by Tracy Wolff
“Sebastian,” she whimpers, arching her hips into my touch.
She’s so beautiful like this, beautiful and desperate and so, so hot. There’s a part of me that wants to draw this out, to watch her moan and tremble and beg for release. I want to hear her call my name again in that trembling voice, to know that I’m the one she’s thinking about when she comes.
But that smacks of possessiveness, of ownership, and that’s not what this is about. Not this moment, not this time.
And so I shove my own tangled instincts and desire down deep inside of myself, at the same time using both hands to spread her knees apart and watching with satisfaction as they fall against the sides of the tub. And then I run my fingers along her slit, once, twice, before slipping three of them inside of her at once.
Aria gasps, whimpers. Suddenly, I’m afraid it’s too much and I start to pull out, but she keens wildly, presses her hips up and into my touch. In response, I thrust deeply even as I circle her clit with my thumb.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, leaning forward to press soft kisses on her jaw, her neck, her breasts. “I’ve got you, Aria. Let go. Come for me.”
Just that easily, she shatters, her body clenching onto my fingers in a rhythm that nearly makes me come in my pants like some kid with his first girl.
I hold on, though—barely, desperately—and work her through it, using my fingers and my hand to draw her orgasm out as long as I possibly can.
When it’s over, when she’s lying in the bath, eyes closed and body limp and I’m one small step from insanity, I grab a small pitcher from the side of the tub and start rinsing her. I concentrate on her, ignoring my own needs, my own body. It’s the only way to get through the raging hunger.
As I wash her, Aria doesn’t move except when I move her, doesn’t make a sound other than the small splashes of her arms and her legs as I lift and then lower them.
When she’s clean from the soap, I drain the water, then fill the tub back up halfway so that I can wash her hair. The first reaction I get from her is after I’ve poured warm water over her head, and am rubbing shampoo into her hair. She moans, presses her head harder against my fingers. I get the message, and rub a little more firmly, giving her the scalp massage she so obviously wants.
Rinsing out the shampoo, I do the same with the conditioner, massaging her scalp and pouring water over her hair until it runs clean.
When I’m done and Aria is little more than a pile of melted goo—exactly as I’d hoped and planned—I let the bathwater out and lift her into my arms. I’m holding her against my chest and the contact is soaking my shirt, but I don’t give a damn. Not when it feels this nice to just have her in my arms.
“Can you stand?” I ask after a moment.
“Of course.”
She sounds sated and sleepy and so, so sexy that I have to grit my teeth against the wave of need that swamps me. For a moment, I imagine carrying her through to the bed and just burying my face in her pussy. Eating her out until she screams my name and comes so hard that the endorphins alone will cure her of subdrop once and for all.
But it doesn’t work that way—her fall will just be more brutal later if I try to take her up again so soon—so in the end, I settle for reluctantly sliding her to the ground before grabbing the towel from the rack and running it loosely over her body.
I spend the whole time trying not to notice her flushed skin and peaked nipples, her glazed eyes and slick, hot sex. I’m not nearly as successful as I want to be.
Once she’s dry, I start on her hair, rubbing it gently as her body practically melts into mine. It’s a little shocking how good she feels, how content I feel just because she’s pressed up against me. Leaning on me. Letting me take care of her.
“Do you want me to blow it dry?” I ask, once most of the wetness is gone from the soft, short strands.
Her face is against my shoulder, her arms wrapped around my neck, when she shakes her head no.
“All right, then.” I lead her into her bedroom. “Where are your pajamas?”
She stares at me blankly for long seconds, eyes half-closed and body completely pliant against my own. It’s like she’s actually gone boneless. And that’s before she starts to lick at the small drops of sweat rolling down my neck.
Shit! This woman is going to be the death of me. Self-restraint, heart attack, stroke, blue balls. I don’t know which is going to end me, but at this point it’s a safe bet that one of them will. How the fuck can she already be halfway back into subspace when all I wanted was to cuddle her, to ease the pain of the drop?
“Aria?” I call her name, speaking a little more firmly this time. “I don’t want to riffle through all your drawers. Which one do you keep your pajamas in?”
After a moment, her gaze clears a little and she gestures toward the tall chest in the corner. “Second drawer.” Her voice breaks a little.
“Good. Thanks.” I settle her on the bed—she’s so out of it I’m afraid she’ll fall without my support—and cross quickly to the chest. Then nearly have that stroke when I see the piles of lacy nightgowns in nearly every shade of the rainbow tangled together inside. Reds and pinks and purples. Blacks and turquoises and whites.
So, my Aria is definitely not a pajama kind of girl. It surprises me, is another contradiction that piques my interest and has me dying to know more about her—even as jealousy surges through me at the knowledge. It’s stupid and juvenile and demeaning to both of us, but I can’t help imagining how they got here. Who gave them to her. And all the things she’s done for other men while wearing them.
Furious with myself for being such a useless idiot, I pick out one of the ones lying on top—a violet silk number that’s more flirty than overtly sexy. It’ll cover all the vital places anyway, which is about all I can hope for at this point. Because I am not going to end up in bed with Aria tonight, no matter how tempting she is. That’s not what she needs right now, despite what she might be thinking otherwise.
When I turn around, she’s curled up naked on the bed, head on her arm as she watches me with sleepy, satisfied eyes. It’s a good look on her, and for a moment I just stand there, watching her. Mouth dry, eyes wide. Frozen with want. Frozen with need.
“You want to sleep, baby?” I ask when my sluggish brain finally remembers how to form words. I cross the room, and after she sits up, I tug the nightgown over her head.
“No. Maybe.” She reaches for my hand then, pulls it against her stomach as she curls around it. “Not yet.”
“All right.” I stroke her cheek with my other hand, pushing her hair back so I can see the slope of her forehead, the curve of her cheek. She all but preens under the attention, turning her head so that she can press a kiss to the center of my palm.
I return the gesture.
It’s warm in her apartment, the only air-conditioning a battered window unit that looks like it’s on its last legs, so I don’t bother trying to get her under the covers. Instead, I pull up the afghan from the end of the bed and drape it over her before sitting beside her on the edge of the bed.
She smiles sleepily at me, curves her body against mine. I don’t even try to resist the urge to lean over and kiss her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips.
Aria sighs a little, kisses me back. Her hand creeps up the bed to my thigh, her fingers stroking me through the thin silk of my suit pants. I bite back the instinctive groan, and capture her hand in my own, squeeze it gently.
“Don’t you want me to—”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, pressing one more kiss to her mouth before standing up.
She smirks a little, nods at the raging erection I’m making no attempt to hide. “You look a little more—or less—than fine, depending on the perspective.”
“Yeah, well, I’m as close to fine as I’m going to get right now.” Reluctantly, I let go of her hand. “Do you want a cup of tea?”
“I never drink tea in the summer.”
“At all?”
“Never.�
�� It’s the most lucid she’s sounded since I found her tonight. “Terrible childhood trauma that involved my mother’s carpet, my favorite doll and a whole pot full of tea. I’ve never recovered.”
“I can tell,” I answer dryly. “Kudos for putting on a brave face.”
She makes a face at me then, crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out at me. I bend down and capture her tongue, sucking it into my mouth. Running my own along it in soft, leisurely strokes that do nothing so much as torture us both.
When I finally pull back, I’m even harder than before and I know I need a distraction or I’m going to end up on that bed with her. And it won’t be to sleep. “Water, then? Wine? What would you like?”
“It’s so embarrassing to admit, but I am fresh out of wine. Don’t let the luxurious surroundings fool you. I’m a simple girl at heart.” She bats her eyelashes at me in the worst impression of a damsel in distress that I have ever seen. I laugh, because she intends me to and because I can’t not laugh. It continues to surprise me how much she amuses me…and how much it turns me on that she can both surprise and entertain me.
“All right, then. Why don’t you tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you?”
This time, she pulls a fake pout that might actually be convincing if her eyes weren’t also sparkling. God, give the woman a bath and a little bit of care and she goes from docile to trouble-making in a matter of minutes. I try to pretend I’m annoyed at being teased, but the truth is, I’m completely charmed and I know it shows on my face.
“I already told you what I want.” She hooks her fingers on the waist of my pants, tugs me so close that I can feel her breath hot against my dick. Or maybe that’s just my imagination…
“Let’s go with something to drink first,” I tell her, because despite her teasing I can see the dark circles under her eyes. “What can I get you?”
She pauses for a moment, studies me like she’s trying to decipher something. Then, finally, she shrugs and says, “There’s hot chocolate in the cupboard next to the stove. I wouldn’t mind a cup.”
“Hot chocolate it is.”
When I get to the kitchen I have no trouble finding the small blue box—how can I? There’s almost nothing else in the kitchen. There’s a couple discount cartons of yogurt in the fridge along with a stray apple, some cheddar cheese and a bottle of store brand ketchup. Besides the hot chocolate, there’s a small container of coffee and a few packs of crackers and ramen noodles in the cupboard.
Jesus.
She’s living hand to mouth here. Barely hand to mouth. Every time I think of David firing her for sticking up for that woman, it makes me livid. Makes me sick. What would she have done? How would she have survived?
Is this how all my waitresses live? The thought has me cringing, making a mental note to check their salaries. Make sure they’re being paid a living wage. No one should have to live like this. No one.
It only takes me a few minutes to make the cocoa, and then I carry her mug back in to her.
“None for you?” she asks as she gingerly takes the hot drink from me.
“Not thirsty.” And even less interested in depleting her meager food supplies.
“Sit with me?”
“Of course.”
As I settle next to her on the bed, she takes a sip of the hot chocolate, then eyes me over the top of the mug. “Tell me something about yourself,” she finally says. “Something besides the whole prodigal-son-returns-to-take-over-the-casino-after-jet-setting-around-the-world narrative that’s currently going around the Atlantis.”
I think about my time in Laos. Sierra Leone. Nigeria. Haiti. “Is that the narrative going around?”
“Well, that and the one where you’re a real-life James Bond. International man of mystery and world-class spy.”
“James Bond? Really? The reality is going to sound so disappointing after all that buildup.”
She shakes her head, burrows closer to me. “Somehow I don’t think so.”
I pause for a minute, trying to figure out what to say. Being here, in this neighborhood, with her—it mixes things up inside me. Makes it hard to think, hard to breathe. I’ve done a pretty good job of blocking it out until now, but looking at her kitchen and her ratty furnishings, seeing how little she really has—it takes me back to a time I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to forget.
“You’re thinking too hard,” she tells me, smoothing a hand down my cheek when I don’t immediately answer. “It doesn’t have to be big and important, you know. Tell me something completely inconsequential about yourself.”
Relief skitters through me at the out she’s given me, clears away the cobwebs of old memories and older guilt. Or at least tries to. “Okay, sure. You told me about the tea, so I guess it’s my turn to admit something food-related.” I pause for a moment, build up the anticipation. “I’m a grown man who is totally and completely addicted to…Fruit Loops.”
I’m aiming to make her laugh, but instead of the amusement I expect, she just widens her eyes. “You mean there are people who aren’t addicted to them?”
“It’s shocking, I know.”
“People are crazy. Toucan Sam, man. He’s where it’s at.”
I laugh then, partly because she managed to say that with a straight face and partly because I’m just really happy with how tonight is turning out, despite the rocky start.
“Your turn. Do you have any deep, dark secrets? About cereal or otherwise?”
Her face clouds for a second, those midnight eyes of hers going mysterious and far away.
“Hey. Aria? You okay?”
“Yeah.” She fades back in. “Deep, dark secrets. Hmmm. Okay. I talk in my sleep. And not just a little. I can carry on whole conversations.”
“What do you talk about?”
“I don’t know. But I’m hilarious, or so I’ve been told.”
Once again, jealousy rears its ugly head. And once again, I do my best to ignore it. It’s not like I’ve got any claim on Aria yet. And what she did before we met is none of my business anyway. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
“I have no doubt,” I say. “You make me laugh when you’re awake—I can only imagine what you’re like when your subconscious is in charge.”
“I’m sure I’m perfectly lovely,” she tells me with a mock scowl. “Your turn again.”
“Okay. Hmmm.” I think for a minute, then hit her with, “I’m a comic book geek.”
“No, you aren’t!”
“Yeah, I totally am.”
“Seriously?” She looks delighted. “So which one’s your favorite?”
“I’m a big Batman fan, actually.”
“The villain-hero.” She studies me thoughtfully. “I find that fascinating.”
“There’s nothing particularly fascinating about it. I just like Batman. It’s one of the longest running comics DC has ever done, and through the years I’ve managed to collect almost all of the original series. Which is a considerable amount, considering it’s been running for seventy-five years.”
“Seventy-five years? How many comics is that?”
“Over six hundred.”
She looks astonished. “You have over six hundred comic books?”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that Batman is just one of five series that I collect. “I do, yeah.”
“That’s, um…that’s pretty fantastic, actually. Never in a million years would I have imagined you were a fan of comic books. And to find out your hobby includes over six hundred titles—”
“I prefer to think of it as a smart investment, actually. Not a hobby.”
“Of course you do.” She grins at me, bright and open and so unlike the guarded way she usually looks at me that it takes my breath away. Subspace obviously agrees with her. Or something does. Maybe it’s just that she’s away from the casino for a while, hanging in her own space where she’s most comfortable. Most familiar.
Whatever it is, I like it.
&nb
sp; “So, it’s my turn now, right?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got to admit, comic books are going to be hard to beat, but…” She pauses, looks at me with seriousness that is only underscored by the way her knee is bouncing up and down. “We’re talking deep, dark secrets, right? And absolute confidentiality?”
“Obviously. That goes without saying.”
She looks so solemn that for a second I’m not sure how this is going to go. Cereal secret or life-altering one? Or somewhere in between? Suddenly, I’m a lot more sure of what I want to hear than I am of what she’s going to say.
“You swear not to tell anyone?” she asks. “I mean, pinkie-promise swear.” She holds up her pinkie for emphasis, and I dutifully wrap mine around hers.
“Pinkie promise,” I tell her, feeling like an idiot but still charmed at the same time.
“Okay.” She glances around like she’s afraid someone might be listening, then scoots even closer to me before whispering, “I have a One Direction problem.”
I replay her words in my head, try to make sense of them. But there’s nothing. “I have no idea what that means.”
“One Direction. You know, the band?”
“Uh, no. I don’t have a clue.” Except that’s not exactly true. There’s something in the name that sounds familiar— “Wait. You mean that boy band?”
“Hey! They are a lot more than just a boy band. They get a lot of flack because of how they started out, but they’re actually very talented.”
She sounds really passionate about this considering— “How old are you again?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“And you listen to a teenage boy band?”
“I do. Proudly. They’re really good.” And still she hasn’t raised her voice above a whisper.
“Oh, I bet. And you’re so proud of your little problem that you can’t even say their name out loud in your own apartment.”
She shakes her head sadly. “Haters, man. They’re everywhere.”
I do laugh then. “Are you sure you’re not twelve?”
“Excuse me, but their fan base is actually older than a lot of people think.”
“It is?”