That Sexy Stranger

by Nadia Lee

  “R.C. Miller.”

  “What do you write?” I ask, leaning toward him. Just in case this is some R.C. Miller who writes cozy mysteries. Writers can have similar names. It is possible.

  Luke grins. “Thrillers.”

  I gasp, then bounce a little bit because…hot damn. “Oh my God! You are the R.C. Miller? Like, you seriously wrote Free Radicals?”

  He nods.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because. I didn’t want to prejudice you against my latest book and have you one-star it.”

  I flush. Yeah. I was pretty irritated with him back then. But I’m confident I’m big enough not to rate a book badly due to personal feelings about the author. “But later? I could’ve told everyone I’m dating my favorite author.”

  “Yeah, that’s another reason.”

  I tilt my head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I didn’t want you to say yes because I’m your favorite author. It’d be like a guy saying he wants to go out with you because you developed his favorite app.”

  Huh. Now that he put it that way, it does feel vaguely…off-putting…like a poopy diaper.

  “I wanted you to say yes because you like me.”

  “Worry not. I would date you even if you weren’t my favorite author.”

  He smiles. “I know. Now.”

  “But…” Then I remember something and stop. “Aren’t you married?”

  “What?”

  “Your author bio said you were married. With kids.” The only reason why I’m not jumping out of my skin is because there’s a possibility the bio’s outdated. Hey, shit happens. People don’t always update their website or their Facebook pages…

  “I’m not. It’s a lie.”

  “Why would you lie about something like that?” I almost had a heart attack.

  “Got tired of stalkerish behavior from certain female fans. Thought it might discourage them.”

  “Huh.” That makes sense. I’d probably do the same if I were in a similar situation.

  “And R.C. Miller is a fake persona. I don’t even manage the social media accounts for that name. My assistant does.” His belly grumbles.

  Mine does too, and we laugh. “Let’s get dressed,” I say. “I’ll feed you.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Luke apparently forgot all about my promise to treat him on our second date. Lucky for him, I haven’t.

  “You know we can go someplace more expensive,” I say as we walk into Carlos’s. “Like the sushi restaurant. Actually, you should pick something like that, so you can get your money’s worth.”

  He laughs. “But I want to check out the Mexican restaurant from your Instagram. You post pictures every Monday.”

  “Almost every Monday.” When it’s a family holiday—like Christmas—I don’t go. Mom would kill me—after disowning me.

  The host greets me by name and takes us to my favorite booth in the back. Since it’s still before six, the place isn’t too busy. Our server brings water and a couple of the huge menus, plus two laminated drink lists and specials.

  “So what’s the main attraction here?” Luke says without bothering to open the menu.

  “Mexican Monday or Margarita Monday, depending on who asks. They have margaritas for only five bucks. And nachos. I love nachos. I could eat ’em for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” And I probably should. I run every day anyway.

  “Okay, other than nachos, what do you recommend?”

  “Everything’s great. Try their surf and turf fajitas.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I order nachos for dinner, and we both get margaritas. Me because I love them, and Luke because he wants to try one. Our drinks arrive almost immediately, but then, Carlos’s is known for its quick bartenders.

  As soon as we clink glasses, my phone buzzes. I check it just in case it’s work-related. Just because Tim didn’t give me overtime tasks doesn’t mean nothing can go wrong on the weekend. Still, I hope it’s not work, because I really, really don’t want to cut this evening short. I’m entitled to a nice, uninterrupted dinner with Luke.

  It’s a group text from Jan.

  –Jan: When you coming home? I brought you a souvenir.

  –Michelle: No time soon. I saw her drag Luke out of the party.

  I roll my eyes.

  –Sammi: Hahaha. I’m actually having a very civilized dinner with Luke.

  –Michelle: I presume you already had a very civilized fuck with him?

  –Jan: I thought it was supposed to be animalistic.

  –Sammi: It was civilized and respectful and filthy. Did I mention filthy? Rated XXXXXXXX? Now I have to go back to dinner to keep my strength up. Thank you, Jan, for the gift. Congrats again, and love you to pieces. And Michelle, I’m going to create a dating profile for you as soon as I get some free time so you, too, can have a civilized fuck.

  Then I turn off my phone and drop it in my purse.

  “What’s that?”

  “Not a persistent ex.” Let’s hope Gerald somehow broke all his fingers. And fingernails. Or better yet, he got some kind of gamma radiation that rendered him unable to use touch screens. Now that’s a superpower I can get behind. “And my phone’s off.”

  “I heard from Tim you guys are always on call.”

  “He can call someone else today.” Then I wrinkle my nose. “Actually, I’ll check my messages after dinner. Although I’m sure the only thing I’m going to get is static from Jan and Michelle.” I take a quick sip of the margarita. I’ll wager Jan won’t bug me for the rest of the evening—she’s going to be busy screwing Matt. But Michelle? Well. She has lots of free time. Hence my offer to create a dating profile for her.

  “I’m sorry you had to leave the party early,” he says.

  “I’m not. It led to a lot of fun.”

  He goes on as though I haven’t spoken. “I should’ve known my parents would be there. Mom’s close to Alexandra.”

  “I’m glad you were there. You saved me from…” I swallow the rest of the sentence. Maybe Luke knows about his creeptastic dad, but it’s one thing to know, another to have it pointed out. He couldn’t choose his dad. So instead, I end, “…feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Sorry for yourself? How come?”

  “Well. Jan got it right on her first try.” I cringe almost immediately. Saying it out loud makes me sound petty and stupid. Ugh.

  No, self. No. Put a filter between your mouth and your brain. You could’ve picked any topic but this. You could’ve even said you felt sorry for yourself because Michelle has bigger breasts.

  That sounds a helluva lot more reasonable and rational.

  Thankfully, our server shows up with the food, interrupting the flow of conversation. I grab a chip piled high with melted cheese and browned ground beef and shove the whole thing into my mouth.

  “Most people don’t get it right on their first try,” Luke says, then concentrates on building a fajita.

  Guess he’s not going to let it go. But I didn’t make it clear I wanted to end this topic. Well. I can’t end it now, because it would leave the wrong impression.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for Jan.” There. That should clear things up. “It’s just…” I shrug. “I’m being silly. I’m moody in winter. I should probably go someplace warm and sunny for a week to cheer myself up.”

  “You like fairytales, don’t you?”

  “I guess…? I read a few, like any kid, and even watched some as an adult because Michelle likes them so much.” If it had been left up to my brothers, I would’ve never known about Cinderella. Or Sleeping Beauty.

  “So you know about the frog prince.”

  “Sure.”

  “That story did a lot of damage to women.”

  Huh? “Why?”

  “You know what the subliminal lesson is.”

  “That you have to kiss a bunch of frogs to find your prince?”

  He shakes his head. “Just the opposite. You only need to kiss one
frog. It sets false expectations.”

  “I don’t think that’s the way…”

  “How many frogs does the princess kiss in the story?”

  I frown. It’s been a while since I read it. I’m pretty sure she had suitors. I mean, she’s a princess. A single, eligible princess. Probably hot, too. I don’t think fairytales do ugly princesses.

  “One,” Luke says.

  “One?”

  “Google it if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you.”

  “So the tale says that if you don’t get your prince after one try, you should give up.”

  “That is so not the moral of the story.”

  “But that’s the way it’s written. It doesn’t teach you to persevere.”

  “Then tell me this. How many frogs are we supposed to kiss?”

  “As many as it takes, obviously. Until you find a guy who loves you inside and out.”

  He offers me a shrimp I’ve been eyeing on his plate. I accept it because I can’t not accept grilled shrimp.

  He continues, “Don’t feel bad. Women aren’t the only ones who have to kiss a few gross things. Men kiss snakes.”

  I almost choke on the shrimp. “You lie!” I protest on behalf of the female half of the population. “Women cannot be snakes.” I shudder. “We have limbs.”

  “You’re right.” He sounds immeasurably gracious. Which makes me instantly suspicious.

  “We have to kiss lizards.”

  I laugh. “Lizards?”

  “Lizards are more than fair. Lizards and frogs both have limbs. At least lizards are fashionably svelte.” He polishes off his tortilla-wrapped steak and seafood. “So don’t feel depressed about the situation. Jan’s Jan. You’re you. And honestly, I think you’re more interesting than any other woman I know.”

  Warmth spreads through me even as I arch an eyebrow. A few of my exes said the same thing, although when I asked why, they gave me lame explanations. Like how I’m a programmer, which is unusual for a woman. Or how I’m fun to be around. What will Luke say?

  I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin in my hand. “In what way?”

  “You say what you mean, and you do what you say.”

  I blink, unsure what to make of that. Of all the things he could say, that one never crossed my mind. “Not my gorgeous ass or legs?”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle with suppressed laughter. “See? No games, no false modesty for my raven girl.”

  My cheeks flush at the easy, natural way he says “my.” I used to hate it when my dates got possessive. I thought it was because they mostly sounded idiotic. Sort of like a beta gorilla thumping its chest. But now I realize that wasn’t the case at all. I never liked it because I never wanted to claim them as “mine” in return.

  Maybe things are moving too fast. I haven’t known Luke for very long, I haven’t dug into his background the way I usually do, and we just had our second date. But my heart says he’s the one. And I’m not one to argue with my feelings.

  “What?” Luke says when I continue to stare at him without saying anything. “Is there something on my face?”

  I shake my head and throw a few bills on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Luke trails his mouth down my spine, leaving hot, wet kisses behind. I tingle all over, and I’m already wet between my legs—again.

  I gather all my willpower.

  “I have to go.” My voice is a little breathless despite my firm resolve. I blame Luke for being a steak, and myself for having been a hamburger eater.

  “It’s only six thirty,” he murmurs against the small of my back. “And Sunday.”

  Heat spreads through me, leaving me restless. He’s already figured out all my sensitive spots.

  “Yeah… But I have to run.” The desire unfurling inside me has leached my voice of all conviction, and my protest ends on a squeak as he bites my butt cheek.

  “Seriously? This isn’t enough cardio for you?” He licks the spot. “Come on. I’ll let you be on top this time.”

  I laugh breathlessly, then moan when his nimble fingers dip between my legs. God, it’s so, so tempting. And he’s right. It’s early and Sunday. Maybe I can delay my run. Just a little bit. “You’re worse than the snake with the forbidden fruit.”

  “If you kiss me, I’ll turn into a prince,” he whispers, his breath hot on the sensitive skin behind my knee.

  “Half an hour,” I moan into my pillow.

  He wicked laughter shakes the mattress.

  Despite his promise, he doesn’t let me be on top, the sneaky bastard. And he doesn’t go for a quickie. Instead, he uses the time to wring one orgasm after another out of me, his mouth, fingers and that gorgeous body all working together to drive me insane, one stroke at a time. Every cell I have is lax and drained, but somehow humming at the same time. I vaguely notice his gaze flick to the bedside table, then he swiftly wraps himself in a condom and pushes into me.

  I’m so swollen and sensitive, I cry out in delirium. “No… I think I’m done,” I say in a pant.

  “You’re nowhere close to finished.”

  He pulls back, then drives into me again, his pace relentless. Sweat slickens my skin, and my heart beats and lungs burn as though I’ve been running for hours. Luke doesn’t just keep up; he surpasses me. And he isn’t going to find his release until I find mine.

  I’m so primed that it only takes a soft, slick caress over my clit for me to scream his name as another orgasm rocks me. He finally climaxes, his strong hands on my hips.

  When my breathing finally settles, I open an eye and glance at the radio clock. “Forty minutes,” I groan.

  “I came exactly at the thirty-minute mark,” Luke says, his smirk entirely too self-satisfied.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” I huff, then burrow under the blanket. “I need to get up and get going.”

  He strokes my back with his fingertips. “It’s really cold outside.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “This bed’s really warm…”

  “It is indeed.” I snuggle closer because everyone deserves a moment of “Do I have to get up? Pleeeeeaaaaase?” before dragging themselves out of bed.

  “I don’t have anything to do today,” he says, pulling me closer.

  I’ll bet he doesn’t.

  “Your heart rate definitely hit the fat-burning zone.”

  More like the “oh my God, oh my God, I’m coming again” zone. “That’s not why I run.” I stifle a yawn. “You’re lucky I don’t need a lot of sleep. Otherwise I’d be grumpier than a homeless hermit crab.”

  I force myself up, and my gaze lands on the heap of clothes on the floor. Sadly, I didn’t pack my overnight bag because I didn’t know Luke would be back in town…or that I’d be spending the night at his place. I almost never spend the night at anybody’s place. I get up and grab my phone.

  “What are you doing?” Luke asks.

  “Calling Uber. Need a ride home so I can change.”

  “Give me a minute.” He climbs out of bed, totally shameless as he parades around naked, but then, why should he be ashamed when he has a physique like that? The way his lean, defined muscles move is art. “I’ll drive you.”

  “Really? You don’t have to.” I throw his words back at him: “The bed’s warm, and it’s cold outside.”

  Smiling, he kisses me on the forehead. “Might be warm, but it doesn’t have you in it anymore.”

  By the time I’ve finished in the bathroom, put on the clothes from yesterday, and gone downstairs, Luke’s already in the kitchen, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. I sniff. “Coffee,” I whisper reverently.

  He hands me a travel mug. “I wasn’t sure how you like it, but there’s some cream and sugar.”

  “Your research didn’t tell you?” I tease.

  “Alas, no.”

  “Thanks.” I dump a bunch of sugar into the brew and sip. Ahh. Coffee, the elixir of almost al
l that is great in life, how I love thee. I should be awake by the time I’m ready to run.

  Luke takes a cup for himself. “You know, you could skip a day. I’ll make it worth your while.” He waggles his eyebrows, shooting me a lascivious look.

  I sigh. “I’d love to, but…nope.” Before he can speak, I add, “I’ve never felt this conflicted about my morning run, though, so don’t say a word to tempt me or I’m going to start calling you Sauron.”

  “Why Sauron?”

  “Because he’s evil. Created the ring to tempt good.”

  “Don’t have the ring…but I do have the cock.”

  “One cock to rule them all…?”

  “Who said anything about ‘them all’?” He gives me a sweet look. “One woman is enough.”

  My cheeks grow warm, and my lips twitch in a beginning of a grin. “Maybe later.”

  He smirks, then leads me to his car. Outside, it is indeed chilly. I shiver. I can never get used to the winter morning temperatures.

  “Why do you have to run?” he asks, opening the passenger door.

  “Because it’s fun,” I answer out of reflex. It’s what I tell everyone who asks, but then I pause. Luke isn’t like everyone, and I don’t want to give him a pat response. “Well, really it’s to remind myself not to put things off.”

  He quirks an eyebrow.

  When he’s behind the wheel and has started the engine, I continue after taking another big swallow of the coffee. “I was pretty good in school. Even in subjects I didn’t like, I could do okay by cramming the day before a test. Of course, I promptly forgot all the stuff I crammed, but who cares, right? It’s a bad habit, and I learned that the hard way when I got to college and couldn’t recall anything from trig class.”

  “Why did that matter?”

  I sigh at the memory. “Because I was in calculus. So I had to struggle to reteach myself trig.” I shudder. That was about as pleasant as hymen that won’t stay torn. “Trigonometry is still my least favorite math, mainly because my teacher was an idiot who shouldn’t have been teaching anything beyond pre-algebra, but also because of how I approached it.”

  “Okay. But how does that relate to running?”

  “If I hadn’t been cramming, I would’ve remembered enough to get by in calculus. I mean, no matter how much I hated trigonometry or how legit terrible my teacher was. Anyway, that’s when I decided to start an activity I couldn’t cheat on, and I chose running. You can’t cram for a race. If you miss four days of one-hour workouts, you can’t run five hours on the fifth day and make up for it. It reminds me to keep things honest and not to put off whatever tasks need to be done that day.”