by Jo Leigh
Bree wanted to check out his furniture, the gorgeous art deco design work of the black-and-white floor, the magnificent marble fireplace and the sheer novelty of so much space. But she couldn’t stop staring at the city. Eighteen floors up, the breathtaking view covered too much territory to take in, not when there were so many other things to think about. She might or might not have another shot at it, though. What the hell, she could go to any high-rise in Manhattan to see a view, but Charlie was one time only.
Charlie spoke behind her. “Would you like something to drink?”
She turned to him, not sure of much, but she knew she was thirsty. “Tea? If you have any.”
His hesitation made her think her request wasn’t one he got often. “I think so,” he said. “Give me a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”
Charlie dropped his coat on the back of a chair before he disappeared into the kitchen. The tiny glimpse she’d gotten through the swinging door showed a lot of stainless steel and what might have been the edge of a teak cabinet. Strange how when she’d mentioned her love of art deco he hadn’t told her they shared the passion. Or maybe the apartment hadn’t been his design choice?
The weird thing about her mental tangent into decorating wasn’t the coincidence of their taste, but her reaction to Charlie. She was fascinated by him, beyond the obvious. Which begged the question: Would she have agreed to come up if he had been anyone else? Was she honestly as attracted to him as her hormones would have her believe, or was it the idea of Charlie Winslow that had her aching to strip him naked and do every naughty thing she could think of to him?
She opened her clutch and sneaked out Charlie’s trading card. After a quick check to make sure he wouldn’t catch her in the act, she turned the card to the back side.
His favorite restaurant: Grand Central Oyster Bar
Marry, Date or One-Night Stand: One Night is his max, but it’ll be a fabulous night!
His secret passion: Down deep he’s old-fashioned. I know, surprise, huh?
Watch out for: The idiot is obsessed with his work. He needs a break.
The bottom line: Have fun! Just be yourself!
Bree grinned at the personalized responses Rebecca had inserted. This was one card that wasn’t going back into the pile, that was for sure. No, this was Rebecca’s gift to Bree, and Bree wasn’t going to let her insecurity get in the way of the rest of the magical night.
She flipped the card back to his photo. Objectively, he was a good-looking man. It was well documented, how good-looking Charlie was, in magazines, television and online. But she felt completely drawn to him in a way that wasn’t exclusively about looks.
She knew what that felt like. There had been times in college and here in New York that she’d liked a man’s looks and just gone for it. Those times had been okay in a hedonistic way, not something she did often. But she had to consider why she was staying, assuming it wasn’t just for tea. Was the quick beat of her heart a groupie thing or common, everyday lust or… Did it matter?
The answer was as instantaneous as it was physical. She wanted him in a way that was neither common nor everyday. She’d have wanted him even if he wasn’t the King of Manhattan. He’d been a surprise. Nice. Captivating. He’d purposefully shared insider nuggets so she would feel less like an impostor sneaking into the palace. He’d come looking for her, and he’d laughed at her jokes, and he’d kept her warm. That kiss had been…
Well, she’d need to be on her toes tonight, that’s all. If they did end up in bed, which was not a sure thing as there seemed to be a whole different world of signals and innuendos she wasn’t aware of in this rarefied air of his, but if they did, she’d have to be careful.
How Charlie made her feel, that could be dangerous. That was the difference. The other guys, both of them, had been fun in that risky sort of exciting manner when you’ve taken all the safety precautions so you’re not precisely scared, but he was new, and what if he was terrible in bed, or his penis was teeny tiny or he wanted to wear her underpants?
Charlie might have all of those issues, but that wasn’t dangerous. The real fear was that she could like him. The kind of like that meant nothing but trouble. Liking a guy was not part of the five-year plan. In fact, it was the antithesis of the five-year plan, the one thing that could turn even this unbelievable stroke of magnificent luck into a disaster of epic proportions.
After tucking the card back inside her slim wallet, Bree rested her butt on the arm of a gorgeous white leather couch. She continued to wait, wondering what was taking him so long. As her gaze wandered across the cityscape, she reminded herself about Susan. They’d been college roommates their freshmen year, and they’d hit it off from day one. Susan had decided to go into politics. She’d taken prelaw, had already picked out the three schools she would apply to; in fact, it was Susan who’d shown Bree the wisdom and power of the five-year plan. Susan had been brilliant. Formidable memory along with a quick mind and a powerful presence. It was easy to think of her as a potential senator or even president.
And then Nick had come along.
Susan had fallen slowly. Incrementally. But fallen she had, so hard that it had knocked the plan right out of her. She’d gone on to law school, yes, but at UCLA because of Nick. Yale and Harvard had both come calling, but she’d been in love. Bree had been a bridesmaid at her wedding, and the two of them kept in touch on Facebook, but Susan had a baby now, and she was a stay-at-home mom, which was fine. Of course it was fine. But it wasn’t the dream.
If it had only been Susan, Bree wouldn’t have given it too much thought. It wasn’t, though. Almost every friend she’d had in high school and the early years of college, every female friend that is, had somehow, someway subverted their dreams because of love. Her experience might be a statistical anomaly, but it was a damn scary one.
Bree had nothing against relationships, but that was for later. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought of marriage before thirty, and quite possibly longer than that. Forget a child in her twenties. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to have a child at all. Not something she had to worry about at the moment, thank goodness, but liking Charlie? That was a distinct possibility.
Of course, his liking her back was highly improbable. On the level of her winning the lottery. Which was worse in some ways, because even though it was one night, and she had a hint of a crush on him, there was every reason to believe there might be sparks in the bedroom. It would be so very Bree to find herself enamored with Charlie, only to crumble in a fit of pining and lovelorn paralysis for however long it would take to get over it. That would also not be good for the plan.
This having-sex decision was more complicated than she’d thought. Thank goodness she hadn’t given in to more champagne.
She wasn’t wearing a watch, but Charlie really had been gone a long time. She pushed off the couch and went toward the kitchen, hoping nothing had gone wrong. Two steps later, the door swung open and Charlie came in carrying a silver tray. On it, he’d put a pot, an actual teapot, made of fine china decorated with flowers and vines. There were matching cups, two, and saucers, also two. A little cream pourer, a bowl of sugar lumps, tongs, TONGS, lemon slices, a strainer, and she had to get closer to see that the tins were actually different varieties of tea. She looked up at Charlie, and he looked back. It was a…moment.
Part of her wanted to laugh, but a bigger part of her wanted to know what the hell?
“Seems I have a tea service,” he said, his voice low and wickedly deadpan. “I never knew that. I don’t do a lot of cooking, and someone else put my kitchen together. But I thought, why not? I may never be asked for tea again.”
“I see—oh, that one isn’t tea. That’s biscuits?”
“English shortbread cookies,” he said. “Fresh, according to the package.” He put the tray on the coffee table after she’d scurried to clear off some magazines. “My guess is that my housekeeper is the tea aficionado. She comes in three times a week, and I don’t pay attention t
o her snacking habits. Makes sense, though. She stocks the fridge. The tea set looks like something my mother would own, and expect me to own.”
“And here I was thinking a mug and a Lipton’s tea bag. But this will do.”
“It will, huh?”
Bree nodded. “So many different kinds,” she said, busy investigating. There was chamomile, Earl Grey, Darjeeling and one she had never heard of called British Blend. She pointed to it. “Shall I make a pot?”
“Go for it.”
She was very glad she’d used loose tea before as she poured the leaves into the hot water, then left it to steep. In her cup, she used the tongs to put in two lumps of sugar, poured in a hint of milk and waited nervously as she realized how close together they were on the couch.
This wasn’t like having his arm around her at the party or even sitting pressed up to him in the limo. A bedroom was now involved, only steps away.
She could take one of two approaches to the next minute: she could bring up the decor and keep wondering what was going to happen until he did something obvious, or she could put on her big girl panties and ask if they were going to share more than tea. “So,” she said, “you like art deco.”
Charlie glanced up at her, his own sugar lump tonged and hovering above his cup. “Yes. I do.”
She barely heard him over the cursing in her head, which was frankly not very nice. She wasn’t a wimp and hated to think she was a chicken, but the only way to prove she had cajones was to act like it. “Is the whole place art deco?” she asked, trying to be sexily coy, not creepily stiff. “Your bedroom, for example?”
She winced. She couldn’t help it. A fifteen-year-old could have done better.
The sugar fell into the cup with a soft plunk and Charlie smiled. “Perhaps, after tea, you’d like to see it?”
Bree nodded, then busied herself with straining the leaves and pouring. She decided she’d said enough already, but Charlie didn’t pitch in to fill the silence. He might have been watching her or gazing out the window; she didn’t know because she didn’t dare look up. It was enough to will her hands steady and her thoughts calm and composed. Something had happened in the past few seconds; maybe it was how his voice had lowered and how the husky murmur slid over her skin like a warm vibrant promise—she had no idea.
No, he was definitely zeroed in on her, she decided, as the weight of his stare seemed to change the very air around them. She could actually feel him watching, waiting, missing nothing. She set down the pot, picked up her cup and took a sip, barely tasting more than the warmth as the quiet stretched between them. The element of surreality, what with silver tongs and it being two in the morning, made time shimmer and slow. She drank again, the delicate cup insisting she raise her pinkie.
She finally glanced over and saw that Charlie was, in fact, staring. He also lifted his cup to his lips, drank silently, his hand large and his fingers long, his eyes never leaving her, never wavering.
She was acutely aware that he could have glanced down to the tops of her pushed-up breasts, to her barely covered thighs. If he had he would have noticed the intermittent tremors, the pink skin she felt sure was not just on her cheeks but the tips of her ears.
It was unbearably sexy, that stare, his dark eyes so large, unblinking. As if he could see more than she wanted him to.
As every second ticked by, the heat intensified, until she couldn’t take it any longer. She blinked. “The tea’s good,” she said, surprised her voice was steady.
He swiped his bottom lip with the edge of his tongue; barely a swipe really, only enough for the light to catch on the moisture.
“Although I have no idea what makes it a British blend. It tastes like…tea.”
He lowered his cup. “I’ve got a window in my bedroom,” he said, his voice—still low and rumbly—moving through her like distant thunder. “I want to take your dress off slowly. Let it fall down your body. I’ve been wondering for hours what’s underneath. I’m guessing black, maybe lace, maybe silk, but definitely black. You’ll look incredible standing by that window with the lights of the city as your backdrop.”
Bree almost dropped her cup, clumsy and awkward as a surge of wet heat flowed through her. She’d been so together, too. All calm and reasonable and thinking things through. And then he had to go and say that.
She was officially in another plane of existence because there was no one in the world as she knew it who could have said those words in that tone with that look in his eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought there was someone sitting behind her, some model or actress or virtually anyone who wasn’t Bree Kingston.
“Bree?” His smile was slow, controlled, while she hesitated.
God, why was she hesitating? A few more seconds and maybe she could get her legs in working order.
He stood and held out his hand for her. Heart beating flamenco style, head swirling in a cloud of lust and weirdness, she rose without spilling, tripping or making any unfortunate sounds.
Instead of pulling her closer, Charlie stepped into her personal space, then into her. His body touched her from chest to thigh, and he was warm and big and he smelled as if he’d just walked in a forest. Looking up was nothing new, but meeting his gaze so near, feeling his tea-sweet breath caress her lips, that was stunning. As he bent down, her eyes closed at the last possible second, and then, and then…
6
CHARLIE SHIFTED HIS BODY as he kissed her. He’d been getting hard for a while now, since he’d put down that ludicrous tea tray. Bree wasn’t his type; there was no question about that, but she was something—
Something.
So small. Not thin, thin was ubiquitous, a thing to get over, not to enjoy. At least the kind of thin he was used to. Bree was diminutive, delicate. How he wanted to hold her completely in his arms, lift her from the floor and carry her off to his bed. More absurd than the tea service because there wasn’t a romantic bone in his body and also not enough booze to let his imagination get away from him, and yet, his hands moved down her black dress—which had to go—to cup her hips, her bottom.
Instead of giving in to his urge, he walked backward, pulling her with him. He didn’t need to look, not yet. It was a straight line to the hallway, where he would have to make sure to turn them, then another straight shot to his bedroom.
They kissed and walked in their odd shuffling gait. He touched wherever he could, mostly the parts that were bare, and warm, and pebbled with goose bumps. He hoped those were from him, not the temperature. Decided not to ask.
The bedroom was obscenely large for Manhattan, but the building was prewar and the place had been remodeled to make it expansive. He’d put in plush carpet for the pleasure of it, outrageously fine sheets, condoms and water bottles near the California king. Bree broke away from his kiss with a gasp. Not at the luxury of the room, she hadn’t looked at it yet, but for breath. To give him a smile.
He nodded toward the wall, all windows, the electronic shades up and hidden to capture the view. “There,” he said. “I want you there.”
She turned. This gasp wasn’t for air. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”
“It pales.” He took her hand and guided her closer to the windows and kissed her again, sneaking his tongue between her lips as his fingers found the zipper pull. He heard nothing but breathing and blood flow, but he followed the zipper with his left hand on her bare back until he reached the end. He touched the strip of elastic that was the line of her thong. The touch was enough to pull him away from the gorgeous heat of her mouth. He needed to see.
The dress fell, puddling at her feet, and it was better than he’d imagined. The thong wasn’t black, but red. Dark red, tiny. Seeing it against her pale flesh made his cock harder, his desire intense.
Odd, so odd, this reaction of his. She was pretty, she really was, but she wasn’t architecturally beautiful. Perfectly proportioned, yet not so slender she didn’t have curves and a little bit of a tummy that made him want to rest his head righ
t there for a week. God, her breasts. They were mouthwatering, with pale pink areolas and firm little nipples, puckered and waiting.
Bree stepped out of her dress, and oh, that was something. Her in nothing but a ruby thong and high heels. Stunning, delicious…for Christ’s sake, the woman was two feet in front him, willing and eager.
He worked his clothes off in a controlled frenzy, flinging things away as he multitasked, toeing off his shoes and socks, moving closer to Bree as he unzipped, hissing as the silk of his boxer briefs brushed against the underside of his aching cock.
He kissed her again, but she was trembling and just chilly enough for him to bow to the nonsensical urge to scoop her up into his arms—she was a featherweight of soft flesh and hitching breaths—and dammit, he should have pulled the bedcovering down. She huffed a laugh as he stood her up, and together they got rid of the extra pillows and pulled down the duvet.
He waited, and when she sat and bent to take off her heels, he made a noise. It wasn’t a squeak or a whimper, but it was close on both counts. Bree grinned, rose from the bed. There was a wicked sparkle in those lust-darkened eyes of hers, and when she turned around and went onto all fours on the mattress, Charlie made another noise, but this was a groan that came straight from his balls. She crawled across the bed, her hips swaying in invitation, giving him flashes of red between her thighs.
When she got to the second pillow, she made a show of lying down, grinning at him, flushed and breathing hard as she posed for him. Hands behind her, clutching the teak headboard slats, hair dark against the white pillowcase. Her legs came up, one canted over the other, like a pinup from the forties, like a siren, like a dream.
Miraculously, he didn’t come right there and then. He made it onto the bed, took his time but he had to close his eyes before he touched her. Because, God.
When he licked a trail up the inside of her thigh, she trembled on his tongue.