Izzy As Is

by Tracie Banister

  Where the hell did that come from? It has to be the heat. When the temperature rises, so does my libido. And I have been locked up in these close, non-air-conditioned quarters with Zane for several hours now. Sweaty is a really good look on him, too. He’s not drenched and stinky like a lot of men would be. Perspiration glistens on his pale skin, and his wife beater is sticking to his chest in all the right places. Also, he smells fantastic, like delicious, chocolate-y cocoa butter, which must be in whatever soap he uses. I find myself licking my lips as I watch a bead of moisture trickle down his neck, falling into the hollow at the base of his throat.

  “Truth or dare?” I query in a voice that sounds much huskier than usual.

  He frowns. “We’re still playing the game?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I think we’ve had enough truth for one evening, so give me a dare.”

  My heart starts pounding in my chest, beating a rhythm that matches the words my reckless, thrill-seeking inner voice is chanting, ‘Do it! Do it! Do it!’. I should point out that this inner voice is the same one that urged me to streak across the football field at halftime during the homecoming game my senior year (which led to me being suspended), hop into a Ferrari with my ex-con boyfriend, Marco, that turned out to be stolen (I was arrested), and do the nasty with a hunky delivery guy in my co-star’s dressing room at Éxtasis y Engaño (you already know how that worked out for me—not well). So, why should I listen to this bad advice-giving beeyatch now?

  Because I really want to and I may never get this chance again.

  “I dare you to kiss me,” I issue the challenge boldly before I can think better of the idea. And why should I? It’ll just be one little smooch between friends. A way to scratch an increasingly persistent itch and pass some time. No big deal.

  Apparently, Zane agrees with me because he doesn’t refuse or voice any reservations about what I’ve proposed. Instead he places his hand on the side of my face and pulls me toward him. He meets me halfway where his mouth captures mine in what can best be described as a searing kiss that floods my entire body with heat.

  ¡Madre mía! If I’d known Z could kiss like this, I would have been swapping spit with him at every possible opportunity over these past four years. While his lips move feverishly over mine and our tongues dance, his hands slide into my hair, loosening my makeshift bun so that the strands unwind and come tumbling down. Z’s fingers skim the length of my hair, down to the middle of my back, then slip beneath the silky curtain and retrace the path back up my spine. When they hit the bare skin between my shoulder blades, a jolt of desire rockets through me and I’m overwhelmed with the need to get as close to him as I can.

  Without breaking contact with his mouth, I climb into his lap and wrap my long legs around his waist. Zane’s hands drop to my thighs where he pushes at the hem of my dress, making it inch upwards. Through the lightheaded-with-lust fog that’s currently blanketing my brain comes the thought that this is headed in a very naughty direction and I should probably put a stop to it now while I still can. But then I wouldn’t get to see Zane naked or know what it feels like to have him moving inside me and that would be tragic. It’ll just be a one-time hook-up, and having sex won’t change things between us because our friendship is totally solid and ¡Ay, Dios mío! He’s doing that thumb-stroking move again, except this time it’s on the inside of my thigh not very far from my—

  I moan and claw at the front of his wife beater, indicating that I’d like him to remove it, but that’s not really do-able unless we unsuction our mouths, and neither one of us seems to be keen on that idea. He shows more willpower than I do a few seconds later when he grabs me by the shoulders and forcibly pulls himself back, leaving me panting for air and my lips throbbing from all the kissing, sucking, and nibbling. Looking equally turned on and ready for what comes next, Zane raises his hands above his head, silently inviting me to undress him and I am more than happy to oblige. Once his chest is bare, I trail my fingers from his collarbone down to his belly, marveling at how lean and chiseled he is. I’m eager to explore every inch of his well-defined body with my hands and mouth, but first . . .

  He’s stripped down to the waist, so it’s only fair that I return the favor and show him what he’s about to have the pleasure of possessing. Taking his hands, I guide them to the bottom of my slip dress, which he’s already shoved up to just below my booty. I raise myself up on my knees so that he can hike the dress up over my hips, then I lift my arms and wait for him to pull the dress off. He does it slowly, his knuckles grazing my curves along the way, and it’s absolute torture. I’m tempted to tell him to just rip the damn thing in half so that we can get on with this, but I know I shouldn’t rush it. This is only going to happen once (see my previous pledge), so it behooves me to savor every second of our encounter, especially since it’s been four years in the making.

  Soon enough I’m sitting in front of him (well, technically, on top of him) in nothing but a peach-colored lace thong and the expression on his face is a potent mix of awe and desire, which is both gratifying and empowering. Digging my fingers into his thick, gorgeous hair, I swoop in to claim his lips in a bone-melting kiss which somehow manages to surpass the hotness of our first liplock. While his hands are busy getting to know the girls, I reach down to unbutton and unzip his shorts and since I’m already in the area, I can’t resist copping a feel. I need to know what I’m working with, don’t I? I’m happy to report that what Zane’s packing exceeds all of my expectations and now I’m even more excited about the end result of all this foreplay. My hand lingers so that I can get better acquainted with my new friend, and my touch makes Z groan deep in the back of his throat. Knowing that I can elicit such a strong reaction from him is an incredible thrill. I rub him the right way a few more times for fun (mine, as well as his), but stop when he starts lowering me back onto the rug.

  He lays me down gently, being sure to shove my empty beer bottle and iPhone out of the way first. I cling to his tensed up biceps, loving how big and bulge-y they feel as he supports the majority of his body weight on his arms so that he doesn’t crush me beneath him. At a time when most men would be so consumed with the need to get their rocks off that they wouldn’t think twice about their partner’s comfort, Z once again shows what a standup guy he is. He really is the best, and I suspect that that accolade will apply to his skills as a lover, too. When his warm, perspiration-slicked chest presses against mine, I revel in the sensation of the flesh-on-flesh contact. Our bodies seem to be the perfect combination of similarity (long legs tangling seamlessly together) and delicious disparity (my shapely hips and voluptuous breasts providing an excellent cushion for his sinewy torso). When he lifts his head and stares down at me, I murmur a protest because I’ve already become addicted to his taste and all the wonderful things he can do with his tongue.

  With an affectionate smile, he runs his thumb over my kiss-swollen lower lip, then drops his dark head so that he can scatter a series of teasing, feather-light kisses down my throat. He keeps right on going until he reaches my breasts where he takes the tip of the right one in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened nipple while kneading the left with just the right amount of pressure. (If he ever gets tired of being a photographer, he could easily get a job at Solana’s bakery with this technique.)

  Moaning my appreciation of all the attention he’s giving the twins, I lightly scrape my fingernails down his back until I reach the waistband of his shorts. Why is he still wearing these? They need to come off now. I do my best to shove them and his underwear down, but my arms aren’t long enough to complete the task. I do manage to partially expose some firm, nicely rounded butt cheeks, though, so I grab two handfuls and start squeezing. Mmmmm . . . I’ve always loved a man with a good ass and I bet I could bounce a quarter off this one. I wonder if Zane does squats. I’ll have to ask him la—

  I squeal and buck my hips, losing my train of thought when his hand finds its way inside my thong and, well, use your im
agination as to what he’s doing with his fingers because that’s all you’re getting from me, pervs. Sometimes a girl needs her privacy . . .

  CHAPTER 32

  Even though my eyelids are closed, I’m aware of a change in the level of brightness on the other side of them. The power must be back on.

  I crack open one eye to confirm this suspicion and see that the crap shack is being illuminated by the early morning sunshine peeking in under the front door and around the edges of the shuttered windows, as well as the light emanating from all the lamps that were on before the storm hit. Awesome. That means I can get the hell out of here. I just need to figure out how to extricate myself from Zane without rousing him, which won’t be easy since I’ve been using his chest as a pillow, his arm is wrapped around me, and my leg is hooked over his. I guess we fell asleep in this entwined position after the last time we, um . . .

  Okay, full disclosure here, I know I said that sex with Z was going to be a one and done thing, but that first scorchingly hot hook-up just whetted my appetite for more. So, when we moved to the air mattress, ostensibly to get some sleep, I couldn’t keep my hands off him and the only sleep we got were cat naps in between very enthusiastic rounds of . . . ahem. But it’s all good because now that he and I have explored a variety of positions and methods of pleasuring each other, my curiosity on that score has been thoroughly satisfied and there will be no need for further experimentation. There’s also no need to discuss what happened or our feelings about it, which I imagine Zane will want to do in nauseating depth once he wakes up. No, thank you. Bang and bail, that’s always been my motto, and it’s served me well over the years, so I plan to do exactly that right now.

  I hold my breath and roll off of Zane. He doesn’t stir, which is both a relief and a testament to my sexual virtuosity. (I shagged him so hard I put him in a coma-like state.) I carefully lift and toss aside the crumpled sheet that’s covering us, then do another roll that takes me to the edge of the air mattress. It’s only six or seven inches off the ground, so I’m able to lower myself to the tiled floor without much difficulty. I quickly scan the room to see where all my stuff is. Of course, the items aren’t conveniently gathered in one place—my dress is on the far side of the rug, my shoes and purse are over by the door, and my coat is clear on the other side of the apartment. Argh! So much for a quick getaway.

  I crawl over to where my dress is, hoping that this mode of travel will make the least amount of noise. The friction of the scratchy synthetic fabric against my knees triggers a flashback to what Zane and I were doing on this carpet several hours ago. Thanks to all that vigorous bumping and grinding we engaged in, I’m willing to bet I have a wicked case of rug burn on my booty. Totally worth it. But I’m not sure how I’m going to explain that to Eduardo. Probably best to keep my backside covered in front of him for a while. Scooping up my silk dress, I shimmy into it, then wrap the outer layer around myself and tie the fabric closed. My eyes are drawn down to the spot on the area rug where Zane and I consummated our relationship, and my cheeks immediately heat up. I’m surprised we didn’t leave a scorch mark behind.

  Okay, where is my underwear? I look everywhere, even under the rug and in the piles of trash we left, but no luck. I guess I’ll have to go commando on the ride home. Grabbing my phone, I rise to my feet and tiptoe over to the kitchen table where I remove my trench from the back of the chair, somehow managing to knock some of Z’s mail onto the floor in the process. Cringing at the thump sound made by the dropped mail, I leave the envelopes, magazines, etc. where they are and scurry over to my shoes and purse. I stick my feet in the former and throw the latter over my shoulder, then head toward the door with my hand outstretched. Almost there . . .

  “Don’t forget your pictures,” a sleep-hoarsened voice reminds me.

  I silently drop the F-bomb in both Spanish and English before turning around to face him. “You’re up!” I say, with forced cheeriness.

  “Yeah, well, your stealth skills leave something to be desired. Don’t expect the CIA to recruit you anytime soon.” Zane smirks and runs his fingers through his hair. He’s got the sexiest case of bedhead going on right now, along with some delicious morning facial scruff, and seeing him lying there, propped up on his elbow, with the sheet sliding down so low on his flat belly that I can see his treasure trail, makes me want to drop everything and run right back over to that air mattress so that I can ride him like that mechanical bull at the cowboy bar where Topaz’s new squeeze works.

  I resist the urge and flip Zane the bird for his crack about me not being spy material. He chuckles, a happy sound that makes the corners of my mouth curve up. We stare at each other for a minute, the air thick with unspoken words and an almost palpable fizz of electricity. I really need to get out of here . . .

  “I’m going to grab those pictures.” I make a move in the direction of the printer, which just so happens to be over by the bed.

  “I can do it. I’m closer.”

  Zane is a second away from flinging off the sheet when I hold out my hand and shout an emphatic, “No!” because the last thing I need to see right now is him strutting around in all his naked glory. God, I’m breaking out into a sweat just thinking about it.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got it. You don’t need to get up,” I babble breathlessly as I dash over to the printer, giving as wide a berth as possible to the air mattress. I snatch up all the pictures from the floor, not worrying that I might be bending them or that some of the Post-its have fallen off.

  “Thanks for these,” I say while making a beeline back to the front door. “And for all the work you did putting together that birthday slideshow. I know Pilar’s going to love it.”

  “No problem. I was happy to help.”

  “Okay, well, I should probably get going. I’m sure people are wondering where I disappeared to.” And by “people,” I mean, Eduardo. It’s been about seventeen hours since I stormed out of his office in a snit and we haven’t had any contact since. He texted me a few times, but I didn’t respond and I turned off my phone before I came here. He’s probably got the National Guard out looking for me.

  I’ve unlocked the deadbolt on the front door and my hand is on the knob when Zane says, “Be careful. There could be flooding on the roads, and traffic lights will be down in areas where power hasn’t been restored.”

  “I will,” I speak to the door because I’m too much of a coward to look him in the eye.

  Ugh, this is stupid! What am I so afraid of? That Zane will try and attach some sort of importance to us having sex? That he’ll profess his undying love for me? That he’ll ask me to dump my fiancé so that we can be together? The last thing I want to do is hurt him, but I can’t let this little fling of ours ruin the life I have planned with Eduardo. Z may think this marriage is a mistake, but I still believe it’s my best chance for a happy and secure future. I just hope that future will include Zane because I can’t imagine my life without him. Damn it, why did I have to sleep with him? It seemed like such a good idea last night when I was in the throes of tropical storm fever, but in the cold light of day where actions have consequences, I’m not so sure. Is my impulsiveness finally going to cost me something I really care about? Can a friendship survive a temporary lapse in judgement? Only one way to find out . . .

  I grit my teeth and pivot toward Zane, schooling my face not to show any of the apprehension I’m feeling. “This isn’t going to make things weird between us, is it?”

  “Nope,” he says without hesitation. “I’m good.”

  Relief floods my body. Phew! Bullet dodged. Zane is way cooler than I ever gave him credit for. I must be rubbing off on him! (And no, I didn’t mean that in a dirty way. Get your mind out of the gutter!)

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Now I can leave with a clear conscience. Whoop! I open the door and step outside, yelling, “I’ll text you later,” back over my shoulder before shutting it.

  When I see that the walkway leading up to the crap sha
ck is submerged in a few inches of water, I remove my shoes and have some fun splashing my way out to the street. I give my car a quick once-over to make sure it didn’t suffer any damage during the storm. There are some big palm fronds on the windshield and roof of the car, which I have to clear off, but I don’t notice any scratches or dents and even though I’m ankle-deep in water on the street, it’s not high enough to hit my Beetle’s undercarriage and get inside the car. So, all things considered, I got lucky last night (in more ways than one!). My brain once again flashes back to hot, steamy, orgasm-filled memories of sexing up Zane. Ack, no! I have got to stop thinking about this. “Bad Izzy!” I chastise myself as I climb inside the car.

  Before hitting the swampy road, I decide to power up my phone and see how many texts and calls I missed while I was out of pocket. I wince when I discover that I have eight voicemails and twenty-five texts. I quickly check the texts—Eduardo, Eduardo, Mamá, Topaz, Eduardo, Pilar, Eduardo, Mamá, Eduardo, Eduardo . . . Okay, I really need to call him back. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I’ve always been good at improvising. So, here goes nothing . . .

  I dial Eduardo’s cell phone, using my Beetle’s Bluetooth.

  “Isidora!” He answers on the second ring, sounding harried and cranky (so his mood hasn’t improved since the last time I saw him). “Where have you been? Why haven’t you been picking up your phone?”

  “Well, hello to you, too,” I say dryly while pushing the car’s start button.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be brusque with you. It was a long night, and I didn’t get much sleep.”

  We have that in common then, although I doubt his reason for being tired is the same as mine. “I’m surprised the storm disturbed you at the hotel. Doesn’t The Mondrian have soundproof windows and blackout blinds?”

  “Probably, but I didn’t spend the night there. I got stuck at the office because our meeting about the Guzman acquisition ran long, and by the time we were done, the roads were too dangerous to attempt driving anywhere.”