Cityscape Affair Series: The Complete Box Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  I moved my hair off my clammy neck. The hem of my dress ghosted the tops of my tight-clad thighs. I didn’t have to look back to know he was still watching me. Staring at me. Goose bumps started a slow crawl over my skin, up my arms and legs.

  I knew I shouldn’t look again, but I started to raise my eyes just as Lucy linked her arm through mine. “It’s starting,” she said, pulling me away as the lobby lights pulsed. “Let’s go to our seats.”

  Bill found us in the auditorium, making his way down the row, apologizing when his elbow struck a woman in the back of the head.

  He took his seat, shifting to get comfortable. His long legs knocked against the seat in front of us, and its occupant turned to purse her lips.

  When she looked forward again, he shrugged and said under his breath, “I’m tall, sue me.”

  I suppressed a laugh.

  “So, are you familiar with the tale of Odette and Prince Siegfried?” he asked.

  I furrowed my brows, taking the Swan Lake program from him. “Yes. Are you?”

  He chuckled at my expression. “Of course. I, uh, probably never mentioned how my parents forced me to audition for the play in high school.” He rubbed his chin. “One more desperate attempt to round out my college applications.”

  “You danced in high school?” I asked.

  “Well, you already know my parents forced me to take ballroom lessons—but no, not ballet. The play was a modern-day retelling minus the ballet. Huge disaster. Plus, they changed it to a happy ending to appease the parents. I prefer the original.”

  “The tragedy?”

  “Yep.” As the conductor lifted his arms, Bill winked. “Just another love story gone wrong.”

  Before long, the stage was awhirl with white tulle, hard muscles, pretty and perfect pink slippers that curled and arched and lengthened unnaturally. Everything about the ballet appeared smooth and blemish-free, from the dancers to the patrons. The graceful precision was one thing, but the flawlessness of the performance awed me.

  Everything in life should be so clean.

  A bewitching Odette mournfully enthralled the crowd as her story unfolded. Why did it feel as if she focused on me?

  Like the black-haired man from earlier. With the memory of his dark and stirring gaze, the velvety red seat under my thighs suddenly pricked me. I couldn’t remember exactly what he looked like. Hard as I tried, the details of his face remained hazy—I could only feel him. I tried to sit still, but the heat in his stare enveloped me now. What had made him look at me that way? Like he’d been seconds away from tearing across the packed room and dragging me into a dark corner. Pushing me up against a wall. Shoving my dress around my hips and ripping through my tights.

  I gasped as I released the breath I’d been holding.

  He was probably somewhere close by. Maybe even watching me now. Was he also thinking about fucking a married stranger, shielded by elegant curtains with sophistication-reek? I turned my head over my shoulder just as the curtain fell for intermission. It took me a moment to catch my breath and clap along with the crowd.

  We spilled into the lobby as Lucy excitedly reviewed the first half. “I can’t believe my mother let me quit ballet when I was seven,” she said. “I could’ve been a star.”

  “You might be reaching with that one,” I said.

  She shook her head. “Can’t you just imagine me as a professional ballerina?”

  I laughed at her sincere expression.

  “Fine, don’t believe me.” She sighed, then perked up. “Should we hit the restroom?”

  “I need to touch up,” Gretchen said, nodding, then tapped her bottom lip with a pink manicured nail. “Then again, I also need wine, and there’s a line for both. We only have fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll get drinks,” I volunteered.

  Since Bill was entrenched in conversation with Andrew’s colleagues, I made my way through the crowd to the bar. As I waited to order, I pulled a lipstick from my clutch and popped open my compact.

  Ever so slowly, I glided Ruby Red on my parted mouth and smoothed my lips together. I drew away from the mirror to admire my work. I looked . . . poised. Perfectly coiffed hair, teased and styled into a long bob, floated just at my shoulders, every shiny, golden-brown lock cooperating. My eyeliner swelled over my almond-shaped eyes, winging at the corner. I’d chosen lipstick just the right shade of red to complement my emerald dress and my olive skin—not too rich, not too subtle.

  Everything looked just right.

  But that was the problem with perfection. The slightest tremble could send it all tumbling down. A sense I’d been experiencing more as of late.

  A bartender slipped a black cocktail napkin in front of me. “What can I get you?” he asked.

  I quickly dismissed my unease and snapped my compact closed. “Three glasses of your house chardonnay.”

  He nodded, turning away as I tossed the mirror in my handbag.

  “Chardonnay?” A deep, steady voice rumbled beside me, the single word rolling off his tongue. “Not what I would’ve chosen for you.”

  The din of the crowd faded as I looked up and met the same dark gaze from earlier that both pierced right through me and begged me closer. Only, the man’s eyes weren’t dark, but an indisputable light chestnut brown, intensified a thousand times by jet-black lashes and thick eyebrows.

  I drew a sharp breath at the magnitude of his beauty, the kind that turned heads. All I could do was stare back and ask, “Excuse me?”

  A woman trying to place her drink order bumped into me. I steadied myself on the bar but never broke the stranger’s gaze. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Hair blackest black, short and unruly but long enough to run my hands through. A naturally suntanned complexion, as if he regularly spent time outdoors. A freshly shaven, angular jawline that ended with a cleft chin, the only soft curve amongst otherwise chiseled features.

  The bartender’s voice cut into my consciousness as he set three glasses in front of me. “That’ll be twenty—”

  With an elbow on the counter, the man passed over cash without even glancing away from me. “Thank you.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but the bartender was already gone with the money.

  “Merlot,” the man in front of me said, tilting his head. “Or Malbec. Plump and dark, with a smoky finish.”

  As my mind raced to catch up, I resisted from touching my lips, suddenly aware of their color, grapes ripening on the vine. “That’s the wine you would’ve picked for me,” I figured.

  “Chardonnay isn’t complex enough.” He gave me a once-over as he added, “Maybe even something rich and flavorful like aged scotch.”

  There was nothing inappropriate about his words, but the way his voice deepened with the sexy clip of his voice, my insides quivered.

  He took the lipstick I’d forgotten I was holding, his fingers brushing mine. My nipples pebbled as he checked the bottom of the tube and glanced up at me. “Ruby Red,” he mused. “So, which are you?”

  “Which one what?” I asked.

  “Dry and goes down easy? Or full-bodied . . .” He wet his lips. “With an aftertaste that sticks on my tongue.”

  My heart beat in my stomach with his probing question. “You seem to think you already know the answer.”

  “Maybe it’s both. Chardonnay on the outside.” He moved a little closer. Something about the lean in his posture was intimate and easy, yet the space between us physically warmed, fire flickering under my skin. “But with those green-olive eyes of yours, easy isn’t the first word that comes to mind. Neither is dry.”

  If he kept this up, he’d be right about that—my body was already responding, the tender place between my legs pulsing as it grew wet. “Do I know you?” I asked. Something about him felt familiar, comfortable, as if our eye contact earlier had been equivalent to a first date, sweeping dull small talk out of the way and pushing us past formalities.

  “No.” Another man tried to get between us to order, but the god in f
ront of me moved closer, shooting him a dagger of a look I’d never seen. The intruder fell back into the crowd.

  Shit. Bill might be looking for me. Gretchen and Lucy would be here any second, on the hunt for their alcohol. I didn’t want them to find me here, entranced by another man, but I couldn’t tear myself away. “Are you sure we haven’t met?”

  He palmed the lipstick and said frankly, “I’d remember.”

  The thing was, I didn’t particularly like or dislike chardonnay. Bill had sounded so sophisticated ordering it for me on our first date, and I hadn’t really been much of a wine drinker before him. It was fine. Lucy and Gretchen both drank white wine most of the time, and it’d grown on me.

  Kind of the way Bill had. We’d worked in the same building and it’d taken him more than six months to ask me out. Even then, I’d said no. At first.

  “There you are,” came a woman’s lilting voice from behind the man.

  His expression closed a moment before he looked over his shoulder. “What—”

  The break in whatever spell he held over me allowed me to regain my sense. I picked up all three of my drinks and ducked away.

  I’d barely had time to exhale before I nearly collided with Bill. “Where are the girls?” he asked, taking a glass from me.

  Andrew appeared, boxing me in. “What do you think of the performance, Liv?”

  Bill took a sip before I could tell him the drink wasn’t for him.

  Gretchen appeared, taking the other glass. “Finally,” she said. “As much as I’m enjoying the battle of the bulges on stage, I can’t sit through an entire ballet sober.”

  Bill wrinkled his nose. “Battle of the what?”

  “Male dancers in tights,” Lucy said, a seasoned translator of Gretchen’s innuendo. She touched my elbow. “Are you okay?”

  “I . . .” I looked back toward the bar. The man’s eyes roamed over the head of the woman in front of him, scanning the crowd. I moved a little closer to Bill, hiding in his shadow, both spellbound and a little terrified by what I’d just felt.

  “Liv?” Lucy asked.

  I blinked a few times, trying to focus on my friend. “I’m sorry,” I said, offering her my wine. “Bill took yours.”

  “It’s okay.” She smiled warmly. “I don’t need it.”

  Sweet little Lucy wouldn’t admit if she did. She always made sure others were comfortable before her. “Please,” I said, pushing the wineglass into her hand. “The truth is . . . I really don’t like chardonnay anyway.”

  * * *

  The heavy door of our Lincoln Park apartment threatened to slam behind me, but at the last second, I caught the knob and eased it shut. With a yawn, I hung my coat, stepped out of my pumps, and peeled off my restrictive tights. In the next room, Bill flipped on the television while I sorted through the day’s mail, tossing half of it into the recycle bin.

  I found Bill in his boxers, already stripped of his suit and tie, on the brown polyester couch his mother had given us some years ago. Replays of tonight’s basketball game that he’d grudgingly missed flashed across the screen.

  After the ballet, we’d all gone out for dinner and drinks. Three dirty martinis and a smoldering, penetrating stare coursed through me.

  Flavorful, rich, complex.

  The man’s presence spread warmth from my neck down in a way I’d never experienced—and had told myself many times was impossible for me.

  Plump, dark, smoky.

  I stripped off my emerald-green dress in one sinuous motion and let it drop to the floor. When Bill didn’t look up, I shimmied over and settled myself onto his lap.

  “Hi,” I said in my sultriest voice. He righted a stray strand of my hair, glancing between the screen and me.

  I wet my lips and kissed him full on the mouth. I’d hummed with electricity since intermission, impatient to recapture that stranger’s invading eyes, to feel hungry hands all over me, to disappear into dark corners for inappropriate reasons.

  “Well, well,” Bill said when we broke. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “It’s late. Take me to bed.”

  His eyebrow rose, and his mouth popped open as if connected by an invisible string. He looked about to protest and then, in one move, stood and carried me to the bedroom.

  I fell back on the mattress. He caressed the outsides of my thighs, hovering over me.

  As his face dipped to meet mine, I shot up in a panic, forcing him to sit back. “Shit, wait,” I said. “I forgot to pick up condoms.”

  “It’s fine.”

  I frowned. “It is not fine. I told you I forgot to take a birth control pill last week. We need to be extra careful.”

  “Come on, babe.” He nuzzled my neck. “You’re not going to get pregnant because you missed one—”

  “I’m not taking the chance.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” He flopped onto his back, blowing out a breath. “There’s a condom in the drawer under the sink.”

  I shuffled to the bathroom and rifled through hairbands, bobby pins, deodorant, and eye drops until I uncovered a small foil packet.

  “What’re you doing in there?” he called. “I’m falling asleep.”

  “One second.” After checking the expiration date, I went and jumped onto the bed. “I’m sorry. Where were we?”

  Frown lines faded as he rolled over and propped himself above me. I touched his pecs, trailing my fingers down to a flat, slightly soft midsection. Goose bumps sprang to attention across his skin.

  “My, my, Mrs. Wilson,” he said. The designation always made me think of Bill’s mom, but I’d managed to control my grimace over the years. It remained one of the reasons I hadn’t given up my maiden name. “What big green eyes you have.” He touched his lips just above my cheekbone and brushed a lock from my forehead. “And such pretty blonde hair.”

  “Not blonde, just plain brown,” I said with a pout.

  “What?” He feigned surprise and ground his hips against me. “You must be colorblind. I see some blonde strands in there.”

  “Highlights fade.” I cocked my head to the side. “You just want to tell people you married a blonde.”

  “Agree to disagree then.” His smile creased his adorably crooked nose. He loved to say he’d broken it during one-on-one, but the truth was that despite getting hit in the face with a basketball once, the bridge of his nose had always been that way.

  He unhooked my bra swiftly and gently cupped my breast in one of his hands. I didn’t quite fill up his palm. The unmistakable sounds of a heated basketball game blared from the television.

  The motions were familiar. Over time, his touch had become defter, more confident, and his natural woodenness more fluid. He groaned my name as he pushed into me, pulling my hips closer. I echoed his movements, my arousal growing with his satisfaction. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, more apparent when his face screwed up with pleasure. He didn’t kiss me again, but I was fine with that. Make-out sessions were better suited to the adolescent and sexually frustrated.

  I inhaled his natural scent, enhanced by a salty concoction of shampoo and perspiration—it was always sharper when we made love. I gasped with a twinge between my legs, but it faded like a soft sigh on a breeze.

  It wasn’t long before he came, squeezing his eyes shut as he collapsed onto me.

  “Sorry,” he breathed after a moment. “Do you want—”

  “I’m good,” I reassured him, suddenly tired from the alcohol. “It was nice.”

  It took him less than two minutes to fall asleep—I knew because I often watched the clock as I waited. Untangling myself from his clutches, I tiptoed out of the room.

  Most nights, sex was quick, and that was fine. Not even a marathon session could get an orgasm out of me. It wasn’t that I didn’t get pleasure from our lovemaking—I did. Feeling physically connected to Bill wasn’t a problem; I just couldn’t climax with a partner. I’d never been able to with Bill or anyone else. And the harder he tried, the more self-conscious I got, wh
ich only frustrated him. When it came to sex, something inside me was fundamentally out of order.

  Once the apartment was dark and still, and I’d washed my face of the day, I returned to cocoon myself in our cotton sheets. Bill stirred, unconsciously reaching for me. When he and I had started dating, I’d had to learn to find the comfort in post-coital cuddling. I never passed out like him, so I was the one left with tingling limbs, hot breath in my hair, and sweaty skin as I tried to turn off my brain and sleep.

  Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood to play bedroom Twister, so after a few minutes, once he was out cold, I moved to my side of the bed.

  A twinge.

  It wasn’t much of anything. I rolled my head to the side, toward my husband. At one point he’d wanted my orgasm as much as I had, but it was the one thing I couldn’t give him. We’d experimented in the beginning, including with toys, but neither of us was comfortable with them. There were times when we’d been close, when stars and body parts had aligned, and I’d shuddered in response, climbing the mountain to the peak. But when it came time for the grand finale, I always buckled under the pressure. Every time.

  Bill had found comfort in the fact that it wasn’t just him—I’d been with other men, mostly in college—but I had yet to find peace in any of it. My incapacity to give Bill all of myself was my eternal flaw—and as a wife, my greatest inadequacy. If things were the other way around, could I live with the fact that I couldn’t pleasure Bill?

  I was happy, though. I knew how to get myself off when I was alone. And I had a husband who loved me. My life was pretty much as perfect as a night of good friends, evocative art, strong drinks, and satisfying sex.

  I lay in bed and watched the ceiling, waiting for sleep.

  And I reminded myself that yes—I was happy.

  2

  The pungency of self-tanner was an eye-stinging welcome at eight in the morning. The lingering scent meant I couldn’t be arriving to work that far behind my boss.

  As I passed through the reception area of Chicago Metropolitan Magazine’s fourteenth floor offices, Jenny waved at me from behind the front desk and put a call on hold. “Good morning,” she sang, lowering the phone receiver to her shoulder. “Know what I love more than Fridays?”