“Even if you already acted the gentleman by saving me from making a fool of myself in there?”
He smiles at me and God, that smile is lethal. “Just doing what anyone would have done.”
“I doubt it. It’s more likely that anyone would have filmed it and uploaded it on to the net.”
His lips twitch. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m a tad different, then.”
“If your mama taught you to treat a lady kindly, then didn’t she tell you it’s impolite to fail to introduce yourself?” Oh, dear God, I’m being coy.
What. The. Fuck?
“Zane Matthews, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.” He almost salutes. “And shouldn’t a good southern lady like yourself also do me the honor of an introduction?”
“You can take the girl out of Georgia but not the drawl.” Chuckling, I smile up at him. “It’s still there, even though I left a long time ago. I’m Simone. Simone Barranquet.”
“Creole?”
“No. My father has some Spanish blood in him. It goes a long way back, though.”
“What finds you in the Big Apple?”
“What teen doesn’t dream of the city that never sleeps? Especially one tucked away in a backwater?” I shrug, but throw the question back at him. “And you? My twang is still there, just, but yours is thicker than grits. You here on vacation?”
“You could say that. It’s a working vacation.”
“A working vacation?” I ask, curious. “What kind?”
“I’m a writer. I’m on the PR trail.”
“A writer? That’s awesome. What do you write?”
He shrugs and for the first time, I can see he’s been knocked out of his self-assurance. “This and that.”
“Tell me. I’d like to know. The minute the bookstores open, I’ll go and buy one of your books. Then I can show my friends and say, this is the guy who saved my butt.”
“I’d appreciate the boost in sales, but really, it’s not necessary.” He takes a sip of his beer as though that’s the last he has to say on that matter, and that sup just finalizes it.
Ha. As if.
“Please. I’d like to know.”
Now, his smile’s odd. A quirk of the lips that holds no amusement, not exactly embarrassment but discomfort more than anything else.
With a jerk of his shoulder that says ‘what the hell’, he mutters, “This last book is called Devil May Have.”
“And you write under Zane Matthews? You don’t have a pseudonym?”
He shakes his head and, once again, looks mighty uncomfortable.
“I’ll look forward to buying it.”
Licking my lips, I take a sip of my cranberry juice and with this man at my side, begin to enjoy the sultry heat of a New York night. Perfumed with Zane’s aftershave, it’s even hotter. My senses feel alive. I feel alive and for the first time in a long while, I’ve been driven out of my apathy.
I’m not being bigheaded when I say that I can feel his eyes on the movement of my tongue as it tries to catch a lingering drop of juice on my lips.
That his awareness of me is as augmented as mine is of him, fills me with relief. This attraction isn’t lopsided. Phew.
I let my own gaze drift up to his and whisper, “How long are you here for?”
“A few months.”
“Then you go back down south?”
Another shake of the head. “No. I live up north now. Near Maine.”
“We’re real traitors to our Confederate ancestors, aren’t we?”
“Yes, ma’am. But it suits me. My family and I, we don’t get on all that well.”
As soon as he utters the words, I can tell he’s surprised that he mentioned it. Rather than pounce on something he hadn’t meant to say, I ask, “How come you’re here for so long?”
“I have other business too.”
That he’s here for a prolonged stay shouldn’t make me feel so urgent. It’s not like he’s leaving tomorrow and I might never see him again. If I play my cards right, invite him out for a meal tomorrow, then maybe he can, if he has an opening in his schedule.
But somehow, I do feel urgent. It’s riding me like I want to ride him.
The thought makes me flush and I know that he can see my reaction. It doesn’t embarrass me, if anything, it encourages me. Gives me the courage I need to ask, “Are you hungry?”
I’d have liked to tag on, for me? But my courage doesn’t take me that far.
He nods at the question and as silent as it was, I know he’s answered the voiceless addendum too. There’s a heat in his gaze, a shimmering light that tells me I’m not alone in this peculiar need I feel for him. He shares it and that gives me such a rush, I feel as though I’ve just leapt out of a plane and am skydiving toward the ground.
“Would you like to go for something to eat?”
“I’d like that.” The rippling melody of his voice is raked with gravel and every part of me reacts to the sound. I don’t think there’s one part of me that isn’t turned on by this man.
“You would?” I’m almost embarrassed by the squeak of my voice, but hell, when faced with a man who makes male models look butt ugly and who would like to go on a spur-of-the-minute date, I think anyone would be shocked. Especially when I’m not model material.
“Yes.”
“I’ll just let my friends know. Otherwise they’ll worry.” Rather than battle my way through the dancing crowds again, I dig out my cell phone from my purse and send a text.
Going to eat with sex god. Will call later. Wish me luck.
Two seconds later, before I even have the chance to put my phone away, the receiver beeps:
Aren’t you glad we made you wear THAT dress? Go get laid. Love you. E & M.
They’re not wrong. I’m super relieved that I’m wearing the dress I am. Earlier on, when I’d come out of my bedroom dressed in a shirtwaist dress and low heels, they’d frog-marched me into my room and forced me to wear an outfit that had been moldering away in the back of my closet since last year’s Black Friday sales. Marina had bought it for me as a gift, knowing that I couldn’t justify the cost of a dress into my budget. She’d guilt-tripped me into wearing it tonight. Using crocodile tears to get me into the wispy bit o’nothing that revealed more than it hid.
Fortunately, I’ve lost weight since Thanksgiving. It seems that worrying about paying bills does have its advantages.
Sighing at the thought, I brush it away and congratulate myself for having trimmed down. The dress that had only just fit, now sits nicely on my shape. It’s amazing the difference a couple of pounds can make. The waist cutouts no longer have blobs of fat popping out of them, but display peeps of porcelain flesh, which seem even paler against the burnt orange of the silk blend. It cups my hips and thighs, the curve of my behind as well as my breasts. It’s a simple dress, pencil skirt, boat-neckline. The only decoration comes from those bared expanses of flesh.
To say I’m relieved I’m wearing this dress is like a mountain climber being content at reaching Everest’s summit.
I might just kiss Marina the next time I see her.
“So, is there anything in particular you want to eat?” Zane asks me, as I slip my phone back into my clutch purse.
I would love to say something risqué, but let’s face it, Rome was not built in a day. I need to take this nice and slow. This is the first time I’ve ever come on to someone. In the past, my dates have all asked me. Few those occasions might have been, but that doesn’t change the fact that tonight, I’ve shown more guts than I have in a long time.
“I’d be happy with a sandwich.”
Zane’s smile is wicked incarnate as he turns to me and says in an exaggerated drawl, “Y’all might be from Georgia, but I’m a Louisiana boy. Are there any places hereabouts that do justice to a Po’boy?”
Amused, I wink up at him. As soon as I make the gesture, I wonder what the hell is going on with me, but I quickly reject the thought and tell him, “Yeah. I know just the place.”
“Then lead me there, ma’am.”
He raises his arm for me to rest my hand on his wrist and I comply, settling my palm on the bony joint. The gesture’s so old fashioned that I feel swept away into bygone days. But I’m no lady. I left behind my family’s dictates: I swear and curse and sweat. The mortal sin of southern belles. Tonight can be my charade and I’ll make the most out of it.
He makes the move to set off, but I dig my fingers into his wrist and say, “I’ll take you there on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Okay. I lied. Two conditions. Firstly, my mama is the ma’am in my family. Just call me Mona, everyone else does. Secondly, I’m buying.”
His grimace makes me smile. “You’re making me go against the teachings of my mama, Mona. You wouldn’t want me to get a slug around the ear next time I go home, would you?”
“No. This is a special occasion, though, so I’ll make the request. If there’s a problem, I’ll give you my number. She can call me if she takes exception.”
Well, that gives me an excuse to make sure we don’t part without him having my contact details.
Score one for me.
“Okay. Just this once,” he mutters, his reluctance audible.
Man, you just gotta love chivalry.
In the half-shadowed garden, I can feel his eyes on me, even as we move away from the direct light and toward the garden’s exit. Seconds later, we come to a gradual halt and in the murky grimness beneath the verdant glowing ‘Exit’ sign, I still can’t really see where he’s looking. He could be staring at my boobs or deep into my eyes. Either way, I don’t know, but I can feel his gaze on me.
A part of me realizes what’s going to happen a second before it actually does. As I feel a slight gust of air brush my lips, I suck in a breath as his mouth gently rubs my own.
The move is so subtle that I can’t help but stand on tiptoe to edge a little closer to him. My height, as insubstantial as it is, isn’t important because within a minute, his arm is wrapped around my waist and I’m lifted up, raised against him. My back brushes against the nearest wall and it’s my turn to wrap myself around him. Clasping his neck with my hands, I press my lips harder against his and drag my tongue along the line of his mouth. When it opens, I immediately accept his invitation and whimper as all control is taken from my grasp and his tongue begins to twine around my own.
I’m too far gone to feel embarrassed. I can feel the subtle pulse of my hips as I rock against him and know that I’m mortifyingly close to cupping his waist with my thighs, settling the notch of my sex against his hopefully ridged one and rocking myself to an orgasm.
I can’t breathe, he’s stolen all my breath. Every single oxygen-drenched gulp of it. My lungs are burning but I don’t give a damn. All I know is that this is a kiss to end all kisses and if I die, it will have been with a bang.
Chapter Two
I didn’t die.
And as I sit opposite Zane in the minute Matthesons’ Deli on 42nd and 3rd munching on a French-dipped, roast beef Po’boy, I know that this is the appetizer for an upcoming event. Call me bigheaded, but I can tell.
Or at least, I think I can.
The excitement pumping through my veins at the prospect is indescribable.
This is definitely a top-of-the-world kind of feeling.
I’m so relieved that I went to the club with Marina and Eddie. I could so easily have refused, so easily have stayed in. Instead, I met this hunk of a guy, who is going to knock me off the celibacy path.
I could be wrong. He could be on the brink of taking me home without an orgasm as a thank you for a pretty decent sandwich. But I doubt it. That kiss, that scorching, panty-wetter of a kiss was a message. It said, soon. Very soon. Don’t worry. I’ll make good with my promise.
And damn, I can’t wait for that moment.
I’m not even hungry. I don’t want to eat. But I’m conserving my calories for the bout of exercise I’m on the brink of undertaking.
I made sure there’s not even a whiff of raw onion on my roast beef Po’boy and considering Zane did as well, I know we’re both on the same page.
In the harsh, overhead lighting of the rundown yet popular diner, beneath a scarred and scratched table, my legs are slightly separated and one of his rests neatly between them.
Another message of intent.
I’m out of practice, hell, I never had all that much in the first place, but I can’t be totally wrong here, I can’t be misreading the signals, can I?
I hope to God I’m not and even though it’s an inappropriate use, I run through the Lord’s Prayer, hoping that divine intervention will get me laid tonight.
“What are you thinking about?”
My blush gives me away and his chuckle has me blushing all the harder. His laugh is light and carefree, and that’s something I can tell isn’t common for him. He’s as brooding in the light as he is in the darkness. He looks like a gangster. All hard muscles and stubbled jaw with grim eyes that rarely light up… unless they’re glancing over me. Then, a strange heat appears, and I feel as though I can bask in the warmth they emit.
“And I thought you were a good southern girl.”
“Well, I’m not as good as I ought to be, but in comparison to my friends, I am,” I admit with a wry grimace. “Too good. It’s about time I misbehaved.”
“Then I’m one lucky bastard,” he retorts with a twist to his own lips. “Good girls always make the best bad girls.”
“I’m not sure I get the logic there.”
“When you let go, you’ll be dynamite. All that pent-up energy has to go somewhere.”
The surety in his voice has me frowning. I’ve never been dynamite before. I can only hope I will be now.
“I hope I don’t disappoint.” I totally fail at trying to be light-hearted. My attempt at levity sinks to the ground like a sack of sugar.
“I doubt it, honey. I doubt it.” As he reaches for his coffee, the rolled up sleeves of his shirt jerk up a little.
Spotting a symbol I’ve seen before, I ask, “Were you a Marine?”
“How did you know that?”
Reaching over, I trail my finger over the ink. It’s half-covered by his shirt, but still, I recognize it. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen the symbol, but I’d know it anywhere. My grandpa had the exact same ink. Not that mother or grandmother approved of it. He always had to wear shirts to cover it, but to me, it was proof he was a hero.” Without knowing it, my top lip curls. “The only man I’ve ever met who deserved the title.”
I flinch as his finger trails over my snarled lip and my eyes flicker toward him. “Most people aren’t appreciative of what a soldier does.”
“That’s why you cover it up?” I ask, my eyes tracing over the tattoo of the US Marine Corps logo. An eagle proudly astride a globe, scored through the center with a rope-entwined anchor. It isn’t colored, just stark black and white. It suits him and I have the feeling that there are similar tattoos all over his form.
Hardly the usual uniform of a southern gent, but who said they can’t be modernized?
“Sometimes. Mostly, I don’t like to remember.”
“Where did you serve?”
“Middle East. First, second and third tour of duty. That was a long while back, though.”
The briskness of his answers gives me a clue about that brooding quality of his. Memories can be a real bitch.
How many times did I watch my father slap my mother for breaking some religious dictate he’d laid down?
How many times was I careful to watch my words where my ex was concerned, so he’d never have the excuse to do the same to me?
Vicious cycles… and sometimes there’s no escaping them.
“You finished?” he asks me, his voice rough.
It sickens me that I’ve upset him and once again, his hand comes up to tug at my lower lip.
“Hey, no biting.” He grins. The quick shift in his mood has my heart seesawing. “That’s for me to d
o. Later on.”
The promise sets me alight and I can’t deny I’m relieved. I hadn’t intended to broach a mood-killer of a conversation topic. I’d just seen the tattoo and been reminded of the only worthy man I’ve ever met.
It’s early days to say that this is a potential candidate for that role.
But I have a good gut feeling going on.
And God help me, but what a story to tell our grandkids. That granddad saved grandma, when she nearly broke her back in a nightclub. A unique first meeting, or what?
Eek. I shouldn’t be thinking so far ahead and this is the main reason I’ve never partaken in one-night stands. I sink too deeply, too quickly into thinking something exists, where it doesn’t. Differentiating between sex and feeling is nigh on impossible for me, another reason for my celibate state. Not just my latent guilt over divorcing.
“That sounds like a promise,” I murmur, trying to remember what we were talking about and getting hot and bothered at the same time.
“Might be because it’s just that.”
“Just?” Pretending to be put out, I pout.
Honest to God pucker up.
I’m not a pouter, have never been one either. If anyone in my little trio of friends is likely to pucker up, it’s Marina. She has that whole sulky, sultriness that men go crazy for, down cold. But for me, that kind of thing has never worked. I’m way too much the girl-next-door. The girl that gets ignored, that gets looked over and then finally, if she’s lucky, gets seen and snapped up. In my experience that rarely happens.
So why, if I am the girl-next-door type, am I pouting?
I have no idea. From the glint in his eye, he likes this newly discovered side of me.
“Just?” I repeat, waiting to see how he’ll answer.
He grins at me, eyes sparkling and says, “Well, the reason I managed to save you, was because I was studying your butt all night. The minute it moved an inch, I did too.”
As soon as those words escape his mouth, relief fills me. Not one part of me wants to mess this up and now, I know I can’t. He wants me like I want him.
Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Page 2