up, and I join in his laughter.

  “That’s one of my favorite features about myself too,” I add.

  Then he his tone shifts, and this time he’s serious. Not play-serious, not pretend-serious. But the real thing. “But you’re more than a beautiful body and a beautiful woman. You’re you. And I’m kind of crazy about you.”

  Forget the other solar system. Now, I’ve shot into another universe, and it’s comprised solely of this kind of bliss. “I’m kind of crazy about you too.”

  “Now you leave me no choice. I have to fuck you right now.”

  “You’re right. You have no choice.”

  He slides under me and pulls me down to his chest. “But you’re going to be on top now. Because that’s the final secret I’m sharing tonight. I want to watch you move on me and touch your waist and your breasts and your hair as you fuck me.”

  So we go again, and it’s as good as the first time, and I hope—I truly, deeply hope—that he’s right about this being inspiring. Because I don’t want to give this up. I don’t want to give him up. I want him, and I want music.

  I want it all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I don’t even have to ask where you went last night.” Owen folds his arms across his chest and stares at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” he scoffs. “It’s so obvious it’s beyond obvious. You might as well have had a sign put on your foreheads—we’re hot for each other.”

  I smile because I can’t help myself. I’m glad our feelings were totally transparent to an outsider. “I figured you’d figure it out.”

  “Yeah, not hard with the anvil-sized clues you left.” Then he adds, affecting an English accent, “I suppose he’s a decent bloke.”

  This is the closest Owen will come to some sort of “blessing.” He might be my little brother, but he’s still my brother and therefore is genetically programmed to disapprove of anyone dating a sister.

  But Matthew is so much more than a fine bloke. He left shortly after our final session this morning to walk his dog, shower, and go to the office. I felt a momentary pang as he was leaving, the fleeting paranoia that despite his tenderness, despite his profession of long-standing feelings, I might have been a one-night stand. He abated those fears quickly, pulling on his CHILLIN’ WITH MY GNOMIES T-shirt and kneeling next to me as I sat on the couch reading a book Owen had given me. I was putting on a good front, pretending I could handle whatever last night was.

  “I want to see you tonight. I want to take you out for dinner. I know a great vegetarian restaurant near me. It’s called Happy Cow. Shall I make reservations?”

  Ethan would be with Aidan again, so I said yes. Then he kissed me good-bye and I floated all the way to the bathroom, into the shower, unable to contain a ridiculously huge grin as I let the hot, hot water beat down on me, enjoying every sensation of life. I sang in the shower about a sex god who worshipped my body. It was a ridiculous song, but it made me happy. Then, after I dressed and dried my hair, I opened up Garage Band on my computer and made a quick recording.

  “I had a date last night too,” Owen says.

  I park myself on the studio couch, ready for his report. “Who was she?”

  “Name is Taryn. She’s actually from my writing group.” He doesn’t sound excited. “And she’s really pretty. And she’s really funny. And she asked me out.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I think she’s using me.” He fiddles with some of the dials on the soundboard.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “We all share our work with each other. That’s the point of the writing group. We critique each other’s novels. And her stuff is pretty good, but she’s been stuck for a few weeks.”

  “So how is she using you?”

  He takes a drink of his espresso. “Because the place she’s stuck at in the book is this romantic part, it’s the love scene. And when we were out she kept asking me random questions, like who was my first girlfriend, and what kind of music I liked, what was my favorite food.”

  I fix him a stare, like he’s crazy. “I don’t get it.”

  “Jane!” he shouts. “She’s mining me for information! I’m her lab rat.”

  I shake my head. “She’s basing a character on you?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s either basing a character on me or she’s going to use my backstory for her love interest or she’s going to use the way I kiss as the model for her leading man.”

  “Whoa!” I hold up a hand. “What is the problem with that? That’s kind of flattering. Any of those options. And did you say you kissed her?”

  “Yeah, I kissed her right there in the bar.”

  “And
was she taking notes on the kiss, my little paranoid brother? Was there an associate on the grassy knoll with a notebook and pen in hand?”

  “No, doofus,” he says, rolling his eyes. Then he points a finger in the air for emphasis. “But I know how writers operate. When they get stuck, they steal other people’s life stories.”

  “Maybe I should write about your life story, then. Should I steal your ideas?”

  “You can have them.” He pretends to toss pages upon pages of stories at me. “If it gets the album made, you can steal, take, and grind my life stories up in a blender if you want.”

  I ruffle his light brown hair, soft to the touch. “What am I supposed to do with you? You are completely insane. Certifiable.”

  “I’m seeing Taryn again tonight.”

  “You’re making it hard for me to support your conspiracy theories with your willingness to participate.” I take off my jacket and fling it onto the arm of the couch.

  “Yeah, she probably just wants more fodder for her book.”

  “Maybe you’ll get laid, then,” I say with a smirk.

  But the truth is Owen isn’t really afraid of someone stealing his stories. What Owen is afraid of is another Kacea. She’s an Irish woman he fell in love with a few years ago. They had a mad, passionate affair for a few years and he was so crazy about her, I swear he would have licked her boots clean if she asked him to. She kept promising she’d leave her husband. “Next week, I’ll leave him,” she’d say. Owen’s hopes would be piqued, only to be dashed seven days later when Kacea told Owen she’d need another week, another month. He held on like that month after month, waiting for his Mrs. Robinson, until the day she told Owen her husband had been relocated to Texas and she’d be going with him. Now, Owen hunts for reasons to sabotage relationships before they even start.

  “Speaking of,” Owen says, then trails off, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  “What?” I ask, all indignant and then some.

  He holds his hands out wide. “Did you get some action? A little lovin’ to get you singing?”

  I flash back to the song I recorded this morning, grinning to myself. It’s not a usable song. It’s just for fun. Still, it gives me a thrill.

  “Hello? Earth to the Girl on Deadline! Song. We. Need. A. Song.”

  I root myself back to the present. “What about those three so-so songs? Can we try to fashion something out of them?”

  He shoos me into the live room. “Let’s see if there’s anything there.”

  …

  Eight hours and several visits to the monkey juice dealer later we close up for the day, no closer to turning my trio of a sow’s ear into a silk purse. But that’s okay, I tell myself. I have a date, and I’m going to put it to good use in more ways than one. I flip the word over and over in my head as I walk across town, letting date share space in my brain with The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony,” which plays on my iPod.

  Then I remember that I’ve had my cell phone on silent since Ethan’s school day ended. I fish it from inside the crevices of my light blue shoulder bag to find I’ve missed several renditions of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” I call Kelly right back.

  “What’s going on?”

  Her sniffly voice blurts out, “It’s Grant. He accused me of having an affair. Can you come over?”

  “I’ll be right there.” I stick my hand straight up in the air to hail the nearest cab, even though I should be heading back to my home in Murray Hill to shower and change for Matthew.

  When I arrive at Kelly’s building on the Upper East Side, the doorman waves me in. I call the elevator, press her floor, and shoot up to her home. She’s standing half in the hall, half in her home, holding the door open for me. She’s been crying, but her eyes are now dry. The skin around them is puffy and red. Her crisp blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, but messy wisps line her face.

  “Thank you for coming. I didn’t ask if Ethan was with you. I’m so thoughtless.” Her tone is bland, her voice stripped of its usual lightheartedness. Even though she’s my close friend, I’ve never seen her like this, never seen her less than perfect, less than poised. I wonder if this is how I looked the night Aidan left me.

  “Ethan is with Aidan. But I’d have come anyway. We could have just left him with the babysitter.” I point to the TV in a crude attempt at humor.

  But my feeble effort makes her tear up again. “What is it, sweetie?” I ask, putting a hand on her back and guiding her to the chocolate-brown couch, laden with gold, orange, and purple pillows and a cream chenille throw.

  “Grant took Sophie. From the babysitter,” she says, starting to explain. I reach for the box of tissues, hidden tastefully inside a copper case on the end table. She pulls out several, one by one, and clutches them in a wad on her lap.

  “Grant was supposed to come home tomorrow from his research conference. But then he came home early and didn’t tell me he was coming home early. He wanted to surprise me.”

  When I hear Kelly say the word surprise it starts to become clear why she is crying. Accuse, affair, and surprise are words no spouse wants to hear strewn together in one afternoon, let alone one sentence or phone call.

  “When I was on the phone with him, I told him Sophie was with the babysitter and I was heading to an appointment with the accountant,” she adds.

  I raise an eyebrow. She shakes her head immediately. “Nothing happened, Jane. I swear.”

  I lay a hand on hers. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. And you know I believe you.”

  Kelly blows her nose, then resumes her story. “I know I said he’s cute and he is. But my last accountant was a total wreck and my books are a mess. So the meeting went on for two and a half hours. By the time I left, I had”—she runs her hands through her hair, holding it tight in frustration—“no less than eight missed calls from Grant.”

  I have a hunch Little Miss Sophie did not hold up her end of the cookie deal.

  “They start out with ‘I hope you are enjoying your afternoon with the cute accountant’ and graduate to, ‘I’m taking Sophie out and I don’t even know if we’ll come home tonight. I hope it was worth it with your accountant.’”

  I cover my mouth with my hand. I’m shocked at Grant’s train of thought, his ability to jump to conclusions.

  “They’ll be back, right?” she asks me, worried.

  “Of course. Of course they’ll be back. He’s not fleeing the country with her or anything.”

  “It makes me feel like we’re hanging on with a thread if he can come home and take Sophie and not even tell me. That’s what people do to each other when they have really vindictive divorces, right?”

  I’m about to say, “I imagine so” when I hear the distinctive sound of a key opening a lock. We both turn to the front door automatically, bracing for the return of Grant. The big white wood door swings open. Sophie prances in, her face speckled with the remainders of what was likely a chocolate sundae. Grant, still wearing a crisp white shirt and tie, stomps in next. He glowers at Kelly, then notices me.

  “Hi, honey,” Kelly says tentatively, stepping toward him like a dog with her tail between her legs.

  “Sophie’s tired. She wanted to come home.”

  Sophie hugs her mom around the waist and says, “I’m ready for bed, Mommy.”

  Grant glares at Kelly. “We need to talk.”

  I jump in. “Why don’t I put Sophie to bed so you two can chat?”

  I reach for Sophie’s hand and take her back to her room, while Kelly and Grant head to the kitchen. After I help Sophie wash up, brush her teeth, and comb her hair, we pick out pajamas. “Pink with the yellow stars, please,” Sophie instructs, a yawn escaping her mouth. I tell Sophie I need to make a quick call.

  “Jane Black is late,” Matthew answers cheerfully.

  “How are you?”

  “Excellent. I’m already here, but don’t worry. I have a book. Plus, the hostess said she’d bring me some bark and roots to gnaw on if I beca
me ravenous while waiting.”

  “Actually, I’m going to be really late,” I say, then give the briefest of explanations as Sophie wiggles into her pajama bottoms. Matthew pauses. Doesn’t speak right away.

  “I completely understand. Take your time. We can reschedule,” Matthew says, and I love how he’s a gentleman, but I can still hear the note of irritation in his voice.

  “Can I call you when I leave?”

  “Sure.”

  I end the call and exhale. I can’t help but remember something my mom used to say about being late—there are always excuses, but never reasons. Punctuality was like breathing to her, and it obviously skipped a generation with me, since I can never get anywhere on time. But this is more than tardiness. This is leaving someone hanging, messing up his plans, standing him up. Sophie pulls her pajama top down over her belly button and smiles at me. But sweet little Sophie seems like both a good excuse and a good reason.

  “Jane, I went to Serendipity. I had an ice cream sundae,” Sophie recounts as she slips under her green and pink quilt.

  “Was it good?”

  Sophie nods enthusiastically. “It was delicious,” she says, leaning over the edge of the bed to pluck books from her nightstand. Then she turns back to me, her face suddenly filled with sadness. “But…”

  “But what, sweetie?”

  “I did something bad.”

  I kneel down next to her. “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t mean to, Jane! It slipped out. I was just so excited to see Daddy, and then he said Mommy would be home soon from the accountant and I blurted it out. I said, ‘Mommy says he’s a hottie.’”

  A tear rolls down Sophie’s cheek. I pull her next to me, her soft little body in my arms. “It’s okay, Soph. You didn’t mean to.”

  “But now Daddy is mad at Mommy,” Sophie chokes out.

  “Shh…don’t worry, sweetie. They’ll sort it out.”

  “I’m not very good at keeping secrets, am I, Jane?”

  “You’re not supposed to be,” I say, smiling at her. “You’re six. Now move over so I can have some room to read to you.”