The Sexy One

by Lauren Blakely

  “I am. But then I’m going out,” she says as the cab stops abruptly at a light. The radio plays faintly from the front seat, and the divider is mostly closed.

  “Ah, well. Have fun,” I say in my best chipper tone, and in this moment I couldn’t be more aware of the barriers between us. She’s going out because she has complete control of her own free time. I’m heading to work on a Friday evening so that my weekday mornings will be free to spend with my kid.

  I wouldn’t change a damn thing. My daughter is the love of my life. But I’m also keenly aware that this simple fact makes me the wrong choice for Abby. My time is limited. My attention is already spoken for.

  “I will have fun,” Abby says. “I’m seeing Harper and Nick, and Spencer and Charlotte. We’re all going to play pool, even though I’m terrible.”

  My ears prick. “I’m awesome at pool,” I say, because it’s true and I can’t resist dropping in this tidbit. Maybe I want to impress her. Hell, I definitely want to impress her.

  Her eyebrows rise. “You are?”

  “Paid for a few classes in college as a pool shark.”

  Her jaw drops. “No! You never told me that!”

  I shrug casually as the driver speeds up, trying to race through a light. He veers into the next lane in an attempt to stay ahead of the traffic. “Don’t I seem like a pool hustler?”

  She narrows her eyes and grips her purse strap, as if that will help her hold on as this guy drives more dangerously than he should. “No. Not at all.”

  “I played at night and won some money in a few games,” I say with a big grin as the cab swerves again and we cross into Chelsea. The car cuts so quickly, Abby jams her hand against the divider to hold on.

  “You okay?” I ask her.

  She nods and lowers her voice. “He’s a little aggressive behind the wheel.”

  I clear my throat and lean forward to talk to the driver through the small window. “Hey, man. We’re not in a rush, so let’s just be a little more steady as she goes.”

  The driver grumbles something that sounds like yes, and I lean back against the black leather seat.

  “Thank you,” she says, with a small curve in her lips. “You’re my hero.”

  Oh hell. Those words. Her lips. The look in her eyes. I blurt out the next thing that comes to mind. “I can help you play.”

  “You can?”

  The cab veers into another lane, sending Abby shooting closer to me. Suddenly, she’s inches away, her face close to mine, her hand on my shoulder. I don’t know how this has happened, but we’ve gone once again from a simple conversation to the cusp of more.

  I lick my lips once, my gaze drifting briefly to her hand. “I’ll teach you sometime. I’m a good pool tutor.”

  She nods and curls her fingers tighter. “I bet you are.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe me?”

  “I do,” she says softly, her eyes vulnerable and honest. “I do believe you.”

  And I don’t care about the driver right now, or whether he’s going to Frogger it up the rest of the avenue. I definitely don’t give a shit about how little time and attention I have to spare. I barely care about anything but what my heart and body want right now.

  This woman, who won’t let go of her hold on me.

  “Believe me,” I whisper, then raise my hand and gently finger the strands of her hair.

  She leans closer, and I move to her, and then she grips the collar of my shirt.

  “Simon,” she whispers. Her voice sounds beautifully desperate—like how I feel with her.

  There are no more decisions to be made.

  I inch closer, our faces nearly touching. I can feel her breath on me. Our noses brush, then I slant my mouth to hers. Our lips touch, and it’s like a world that was ordinary has now turned extraordinary.

  I cup her cheeks, holding her face as I deepen the kiss. More lips, more tongue, more teeth. More Abby.

  My entire body is alive. My heart pounds, my brain fires, and I’m wildly turned on. I’ve gone to bed many nights drifting off to the fantasy of this kind of hungry, frenzied, unexpected kiss. In my dirty dreams, the kisses turn into much more, and I touch her, taste her . . .

  Take her.

  But hell, a kiss is more than enough because this feels like the way kissing was meant to be—her hand clutching my shoulder, mine on her face, our lips caressing. Heat pulses through me, and at last, at long fucking last, the woman I’ve longed for wants me exactly the same way.

  The yellow cab shimmies along the asphalt, and I’m lost in a kiss I barely saw coming, one I’m powerless to stop.

  11

  Abby

  * * *

  This man can kiss. His lips taste so good as he kisses me with a tenderness and a hunger that’s entirely new in my experience.

  This kiss vibrates and spreads through my entire body, as if I’ve been shot full of liquid beauty, like gold and silver flow through my veins. He slides his tongue across mine, and I want to grab him, straddle him, and just kiss the daylights out of him, even in this crazy, dangerous cab.

  I hardly care that our first kiss isn’t on a moonlit balcony or under the stars. This kiss was inevitable, especially after the last few nights, all these days, and then this afternoon. All our moments have been marching to this as Simon kisses me with such reverence that I want to melt into him. I rope my fingers through his soft hair, and I truly can’t believe I’m making out with Simon Travers in the back of a cab after we watched a documentary on zebras.

  I wish I could say that alarms sound, telling me how risky it is to kiss the man I work for. But all I hear is the rapid beat of my heart, leading me closer to him.

  Simon runs his thumb along my cheek, and that soft touch makes me tremble. Somehow I wriggle closer, my breasts pressed to his firm chest. He groans. It’s carnal and masculine, almost like a warning. But neither one of us heeds it. We simply can’t stop. We’re those people. The kind who go crazy in public. I feel insane right now. Crazy and wild and reckless.

  His hands are on my face, then my hair, and then the back of my head. He is all heat and passion. The way his lips sweep over mine, the way his tongue explores my mouth, and most of all, the way he holds me—it all makes me want to grab those strong shoulders of his and slam him down on top of my body. I want to feel him slide my wrists over my head, pin them, and then smother me in kisses everywhere. I want to let go beneath his mouth, arch into him, urge him to explore my body the way he seems to want to.

  The car jerks to a stop.

  Abruptly, we separate, but only slightly.

  He blinks and breathes out hard as he glances around. We’re all the way in Columbus Circle. Holy shit. We kissed for blocks upon blocks.

  My lips miss his. I thread my hand into his hair. “We shouldn’t do this,” I say, though it hardly sounds like a protest as his hair falls through my fingers.

  His eyes float closed, and his mouth is open, his breath coming in harsh pants. “We definitely shouldn’t do this,” he says, his voice low and smoky as he sighs deeply at my touch.

  “You’re my boss,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

  “You’re my—”

  Whatever he was going to say next is cut off when he brushes his lips against my forehead, then over my face, dusting my cheek, my eyelids, my jawline.

  My skin sizzles. My stomach flips. I want to live inside this kiss. “Don’t stop,” I murmur as his lips mark me.

  He travels to my neck, and I tilt my head to the side. He layers kisses all along the column of my throat, the delicious mix of his rough stubble and his soft lips sending sparks to my very core. My body is hungry, eager for him, and I’m going to need a new word for want because what I feel for Simon is so much more than that.

  It’s yearning. It’s non-negotiable. I have to have him.

  “I don’t know that I can stop with you, Abby,” he whispers, and my name falling from his lips is exquisite and sensual.

  In it, I hear his com
plete and utter need for me, and it’s thrilling—because it matches my heart. It matches my body, too.

  His lips return to me, and we give in once more to the desire that’s thrummed between us for months. I used to think these feelings were all in my mind. Then, in the last few days, I knew they were returned. Funny how once we left the confines of his house, it only took a couple of hours for tutoring to turn into wine, food, and conversation, then to grabbing him in the dark theater.

  My God, what was I thinking, putting my hands all over him during the movie?

  This.

  I was thinking I wanted this.

  His stubbled jaw brushes against my face, and I love the feel of it, the whiskery burn it’ll leave on my skin. My hands roam along his arms, traveling to his biceps, so firm and strong, and immediately I’m awash in images and possibilities. Sliding under him. Those strong arms anchored above me. Running my hands along his muscles as he moves in me. The images blaze hard and hot.

  A wave of neon heat rolls through me, lighting me up all over, settling between my legs where I truly do ache for him. This man isn’t just turning me on. He’s turning me into a woman who wants only to be taken.

  He kisses deeper, harder, rougher—like he needs me desperately. God, I need this kiss, too. I’m so far gone, and I’m sure he is too, judging from the groans he makes as he devours my lips. His hands travel all over my body, exploring my waist, my shoulders, and my neck. His hands dive into my hair, his fingers threading tightly. It feels incredible. He clasps my head possessively, and I’m a blur of sparks and sensation.

  This is more than touching—more than kissing. It’s like a claiming, the way his lips consume mine, how his hands grip my head. I can’t get enough of him, and he can’t get enough of me, either. That realization crashes into me beautifully. Seductively. Flooding me with so much heat.

  I grab at him, taking all he has to give, letting him kiss me like the world hangs in the balance.

  Then, my skull bonks the headrest.

  “Ow,” I mutter, as the cab swings onto a side street and we separate. This driver is a big buzzkill.

  “Cabs,” I mumble as I catch my breath. When I meet Simon’s gaze, his blue eyes shine with desire. “Hard to make out in cabs.”

  “But I’m willing to keep trying,” he says, with a quirk of his lips.

  “How magnanimous of you.”

  He smiles, then threads his hand through my hair once more and presses his lips to my forehead. It’s soft and intimate, and it makes me long for more of him. Then, because my desire for him momentarily displaces all sanity, I raise my face and ask, “Do you want to go out with us tonight?”

  He cringes as if I’ve said the lamest thing.

  Crap. I just asked him on a date. I’m a world-class idiot. “I’m sorry. I just thought because of pool and all. You said you’d teach me. But I’m sure you’re busy.”

  He parts his lips to speak, but he’s silent as the car slows at the curb. Dragging a hand through his hair, he heaves a sigh. “Thank you. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  My heart falls with a heavy thud, and I back away from him.

  “Right,” I say, nearly choking on the word. I wave a hand in the air, as if I can erase the stupid, impulsive moment when I asked out the father of the girl I nanny for. There’s no way he wants to hang out with my friends and me. He has a real life, and real responsibilities. He’s only kissing me like his life depends on it because of pent-up lust, not from a desire to spend an evening with the gang.

  “Abby,” he says, and his tone touches on desperation, but whatever is coming next is cut off by the driver who taps the glass and announces the amount.

  “I’ll take care of it. I’m heading across town,” Simon says to the driver as I sling my purse onto my shoulder.

  He looks at me. “About tonight. It’s just—”

  He stops, blinks, and points to the window.

  I follow his gaze. My friends wait for me on the stoop to my apartment. Harper and her fiancé, Nick, lean against the stone wall, his arms wrapped around her as she laughs at something he says. I didn’t think we were meeting up for an hour, but I might have gotten the time wrong.

  “Your friends are here.” Simon’s voice is strained.

  Harper untangles herself from Nick and waves at me. My eyes swing back to Simon, and he looks guilty, even though no one saw us kissing. But just as quickly, his expression shifts to friendly as he gives a brief wave to Harper and Nick.

  “I should go.”

  “Abby,” he says again, as if it’s the start of a plea.

  But I don’t know what either one of us is supposed to say about what just happened. Instead, I guide us to safer ground. “I’ll see you . . . on Monday.” I lift my chin, reminding myself that I have a job to do. Whatever else those last fifteen magnificent minutes were, they were temporary. A blip. “We’ll just focus on work. Right?”

  He nods slowly, as if he’s processing this new plan. “Work,” he says, like he’s never heard the word. Then his voice turns crisp and resolute. “Yes, work.”

  “Pretend it never happened,” I add, because the more I say it, the more we can move on and erase this mistake.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks, like it costs him something.

  No. I want to kiss you all over again, all night long. I want you to take me upstairs, strip me naked, and make love to me the way you kissed me. With everything you have. With your heart, body and soul.

  “I just think . . .” My voice falters. I’m not ready to have this conversation, not when my deepest wishes are caught in my throat. “I better go.”

  “I understand. Good night, Abby,” he says, and he sounds pained. “Have fun.”

  “I will,” I say, doing my best impression of a cheery, happy gal.

  I slide out of the car and leave the best kiss of my life behind.

  When Harper saunters over, she arches an eyebrow. “Boss dropping you off now?”

  “I’m tutoring him in French,” I say, as the sound of the cab squealing away from the curb rips through the air. I refocus, rooting myself to this moment, to my real life, which has nothing to do with making out with the father of the girl I take care of. The kiss was a one-time thing, and now I need to slide back into who I am. “Why are you here already?”

  Harper flashes an easy grin. “We were in the neighborhood and decided to see if you wanted to start happy hour early. It is Friday after all.”

  I grit my teeth, draw a quick inhale, and do a reboot of the day. “Let’s do it,” I say with a crisp nod. “I need a big, fat glass of wine.”

  Harper laughs and threads her arm through mine. “Wine it is. Get your ID out, sweet little thing.”

  She links her other arm with Nick’s, and the three of us head to our favorite bar for happy hour, where I focus on them, not my forbidden fantasy with Simon.

  This is my real life, with my friends. They are my family here in New York.

  12

  Simon

  * * *

  Pretend it never happened.

  Pretend it never happened.

  Pretend it never happened.

  Her words play in my head all weekend long. As I review pitches and proposals from business associates, as I respond to an email from Gabriel, as I work out at the gym, and as I meet my older sister, Kristy, for lunch on Saturday in Gramercy Park, where she lives.

  As I listen to my sister tell me the latest about her fashion design business, I pretend I never kissed Abby. Over appetizers, Kristy updates me on the new distribution deals she’s inked for her upcoming lines, and I try to fight away the lingering memory of Abby’s lips. My sister asks me something about a partnership, as I drift back to how that woman responded to me as if our kiss was as necessary as food and water. As if it was inevitable.

  We’d smashed together as if we unlocked the other’s desire. Then, she’d simply melted in my arms. Fuck, I’m dying for another taste of Abby.

  Frust
rated doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel right now. As I drag a hand over the back of my neck, Kristy delivers a steely stare. “You’re distracted, Simon,” she says with that hawk-eyed awareness that all older sisters possess.

  Busted.

  “Just a lot going on,” I admit. “But tell me again about the partnership.”

  Kristy arches an eyebrow as she picks up her mint tea. We’re trying out a Turkish restaurant today. “Don’t worry about me. Is it Miriam? Is she being a total twat about custody of Hayden?”

  I give her a look. “Can you not use the word twat in the same sentence as my daughter?”

  She rolls her green eyes. “You’re so prickly. I was talking about your ex, not your sweet girl.”

  I ease up. “I know. Sorry. She’s just being Miriam, but you know she’s a good mother. She’s good to Hayden on the weekends she has her, and she’s fine with the arrangement.” I aim to practice civility post-divorce. It’s far too easy to hate an ex, but it’s a pointless expenditure of emotion, and one I don’t care to spend on Miriam. She only gave me a hard time in the beginning, but then she easily agreed to me having primary custody.

  “It’s a damn good thing that woman adores my precious niece,” Kristy says, with her own fierce protectiveness of Hayden. Then she raises her fists. “Or I’d have to go Fight Club on the former Mrs. Travers.”

  I laugh. “No need to take off the gloves.”

  My sister runs a hand through her dark brown hair, narrows her eyes, and then nods reluctantly. “Fair enough.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, “But I’m probably always going to think Miriam is a twat.”

  I manage a small smile. “You’re well within your rights.”

  “And business is good?”

  “Very good,” I say, then catch her up to speed on the latest from Gabriel. “He has the pick of investors, though, so I’ve got to convince him to go with me. I’ve been doing my research, and it’s taking a lot of time. Especially since he wants to do more than open a restaurant here. He has plans for a whole slate of them, a cookware line, recipe books—the whole shebang.”