"Oh come on. It must be a cologne if I can still smell it in here." I trail across his room, using the excuse to check out some of the things on his desk, on his dressers. Also, holding on to the furniture helps keep the ground steady.
"I'm not wearing cologne."
"Uh-huh. Sure." There isn't much to run my fingers over. A pair of cufflinks and a watch. A signed baseball. A black and white photo of a younger Frank surrounded by a group of people, friends. And that's pretty much it.
"I get it now." I spin to face him, smiling. "You're hot and you're rich—but you're boring. What a relief."
Now his brows shoot up, along with the corners of his mouth, making those dimples pop out. "Boring? I've been accused of many things in my life, but not that."
"Yeah, maybe not to your face."
"Oh, you think?" He's in full grin-mode now and takes a few stalking steps toward me. I back up until the foot of his bed hits my ass. I swear to God there's a look in his eye that says he wants to tickle me, and I can't keep yet another giggle from slipping up from my belly. He pauses, considering something.
"What?" I can't keep from asking. "What are you waiting for?"
"I want to get my hands on you—all over you…but I also want to show you something." He reaches his hand out, palm up. "Come here."
I hesitate. "Are you gonna get your hands all over me, or show me something?"
I'm not sure what I want his answer to be.
Both, maybe.
"Both, maybe." He says the words directly from my mind, and I'm so shocked I put my hand in his. I let him pull me out of the room and halfway down a hardwood hall before I'm ready to speak again.
"Tell me you've got a foot fetish and a hidden closet full of Jimmy Choos and I'll be yours forever." Truly, I don't care about shoes. But maybe Cindy does. And the brand is something rich people are aware of—Cassidy's mom has more pairs than I can count. So maybe he'll think Cindy's a bit closer to the level of his world than I actually am.
"Not quite," he says, laughing. "Though I do think you have pretty toes." He glances down as we walk and my feet suddenly feel very naked in my open-toed heels. Thank God I let Cassidy talk me into pedicures this afternoon.
We come to a stop in front of a closed door.
"Okay, but I have to tell you… If this is some room full of tied-up ex-girlfriends, I'm a master of jujitsu. I know enough to take you down like that." I snap my fingers.
"That might be fun." He laughs again, shaking his head, and opens the door. "But this'll be better."
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE ROOM IS completely dark, but before my eyes can adjust to make out more than a few structural shapes, Frank reaches in and flips a switch.
There's a whirring noise and then the room is filled with lights.
Lots and lots of lights.
Regular ones, to brighten the room—but game lights, too, spinning around arcade games and scoreboards. Little beeps and boops and other game-type noises softly fill the air while I take it all in. "Whoa."
And, also, thank God, because I actually don't know jujitsu.
There's a plush poker table in one corner, surrounded by leather seats and a white-cabineted wet bar behind it. A shuffleboard along one wall, which, if I wasn't in so much shock, would make me grimace because Gran loves the game. One of the only things in the world she loves. That and Gramps, for some reason. And making sure to point out every single thing wrong with me, which is basically everything. But my eyes are too busy darting all around for those thoughts to take over. An ancient-looking row of arcade games—Pac-Man's the only one I recognize. A red pool table toward the back of the room and two huge flat TVs in the upper back corners.
"This room is every teenage boy's wet dream." I step inside.
"Most grown men's, too," Frank says, following me. "And a ton of women's."
"This is…just… You're a nerd!" I spin toward him to see if he'll admit it, but my attention's drawn to the long rows of built-in shelves spreading out from the doorway behind us—and filled to the brim with comic books. Half in plastic casing, half well loved. And a few face out in glass boxes, also in plastic casing. "Like, nerd with a capital N."
He turns too, grabbing one at random and flipping through it, peeking at me over the cover with laughing eyes. "But I'm not boring."
"Definitely not." I wish he'd drop the stupid thing and put his hands back on me.
He's an undercover comic book geek. It makes me like him even more. He's not some perfectly suave GQ sort of guy.
Shit. It might be harder than I thought to leave in the morning…
"Do you like comics?" he asks, hope in his voice.
"You mean the things people need with pictures when they can't handle real books?" God, I'm such a dick sometimes. Most of the time. "That was rude. Someone said that to me once, in high school, when I thought maybe I could get into comics. Turns out I've been waiting years to use the line on someone else. So what does that say about me?"
He shrugs, carefully placing the comic book on the shelf. "It says I need to reintroduce you to comics."
"Reading's not really my thing in any form, to be honest." This is part of the fairy tale. I can tell Frank anything I want because I won't see him again.
"That's too bad," he says, honesty in his tone making me regret my words. "But I guess that means we'll have to find another way to pass the time."
Now I grin, sliding further into the room, feeling his eyes on me like feathers trailing my body. I shiver. Because every minute we're getting closer and closer, the circle's closing in. And sex is at the center. "Whatever did you have in mind?" I head to the wet bar behind the poker table, grabbing a glass. "Wanna take some shots?"
One shot of chilled vodka later—all he would agree to, the jerk—I turn toward the poker table, opening the metal case holding poker chips. The clicks of its snaps fill the room, sharp. And a moment later he's right behind me, his hands at my hips, his body pressed against mine.
His erection at my butt.
Oh, boy.
Oh, big-penised man.
Go big, or go home, right?
A soft laugh escapes from my stomach, up my throat, out my lips.
"Do you like this?" he asks, laying a soft kiss against the side of my neck.
I can't find my voice to speak, so I nod.
"And this?" He slides his hands up my sides, making my breath constrict in my lungs, and over my breasts.
I nod again, my nipples tightening under his touch, and he presses his mouth to the side of my neck a second time.
And oh, God, I want his lips on mine. He's moving them along my skin in sweet, tender trails, and… I start to tremble again.
He lifts his hands to fiddle with the straps of my camisole, sliding them down, whispering against my skin, "We could play cards for clothes, make it interesting."
"I suck at cards." I take a deep breath—this is it—and I turn, sliding my body against his, to face him. "And there's no need for strip poker if you want to get me naked."
He lifts his head and his hands slip around my neck and a rumble comes up from his throat. "I've wanted to do that since I first saw you." His gaze drops to my mouth and slowly, slowly rises to mine again. "This, too."
He's going to kiss me now. I know it.
I wet my lips, and I slide my hands up his stomach and over his chest, wrapping one around his neck. I stand on my tiptoes.
And I kiss him.
I wanted to make the first move my own, I wanted to make sure he knows—and that I know—I want this. I want him.
But it doesn't matter that I moved first because within a breath, he's dominating the kiss. His lips are smooth against mine and he concentrates on my lower lip and then my upper and I try to match him, but he's so smooth, so well-practiced. I sigh something like a purr and he slips his tongue into my mouth.
My fingers curl into a fist, gripping his shirt. I slide my tongue past his to take in his mouth as he tastes mine.
&nb
sp; My eyes are closed and the vodka's starting to sink in, making me feel a bit like we're on a rocking boat, rather than solid ground leaning against a solid table. But I must do something right, because he groans, a soft little roar, really. His hands fall to my waist and he lifts me—like I'm featherlight, which I very much am not, which makes it really fucking hot—and presses me onto the table. He pushes between my legs until his erection is…right there, and he groans again, into my mouth this time.
Fuck, why am I still wearing pants? Why is he? The kiss stretches on, sensual and perfect, and I unbutton his shirt, yanking it from his pants to finish the last few. I slide my hands beneath his undershirt, feeling the warm, soft skin covering his oh-so-fucking-hard abs, and this is what's going to be above my body tonight? All night?
Yes, please.
He gives one slow lick inside my lips, making my skin stand on edge, and then his mouth is gliding over my chin and down my neck, his tongue fluttering against my pulse point and it's my turn to moan, because my insides are melting into hot caramel. I slip a hand between our bodies to stroke him over his pants, and he nips my skin with his teeth and a little growl. "Careful. I want to take this slow."
But I don't want to be careful. I don't want to take this slow. I run my fingers over the fabric, tracing him and massaging him until he grabs my wrist, stilling the motion and saying, "You are so fucking sexy, you're making it hard for me to take the time to explore you as thoroughly as I want."
My hand is still, held captive by his, but the room is not. When I open my eyes to grin at him, the poker table suddenly seems to be the world's slowest carousel ride. Slowly, slowly, slowly spinning to the side.
I steady myself against his chest and wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer to me, his erection pressing against me. "We have all night. Take it slow later. On the next round… Take me now."
He grabs my face and kisses me, fast and hard. "Here?" he asks, his mouth a whisper away from mine. "Or the bedroom?"
Poker table sex would be memorable for sure, but he has that comfortable-looking king-sized bed, and maybe it'll be steadier under my unsteady body. Maybe a more traditional start will be…easier. "Bedroom," I slur out the word and the next few, too. "This time. But I expect you to bring me back in here before the night is over."
I take his hand and pull him toward the door, but I stumble a little—so he swoops down and picks me up. Again, like I weigh nothing. I twist in his arms to face him and wrap my legs around his stomach and I take my turn now, tasting his neck, running my tongue along his skin, rubbing myself against his body while he walks. I slide a little lower along him until his erection is pressing against the very center of my thighs, making me moan. Making me so wet that if he doesn't have my pants off in the next few minutes I may be nothing but a fucking puddle by the time he tries.
He's making noises too—half pained, half something sexy—and I want to taste the sounds as they fall from his mouth. I let my lips travel along his sandpapery chin and I squeeze myself tighter around him when our lips meet again.
"This might be my new favorite way to walk anywhere," he says against my mouth and I kiss him harder in agreement, letting him carry me into his bedroom.
CHAPTER NINE
I'M IN FRANK'S bedroom.
I'm in Frank's bedroom and he's hard as a rock, pressing through his pants and mine.
I'm in Frank's bedroom and he's hard as a rock because he wants me.
We're standing here—actually, he's standing here, holding me up with my legs around him and his erection begging to find release, and he's starting to grind against me and all these warm sensations are shooting like fireworks through the lower half of my body.
We're really going to do this.
Holy shit.
I push myself away from him and slide down his body, stepping back.
Panic. Panic is lacing through those streams of fireworks.
I need a moment. I need a moment to gather myself. To gather Cindy and her super forward takes-what-she-wants ways.
"Can I use your bathroom?" I ask and then blush because what if he thinks I have to…do something embarrassing. I scramble to clarify. "To freshen up first?"
I don't even know what that means, to freshen up, but I know people say it in movies.
He's watching my face, amused. "Sure." He points to a huge set of double doors that I figured led to a huge walk-in closet. They're covered in thick, intricately carved wooden panels over panes of frosted glass. Or at least I think they are. All the vodka's definitely catching up to me now, and the maze of wood almost seems to be moving in my vision.
Still, I manage to push through the doors and let them swing shut behind me. I make my way to the sink and lean on it, dropping my head between my arms, breathing huge gulps of air.
I cannot believe I'm this nervous.
It's ridiculous. I'm a fucking adult. Kind of, anyway. I need to stand up, march out there, and take what I want.
I turn on the faucet and pause right as I'm about to splash water on my face. One, because I remember I'm wearing makeup, but two, because his bathroom is unreal. His shower's big enough to be a sauna and there's a huge, footed tub on the other side of the room. A new sort of longing blossoms between my ribs, sharper than the heat of the fireworks. One that tells me this'll be the closest I come to a tub like this. Oh, what I wouldn't give for a soak in there…
There's a dresser against the wall and I want to snoop through it so badly my fingers itch. But that'd be me getting to know more about Frank. And I already know too much for a one-night fling.
Instead I wash my hands, and I lift my eyes to study my reflection, maybe to give myself a mental pep talk—but there's no mirror. I find a small circular one, face down, on top of the dresser. A shaving mirror, but that's it.
I dry my hands and wipe them under my eyes to catch mascara smudges—and am filled with pleasure as Frank's scent hits my nose. It's his soap. A simple bar of soap has had my senses tingling every time he's been near me tonight. I almost laugh.
Instead, I take another deep inhale, and I turn and head into his room. Back to him. Back to exactly what I want.
He's sitting on his bed, looking at his phone. His shirts are still untucked, his button-up unbuttoned, his undershirt bright white and tight across his chest. I can't keep my eyes from dropping to his lap for a very, very brief glance. And he's still hard. Very, very hard.
He looks up when I pull the doors all the way open.
"What's with the no mirrors policy?" I ask.
"What do you mean?" But his tone is too carefully blank, so I know there's a story here.
"You know what I mean," I say, sauntering toward him. I step out of my shoes, kicking them to the side. I unbutton my pants, slide them slowly down my hips, past my knees, stepping out of them, too. Loving the bob of his Adam's apple when he swallows, watching my movements. Wish I'd worn sexier underwear, but at least these are black. That's kind of sexy, right? And I will not think about the shape of my legs. Not even for a second. "Who doesn't have a bathroom mirror?"
I climb into his lap, sighing when he wraps his arms around me. And…oh wow. Without my pants in the way, his erection is much more pronounced. There. I rock my hips back and forth, needing more friction. It's time for his pants to go. Like, now.
He groans, tightening his arms and angling himself against me in a way that has a noise I don't recognize slipping from my mouth, but he says, "Sorry, kitten, but you've reached your truth quotient from me for now."
"Please," I say, my tone as teasing as I can make it—because it takes most of my effort not to slur. "Two truths from a game we played hours ago? That's all I get?" I think back to what he said… "Your brother's getting married, and you wanted to take me home. That's it?"
"Four truths, actually." He confesses with a guilty little smile. "I wanted you to guess right."
"Right. The comic books thing. I should've known. You are such a cheater!" I shove his chest and he falls onto th
e bed, bringing me down with him. I giggle, loving the way his erection presses against me, but when we land, the world's tilting at an angle adjacent to where we lie. I have to roll off of him and I scoot myself backwards until I hit his headboard, needing it to steady me.
It helps, but not that much.
"You do not stutter," I say, focusing on his face. Even kind of blurry it's the sexiest face I've ever seen.
"Oh, believe me. I do."
"I think you're a cheater and a liar." But I smile and so does he.
"My next stutter is always at the tip of my tongue," he says, his lips still curved up, but the truth lies at the center of his tone.
"That must be hard." I fiddle with one of his many pillows, running the fabric through my fingers.
He shrugs, his smile gone now. "I had an excellent fluency coach for a lot of years. Perks of parents who accept nothing but the best."
There's a sour note buried under his words and I wonder if he means his parents expected the best of him, rather than the fluency coach, but we're falling into that trap of getting to know each other more than I'm comfortable with.
I lean toward him and I channel my inner Cindy, and I say, "I can think of something else you can do with the tip of your tongue."
"Is that so?"
I tilt my head. "Or there are a few things to do with the tip of my tongue…"
"I think I love the way you think." He stands, sliding his shirt off his shoulders. His arms, beneath his undershirt, ripple with tight, toned muscle. "But I want my turn now. I've been dying to taste more of your skin since the first sweet tease I got earlier."
"I thought you said I tasted salty?"
"That was before I sampled your pretty neck… Your tempting mouth…" He means what he says, I can tell, and it freaking thrills me. Like, literally, thrills are shooting through my veins. But it's hard to give in to the sensations when there's a shadow in his expression. I wonder if it's because I made him think of his stutter, of his parents. And he still isn't moving toward me.
And I'm still dizzy.
And I'd like for him to steady me.
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