Between the Lines

by Lauren Hawkeye

“Pardon?” Jo blinked, even as his meaning flooded through her. She could have recited his next words along with him.

  “You’re not interested.” He smiled at her, though he seemed slightly puzzled by her reaction. At least he hadn’t said You’re not interested in men, which was what she’d been expecting.

  “Sorry.” She shook her head and offered what she hoped was a winsome smile. “Better luck elsewhere.”

  He was clearly startled by her response, but then she was gone, scurrying across the lobby floor as fast as she could in her slightly slippery shoes. She gulped at her wine, leaving the empty glass on a table as she headed unerringly for the wide, stone-tiled stairs, desperate to get away.

  She wasn’t good with words in person. She was socially awkward to the extreme. And Dimples had picked up on her one insecurity, the one thing that she just couldn’t figure out about herself—no, she wasn’t interested. Not in him, not in any man. Hell, not in any woman, either.

  She hadn’t been since Theo. She’d tried, and sometimes she managed a mild affection, but attraction? Sexual arousal?

  Forget it. That was why she’d fallen in love with her blog—it was an outlet, a place for her to explore her sexuality in a place where her own biology had failed her.

  She could rage against it, she supposed, as she reached the upper floor and sighed with relief at the sudden muting of the party noise, the voices. But what was the point?

  Footsteps sounded on the staircase behind her, along with the hushed murmur of voices. Shit. Her encounter with Dimples had drained her—she just couldn’t handle interacting with even one more person.

  Desperate, she tried the handle of the closest door. It opened, and she wasn’t going to question it. She hurriedly ducked inside.

  The heavy door swung shut behind her, enclosing her in a dim, quiet space. She ran a hand over the wall, searching for the light switch, then decided to leave the room in the dark. The lack of stimulus after the sensory assault of the party was soothing.

  She’d recharge here then go downstairs and force herself to mingle for twenty more minutes—long enough to say that she’d given it a go.

  Then she’d go home, put on her jeans and tank top and return to the cocoon of blissful aloneness.

  The doorknob turned. A feminine giggle shattered the womblike tranquility, followed by a deeper voice that was undeniably male.

  She had no idea why she ducked into the closet—maybe just the urge to not have to interact with even one more person. She stood in the small space, behind the half-opened door, fisting sweaty palms as the people entered the room, letting the heavy door fall closed behind them with what sounded like an ominous click.

  “How much have you had to drink?” The man’s voice made her straighten, like she was in school and her knuckles had been slapped with a ruler.

  “Not so much that I don’t know what I’m doing.” The woman giggled, a bubbly, breathless sound. Jo squinted across the room. It was dark in the room, more shadows than light, but she could see shapes, outlines.

  She could certainly hear, and knew that the metallic rasp couldn’t be anything but the lowering of a zipper.

  “This wasn’t what I had in mind when I invited you to this party as my date,” the man said, his voice wry. The woman shushed him. Jo’s eyes were gradually adjusting to the dark, and she watched the woman drop to her knees in front of the door the man was leaning against.

  The woman inhaled sharply, and the man exhaled slowly, a circular dance. Jo fought to hold her own breath, lest she give herself away.

  Why, oh why, had she ducked into the closet? It was past the point where she could announce her presence. Oh, pardon me, I’ll just look the other way if you don’t mind letting me through.

  “Chill out,” the woman said, voice exasperated. “This doesn’t mean anything, okay? I’m your assistant, and I’m supposed to make your life easier. I don’t know why you’re all keyed up tonight, but let me take the edge off. It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

  The man said nothing, did nothing for a long moment. Then a low rumble of pleasure escaped his throat, followed by the wet sound of mouth on skin, sounds that screamed sex.

  Close your eyes, Jo. Close them now.

  A rustle of movement, then a groan as the man tangled his hands in the woman’s hair. That groan should have been a sound of surrender, the man acquiescing to the woman’s desire to please him, but somehow he still sounded like he was the one in control.

  Jo shifted in her hiding place as something dark and wild tangled in her belly. She found herself rubbing her thighs together against the sudden ache. It took her brain a few moments to catch up.

  Was she actually aroused by this? By hiding in the closet, watching a woman she didn’t know suck on a strange man’s cock? How could that be, when nothing had turned her crank in the years since Theo had left—absolutely nothing?

  She swallowed, hard, pressing her forehead to the cool plaster of the wall. Watching this when they didn’t know she was here was so, so wrong. But this was the first hint of arousal she’d felt in so long—she knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Taking another quiet breath, she focused in. The woman’s mouth made obscene sucking noises as she worked on the man, but she wasn’t what held Jo’s attention, though she supposed that the woman’s inherent enjoyment in the action of pleasuring the stranger was erotic. No, it was him, something about the man. About the way he looked downward, attention focused on the point of contact. And something else about him—the outline of an imposing body, the unapologetic way he held himself, as if he deserved to be serviced.

  Like he was doing the woman a favor by letting her place her mouth on his cock. He almost seemed impatient.

  How strange.

  Jo watched, now entranced, as the woman seemed to redouble her efforts. The sounds she was making said that servicing the man was pleasurable for her as well. How could that be?

  Her attention was caught on him as he sucked in a breath that sounded pained, his focus sharpening. Sliding his hands through her hair, he caught the woman’s face in his palms. The thin, inky darkness seemed to thicken, to throb along with the pulse between Jo’s legs.

  “Pull off,” he growled, and the woman did with a sound so wet it was obscene. She hummed, low and satisfied, like she’d just indulged in some delicious treat, and a jolt of hunger struck Jo.

  She sighed, just the quietest of sounds, but it was enough to be heard. The man’s head snapped up, his head orienting right in Jo’s direction, even as he exhaled harshly, thrusting into the woman’s cupped hands.

  Oh shit. Had he heard her? Could he see her? Did he know she was there? Spell broken, Jo pulled back farther into the closet. A single bead of icy sweat rolled down her spine.

  “See? I told you you’d feel better,” the woman purred, satisfaction thick in her voice. This puzzled Jo as well.

  The man had come. The woman had not. Why, then, did the woman seem so pleased?

  The man simply grunted. The unfamiliar slickness between Jo’s thighs and the buzzing in her head, the flush of her skin begged her to step from the closet, to get one more look at the shadowy figure who’d brought her senses to life. That, though, would be pure insanity, so she forced herself to stay crouched in her hiding place, her pulse thrumming through her veins.

  She listened, trying to slow her breath, as the man zipped himself up. Listened as the pair exited the room, the door closing heavily behind them, and then listened to the silence left in the room as she absorbed the fact that she was alone.

  “Jesus.” Cautiously, Jo pushed off the wall, stepping softly onto the thick, luxe carpeting of the hotel room. Part of her thought—hoped?—wildly that the man might still be here. He was gone, though—of course he was gone. She was left alone with the vague sense that it had all been a very dirty dream.

  And, of course, t
hat suddenly pressing need to fill the aching space between her legs. That was new. Actually, it was old—so old it was new again.

  Throwing her head back, she huffed out a laugh at her own expense. She was a disaster.

  Against her hip, her phone buzzed. Since the romper had no pockets and no back, the only place she’d been able to tuck her phone was under the elastic waist of her panties. She pulled it out, frowning when she saw a message from Beth.

  Ford says he’s sorry. He didn’t know.

  Well, that was clear as mud. Shrugging it off, Jo replaced her phone, took a cleansing breath and left the room. She held her breath as she walked down the empty, elegant hall, still half expecting to see the couple who had just awakened her slumbering carnal appetite.

  She didn’t see them. Of course she didn’t, and even if she had, how would she have known?

  What is wrong with me?

  Descending the ornate staircase, Jo made a beeline for the bar. She both needed and, she thought, deserved a drink—something a little stronger than the cheerful glasses of sparkling wine that were still being circled.

  Standing on her toes, she leaned against the polished dark wood of the lobby bar, trying to catch the bartender’s attention. The gray-haired, heavily mustached server didn’t even spare her a glance.

  Meg was way better at this. Then again, Jo thought as she looked down at her rather flat chest, Meg had a little more to work with.

  “Scotch on the rocks with a twist.” The voice came from behind her. Jo turned as irritation snaked over her skin—she was here first, and also, that was her drink.

  Slapping a palm down on the counter, she angled her chin up as she pivoted on her fancy sandals. “Back of the line, buddy.”

  “I’ve been lots of things to you, Jo, but buddy was never one of them.”

  Jo whipped her head the rest of the way around so quickly that she felt a pinch in her neck. A roaring sound filled her ears as she found herself staring at a wide, hard chest, then up to broad shoulders. Tequila-gold skin started at the neck, covering chiseled features that were set off with night-black hair and eyes just as dark.

  “Hi, Jo.”

  Her mouth fell open. She must have looked like she’d gone simple, staring up at him like she’d never seen a man before. Though it was true enough that she hadn’t seen this particular man for quite some time—years, in fact.

  “Theo,” she managed, her tongue thick and cottony in her mouth. She’d always known he would come back, had known it right down to the marrow of her bones. And yet of all the ways she’d imagined that the reentry of Theo Lawrence into her life would go—and she’d dreamed up plenty—she’d never expected that she’d actually manage to smile and be charming. To hide her innate social awkwardness and show only what she wanted of herself, the way so many women seemed able to do.

  After all, this was the man who’d been like a part of her family. Who’d spent holidays with her family, who’d been her first kiss, her first love.

  Her first experience with the kind of pain that could tear a person in two.

  Drawing on every ounce of strength she had inside her, she turned back to the bar. She couldn’t deal with this without some liquid courage.

  When Theo snagged the drink from the bartender’s hand, she felt anger whip through her. When he handed her the heavy tumbler, ice clinking merrily against the glass walls, the anger evaporated into a dense cloud of confusion.

  “Scotch on the rocks with a twist, right?” He studied her with those coal-dark eyes, the ones that still haunted her dreams. “You never could stomach the hard stuff without a little ice.”

  The rage winked back to life. “Do you really think that remembering what I drink will make up for ditching out on life?”

  His smile dimmed, and Jo cursed internally. Damn it. Damn it. After that, how could she smile and pretend that she was doing just fine?

  “So that’s how it’s going to be.” He smiled at her, but the press of his lips was tight. Still, she was distracted by it—the way that full, beautiful mouth moved. She’d always thought of his mouth as his Latin-lover lips, inherited as they’d been from his gorgeous Latina mother.

  Well, she could look, but she was no longer interested in his lips, gorgeous or otherwise. Since she’d already blown the cool card, this was where she should scream. She should rage, pummel his chest with her fists. Flood the lobby of the hotel with angry tears.

  At eighteen, she would have. She still had a temper, but she was also no longer that young—or that innocent. It took enormous effort to reseal the bottle that contained everything she felt and had felt for Theo Lawrence, but she did it, shoving the cork back in until she could get somewhere alone, a safe place for that bottle to explode.

  Instead, she took a deep swallow of the drink he’d pressed into her hand, even though she resented that he’d been the one to procure it. Then she finally managed that civil smile, though it felt like pushing through a thick wall of cement.

  “You look well, Theo.” There, that was normal. No hint of weirdness there. “What brings you back to Boston?”

  For just the merest blink of an eye, she thought she saw something like confusion flicker through his stare. Then it was gone, and she was sure that she’d imagined it, because he turned the charm back on—and he still had plenty—showing her a flash of teeth against that delicious skin.

  “Business.” He didn’t elaborate; she didn’t ask. “And you’re still writing.”

  It wasn’t a question, and she resented the hell out of what he hadn’t said with that, with the drink. “You don’t know me anymore, Theo. Don’t presume that you do.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” She didn’t miss the hint of danger that snaked its way into his voice—he never had enjoyed being told that he was wrong. “For instance, I never would have pictured you as a voyeur.”

  Time crashed to a standstill. Jo’s fingers, suddenly sweaty, slipped on her drink, which would have crashed to the ground if Theo hadn’t caught it, setting it back down on the bar.

  “What did you say?” she finally gasped, her pulse stuttering before starting to throb double time. Her mouth was dry—she wanted her drink but didn’t trust herself to pick it up.

  “I think you heard me,” he replied mildly, gesturing to the bartender, who brought him a glass of something that looked like club soda. In some dim recesses of her brain, Jo noted that it was odd to see him drink something nonalcoholic in a party setting, but she couldn’t give the matter more than a passing thought.

  “I heard you,” she managed, narrowing her eyes. She tucked a strand of her loose hair behind her ear for something to do with her hands, and when his stare tracked her movement, it caused conflicting sensations to reverberate off one another inside her. “Explain.”

  “I know you were just in that room upstairs.” The way he was looking at her was like a dare. He knew—there was no sense in denying it. He knew she’d just watched him get sucked off.

  Of course, she hadn’t known it was him. Though really, it seemed like some part of her had. Hadn’t he always been the only person in existence able to arouse her? Just her fucking luck.

  “I was already in the room when you and your little friend decided to have a private party,” she replied tartly. Damn it, now she sounded like a jealous shrew when in fact she felt nothing of the sort. No, when she thought of what she’d seen, she got that sticky, sweet sensation between her thighs again—and knowing it was Theo was a new but not entirely unwelcome element. “I couldn’t exactly go anywhere while your dick was in her mouth.”

  “I suppose not,” he replied thoughtfully, looking at her over the rim of his glass. To avoid that stare, Jo looked up, down and around, but all she managed to do was note that he still wore a suit better than any man she’d ever met—and that even to her unskilled eye, the suit looked like it cost more than she made in a mon
th. “But you didn’t have to watch, either.”

  Jo cleared her throat. What the hell was she supposed to say to that? It was one hundred percent the truth. She’d gouge her eyeballs out with one of those little plastic cocktail swords, though, before she admitted to him what watching had done to her—for her.

  “How did you know it was me?” This seemed safe enough.

  His grin was both wry and the tiniest bit wolfish. Her pulse responded, even as her brain scolded it. “You still smell like cinnamon.”

  She’d never cared about makeup, but she’d always like to smell good, and she always had a little bottle of cinnamon essential oil on the go, ever since she was thirteen. That he remembered should maybe have been touching, but instead it brought out her caged fury yet again.

  “I’m surprised you noticed it. You were a little busy.” Her words were too loud, too sharp—social awkwardness was back in the room. But where lots of people would have recoiled, starting to look at her like she was a bit odd, Theo didn’t even seem to notice.

  Nor did he apologize, though Jo certainly didn’t expect him to—not for this. But neither did she expect what he said next.

  “Then I suppose my next question should be, did you like it?”

  Jo barely held back a strangled sigh. He was deliberately pushing her buttons, but for the life of her, she couldn’t understand why. Surely he didn’t think they were just going to pick up where they’d left off? Theo was a lot of things, but he’d never been crazy.

  She didn’t answer. He let the silence between them stretch and thicken.

  “Everything all right here?” Like a wave of fresh spring air, Beth appeared at Jo’s elbow. Gratefully, Jo tore her focus away from her ex to pay attention to her sister.

  Clad in a slinky little red dress, Beth looked like she’d never been sick a day in her life. The spaghetti straps and short hemline left her many tattoos on full display. The purple streaks in her dark hair should have clashed with the deep crimson of her dress, but instead they made her look effortlessly cool.

  On her other side, her fiancé, Ford Lassiter, was dressed in a suit that was probably even more expensive than Theo’s. He looked like he’d stepped out of an issue of some men’s business magazine. He definitely didn’t look like the kind of man who would be enamored of a woman who was a walking advertisement for a tattoo parlor—namely, her sister’s tattoo parlor—and yet somehow they worked.