by M. Leighton
“What?”
“Who was your first first?”
“My ‘first first’?” His tone is light again. I’m sure he’s as ready as I am to abandon any and all painful subjects. “What does that mean?”
“Oh my God! You know what I mean!”
Now, he is teasing. “No, I don’t. You’re gonna have to spell it out. Give me an exact, graphic definition of what you’re asking.”
“Sex! S. E. X. Who did you have sex with the first time?”
“I didn’t have sex. I made love.” Now he’s making fun. “Ask me again.”
I make a scoffing sound in the back of my throat, but I comply. “Fine, who was the first person you made love to?”
“Say it again. ‘Make love’.”
“Make loooove,” I repeat in my best Barry White voice.
I’m gratified with Levi’s laugh, a deep belly laugh that makes me want to laugh, too.
“You’re so damn cool.”
I frown, but I have to admit to being flattered. “Cool? What, were you born in the fifties? Is there something you’re not telling me, like that your real name is Benjamin Buttons?”
“There’s a lot I’m not telling you, but some things you’re just gonna have to find out on your own.”
“Oh, do tell!”
“You really want me to give you a list, starting with whether or not I wear underwear?”
My cheeks turn bright red. I know because they feel like they’re on fire. “No!” My answer is quick and kneejerk, but after a few seconds, I’m forced to reevaluate. He’s made me curious. I lean forward slightly, cocking my head toward Levi. “But do you?”
Rather than answer, Levi takes the hand he’s still holding and drags it slowly up his leg. I feel the thin ridge of boxer briefs where the band stretches around his deliciously muscular thigh. “Yes, I do. Disappointed?”
“Not in the least.”
“Can I ask about you then?”
“Yes, I wear underwear.”
My cheeks are burning again, and I wonder how in the real hell we ever got on this subject.
“What kind? I need a visual.”
“I have no idea. I’m blind, remember?”
“Oh no! You’re not using that to get off the hook! You know more about color and texture and shit than most sighted people.”
I snicker. “‘Color and texture and shit’?”
“Yes. Color. As well as texture. As well as shit. Now spill it,” he demands, throwing my own words back at me.
“I wear what’s comfortable. What feels good. It’s the only sense that matters when it comes to panties. I can’t see them. No one else is going to see them. I just want them to be comfortable. Panties are panties.”
I hear his breath hiss through his teeth, prompting me to ask, “What is it?”
“God, I love it when you say panties.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head in exasperation, my face surely engulfed in flame by now. But even so, I can’t help adding one more teasing, “Panties,” in my best, breathiest Marilyn Monroe voice.
“That’s it,” he announces, letting off the accelerator. “I’m pulling over.”
I laugh, squeezing his leg where my hand still rests. “Do we need to go back over the bad driver segment?”
He gives an exaggerated sigh before hitting the gas again. “No. If we’re not pulling over to do something dirty, I’d much rather talk about your lingerie. Let’s see,” he begins, clearly warming to the subject. “I’m picturing plain white cotton. Simple yet sexy. Oh, so sexy! High cut for those long, long legs of yours. Just enough material in the back to cup that sweet, sweet ass. Oh, yeah. Definitely. That’ll do.”
“That’ll do? I didn’t tell you anything! You just made that up!” I cry in mock outrage.
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
The truly sad thing is, he’s not wrong at all. I buy white because it’s the best way to make sure I never wear the wrong color with light-colored pants or skirts, and they’re easier for me to launder without turning other things pink or gray. But the way he describes them… Damn! He even makes me think I’m sexy!
“You should be in marketing. For women’s clothes.”
“Ha! So I’m right!”
I cover my grin with my free hand, muffling my response. “Yes, you’re right.”
“Oh man, am I gonna have some mouthwatering dreams tonight,” he growls.
I continue shaking my head at his delight, all the while wondering to myself if I’ve ever really been in love, and if I’m in worse trouble with Levi than I thought.
CHAPTER 14
LEVI
WE ARRIVE at the hotel with plenty of time to get settled before lunch and then the bayou. I pull up to the curb at the entrance and hop out before the young valet can get to Evie’s door.
I hold up my hand to stop him. “I’ll get it. You can just grab the bags, please. One’s in the back seat.” I tip him well and then turn my attention to the woman in the passenger seat. Her expression is pleasant yet blank. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, especially with her sunglasses on.
I open her door, and she smiles reflexively. I reach for her hand. “Welcome to New Orleans, m’lady.”
She grips my fingers, and I help her out of the car. I notice that her cane is nowhere to be found, probably folded and stowed away in her purse.
When she straightens and moves to the side so I can close the door, I notice her fingers tighten around mine, the only outward indication that she might be feeling ill at ease.
“Aren’t you supposed to call it ‘N’awlins’?”
There’s a slight tremor in her fingers when I move her hand to the bend of my elbow. I cover them with mine. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable. In fact, for whatever reason, I want her to have the time of her life, and I want her to be perfectly at ease while she does.
We start off toward the lobby entrance. “They’d probably kick me out if they heard a New Yorker try to pull that off.”
“It’s not like you have a strong accent. If you hadn’t told me you’d grown up there, I’m not sure I’d have pegged you for a New Yorker.”
“Thank you. I think.”
Evie brings her other hand around and loops it through my arm, snugging her body up close to my side. If this is how she’ll act, maybe I’d be wise not to let her get too comfortable.
“So tell me about the hotel,” she whispers as we walk.
“Well, it’s a refurbished home on the French Quarter, so they’ve worked to preserve a lot of that detail. The moldings are thick, the woodwork is ornate, and the paint is…New Orleans.”
She giggles softly. “What does that mean? ‘The paint is New Orleans’?”
“Well, there’s a lot of gold. Or some variation of gold. And there’s a little sitting area off to one side where the walls are painted a sort of burnt orange. You know…New Orleans.”
She nods. “Okay, I’m getting a picture. And the furniture?”
“French. Most definitely French.”
She grins again then inhales deeply. “Well, it smells divine!”
I take a second to sniff, to notice what she’s noticing. “Tell me what this place looks like to you.”
“There’s not a lot of an echo, so I’m guessing there are lots of things on the walls. Tapestries or art work of some kind. And probably a lot of things sitting around, too. Furniture groupings, rugs, plants.”
I glance left and then right. “You pretty much nailed it.” And she did. It’s eerie and amazing.
“Like I said, not my first rodeo.”
“But it’s your first rodeo in New Orleans,” I clarify. I want her to experience new things, especially with me. It feels almost like I’m giving her a gift.
“Yes. Thank you again for bringing me.” Her lips are curved into a sublime yet shy smile and her chin is tucked a little.
I hook a finger under it and tilt her face up to mine. I don’t think twice about brushing my lips over hers. It
seems like the most natural thing in the world.
Which will worry the shit out of me when I think about it later, I’m sure.
But right now I’m not thinking.
“This is the first time I’ve looked forward to traveling down here in a long, long time.”
She doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t pull away either, so I kiss her a little more firmly. When she leans into me, I press my tongue into the warm, sweet cavern of her mouth. But just for a second. I have to catch myself before I drag her in tight and do something not quite appropriate for this particular venue.
“Okay. Can’t do that in public,” I murmur, causing her to laugh lightly.
“Cinnamon,” she blurts.
“Sage,” I blurt in return.
“No, I smell cinnamon. That’s what smells so good.”
“Oh. I thought we were just naming spices.”
She shakes her head. “You’re a mess.”
“But a hot mess, right? At least give me that.”
“How the hell should I know? I’m blind, remember?”
“You need some more original material. I feel sure you have some mystical, flowery. mostly confusing way of getting a pretty damn good idea of what people look like. You could probably paint me if you tried.”
The color that floods her porcelain cheeks tells me all I need to know.
But “I think I can guess” is all she says.
I steer us toward a little niche in the lobby, out of the way, and then I stop again. “Tell me how you see me.”
I’m nervous, which is crazy. But still…I am.
“Well, I only got to touch your face once, and it wasn’t like I could take my time and feel you up with a bunch of disabled kids looking on.”
I let the “feel you up” comment slide right now, and take both her hands in mine instead. I put them on either side of my face, along my jaw. “No one’s watching now.”
“We’re in a hotel lobby, for Pete’s sake. In public!”
“We’re sort of secluded. Hidden almost. And who the hell is Pete?”
She gives a giggle through her nose despite her discomfort, and leaves her hands on my face. “God, you really are a mess.”
“Shut up and feel me.”
I watch her closely as she starts to move her hands over my face. As she does, her smile begins to fade, and her brow wrinkles the tiniest bit. She’s concentrating. Imagining.
“Tell me. Tell me what you feel,” I whisper, trying not to move.
“I feel a strong jaw. Square. Smooth skin. You shaved this morning.”
“The least I could do.”
Her cool fingers work their way along my jaw and back, then around my chin and up to my bottom lip. “A cleft. That’s gotta be sexy.”
I laugh. “As long as you think so.”
She doesn’t say anything, but her face takes on a dreamy quality, her lips relaxing, her brow smoothing. “You’ve got a great mouth, wide, well defined. Your lips are full, but not too full or girly.” When I smile, she smiles. “And I know that must be a killer smile.”
“It’s a good thing you don’t read minds as well as you read rooms and faces.”
“Why is that?” she asks almost absently, her hands still moving up and over my face.
“You’d turn ten shades of red if you knew what a turn-on this is.”
“Having your features read by a blind woman is a turn-on?”
“No, having you touch me and tell me how you see me. That is a turn-on.”
Again, she doesn’t respond. “Your nose speaks to good breeding. It’s aristocratic.” When I say nothing, she continues. “Great bone structure, too. High cheekbones, broad brow. I imagine your features would look chiseled. Very handsome.” Her fingers flutter over my temples before she brushes them around my eyes. “But these…these tell the story. It’s all in the eyes. Without actually seeing them, it’s impossible to get a face just right. I wish I could see them, your eyes.”
“I wish you could, too,” I tell her, taking her hands by the wrists and kissing her palms before lacing my fingers through hers. “But what if you didn’t like what you saw?”
The skin between her brows pleats. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“What if you looked in them and realized I’m not the man you think I am?”
“Some people hide who they really are so well, it wouldn’t matter. What matters is who I know you to be. How you act, the things you say. How you treat me.”
“And what does all of that tell you?”
Her mouth opens and closes once. Whatever she was going to say, she thought better of it. “I’m not sure yet. But I have two more dates to find out.”
“Two more? We went to dinner. That leaves us with three more.”
“But you took me to lunch and you took me running, so technically this is number three. You only actually have one more.”
“Unacceptable!” I declare. “You’re practically perfect, but your math sucks ass. You can’t count worth a damn. We didn’t even make the deal until the day we went running, so you can’t count anything before that. That means you owe me three more dates. In fact, there’s a cheater’s penalty that I forgot to tell you about, which means now you owe me four more dates.”
We’re still standing so close that the huff of her quiet laughter breezes over my mouth. “And you’re calling me the cheater?”
“Is there something wrong with me wanting to spend more time with you? Are you complaining about my company?”
Although she shakes her head and her lips twist wryly, I see her features soften, like maybe she’s never heard someone tell her that before. “No, not at all. Your company is quite…stimulating.”
“Stimulating? I would be insulted if I didn’t know that was code for you wanna get in my pants.”
“That is not code for wanting to get in your pants,” she balks incredulously, but even as she does, she’s still smiling.
“So you’re not attracted to me.”
“I didn’t…I didn’t say that.”
“So you do wanna get in my pants. I knew it!” Before she can argue, I continue. “Well, never fear. I can hook you up.”
“You can, huh?”
I loop her arm through mine again and turn her back toward checkin. “Yeah, I know a guy.”
“You know a guy?”
I stop suddenly, and she starts to laugh outright. “Wait, that’s not what I meant. That sounded bad.”
“Oh, no! You’re not taking that one back.”
“Damn you,” I taunt playfully as we resume our walk to the desk. I’m still grinning when I give them my name.
This woman…she brings something in me to life. Like a part of me has been dead, or at least dormant, up to now. No woman has ever invigorated, aroused, awakened me the way she does. And not just in a physical way.
I mean, I want her, of course. Hell, I’ve closed my eyes and imagined her naked, moaning on top of me, taking me deep inside her hot, slick body more times than I can count. If I jacked off every time I pictured us together lately, I’d already have open up a wormhole in time that would land me back at the age of sixteen. That’s how I feel around her about half the time anyway—like a horny damn teenager.
But the thing is, it’s more than that. A lot more.
I mean, I’ve had good relationships before—friendly, healthy, mature—but I’ve never felt so…addicted. The more I get, the more I want. The more I know, the more I want to know. The closer we get, the closer I want to get.
I loved Rachel. I did. But back then, whether because of my youth or because she just wasn’t Evie, even she didn’t make me feel this way, make me feel all these things.
Maybe I’ll figure out why eventually.
I just know I plan on sticking around until I do.
CHAPTER 15
EVIE
AFTER WE checked in and got upstairs, Levi gave me a gentlemanly tour of the space, orienting me to my room, how it’s laid out, and how it relates to the commo
n areas. Without me asking him, he described a few things like the black-with-white-vein marble floors, the earth tone furnishings, and the ultra modern kitchenette. Evidently, he spared no expense. I don’t have to be able to see to recognize lavish furnishings when I feel them.
“Hmmm, you seem awfully good at this. Dated many blind women in the past?”
“Nope.”
“Just naturally awesome, is that it?”
“Of course.”
“Talked to Cherelyn?”
His pause was so long, so protracted and pronounced, that I could perfectly imagine the sheepish look on his face.
“Busted!” I blurted.
“Fine. I called Cherelyn. I wanted you to be comfortable. I wanted to be able to make you comfortable.”
I made no comment after that. I got all choked up, touched that he would care enough to call her, flattered that he would so want me to feel at ease.
Finally, I ended up excusing myself to my room.
He gave me plenty of time to get out my things and freshen up before he whisked me away to a lunch of fried crawfish tails and a dessert of fresh beignets.
“I’m stuffed,” I tell him, rubbing my belly as he opens the car door for me.
“You need me to do that for you?”
I can almost see the quirk of his lips with his offer. “Do you ever give up?”
“Nope, so you can get that right out of your head.”
I don’t tell him that I nearly perish at the thought that he might give up, that he might tire of me. I’d like nothing more than to get those suspicions out of my mind.
“Where are we going now?” I ask when he slides in behind the wheel.
“The bayou, baby.”
My stomach clamps down at the word. It’s what I came for. Well, sort of. It’s something I’ve wanted to experience for years.
But…
I don’t know that I ever really expected it to happen, and now that the time is at hand…
Strong fingers encircle mine where they rest nervously in my lap. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
I want to say no. I want to smile. I want to be easy-breezy.
But I can’t.