by Sandra Hill
Their gazes held for several long moments. Finally, she said, “Sounds like we’ve both been through the grinder.”
He nodded. “I’m falling a little bit in love with you, y’know.”
The frown on his face prompted her to say, “And that’s a bad thing?”
“Could be. As I just said, I’ve been burned.”
“Wanna compare scars?”
He grinned and raised their clasped hands so that he could kiss the inside of her wrist. “Wanna dance?” Without waiting for an answer, he tugged her to her feet.
The band, which had been playing soft background music, now transitioned into louder and more rhythmic dance sounds. As they walked through the dining tables toward the dance floor, following some other couples, she asked, “Can you dance?” Lots of men couldn’t.
“I dance,” he said.
And he did. Oh, boy, he did! Nothing fast and flailing. More slow and swaying, holding her close, letting the rhythm of the music control their body rhythms. It wasn’t a klutzy substitute for cool dance moves. It was an expert type of non-movement. Sway dancing, if you will, at its erotic best.
“Are you seducing me?” she asked against his ear.
“I hope so,” he said and licked her neck, a quick flick of his tongue that made her jerk and him laugh. He leaned his head back to look at her face. “This dating thing is turning out better than I expected.”
“No kidding!”
He pulled her flush against him. With her high heels, they were the same height. His arms were wrapped about her waist, down low, hers were around his neck. Cheek to cheek. Breast to chest. Belly to belly. His thighs bracketing hers. More swaying.
The band had a female lead who had been singing old blues songs by favorites like Bessie Smith and Lena Horne, but now she belted out the modern Adele song “Crazy for You.”
Yep!
The things clueless men will do! Or not do! . . .
They danced and drank and talked until midnight when they left the restaurant to go home. By then, Adam had come to a whole new enlightenment: Dating was sexier by far than just hooking up, and he hadn’t even kissed her yet or copped a feel or whispered something dirty in her ear, all of which he would surely do. Just not yet. Not tonight. It was all about the build-up, the heightened senses, the anticipation.
Not that they were going to have sex tonight. Not sex sex, anyway. It would ruin the process, in a way. Anyways, this was his new theory. Yet to be tested.
And, no, he wasn’t giving up the real deal. But, just for a change, this was fun.
I wonder if Simone is aware of these facts.
Probably not. Hasn’t she a history of jumping into relationships, rather, marriages, without prolonged courtships?
I’ll surprise her, he decided, not with a “Wham-bam, thank you, ma’am” but with a “No thank you, ma’am.” Not that I’m thinking prolonged here. Just not Wham-bam. Crazy, huh?
Especially when I’ve been carrying around a half hard-on all evening. Mr. Happy isn’t going to be too happy with tonight’s outcome.
On the other hand . . . hand being the keyword here. Ha, ha, ha!
Holy crap! I’m talking to myself. I could probably write a book about this, his crazy-assed brain went on. Sex without Fucking. Or Dated but Sated. Or What Grandpa Didn’t Tell You about Courtship. Or Restrained Lust: The New Sex.
Or, the voice in his head countered, Man’s Brain Shorts Out over Lust Overload.
“Why are you smiling?” Simone asked when he walked her up the back stairs to her apartment. He had an arm around her waist, to hold her up (Really.) since she was a little “tipsy,” her word, while he was only half buzzed. Half hard and half buzzed . . . what a combination! If I get tired of being a lawyer, maybe I could be a stand-up comedian.
“I’m thinking about becoming an author,” he told her.
“Huh?”
“It’s a personal joke,” he said, squeezing her even closer to him.
“Okaaay.” She started to take her door key from the tiny purse that dangled from a long chain about her shoulder but he stopped her. “No. Not yet.”
Instead he backed her up against the door and for the first time all evening he let himself press his body fully against her so that she could feel his erection. No more brushing of body parts, like when they danced. At the same time, he put his mouth on hers and almost swooned at the sheer pleasure of the tactile sensations. Really, Adam? Swooned? Like a freakin’ Southern belle? Okay, light-headed then, a better word. More manly? Aaarrgh! In any case, his light-headedness caused him to lean into her more. It was a long, long kiss, and when he took a break, he murmured, “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”
“Me, too,” she said and took his face in her hands, kissing him back, openmouthed and hungry.
Meanwhile his hands were caressing her body, the silk of her dress moving under his palms. Her back. Her narrow waist. Her butt. Is that a thong I feel underneath? Hallelujah! Mr. Happy lurched. Her breasts. Another hallelujah discovery . . . no bra, as he’d guessed earlier. More lurching.
She moaned and arched into him.
He was doing a little inner moaning himself, still caught back there with the no bra, no panties discovery. He couldn’t help himself then as the line he’d drawn for himself tonight moved a little further into No-no! land. With a sigh of resignation, combined with sublime appreciation, he tugged the straps of her dress down to her elbows, trapping her elbows at her sides. “Oh. My!” he said along with a more graphic four-letter word.
“Touch me,” she urged in an embarrassed whisper.
“With pleasure,” he said and used just the tips of his fingers to examine the ample mounds. Lightly, lightly, lightly, avoiding the center of her heightened sensation. She squirmed from side to side and arched her breasts outward.
But he was taking his time. Studying her breasts, with his eyes and then his fingers. Barely touching the skin. The areolae were pink, like a virgin’s, or a woman who hadn’t yet carried a child, and the rose-hued nipples were turgid with arousal.
“More,” she demanded. She probably would have yanked his head down if her hands were free.
He chuckled and flicked the tips with his thumbs. Just once. “Tell me.”
“What?” she gasped out.
“What you want.” Another flick.
She squirmed against the restraint of her own dress, then admitted, “Your mouth . . . I want your mouth on me.”
“Your wish is my command, darlin’.” And, yes, he used that darlin’ deliberately since she’d told him it was her bone melter, or other melter. Slowly, he lifted one breast from underneath and lowered his head, taking the tight bud into his mouth, wetting it with his tongue, then drawing on it with a slow rhythm. At the same time, his free hand worked the other breast.
Almost immediately, she shuddered and her legs gave way as she melted into a sweet, instantaneous climax. He grabbed her by the waist to hold her up and pressed his knee against her pubic bone. He never stopped sucking on her breast, harder and faster.
Note to self: Simone’s breasts, number one erogenous zone.
But wait. Maybe it wasn’t her number one spot. He almost smiled, thinking of all the explorations to come, discovering each and every one of her secrets.
But not tonight, he cautioned himself. Remember. Dating. Prolonged Anticipation. A new way of doing things.
He began to draw up the straps on her dress, covering her once again.
She blinked at him with surprise. “Well, that was embarrassing.”
He tilted his head at her. “Why?”
“Because I went off like a rocket while you’re all cool and calm down on the launch pad.
“Not so cool or calm,” he said, placing her hand over his cock which was no longer half hard, more like hard as steel. He pulled her hand away almost immediately before she had a chance to grab on or caress him in any way that would shoot his good intentions to hell. “This was a great date, Simone. Wanna try it again?”
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“Huh? You’re not coming in?”
Coming being another keyword, which he decided not to mention to her at the moment. Instead, he shook his head. “Not tonight.” He kissed her lightly, very lightly, to assuage any ruffled feelings. She might have bitten his lip if he lingered. “Let’s try another date, or two, and see where things lead.”
She started to turn away from him in affront. “This is just a game to you.”
“No, it isn’t.” He turned her back to face him. “I’ve discovered stuff about myself tonight, and you, too. I like it.”
“And?”
“I think we should pursue this dating thing some more.”
She appeared unconvinced.
“If I come in now, we’ll screw each other’s brains out for a few hours. And maybe we’d repeat that another time or two. Wild monkey sex, probably, but same old, same old. Don’t you want something different?”
“I don’t know. Wild monkey sex sounds kind of interesting.”
He chucked her under the chin for teasing. He assumed she was teasing. She better be teasing. He needed backup from her, not a tease-to-please come-on. “I have a prior commitment for tomorrow. A golf game with potential clients up in Morgan City, and I might be tied up in court this week, it depends on the judge in the Cypress case. He should have reconvened by now.”
“Are you worried?”
“Not really. It just means that Luc and I have to be ready on a moment’s notice. I can’t really make plans.”
“I can’t, either. I have an out-of-town case.”
“Really?” When she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “How about next Friday night . . . no, I can’t get out then. My dad’s poker night. Saturday night again?”
“I just don’t know. I might still be out of town.”
“How about after work? Maybe an early movie or something? What do people do on dates now, anyhow? Do you play racquetball? No. Golf? I didn’t think so. How about a ride on my Harley?”
That last drew some interest, but then she put up both hands. “Just call me, Adam. I’m a little confused right now. And I really do need to play it by ear this week in terms of my schedule. No, I’m not mad.” She laughed then. “After all, getting laid isn’t the be all and end all, right?”
It’s not? I mean, of course, it’s not. Down, Lurch, down!
“Lord, I can’t believe I said that.” She turned the key in the lock. Then she turned to him with a wicked Jezebel smile.
Uh-oh!
With mock regret, she said, “Too bad you can’t come in tonight. I had this thing I was going to show you with handcuffs.”
Son of a friggin’ crawfish! He stood staring at the closed door for several moments before chuckling aloud, “Touche, babe!”
Unable to wait until he got home, he called her number from his car, a few miles down the road. It rang several times before she picked up.
“Adam?” She must have read the caller ID. “When you said you’d call, I thought you meant tomorrow.”
“I couldn’t wait,” he said. “One question. Handcuffs?”
She laughed and said, “Good night, Adam.”
Chapter Twelve
Preparing for a road trip . . .
Simone spent all day Sunday doing the things single women do when alone on a weekend. Laundry. Cleaning Scarlett’s litter box. Grocery and toiletry shopping. Manicure and pedicure. Shaving legs. Hair conditioning. Scrubbing the toilet.
Adam called in the middle of the afternoon while she was at the laundromat but left a text message when he got no answer: Just finished 9 holes. Thinking about u. Wish I cld see u tonight. About those handcuffs . . . ?
She texted back, although he was probably still playing golf. Just got home. How’s ur game?
Shitty. Picturing pretty red dress mishap, he texted back immediately.
U wouldn’t want 2 see me in my condition today. Not pretty.
What condition?
Olive oil on hair.
I can shampoo. I do dgter’s hair.
Not same thing.
Def not. You have 2 B naked.
Why?
So I don’t splash suds around.
Suds?
Frothy stuff shampoo makes.
Would U B naked 2?
If U insist.
Where R U now?
Club house. Dinner next. ZZZ.
Have fun.
Spking of fun, U ever used those handcuffs?
LOL. I M a cop.
In bed?
I ref 2 answer on grnds that . . .
Have I mentioned fantaC I have of nailing U on UR glass desk?
LOL.
After that, Simone spent a lot of time planning her work week. And it was a good thing she did because it proved to be a madhouse, starting as soon as the office opened the next morning.
First off, she had to deal with BaRa, who came in sporting a black eye.
“What happened?” she asked with shock.
“Would you believe I ran into a door?”
“Ozzie?”
BaRa blushed, which was unusual for her. The petite woman had been through the mill with her cheating, oil rigger ex-husband and gave the impression of taking no prisoners anymore. Nothing seemed to embarrass her. Except, apparently, her own weakness. “Uh, I might have decided to rake the fool’s coals last night . . . and ended up getting hit in the face with the rake, the rake being my own failure to hold the line.”
“Huh?”
“The sex got a little energetic, and I fell off the bed and hit my fool head on the bedside table. Ozzie had been playing ball with the boys all afternoon and looking good in gym shorts and no shirt, and I was feeling horny. Good thing I swerved at the last minute or I might have lost an eye. Talk about!”
Simone gaped at the woman who’d said on innumerable occasions that she couldn’t stand her philandering ex-husband. “Are you getting back with him?”
“Hell, no! One booty call does not a marriage make.” BaRa was at her desk, turning on her computer while they talked.
That was a proverb to live by. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay home for the day?”
The question surprised the secretary who stood and tilted her head to one side. “Why? Do I look that bad?”
Actually, she looked good, except for the black eye. At only five-foot-five, at most, even with four-inch heels, she was a trim little package in a smart lavender dress with a dark purple belt. Her bobbed dark hair was parted on one side and swept forward today in an attempt to hide the damage, but it wasn’t long enough to do the job.
“You look fine. I have a really good concealer upstairs in my cosmetics bag if you’re interested, but only if you want to avoid questions. I personally don’t care.”
“I’ll take you up on that, on the off chance that Tante Lulu drops by. No way would she buy the door excuse.”
“She’d probably put together a posse to go after Ozzie. Even out on the rigs.”
BaRa grinned at the mental picture. “By the way, you should see Ozzie. When I hit the table, I bit his lip, which caused him to flip over and off the bed, pulling a hammy. So he not only has a fat lip today, but he’s limping, too.”
“Just deserts,” Simone commented.
“For sure.”
Her mother came in at nine and started to tell her about a meeting she’d had with Father Bernard after church yesterday. For once, she was wearing a pantsuit, not one of the form-fitting dresses. She’d mentioned yesterday that holding in her stomach for so long was giving her gas. Her hair was still in the same neat French twist, though. Some things never changed, including her fixation on Simone’s marriage status. “I happened ta mention how it would be nice if the Church annulled your marriage ta Cletus, and he tol’ me . . .”
Simone walked away in the middle of her mother’s discourse. She was tired of telling her mother to forget about Cletus. The marriage was over. End of story.
“Anyways, good news!” her mother called after her. “Fath
er Bernard sez it don’t matter none since you were never really married. Justice of the Peace vows don’t count.”
“Aaarrgh!” was Simone’s only comment.
Next she met with Sabine and CiCi related to their work on the Mike Pham case. The two women were working together as a team, Sabine being the actual “honey trap” while CiCi provided all the investigative work, including places that Mike hung out, friends, girlfriends, and lots of other juicy details.
CiCi was a mocha-skinned Creole of unusual height for a woman . . . about six feet tall, at least. She wore her reddish-brown hair in a long braid, which, along with her high cheekbones, made Simone wonder if she might have some American Indian blood in her, as well. There were many Native American tribes indigenous to Louisiana, including the Houma Indians, an offshoot of the Choctaw Nation. Today CiCi wore black leggings with a loose, tunic-style blouse embroidered with an intricate design that might very well be indicative of that very culture.
Sabine was in full biker gear today, her slim figure encased in black leather pants (Good thing it was early morning; she would be sweltering by this afternoon.) with a red tank top. All her piercings and tats were clearly visible. Her blond hair had been moussed off her face into a sleek, almost mannish style. The girl had style! And it changed from day to day.
“He likes submissives,” CiCi announced, right off the bat, without warning.
“As in BDSM?” Simone asked. She was sitting behind her desk, and the two ladies were in the chairs in front. And, no, she was not thinking about Adam’s fantasy involving her desk. Not in the last fifteen minutes, anyhow.
“Yeah,” CiCi said. “He’s a closet sadist.”
“Good to know.” Simone was tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Definitely a change in dress for me. No heavy leather, dominatrix-type stuff. Maybe a dog collar. Doms love dog collars on their women. And contrast that with a sweet nice-girl persona.”
“On the other hand, you could hint that you have a piercing with a ring to hold a chain down below,” CiCi advised. “Actually, combine the two. Miss Innocent with wanton ways.”
Simone’s eyes went wide. Not that she hadn’t heard all this and more in her police work. But hard to associate it with an average guy . . . which Mike Pham apparently wasn’t.