by Eden Bradley
“No, I like it.” And I do.
He smiles, nods, and I sip my drink, enjoying the heat of it going down my throat. Enjoying talking with him. He really is an incredibly good guy, which makes me yearn for him all the more in some perverse way. Perverse for a woman like me, anyway.
“So, you became a businessman at an early age,” I prompt him, wanting to understand him, his life.
He nods. “Real estate. Dad had been prepping me since I was a kid, and I was already studying business in college, so I wasn't completely unprepared. It was rough for a while, but now it's just… my life. I even enjoy my work sometimes, which is more than most people can say.”
“And your sister? Are you close with her?”
He pauses for a moment, his gaze wandering, as though he's really thinking about his answer. “In a strange way, we are. Even though she has a tendency to drive me crazy. Classic little-sister syndrome. And she hates that I'm always telling her what to do. Classic big brother syndrome.” He flashes a quick, devastating grin at me and I go hot all over. “She's always been spoiled. By my parents. By me, to be honest. Lanie's an unbelievable bundle of energy. Luckily she lives in D.C. with her husband; she's his problem now. He's a great guy; I know he takes good care of her. But I miss her. I don't get to see her enough.”
So sweet, the way he talks about his family. His affection for them shines through everything he says.
“It must be lovely to be close to your family.”
“You're not close with yours?”
“No.”
“Do they live in L.A.?”
“My mother is still here, but my father … I honestly don't know. That sounds pathetic …”
“No, it doesn't.”
I shrug. “I never really knew him, anyway. He wasn't a part of my life even when he was around, so there's nothing to miss.”
“And your mother?”
“We're … estranged.”
I'm sorry.
“No, don't be. It's fine. Fine.”
Don't think about her now. Don't let her ruin this evening.
“So I guess that means you grew up here in L.A.?”
I nod, take a sip of my drink. “In the Valley.”
He smiles at me. “A real California girl.”
“I suppose. Although my childhood wasn't beach parties and surfing. In the Valley we rode bikes, skateboards, roller-skated. But there were a few kids in the neighborhood who had pools. My girlfriends and I used to slather ourselves in suntan lotion, close our eyes and breathe in that coconut scent, and pretend we were at the beach … Isn't that funny, how kids think?”
In my mind I can see the sparkling blue of the water in the neighbor's pool, smell that scent of chlorine and wet cement, along with the suntan lotion.
“That doesn't sound like a bad life, even if you weren't at the beach.”
“No. It doesn't sound like a bad life.”
Suddenly I remember being about twelve, coming home from one of those pool parties to find my mother passed out on the sofa, her dropped cigarette burning a hole in the cushion. I remember standing there and staring, watching the hole smolder, grow. The sharp odor of burning fabric, smoke filling the room. I remember how utterly sick I felt. Even worse that when I poured a whole pitcher of water on the fire to put it out, she never woke up. And she never said anything about it, as though that hole wasn't there. She just flipped the cushion over.
I look away, tightening my fingers around the stem of my glass.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I turn back to him. “You're a very nice man, Joshua. You really are, you know.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, and the heat is there, enveloping me, my hand, my entire body. And I can't seem to sort it all out—the heat of him, my response, the strange thoughts going through my mind. Thoughts about how lovely it would be to do this, to date this wonderful man. To have a normal life.
There is nothing normal about your life.
No, there's not.
I want to pull my hand back. I start to, but he hangs on to it.
“Am I doing something wrong, Valentine?” he asks me, his voice low.
“What? No. Of course not. I'm just… out of practice.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I haven't dated in quite a while.”
“I haven't, either.”
“It sounds as though you work an awful lot,” I say, trying to change the subject. My hand is burning in his.
“I do, but that's not it. To be honest, I broke up with a woman a while ago, and I've been hiding away ever since.”
“Ah. You were in love with her.”
“That's the sad part. I'm not sure I ever was.”
I look up at him. His eyes are shadowed, unreadable. He pours another glass of sake and drinks. “Anyway, it was what it was. I needed to be on my own for a while. Needed to figure a few things out.”
“And have you?”
“I like to think so. I'm more clear on what I want.” He's smiling at me again. Such a dazzling smile, those strong, white teeth.
I know what I want. I want to kiss him. Need to kiss him.
I haven't kissed a man on the mouth in years. We don't do that, we working girls.
I don't want to think about that now. All I want to think about is him. I want to continue with this little charade, pretending to myself that I can have him.
“And what about you?” he asks. “You said you haven't been dating. Is there a reason why?”
I pause, bite my lip. What can I possibly say? And why do I want to tell him the truth, all of it? It's not about being self-destructive. I just want to. But of course that's impossible.
“Not that it's any of my business,” he continues. “I know that. But I'm curious. You're welcome to tell me to go to hell, if you like.”
One corner of his mouth is cocked in a small, crooked grin, and it is irresistible. He is irresistible.
“I just… Dating is not a successful venture for me. It never has been.” I shrug my shoulders, feel them loosen up. “I can't seem to get it. All the rules, the posturing. I wish the whole dating thing was more honest. I don't understand why people feel they have to lie to each other.”
Isn't that what you're doing now?
Yes, but in some way, I'm being more honest with him right now than I have with anyone in a very long time. Other than Enzo, no one really has any idea of what goes on in my head. Not even Regan and Rosalyn, my only real friends, and frankly, I'm not too sure how real they are. A part of me is always hidden away behind the walls I've spent my life constructing. We talk about clothes, shopping, celebrity gossip, my girlfriends and I. Nothing any deeper. This is more truth than I've spoken in years. It's freeing, as clichéd as that may sound. And it's addictive. I want to tell him more.
Get yourself under control.
“I don't get that part, either,” he says. “The games. All that shit—and pardon my language, but it is shit—about not calling a woman for three days, a week.”
“Exactly. And you don't have to worry about language with me. There was plenty of it in the house I grew up in. I'm used to it.”
Damn it. I'm saying too much. But he hasn't noticed.
“I'm going to be honest with you, Valentine.” My hand is still resting in his, and he uses both his hands to turn mine over. He strokes my open palm with his thumbs, and I am shivering immediately with lust. Drenched. Aching. “You are the most beautiful and fascinating woman I've ever met. I know you're holding something back from me. But I find it intriguing. I don't mind that little bit of mystery.”
I'm nearly blushing now; another first in this decade. When I look up into his eyes they are steady, unblinking. Beautiful, his long, dark lashes.
“Tell me about your life, Valentine. Whatever you want to tell me. You decide.”
I nod my head. He understands me, in some strange way. And he's incredibly kind. I don't know what to think of him, this impossible man. Like somet
hing I dreamed up.
If only I could fuck him and get off like I do with my clients. But I don't want to think about that part now, that part which will mean an end to this lovely dream. By tomorrow I will have to wake up and understand it's over.
If that's the case, what does it matter if I let him in a little? My mind is reeling with the idea.
“I don't know where to start,” I tell him.
“Start with what you like, what interests you.”
I pause, thinking. My brain is whirling.
“I always loved going to school, from the time I was a kid, and later, in college. I took classes on every subject. I never earned a degree. I just… learned.”
He leans in closer. “What were your favorite classes?”
“History. Sociology. Cultural anthropology. If you put them all together, it's like a picture of the world. Of people.”
“I loved my sociology classes, too. And psychology. It all seems like such a long time ago, now. But it's come in handy in my business. Knowing how people tick. Or some of it, at least. People are a mystery to me on a lot of levels, which I find interesting. Fascinating.”
He pauses, takes a sip of his drink. The ice cubes rattle in his glass as he sets it back down on the table. His lower lip is left a bit damp, and it's all I can do not to reach out and taste that droplet of fine sake, just lick it off with my tongue.
“It's like a window letting you inside,” he goes on, “having these odd bits of knowledge. Being made to dissect the way we all think, how we function, what makes us do whatever it is we do.”
“Yes, exactly. But I thought you went to school for a business degree.”
“I did. But I had other interests. I was young, and I'm sure my dad saw it as lack of focus. But the world was too varied. I didn't want to do any one thing forever.”
“And now you've been running the family business forever,” I say quietly, then immediately regret it. It seems cruel of me to point that out.
He nods. “Yes.” He's quiet a moment, then, “When we're young the world is one big possibility. But then we have to grow up and face reality. This is my reality.”
“I never had that,” I tell him, realizing suddenly how true it is. “I never felt that sense of endless opportunity. I envy you.”
“What did you want to be? When you were a kid? When you were in college?”
I shake my head. “I don't really know. I don't remember ever having any dreams for myself. It never occurred to me. Even now, recently, I've been taking art history courses just because I love art. There's no definitive end, no plan.”
A knot is rising in my chest. This is hitting too close to home.
“I remember we talked art at the opera the other night. But where did it all lead you, Valentine? Do you have a job, a career? I've just realized I don't know that about you.”
“I day trade from home,” I tell him, which isn't a lie, exactly. I've spent the last several years learning about the stock market and I dabble a bit, enough to make some extra cash. It was Louis who taught me. And it's my standard answer. But he doesn't have to know any of that.
I feel a little sick to my stomach.
“Ah, you're a risk-taker,” he says, smiling at me.
I'm not sure if being a call girl for the last nine years qualifies as being a risk-taker. I am as stuck in my job as any nine-to-five corporate hack, if for very different reasons.
I shrug, take a sip of my drink. “Maybe. I do like the thrill of it, the idea of losing all my money, but it's really all a big fake for me. I tend to play it fairly safe.”
“I'm surprised.” His tone lowers and he leans in a little closer, until I can smell the subtle fragrance of his cologne. That wood and citrus scent that filters into my body, finds an empty place right between my thighs, and I swear it strokes me, teases me. “You strike me more as an adventurer,” he says.
There is something distinctly sexual going on in the wicked gleam in his eyes. In the way he is stroking my palm again, in slow circles. The same way his tongue might dance around my clit. Oh, yes, something sexual in my response to his scent, his voice, his touch. The tone of our conversation has shifted with a hard, grinding lurch. I can't help but go loose all over, hot and melting. I manage to smile at him. Actually, I can't help it. My mouth is suddenly not my own. I am about to do something entirely foolish.
I drop my voice. “In certain arenas, yes, I can be very adventurous.”
His slow smile spreads. God, his teeth are so strong and beautiful. The need to kiss him, to feel his tongue in my mouth, is nearly overwhelming. I squeeze my thighs together. I'm throbbing, hurting with the need for him to touch me.
He lets my hand go, pulling away slowly, inch by excruciating inch, like a long caress, his eyes never leaving mine. He clears his throat. “I think I need another drink.”
He motions to the waitress, orders for both of us while I try to pull myself together. But I am buzzing all over, lust as sharp as knife blades in my sex, my hardened nipples, on my skin. I want him too badly. Too much to handle, and I am about to blow it.
You cannot have this.
I need this. Need him.
God.
“I'm sorry. Please excuse me. I'll… I'll be back.” I grab my purse and rush downstairs to the ladies' room.
I ignore the attendant, a dark-eyed woman pointing out the perfume and breath mints on the counter, and push my way into the marble-lined stall, slamming the door behind me. My breath is coming in rough pants. I yank up the hem of my dress and press the heel of my hand over my aching mound. My silk panties are soaked. When I slip my fingers under that damp edge, into my cleft, I am as wet as the ocean, slick, needy.
I am absolutely burning. And my fingers are rough as I massage my engorged clitoris. Harder and faster. I need this, need some release, even knowing I won't find it. Dropping my purse on the floor, I slip two fingers inside, pumping, thrusting, searching for my G-spot. I gasp when I find it. Joshua's scent is all over me. His face in front of my closed eyes.
Yes.
I tilt my hips, spread my legs, plunge deeper.
Yes, just fuck me, please …
Pressing harder, I circle my clit. I am so damn wet, so full of need, I'm going to explode.
Joshua.
Fuck me, please. Please, please, please … let me come. Make me come with your beautiful hands.
And I begin to, that lovely keen edge like a bomb about to go off. And just as quickly, it fizzles into nothing.
God damn it!
I slump against the door with a small sob.
What am I doing here? This is insane. I'm insane.
Joshua.
What is he thinking, left alone in the bar while I masturbate in the ladies' room?
I sit down and pee, get up and stand for a few moments in the stall while I catch my breath. Lust is a hard ache between my thighs still. Unsated. But it's not as if I expected anything more.
Finally, I go out to the lounge area, wash my hands, brush my hair, spray a little perfume on my neck, touch up my lipstick. I tip the dark-eyed attendant when she hands me a paper towel. But it's another minute or two before I can go back upstairs, face him.
He smiles at me when I get back to our table, sliding my drink across the smooth surface toward me. My body surges with lust, a powerful tide. I could drown in this. And I understand now how dangerous this is. How close I am to doing something I'll regret. And drinking more is not going to help. I'm barely hanging on to any sense of control as it is.
“Joshua, I'm not feeling very well. I should go.” I hate lying to him. I feel too damn good, need desperately to feel better. To come.
Oh, God.
“I'm sorry. What can I do? Do you need me to drive you home?”
I shake my head. “No. Thank you. It's … just a headache. I'll be fine.”
No you won't.
“Let me ask the waitress for some aspirin.”
“No. That's not necessary. I just need to go home.
”
I don't mean to sound so cold, it just comes out that way.
“Of course.”
That easy sense of intimacy is gone, or at least diminished, and it's my fault. But I can't go there with him, can I? Better to cut it off now.
He is all gentlemanly manners, walking me out with a hand at my waist, which I have to grit my teeth against. He gives the parking valet my ticket, insists on tipping him, then hands me into my car. I am so relieved that he is no longer touching me. And empty. Yearning.
“Call me, Valentine. I want to see you again. Hell, I'd like to see you tomorrow.”
He is too gorgeous in the silvery moonlight, the amber glow coming through the windows of the restaurant. His eyes are dark and mysterious, his smile sincere, his lips unbelievably lush. My sex gives a sharp squeeze.
Just go, get home.
“I'll… I'll give you a call,” I say, having no intention of doing so. “Thank you for the drink.”
“It was my pleasure.”
He reaches into the car, caresses my shoulder lightly, his hand whispering over my skin. I shiver. I want to take him home with me, feel that touch all over my body, fuck him in my bed all night.
You know what you have to do.
It's my heart that gives a hard squeeze now. I really like him.
Fuck.
“Joshua, I have to go.”
“Yes, of course.” His hand slips over my shoulder, down my arm. If I turn my head he will kiss me. I don't do it. Instead, I nod, give him a quick, pale, sideways smile, and shift my car, pull away.
When I glance in the rearview mirror, he is standing there watching me.
I feel as though I've survived some sort of test, and I am exhausted. But is this really any sort of triumph? Or am I nothing more than a coward?
Chapter Four
AT HOME I GO immediately to my bedroom, kick my shoes off, tear my dress over my head. My bra comes next, and I fling it onto the bed. I'm angry. Horny. In need. And not all of it is physical, which is even worse. As if the lust ravaging my system isn't hard enough to deal with.