by Poppy Dunne
“How heroic.” She takes another drink, and eyes the waiter. He goes to get another from the bartender without having to be told. This is the most intuitive dinner of all time. Everyone’s getting a thousand dollar tip tonight.
“My turn. These rules of yours?” I hand the sheet back to her. “What’s the story behind them?”
“What makes you think there’s a story?” Dahlia loses the smile pretty damn quick.
“You’re a beautiful woman who specializes in dating, but you’re not yet married. Beautiful, intelligent, successful, knowledgeable about relationships, but single? Something’s not right.” I know how to break a problem apart, isolate the key elements, and find the solution. Dahlia Rossi having no major attachment makes little sense to my calculating mind. But then again, if she’d been with someone I’d never have gotten the chance to rent out all of the Boat House for the evening, and where would the fun be then?
“Maybe for the same reason you don’t have anything steady yet?” She cups her face in her hand and cocks an eyebrow. “Handsome, intelligent, mega successful, devastatingly good in bed, but single? Why is it there clearly has to be something wrong with me, but not you?” Her eyes dart nervously across the table; I’m not getting the full story, but I know she’s got a point.
“Well. You’ve got me there.” Double standards are not terribly hot, but devastatingly good in bed? My favorite appendage is stirring at the thought of another round. Maybe outside, beneath the stars, after I slaughter that hideous swan that’s now strutting past the window again and hissing at me.
I see you, motherfucker. But right now, this woman makes me forget all my homicidal Cygnus leanings.
“And I didn’t have some terrible break up or anything like that to send me down the Ms. Lonelyhearts path.” Dahlia takes another sip of martini, and eyes the dinner menu. If she goes for oysters, she’s my kind of woman. “I never really found the right match. That’s all. But I’ll know him when I see him.”
“And I’m not him, I’m guessing?”
She gives a coy little smile, but it isn’t hard to interpret as ‘you know you want me.’ Which I do. “I’ll know it instantly. When you meet the right person, it’s a connection. Like.” She snaps her fingers. “Boom. Done. Every successfully married couple I’ve spoken with says the same thing.”
“I thought we had a pretty strong, forceful connection at the Carlyle.” I take another drink, never tearing my eyes from hers. Dahlia doesn’t give in. She doesn’t get intimidated. In fact, I feel her foot slide right up the side of my leg again, under the table. Now I’m at full mast, ladies and gentlemen. When the waiter comes by again, I have to bend over and pretend I like reading the menu when it’s in my lap.
After they take our order—she wanted oysters—we get back to what’s most important: flirtation, and my raging hard-on.
“We did have a very strong connection. Very aggressive.” She shrugs, wrinkling her nose. “But that’s just lust.”
“Lust can’t be a little fun?” I slide my hand along her smooth leg, rucking up her skirt a bit. Dahlia shifts a little, but doesn’t lodge my hand off her knee. Good. It likes the place it’s found. Very comfortable. Maybe it’ll buy a house on this exact spot and take out a mortgage.
This is going a little far, so I’ll stop.
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Her dark eyes glint in the candlelight. I tighten my grip a little, and she responds with a gasp, her lips parted.
Is it rude to have sex on top of your dinner? My mother used to have a book of Emily Post’s guide to manners, which warned against that sort of thing. Then again, Dad kept a ton of Playboys out in the garage, so I feel mingling the two is an homage to how I was raised.
The oysters are laid out in front of us, the ice gleaming, the lemon wedges all…lemon. I don’t get poetic about food. Not my style. But watching Dahlia expertly add a little sauce and a squirt of citrus before swallowing said oyster, her eyes closed as she luxuriates…that I could wax poetic about.
I’ll become the Alfred, Lord Tennyson of watching Dahlia Rossi eat, only without the title and the stupid beard.
“Oysters are an aphrodisiac,” I say, helping myself. Dahlia chases hers with another sip of martini.
“Do you really need the help?” She bats her lashes as I lean forward and graze my fingers up the length of her leg. I trace the expanse of her thigh, and her eyes go saucer wide. Careful, Jack. You don’t want to go too far too fast. Except you do, but you’d rather not get sued.
“Do I need the help?” I ask, keeping my voice low. She bites her bottom lip.
“Or does the help need you?” She blinks. “Yeah, I should wait on another martini before I get some more meat into me. Food. Food that can be meat based or not. I do what I want.”
“I’m sure you do.” The combination of sultry looks and fast-running mouth are a deadly combination in this woman. I move back a little, and return to my drink. Dahlia glances out the window, and frowns.
“Is that swan…watching us?”
“Forget it,” I nearly growl. All I know is I want this woman more than I can remember wanting anyone or anything. No one, no man or woman or bird is getting in my way tonight.
8
Dahlia
“Hold still. This could sting a little.” I pull the antiseptic wipes out of my handy first aid kit, tear the foil, and wash the cuts on Jack’s hand. He takes a hissed intake of breath and winces, but he’s being a good soldier. “I’ve never seen anything that amazing before.” I’m in awe of this man, truly, even as he leans against my bathroom counter with his disheveled hair, a few white feathers sticking out of it. “You probably saved my life.”
“Park ranger said he’d never seen a swan go rogue before,” Jack says darkly. “The bastard could have drowned us both.”
If you’ve never seen a billionaire punch an attacking swan in the face before, then you have never lived my life. You might be better off for it, true, but still. Imagine us, both with a couple of cocktails and glasses of wine apiece, coming out of the Central Park Boathouse with a full moon above and ever-increasing arousal down below. We came together by the lake, Jack pulling me close, my arms sliding around his neck, our lips meeting, and then…swan time.
After Jack chased the waddling bastard away and we met up with the rangers, we got into Jack’s car and whisked ourselves back to my place. I don’t think Jack’s been to Astoria since his baby start-up days. Hey, no better place for a late night stop off than the Neptune Diner. And my apartment’s adorable, if I say so myself.
Now I’m tending to the billionaire’s wounds while still wobbling around in my heels. I’m not knock down, drag out drunk, but I’m pleasantly tipsy. Which is only making the swan feathers in his hair even more arousing. He’s like a dashing were-swan.
Then again, maybe that’s a paranormal romance best left to others.
“Does that sting?” I ask, finally adding a band-aid or two. Jack stands, pressing me against the wall. Instantly, my hormones go on full raging alert, and I want to start climbing him. But no. Be classy. Wait to initiate sex once out of the bathroom. Be a lady.
“If it does, how do you make it up to me?” A smile tugs at his lips, and he pulls me against him. My oh my, the gentleman is ready to go. I lean up, just brushing my lips against his, making him growl. That’s a lovely sound. Then, I push him away lightly and sashay into the kitchen. Yes, I have the hips built for sashaying. I use what I’ve got, folks.
“Chamomile tea? That’s just the thing for trauma. It’ll put you right to sleep.” I fill up the kettle—which is shaped like a rooster, yes, and I call him Roosevelt, so don’t judge. As Roosevelt boils away, I pull out a couple of mugs and the tea bags. Jack seats himself at my kitchen table, which is not the most elegant furniture of all time. It’s a card table, true, but I’ve used it for some killer nights of Texas Hold ‘Em.
Jack takes a sip once I’ve poured for him. He nods. “Not bad. Could use a little honey.”
“Regul
ar peon honey, or rich people honey?”
“Oh, the richest. I insist on hand-rearing the bees then squeezing their individual asses for every last overpriced drop.”
“I’m pretty sure the honey comes from the bee’s mouth, not the behind. I remember that in, er, bee class in college.” I actually was into the natural sciences back at Vassar. But dealing with human beings was simply too much fun to be ignored.
“You know more about bees than any woman I have ever dated. That is a turn on.” Jack winks as he takes another sip of his tea. He’s being a perfect gentleman right now, but I can see the daring, naughty, bad boy part of him just peeking out below the surface. I don’t know when the dangerous, wild element is going to come into play. For the first time in a long time, it’s fun not knowing something. “While we sedate ourselves with herbal tea, tell me more about your business. Do you really send email updates to your clients every morning?”
Okay, I know that sounds funky, but it’s really not. At least, I don’t think it is. Once a person becomes a client, part of the package is that I check in with them every single day. When was the last date? How did it go? What signs was he giving you? Have you followed the checklist? I also ask them to record progress in an online diary, and I send my little helpful ‘daily tips’ as well. They’re individually tailored for each client, and they’re up to three little ideas on what to do and how to do it. ‘Be sure to wear your hair the way he said he liked it’, ‘Don’t forget to look into his hobbies’, etc. That kind of thing.
You don’t get to a happy ever after without working at it every single day.
“Daily emails are part of the deluxe package.” I stare into my mug, wishing I hadn’t brought out my old Garfield cup with ‘I Hate Mondays’ on it. At least I gave Jack my Calvin and Hobbes mug. Nothing like a philosophical ten year old and his anthropomorphized stuffed tiger to let a man know you are both intellectual and fun to be around.
I think I need more hobbies. Anyway.
“What if you didn’t send the emails?” He leans forward, his gaze raking me over from head to toe, assessing me. “Take one day off. Send every client an email that only says something like ‘make today what you want it to be.’”
I almost scoff in his face. “Because that’s some hippie way to go about finding love?”
“Didn’t it work for the hippies? I thought their time was all about love.” Jack smirks.
“And the divorce rates have skyrocketed. There’s a recipe for love that people should follow. I know the recipe.” I fold my arms very primly, if I may say so. Again, the idea of disorder—of chaos—makes me seize up a little bit. Fortunately, Jack lets the subject drop.
“Well, I like a woman who knows her own mind.” Jack drains his mug, sets it in the sink, then holds out a hand for me. “I also don’t think that tea worked. I’m more awake than ever.”
“Oh?” I get to my feet with his help (because I’m still a tiny bit wobbly) and brush up against him as I take care of the dishes. He’s stationed directly behind me, rubbing up against me in a way that sends a deep thrill through my body. I push back against him, earning a little low sound of desire. He puts his lips to my ear.
“They say chamomile is—”
“An aphrodisiac?” What isn’t an aphrodisiac tonight?
“—useful for psoriasis, but aphrodisiac sounds sexier.” He presses his lips to my neck as his hands rove up my body, tracing the swell of my breasts. I grind back against him again, finding him hard and waiting. I gasp as his hand slips down the front of my dress, sliding beneath my lace bra to find my breast. He fingers my nipple, which grows hard and peaked beneath his touch. “I didn’t get the full tour of the apartment.” His teeth graze my earlobe, making me bite my lip. Don’t want to let him know how unbelievably turned on I am already. He’ll get an ego.
And we wouldn’t want that, would we?
“Well, you’ve seen the bathroom and the kitchen. What else could possibly interest you?” I turn around, kissing him, tasting the strange combination of chamomile tea and masculine…masculinity. I never claimed to be a wordsmith. What I am is horny as hell. He squeezes my ass, trailing his fingers down my thigh. I hike my leg up around his waist, pressing him against me…and sending me against the drawers, but who cares? If we make passionate love on the linoleum, so much the better.
“Is wanting to see the bedroom not adventurous enough for you?”
“That’s a little too safe. The roof’s a little too too much. Step into my parlor.” Said the spider to the billionaire. I pull away, making him clutch the edge of the counter. His hair’s more mussed than usual, frustration and desire written in his eyes. He prowls after me—yes, I’m using prowl deliberately. He’s like a suit-wearing puma.
My living room’s a little offshoot of the kitchen, with an exposed brick wall that I decorated with strings of Christmas lights and vintage license plates. Dad’s a car nut, and they’re a good conversation starter. Only right now, we’re a bit beyond talking. When Jack grabs me, I nearly start climbing him. His mouth’s hot on mine, his hands roaming and eager. I pull us down onto the futon, which buckles a little. By a little, I mean we nearly go shooting through the center, and there’s a loud, wooden snap. Jack pauses on top of me, my fingers in his hair, my skirt up around my hips.
“Are we good?” I whisper.
“So long as that wasn’t my dick breaking, we’re golden.” Jack sits us both up, and eases off the futon. “Better not put too much weight on it.” His eyes gleam, and a very bad, very delicious smile spreads over his face. That’s as he’s spreading my eager legs further apart, indicating I should stay right where I am. Fine by me, sir.
I’m breathless as he hooks a finger under my panties and slides them down, down. I help, kicking them off and narrowly missing getting Jack in the face. He grabs my legs, holds me still, and kisses my knee, up my thigh…all the way up my thigh…
I gasp as Jack pulls me closer to the edge of the futon, and gazes up at me. His eyes are blue fire, and every muscle below my waist tightens with excitement. I’ve had many men look at me with lust in their eyes, but never anything this all-consuming, this full of passion. He kisses me, his tongue thrusting against mine as he fists my hair, pulling my head back. We taste each other, and his hand slides down to circle around my clit. I moan, shuddering, already close to the edge.
“What do you want?” he whispers, each word a kiss on my lips.
“I want your mouth on me.”
He bites my bottom lip, teasingly, then kneels back down. Again, he trails kisses up my thigh, my skin sensitive and electric. I run my hands through his hair as I feel his breath, hot against my sex. Gasping, I wriggle my hips, desperate to have his tongue on me, but he stops me again and holds me in place.
He licks me once, a hot, sweet line up my cunt before he laps playfully at my clit. I spasm, right on the brink. He seems to know it and stops, tracing his tongue down to my opening and thrusting inside once, then twice. Deeper and deeper.
Holy fucking hell, it’s amazing.
He licks back up to my clit, and slides one finger into me with ease, pumping with a slow and steady rhythm. Whimpering, I grind against his finger, against his tongue. My pussy clamps down on his fingers as he inserts a second, his movement picking up speed. He sucks my clit up into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it and tugging. I buck, digging my fingernails into his shoulders. He starts a little in surprise, but doesn’t let up. He looks up at me and catches me staring down at him. “You taste amazing,” he says, hoarse. My whole body is electric as he removes his fingers and thrusts his tongue inside me again, deep as he can go, before tracing languid, teasing circles around my clit. I think this is what it feels like to explode. I’m nearly there.
“Jack,” I gasp, my voice high and breathy. “Please don’t stop.”
He stops, the bastard, as if knowing that this is the crucial moment. It makes me almost scream—every nerve is on fire with pleasure. My whole body vibrates as he l
aps one more time, his hands gripping my thighs.
He stops once more, gazing up at me. “You’re fucking magnificent.”
“Please. Please make me come.” My voice is shaking.
He obliges, thrusting his fingers inside of me, circling my clit with his tongue, finding the perfect rhythm, the perfect spot.. My stomach tightens, all the muscles in my legs going rigid. He probes me, holds me tight, and the pressure builds and builds inside of me.
I come, throwing my head back and screaming, my hands fisted in his hair, the world disappearing in a haze until it slowly comes back into focus. Jack wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me, letting me taste myself on his lips. He pulls me forward, so that I slide off the couch and into his lap. I writhe against him, rubbing against him. He’s straining against me, hard and ready for action.
“This is going to show off some great skill.” He slips a condom out of his pocket, rips the foil with his teeth, all while my hands fumble at his belt. It doesn’t matter that I just had another flawless orgasm; I need this man inside of me. I’m wet and aching for him. A moment later and he’s in my hand, hot and throbbing. I tease him, running my hand down his shaft and back up, squeezing the tip of his cock. He hisses in my ear, lifting me away to sheathe himself. Then I bring myself down slowly, running him along the seam of my pussy. He grunts, trying to force me down onto him, but I take my time. He made me wait, didn’t he? A little torture deserves some reciprocity.
“You’re the devil,” he says, grinning. He knows what I’m doing.
“I mean, I didn’t wear the red dress for nothing.” Slowly, I sink down, shifting my hips back and forth. He’s stationed just below me, and I thrust my hips a little, beginning to take him inside before I pull away again. Jack groans, pulling at the shoulder of my dress. He unzips the back, then pulls the straps of my bra down as well. He kisses my breasts as I reach down to pump him again, flicking his tongue across my left nipple, then my right. He takes my breast into his mouth, then pulls me closer to graze his teeth along my bare shoulder. Fuck, my skin is so sensitive that my nerves practically sing.