Pleasure

by CM Deveraux

  I parked on the cobblestone driveway, tapped my phone to life, and glanced at the time. I was fourteen minutes late, which, for me, was right on time. Problem was—I was the only non-punctual female in our group, and yet I appeared to be the only one there.

  A multi-tiered chandelier beamed from the front entry, filtering a stream of light throughout the driveway. No other cars were parked outside. I fumbled around in my bag, pulled out a yellow slip of paper, checked the address I’d been given again. It matched the vertical numbers stuck on the front of the garage. This was it.

  Where is everyone?

  Jess hadn’t said on the phone whether we were all meeting here, or of it would just be the two of us at first, and I hadn’t thought to ask. I walked to the door, hearing a voice on the other side. I pressed my ear to the wood, listened. Someone was whistling the tune of an old Frank Sinatra song.

  I knocked.

  The door opened to an unexpected surprise with a stubbly, five-o’clock shadow.

  Gideon?

  “Why are you...what are you doing here?” I asked, realizing I’d taken one rather large scissor-step back.

  “Celebrating. Would you like to come in?”

  He swung the door all the way open, bracing it with his hand.

  I craned my neck, glanced inside, saw no one. No one but him. “I don’t understand. Where’s everyone else?”

  He grinned.

  “It’s just us.”

  “What about my friends—I thought we were meeting here?”

  “They’re not coming.”

  “Jess said we’d meet here to celebrate my first listing.”

  “And you are.”

  “But...I thought she was throwing me some kind of party,” I said.

  “Is that what she told you?”

  It was what she told me. Clearly, she had some explaining to do.

  “If this is my listing, and Jess isn’t here...why are you here?”

  “This is my house.”

  An obvious oversight on my part. Of course it was his house.

  “You’re the seller? Why didn’t she tell me?” No wonder I’d been granted such a sublime listing. It must have been Gideon’s way of getting me to pay up. “Did you request me because I owe you money?”

  I felt like a jerk for asking. But someone owed me the truth, and right now, truth was standing right in front of me, looking dangerous and handsome. Too handsome.

  “I wasn’t aware you owed me anything,” he said.

  I owed him everything. I owed him my life.

  “I haven’t received a bill for the services you’ve provided so far. I meant to call you. I’ve been wondering when it would come.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Do you want to work it out in trade?”

  He curled his moistened lips into a devilish grin, like the idea of us swapping services appealed to him in far more ways than one. He stared at me for a moment before offering a response, leaving me with no other option than to stand there and squirm. Damn his indifference, his unreadable poker face.

  “I took your case pro bono,” he said. “You owe me nothing.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at me as though we weren’t getting anywhere, just going in circles. Questions were a way for me to avoid nervous tension, but from the looks of it, his manly yet even-keeled self had reached female-query overload.

  “Are you going to come in, or were you planning on standing on my porch all night?” he asked.

  I sized up his attire, a thin, V-neck shirt that accentuated his athletic, freckled body, and a pair of frayed cargo shorts. His biceps were tight, so tight I wanted to press my fingers against them and squeeze. I looked down, suddenly aware of what I was wearing and feeling the urge to shield myself with a jacket. “I don’t usually dress like—”

  “You’re dining in a five-star restaurant?”

  Or working my sexual frustration out in the club later, if that was even happening. At least he hadn’t said high-class hooker, because I had to admit, I did look a wee bit trashy.

  “I like it, the dress,” he said. “It’s very—nice.” He eyed me from top to bottom like I was a tempting treat he wanted to devour.

  Was it possible he liked me?

  “Turn around,” he said.

  The tone of his voice changed from playful to deep, hungry.

  “What?”

  “Turn. Around.”

  My backless dress had a slit that ended at the beginning of my butt crack. Bottom line: I wasn’t wearing any panties. An hour earlier this fact had no bearing on my clothing selection. Aside from my girlfriends, the packed room of people I’d planned on dancing next to wouldn’t notice, and even if they did sneak a peek, they wouldn’t ever see me again. Gideon would see me.

  I did a quick twirl and prayed the back of my dress didn’t catch too much air in the process. The last thing I needed was for him to decide I was the least professional woman he’d ever dealt with and reconsider his decision to give me the listing. The profit from this listing alone was enough to live on for a year.

  Pirouette complete, I slipped off my shoes, feeling even smaller than I already was. He had yet to utter a single word post twirl, causing me to nervously fidget with the bottom seam of my dress. The silence was awkward. Too awkward.

  “I guess I should see the house,” I mumbled.

  “You will—after we have dinner.”

  “You cooked?”

  “Tonight I did.”

  He stroked my back as we walked, my skin prickling, responding to his touch. The probability of him not noticing my heightened sensations was nil. Per his usual, he said nothing. We walked through the hall and into the kitchen. Along the way, Gideon pointed out a few of the house’s features, but he wasn’t looking at the ten thousand dollar cast-iron banister or the stained windows he’d flown in from Milan. He was looking at me, eyeing me with a kind of curiosity I hadn’t seen in a man before today.

  The house had a seraphic aroma, like pasta drenched in a rich cream sauce. It wasn’t just the food I identified though. It was him. He smelled amazing, like he’d just showered with citrus body wash in the woods, and I found myself turning in his direction just to drink him in.

  “This is a beautiful house,” I said. “Why do you want to sell it?”

  “Why did you want to sell yours?”

  “Old memories. I wanted new ones.”

  “I feel the same way.”

  “Are you...moving?” I asked.

  “Out of Vegas?”

  I nodded. He shook his head. It shouldn’t have mattered, and I shouldn’t have cared...so why did I?

  The table was prepared and ready, with two enticing plates full of creamy pasta. I had to hand it to him, for a man of the male persuasion, he’d still managed to set two place settings and had even lit a trio of thick, burgundy candles. The candles changed the mood, making it intimate, like this was much more than a simple meeting to discuss the current real estate market.

  Was it?

  He pulled a chair out for me, and I sat down.

  It was.

  I tensed, struggled to catch my breath. He sat beside me, flattened a hand over mine. “Is anything wrong?”

  “It’s just...this all seems so much like a...”

  “A what?”

  I felt ridiculous and flustered at the same time.

  “A lot of trouble to go through,” I babbled. “I mean, if you want me to be your agent, I will. You could have made an appointment, met me at Jess’s office. You didn’t have to go through all this.”

  Just. Stop. Talking.

  “It’s not a big deal. I wanted the chance to speak to you in private.”

  Of course he did. Because this was a date disguised as a party disguised as a real estate deal. And I was an idiot. I gripped the side of the table so hard, I thought a piece of wood might crack off.

  He stared, at me, at my hand trembling beneath his. “Maybe you should try the wine.”


  I didn’t want to try the wine, I wanted to ingest it, all of it, right now. He’d gone to great lengths, luring me here through Jess, who, for some reason, couldn’t manage to give me the simple truth and wasn’t returning my discreet written-under-the-table texts. Why? I wanted to get it out in the open, call him out, call her out. Find out what the hell was going on. Instead, I suppressed it, hoping whatever his plans were, he’d man up at some point and tell me.

  “So, tell me your timeline for this place?” I asked. “Have you thought about the list price? Will you live here while the house is for sale, or somewhere else?”

  “I don’t live here. Not anymore. For the moment, I’m renting a place near my office.”

  “You live somewhere else and leave this place empty?”

  “I let some relatives of mine crash here for a while. They moved out a couple months ago, and I decided it was time to get rid of it.”

  I twirled some stringy pieces of fettuccini around my fork and bit into the pasta. I tried to savor how gratifying it was, even though my head was spinning in a million directions.

  He reached over, used his thumb to remove a bit of excess sauce from my chin. Great. Even in a dress that said “come hither,” I’d managed to look like a slob.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “About the food?”

  He ran a finger up my bare thigh.

  “About everything.”

  I didn’t like being teased. The suppression method, the “let’s not talk about what’s really going on here,” may have worked for his needs, but not mine. He wasn’t just beating around the bush, he was circling it like a dog chasing his tail, and he didn’t strike me as the type of man who had to chase anything.

  Screw it.

  “Do you like me?” I asked. “Is that why I’m here, why we’re here, alone?”

  “You’re here because I need a good agent, and I believe you are one.”

  He averted his eyes. I tossed my napkin on the table, stood.

  “What are you doing?” he asked. “We haven’t finished dinner yet.”

  “You haven’t finished. I have.”

  “Have I said something to upset you?”

  “I just...I should go,” I said.

  “You’re angry.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So, your arms crossed in front of your chest and the pissed look on your face like you’d like to slap me isn’t the look of someone who’s angry?”

  “Do you want to know what I think?” I asked, hands pressed onto my hips.

  “I’d love to know what you think.”

  “You’re reaching out and pulling away at the same time. You like me, but you’re too caught up in whether I could like you back because of all the shit I’ve been through.”

  He made no argument, no attempt to deny it. “Fair assessment.”

  “True assessment.”

  “Somewhat.”

  “I’m not made of glass,” I spat. “I wish everyone would stop treating me like I’m the victim. I’m not sure what you’re doing, but I’m trying to live again, breathe again, create a new life.”

  “I like you.” He allowed his words to sit, marinate for a minute. “And yes, I have been wondering how long it will take before you decide to embrace what you obviously feel for me.”

  The nerve of him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “No, I won’t excuse you. You wanted to talk feelings. Let’s talk.”

  “Are you always this blunt?” I asked.

  “If you mean honest—yes. I see no reason not to be.”

  Up to this point, he’d been poised, reserved. I couldn’t accept he felt anything more than pity for what I’d been through. Even if he did feel something more, I’d sworn off the idea of having a man in my life.

  “You don’t even know me,” I said. “Not really.”

  It was my polite way of saying I didn’t need a man in my life. Not now. Not ever.

  “I want to know you. And you want to know me. I know you’ve suffered. Name one person who hasn’t in one way or another.”

  “I never asked you or anyone else to feel sorry for me.”

  “I’m not Damon. You will never have anything to fear from me.”

  First he accused me of playing the victim card, then he accused me of seeing Damon in every man I met. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  “Don’t fight it,” he continued. “I see the way you look at me—today—at my office. Don’t stand there and deny it now.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re lying, Sasha, to yourself and everyone else.”

  “I’ve had enough one-night stands, which should have been about a lot more than casual sex and not some kind of internal revenge to get past what happened with Damon. I’m through. I hated myself for it. I can’t do it to myself, and I won’t do it to you.”

  “Is that what you think I’m after? One night?”

  “What else could you possibly want?” I asked.

  He gripped me by my wrists, jerked me forward onto his lap, leaving me no choice but to straddle him. My unsheathed mound pressed hard against his growing erection. Even through the fabric it throbbed, searching for me, for my opening. I wanted to embrace the sensation, gyrate my hips back and forth until I satisfied my unmet hunger. I’d been through enough. I deserved this. I deserved him.

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Yes, Sasha. You do.”

  His mouth misted my neck with soft, moist kisses. I arched my back, fighting an internal battle, warning myself of the consequences of submitting, giving into him. This was risky. I was his client. I needed him to make sure Damon spent the remainder of his days in the clink. If this went wrong...it could all fall apart. I tried to resist, to push him back with the heel of my hand, but my limbs were limp, useless.

  Clarity surged through me. “I’m your client. Are we...I mean...can we...?”

  “Tell me to stop and I will.” Ironically, he said this without stopping. “Tell me to stop, Sasha.”

  Never before had my name been spoken with such impassioned desire. Logic and reason no longer registered. I wanted him.

  His mouth moved upward, forging a trail that ended with his lips smothering mine. Passive, restrained Gideon was gone, and a new Gideon had emerged. I wrestled his shirt free, ran my fingers over the smoothness of his chest, felt every ripple of every muscle contract beneath my hands.

  He parted my lips with his tongue, slithered inside, exploring every crevice. His hands slid beneath my dress, cradling my bare buttocks. Two fingers swirled their way to the front, teasing my mound with slow, circular motions. I squirmed.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

  “I...want...I need...”

  “What do you want? What do you need? Tell me.”

  I started to speak then jerked back, thinking I heard a sound behind me, behind him. I listened, and the noise came again.

  Slow. Steady. Claps.

  A sense of uneasiness gripped me like I was trapped in a cage with no way out, and I realized something—we were no longer alone.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gideon’s eyes veered away from me. He released his lips from mine, head turning to the side as if in slow motion. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “Gee, don’t let me interrupt,” a woman said.

  Her voice was unfamiliar to me. I shouldn’t have been relieved, but I was. Better for it to be someone I didn’t know than someone I did. I poked my head around him, casting a dumbfounded stare at the brunette standing at the entrance to the kitchen. How long had she been there? And who let her in? I’d watched Gideon bolt the door behind me when I arrived. Who the hell was she?

  Gideon planted his hands on my upper thighs, over my dress, the only thing saving me from playing a one-sided game of peek-a-boo the woman wouldn’t soon forget. I had the impression he was protecting me, although it
was much too late. Most girls would be ashamed. I was irate.

  “Who is she, and how did she get in your house?” I asked.

  “Yes, Gideon,” the woman giggled. “Who am I, and who is she?”

  The woman was dressed in a simple, blue-and-white striped sundress. It was tight and short, but at the moment, it covered her ass better than mine did. Her dress showed off her waifish physique and the fact that she was braless, as demonstrated by a good old-fashioned air conditioner and a solid case of nipple freeze. She was tall, around five foot ten and wore flip-flops with silver toe rings on three of her digits.

  Gideon cleared his throat. “Sasha, this is Mandi.”

  “Who is she to you?” I asked.

  He paused, not wanting to answer.

  “Gideon?” I asked.

  “She’s my ex.”

  She what—girlfriend? Wife?

  Now I understood why she’d traipsed in without knocking like she owned the place. She probably did.

  “Relax,” Mandi said, flipping a hand through the air. “We’re very over.”

  “As in?”

  “Divorced. I’m just here to hand over a few things—house key, garage door opener, stuff the realtor needs to show this place since he’s finally decided to take my advice and sell it. I’ll be out of here in a jiffy, so you two can get back to your...whatever it was you were doing.”

  She cupped a hand over her mouth, snorted a few more hearty giggles. Apparently the situation was too damn funny to resist.

  Gideon’s jaw was clenched. Tight. She hadn’t been expected. “You said you wouldn’t be in town until tomorrow.”

  It seemed a moot point. She was here. The ship had sailed, and we were all on it together.

  “What can I say—I got here early, and unlike you, I have a life that doesn’t revolve around a job. Although,” she squeezed her eyelids together until they were almost closed, “from the looks of things, maybe you’re taking a little time for yourself these days. Good to see you getting your rocks off.”