by Ava McKnight
When my climax ebbed and I could breathe easier, Mike slipped from the bed. I felt wonderfully relaxed, despite the fact I still wanted him inside me.
He ducked into my bathroom for a few minutes, then returned my vibrator to the drawer. As I slid under the covers, he scooped up his shirt and pulled it on. After slipping into his tan suede boots, he leaned down and kissed me on the forehead.
“Good thing my plumbing got fixed today,” he told me. “I’m in need of one hellaciously long, cold shower.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I had a very good time.” His lips brushed mine, then he murmured, “Sweet dreams, babe.”
He straightened and headed toward the door. He knew my boundaries. Respected them at the highest levels. I adored him for that.
“Wait,” I called out, surprising myself. And him too, by the look on his face as he glanced at me over his shoulder.
My fingers clenched the sheet at my chest as nervous anxiety skipped through me. But there was something to be said for true friendship that existed regardless of any other emotion or transcendence of mutual appreciation—at the heart of the matter, there had to be absolute truth between two people when they were this dedicated to their friendship. And whatever else they might be headed for.
So I simply said, “Stay.” It was what I wanted, in absolute truth, even if did scare the crap out of me.
Mike turned back to me and asked, “Are you sure?”
It crossed all kinds of lines, yes. Lines I’d drawn. But the vast amount of feelings he’d shared with me—and the fact this man could make me come repeatedly without asking anything of me, though I was more than willing to return the favor—sparked something inside me. I’d agreed to give us a chance. That meant I had to give something of myself. Sharing my personal space seemed to be an appropriate way to pay it forward, so to speak.
And, with all honesty, I really didn’t want him to go.
“I can handle it,” I told him, trying to reassure him as he’d done for me earlier in the evening.
He returned to the bed and said, “I’d love to stay. But you’re gonna have to put something on, or all my convictions will go to hell in a handbag. I only possess so much willpower when it comes to you.”
His grin made my toes curl. I said, “How about your shirt?”
He stripped it off and gave it to me. I held the material in both hands and lifted it to my nose, inhaling deeply. “Smells like you,” I said with a lusty sigh. “It’s perfect.”
I slipped into the tee as he removed his boots and socks and shucked his jeans. He left his briefs on and climbed into bed next to me. I snuggled close, not missing the tinge of fear creeping in on me.
I knew not to get too comfortable at this point in the game. We were still in the first quarter and had a lot at stake. But two things occurred to me. As Mike had already voiced, we had searing chemistry. In addition, physical intimacy came naturally to us. Not just of the sexual variety. There was an innate connection, which—from the moment we’d expanded the perimeter of our perceived limitations last night—seemed to have left us with the compulsion to touch each other. Be close to one another.
Obviously, I hadn’t shared this sort of intimacy with a man in three years. I instantly realized how much I missed it as Mike draped an arm over my shoulder and I rested my head on his chest. I hadn’t allowed myself this particular fantasy when it came to him. Granted, I’d had more than my fair share of erotic fantasies about him, but they never included afterglow and cuddling. Mostly because I’d never considered him the type to engage in anything warm and fuzzy following a heated romp between the sheets. Yet he seemed perfectly comfortable and content stretched out in my king-size bed.
He said, “You won’t mind or read anything into it if I leave early in the morning, will you?”
I smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “Weight-lifting with the guys Saturdays, Mondays and Wednesdays. I personally think you’re insane, but the results are phenomenal.”
“Glad you like what you see.”
And then some.
“I don’t mind,” I assured him. “Nor will I read anything into it.” He’d been outrageously forthcoming this evening. I truly did not believe he’d be looking to ditch me so quickly.
With a sigh, he said, “It’s too bad, really. I’d enjoy Saturday morning under the covers with you.”
“It’s a shame neither one of us can cook. Breakfast in bed would be nice.”
“I can flip pancakes on a griddle,” he told me. “If you can mix the batter. I always end up with lumps.”
I laughed. “Born and raised in Cheyenne and flipping hotcakes is the most you have to offer?”
“Actually, no,” he said in a contemplative tone. “I can barbecue. But the building association won’t let me put a grill on my patio. That’s why we eat out or order in so much.”
“Beats the hell out of grocery shopping and doing dishes, anyway. Besides, I need the storage space my unused oven offers. I unplugged it when I moved in and keep my computer paper and supplies in there.”
His low chuckle filled my quiet bedroom and I found it arousing. And comforting. “Clever. Thank God we like the same food. Makes ordering much easier.”
I considered his comment, thinking we had plenty of differences, but they all seemed inconsequential to me. I’d never minded that he propped his booted feet on my coffee table when I preferred it to be spic and span after dusting. I’d never had a problem with the fact he didn’t return the CDs or the DVDs to their proper slots on the shelves, just teased him about his need to brush up on the alphabet, because that was how I organized everything. And when he insisted dogs should always be the pet of choice over cats, I merely shrugged and said, “To each his own.”
I knew there were likely bigger inconsistencies between us, but after three years, we knew how to discuss politics without losing our tempers and we agreed on which TV station had the best newscast and which one had the worst weather reports. We were very much in-sync.
Quite possibly, that was what disturbed me the most about the change in our relationship. If I allowed myself, I could see us together.
Unfortunately, shaking off the old to embrace the new was not something that came easily to me.
As I mulled all of this over, his deep breathing brought a smile to my face. He’d drifted off to sleep.
I obsessed too much, I decided, when I should simply enjoy the moment.
So that’s what I did. I listened to Mike’s heartbeat and his light snoring and I reveled in our time together, praying it wouldn’t be brief.
Besides, it was inescapable that I’d overanalyze everything in the morning, when he went off to the gym. So while I could, why not take advantage of the comforting respite that enveloped me?
Chapter Six
Lacey Mansfield Attempts to Rock It Old School. News at Ten.
(Or Perhaps Tune Into the Morning News…)
Having unraveled so much of my confining binds led me to sleep in later than usual. When I woke, I felt refreshed and exuberant. A titillating and inviting change of pace.
After reluctantly shedding Mike’s shirt, showering and stepping into a yoga suit, I pulled open the front door on my way to the coffeehouse. But sitting on my welcome mat was a white bag with the shop’s logo on it. Grinning, I snatched the sack from the rug and carried it into the kitchen. I unpacked a large cup of plain, black coffee, still piping hot, and a bagel with cream cheese and lox.
I stared at the contents I’d removed from the bag and found it incredibly sweet and highly disarming that Mike knew exactly how I would have ordered breakfast this morning, were I the one who’d made the run to the coffeehouse. He, in turn, would prefer an ice-cold glass of milk and a bagel with ham, cheese and a fried egg.
Aside from off-the-charts chemistry, the details were what mattered most to me. Not just remembering my birthday or my favorite color. Mike knew those things, but he also knew what food I liked. He hadn’t had to ask
when ordering Chinese last night. Nor did he bother to add cream or sugar packets to this morning’s delivery, because he knew that, in my mind, nothing beat a steaming cup of unenhanced, no-frills, average joe.
Though Mike was obviously back from the gym, I didn’t want to disturb him. So I sent a quick “thank you” text to him, then popped the lid off the coffee and carried everything over to the table. I spread out the transcripts I’d brought home and waded through them as I devoured breakfast. By early evening, I’d only made it through half the stack of papers, but I had divided out some of the transcripts, setting aside curious emails that needed to be linked together in order to tell a more accurate story.
I knocked off in time to primp and dress before catching a cab to Velage, arriving right on time. There was a line at the door and I wondered how I’d even get into the popular venue, not having any personal clout or even a reservation. Plenty of people before me were turned away. I didn’t have Biel’s number, but she had my card. Hopefully, she’d give me a jingle if I didn’t make the grade with the hostess.
When I stepped up to her podium, I announced, “I’m meeting Biel McKinley,” and felt ridiculous for saying so. Who would ever believe me?
Sure enough, the twenty-something waif sized me up. In a haughty tone, she asked, “And you are?”
“Lacey Mansfield.”
She consulted the open reservation book lying flat on her stand and then gave a quick nod. “Come with me,” she said in a more congenial tone, since my name was “on the list”.
Ah, I’d not been publicly humiliated with roaring laughter over having claimed I was supposed to be here with a supermodel. Thank God. And Biel.
I followed the hostess into the chic nightclub that was decorated in pewter and silver with crisp white linen on the tables and dozens of candles glowing seductively, providing the majority of light. The atmosphere was elegant and warm, yet still edgy enough to be trendy. In a far corner by one of the bars, the hostess sat me at a large table elevated along the back wall and accompanied by a curving, plush, charcoal-gray sofa that created a semicircle big enough for six or seven people.
“Miss McKinley hasn’t arrived yet,” I was informed. The hostess shifted her attention from me and called out to a waitress, “Maxine, VIP! Miss Mansfield.” Then she turned sharply on her mile-high heels and sauntered off.
Many pairs of eyes were on me and I felt like the meek lamb who’d mistakenly wandered into the lion’s den.
I set aside my small clutch as Maxine swooped in. “Hi there. What can I get for you, Miss Mansfield?”
I was tempted to say cosmo, but knew Mike was right. Too cliché. So I jumped off the cliff with a very confident tone. “Gibson, please. And Lacey is fine.” Formality was never the order of the day for me.
My drink request was met with a blank expression from the server, who I pegged to be nineteen or twenty. “I’m sorry?”
With a sigh, I said, “It’s a gin and vermouth martini with a pearl onion.”
“Hmm. I’ll see if we have that.” She smiled politely, then made a beeline for the bartender.
Should have stuck with the cosmo…
While I waited for Biel to arrive and wondered what she considered fashionably late, the bartender shook up my cocktail with a smile and delivered it personally to me.
“No one orders a Gibson anymore,” he said in a friendly, though somewhat delicate voice as he set the martini glass lavished with three tiny, speared onions balancing across the rim in front of me. “But I keep stocking pickled onions every week, regardless.”
“You’re a fan?”
He nodded emphatically. “My dad used to drink them and he was terribly classy. You obviously have exceptional taste. Love the suit. Very Ingrid Bergman. Or is it Lauren Bacall I’m thinking of?”
“Bacall. She had a great figure for suits. Always looked so sharp.”
“You do too.” He flashed me an appreciative grin, though I suspected he was gay. Even having been subjected to numerous Bacall movies, Mike would never think to compare me to a Hollywood icon who wore suits. He’d no doubt prefer it if he could relate me to lingerie model.
“Well, enjoy your drink,” the bartender said. “And let me know when you need another one. I’m George.”
“Thanks, George.”
As he returned to his station behind the bar, I ventured a sip of my Gibson. The martini was excellent and the onions lent a subtle, yet somehow tantalizing taste to the cocktail when I dropped them into the glass. I adventurously bit into one and found the slight tartness a nice contrast to the alcohol and the onion flavor was mild and complementary to the drink.
Way to go, Mike.
Just thinking of him made me smile.
“Oh thank God you’re not grumpy because I’m late.” Biel’s distinctive voice nabbed my attention. She slipped gracefully into the booth at the end opposite me and let out a long breath. “So sorry. Piper and I had this huge fight and I was, like, ‘Why are you doing this to me after such a horrific evening at the Montlimiere?’ She was totally beside herself and said, ‘I saw how you looked at Lacey at the launch, before I left for my other appointment. And then you got off on her watching us in the studio. What the hell?’.”
Biel waved her hand in the air in what seemed to be a typical fashion for her. Continuing on, she said, “So I’m not allowed to look at other women? God forbid I find someone else attractive? I mean, it’s not like I asked you to join us this afternoon!”
I nearly spewed Gibson. This drew Biel’s gaze to my drink.
“What is that?” she asked as she shifted on the seat and scooted around the semicircle to sit right next to me.
“Gibson,” I told her as my eyes watered from having almost snorted gin through my nose. “Martini with pearl onions.”
“Huh.” She studied my glass, then asked, “You mind?”
“No, go ahead.”
She took a sip and perked right up. “Oh that’s tasty!”
Maxine appeared suddenly and Biel ordered a round for us both. Two women at a regular table on the level lower than ours eyed us curiously and whispered indiscreetly. Biel smiled at them and wiggled her long fingers in a little wave.
Lifting my glass to them, she said, “It’s a Gibson.”
Catching Maxine before she made her way to the bar, Biel called out, “Two more, please, for these lovely ladies.”
I stared at her, astonished. “They were just gossiping about you.”
“I know.” She tossed back her dark auburn hair and settled more comfortably in the seat. “The men who watch me walk by are much more blatant—but nothing terribly offensive is really going through their minds except ‘nice tits’ or ‘tight ass’ or ‘damn, I’d love to bang her’. The women, however… They’re all looking for something to criticize that makes them feel better about their own bodies.”
“Well, sure. You’re perfect.”
“No, I am not,” she insisted. “Believe me. But it’s like that scene in Eyes Wide Shut, you know, with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman?”
I nodded. “I’ve seen it.”
“Okay, so Nicole is in the bathroom getting ready for a party or something and she’s just in her underwear and she’s absolutely lovely. Flawless. And you really want to hate her for it.”
“I’ve experienced that feeling a time or two,” I deadpanned.
Ignoring my comment and my sardonic tone, Biel said, “Well, then the camera pans over her body and you see this tiny dimple in her ass—and what’s the first thing that goes through every woman’s mind? ‘Oh my God! Nicole Kidman has cellulite! Hallelujah, she’s just like the rest of us!’ And they tell all their friends and the men in their lives and that makes them feel better.”
She paused as Maxine delivered drinks. Once again, she raised her glass to the two women at the other table and said “Cheers!” in her vibrant tone, then returned to her conspiratorial diatribe.
“So they’re just hoping they find something about me to ma
ke a claim about what a bitch I am or how I don’t look nearly as good in person as I do on TV or in magazines. Someone must airbrush me or some such thing.”
“In other words, you don’t give them a reason to feel inferior around you.” Like the eye contact at the launch. There hadn’t been a hint of snobbery in her eyes, just confidence and maybe a twinkle of delight she was fortunate enough to be Biel McKinley. And once she’d made that eye contact with me, hadn’t I wanted to save her from public humiliation?
Hmm. Smart cookie, she was.
“Well, I’m not a bitch,” she said with conviction.
“Doesn’t the scrutiny make you crazy?”
She laughed. “Are you kidding? I’ve been modeling since I was seven. There’s absolutely no escaping public attention or criticism. You learn to live with it.”
Biel had a healthy outlook on the microscope under which she lived, but it also seemed she garnered life lessons from movies too, suggesting she was intuitive and perceptive.
“So, you’ve never considered leaving the industry?” I’d wondered about that the other night, when I’d been curious if the Montlimiere disaster was a way for Biel to get out of the business.
But she said, “Hell, no. I love being the center of attention.” She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I passed magazine stands and never saw my face on a cover again.”
“And what about Piper?” I had to ask. “Does she mind sharing you with the masses?”
“No, not that masses,” she said. “Piper loves the limelight too. In fact, that’s why I was so thrown by her rant this afternoon. We’d weathered the debacle at the product launch, so it was a complete surprise for her to go off on me today. She gets jealous and insecure so easily.”
Biel reached for her drink and took a deep sip. Then she let out a long sigh and said, “She broke up with me.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted with a shrug. “I mean, this isn’t the first time. She broke up with me a year ago over something so stupid I can’t even recall what it was. And then she did it again about six months later, because I wouldn’t wear the diamond ring she gave me on my left hand. How idiotic is that? We’re committed to each other and who cares which hand I wear the ring on?”