by Ember Dante
“Have you got time for breakfast? They have great food here.”
His question jolted me from my thoughts, and I tried to sound as convincing as possible. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I can’t. I promised my roommate I’d go shopping with her today, so I should probably get going.”
Pulling on his jeans, he turned to face me. His lips were pursed and turned downward in a slight frown. He fastened the button fly and slipped a black T-shirt over his head. It was a shame to cover that perfect body, but the damn thing fit him like a second skin.
“Well, in that case, can I have your number? I’d really like to see you again, Emmy.”
He closed the distance between us in a few steps and placed his hands on my arms, his thumbs tracing circles on my skin. Standing so close to him, the warmth of his body radiated outward, carrying his scent. He smelled clean and woodsy, the same masculine fragrance as before, mixed with a touch of citrus and something primal—and all Ian. The fluttery feeling in the pit of my stomach returned, and I almost caved.
Almost.
The connection we shared was so intense it frightened me but after Brett ... no. I couldn’t risk it. I was paralyzed by the fear of my past.
“Ian, listen ... Last night and this morning were incredible, and you seem like a great guy—”
“Why do I sense a ‘but’ in there?”
“But, I’m not really looking for a relationship right now. So why don’t we just call this what it was—a one-night stand?”
His brows knit and he licked his bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth. His eyes closed briefly, and when they reopened, his face was a passive mask. He probably wasn’t accustomed to being turned down by the ladies. For a moment, I thought there was a flicker of disappointment or confusion coloring his features, but he just nodded in acceptance.
“Okay.” He tilted my chin and placed a soft, sweet kiss on my lips. “You’re a great girl, Emmy. Maybe we’ll meet again.” He placed another kiss on my forehead, lingering a few moments longer than necessary, and then stepped away. “I hope so, anyway.”
I was the first to break eye contact, reaching down to grab my purse from the end of the bed. I felt a sharp pang in my chest, and for a moment I thought it was the beginning of an anxiety attack. We’d shared a really hot night, but we barely knew each other. Part of me wanted to see him again, but the damaged part—the part Brett destroyed—believed it would be a mistake. I couldn’t afford to open up like that again. My resolve strengthened, I lifted my head to meet his gaze.
“Goodbye, Ian.”
“Bye, Emmy.”
Without another word, I made my escape. I didn’t look back—I couldn’t. If I looked at him again, I wouldn’t leave. I didn’t take a full breath until the elevator doors closed.
I slipped in the front door on tiptoes, desperate to avoid waking my roommate, Jules. I knew it was only delaying the inevitable, but I wasn’t ready to talk about Ian.
“So, where were you last night?”
I jerked at the sound of her voice. “Geez, you scared me. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Me? You were the one in ninja-mode so I wouldn’t hear you. Spill.”
“It was our usual Friday night happy hour, remember? I went for drinks with Tyler and the girls.”
“Hmm. So, just drinks after work, huh?”
“Yeah, why?”
“And you didn’t come home last night, because…?”
“I had too much to drink, so I crashed at Madison’s.”
“Uh-huh. Have you not looked in a mirror this morning?”
“Why? Do I look that bad?” I looked into the mirror hanging by the door and gasped. No wonder she was giving me the third degree—there was a hickey on my neck. More than one, actually. “Well, damn.”
“Care to revise your statement?”
“Oh, hush.”
“Well? Who was he, and was he hot?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Does he have a friend?”
I shook my head and released an exasperated sigh. “We went to the Glass Cactus. It was ‘80s night. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoy ‘80s dance music.” I chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah. Get to the good part. Tell me about the hottie.”
“Who said there was a hottie? Maybe I lost a fight with Madison’s vacuum.”
“No, no. I’ve been to her place. Madison doesn’t own a vacuum. You met someone.”
I lifted my hands in defeat. “Fine. Like I said, we went to the Glass Cactus for a few drinks. Incidentally, they have a great happy hour.”
“I don’t care about their happy hour. I want to hear about the hot guy.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and glared.
“Sorry. I’ll be quiet. Please, continue.”
“Anyway, we were just hanging out, having a good time. I excused myself to go pee and got shoved into this guy at the bar.” I shook my head at the recollection of seeing Ian for the first time. “Oh. My. God. He’s beautiful. He looks just like Henry Cavill with a touch of scruff.”
“Wow. Henry Cavill, huh?”
“Oh yeah. Anyway, I was mortified because I stepped on his foot and probably made a fool out of myself trying to get away from him.”
“Then what happened?” she asked, salivating for more details.
“I didn’t see him when I came out of the bathroom, so I assumed he left. After I got back to our table, the waitress brought over a round of drinks and told us a guy at the bar sent them.”
“It was Superman, wasn’t it?”
“Yep.” I laughed. “He came over to our table and we started talking. Eventually, everyone left and it was just the two of us. We stayed until last call. Although, now that I think about it, I’m not sure ‘hot’ is the right word for him.”
“Well, no, if he looks that much like Henry Cavill, hot may not be a strong enough word to describe him.” She paused a beat before continuing. “And? Go on.”
“I didn’t spend the night at Madison’s.”
“Yeah, I already worked that out based on your appearance. By the way, have you considered wearing a scarf? I hear they’re in vogue again.”
“And this is why I was trying to sneak in,” I muttered ruefully. “You know I don’t usually do things like that, right?”
“Like what?”
“Go home with some random hot guy I met in a club.”
“Yeah, I know that. And you know I don’t judge. Tell me this—is he just as hot this morning when you aren’t under the influence?”
Smiling, I rolled my eyes. “Yes, except he was a bit rumpled.”
“Any regrets?”
“No. But I won’t be seeing him again.”
Jules propped her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side. “Why the hell not?”
“Well, we didn’t exchange numbers. I think we both understood it was just a one-night stand.”
I carefully omitted the part about him asking for my number. I also didn’t mention the odd look on his face when I left. Jules had always had my back, but she wouldn't fully understand my fear of commitment.
“That’s it? That’s all I get? Please? Pretty please?” She poked her bottom lip into a pout. “I’d tell you.”
“It’s too early for a play-by-play. His name is Ian, and he’s an architectural photographer.”
“Hot name, but that’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Tell me something ... anything.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters, how are his linguistic skills?”
I pointed to my neck. “What do you think?”
“Okay. Have it your way. I’ll drop it ... for now.” She gave me a stern look and wagged her finger. “But don’t think you’re getting out of telling me all about Ian, the hot photographer.”
I shook my head in exasperation knowing, before the end of the day, Jules would learn every deliciously dirty detail. Tabling our discussion for the time being, Jules clapped her hands.
>
“Go get changed because we’re going to hit the mall for some shopping. Afterward, I thought maybe we’d stop at the Flying Saucer for lunch and a few beers, then head to our favorite salon for mani-pedis.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “Go. We need to get a move on because somebody decided to treat herself to an early birthday present and now we’re behind schedule. We’re meeting the gang at seven o’clock at The Shops for your not-so-surprise surprise party.”
Gentle vibrations emanated from the chair, massaging my neck and back. It was just what I needed. Vivian, the salon attendant, worked the soles of my feet and calves, relieving the aches that had developed from the torture I endured while being dragged around the mall by my overzealous roommate. Somehow, I always managed to forget how much Jules enjoyed shopping—which was the one thing we didn’t have in common.
Subtle background music filled the otherwise quiet salon, and I relaxed further into the chair, sipping my wine. Unfortunately, Jules had decided the peace and quiet should come to an end.
“Okay. I’ve given you enough time to relax. Now it’s time to dish out all the dirt on your night with Superman.”
I heaved an exasperated sigh. “What do you want to know?”
Without hesitation, and with no regard to our surroundings, Jules all but yelled, “Dick size.”
Everyone within close proximity stared, and I buried my face in my hands, mortified. “Oh my gawd. Could you possibly be any louder? There are kids in here.”
“Fuck it.” She shrugged without shame. “That’s their problem.” She leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially while making crude hand gestures. “But seriously, are we talking Vienna sausage, or more of the smoked sausage variety?”
“Really?”
“What? Enquiring minds want to know.” She spared a quick glance around the room before leaning even closer. “Seriously. On a scale of one to ten—one being the smallest and ten being ‘oh my god, will that fit,’ where does he fall?”
“You are such a pervert.”
“Yes, I am. Now, answer my fucking question.”
I had stalled as long as possible, and I had to give her something. “I’d say he’s a healthy eight ... maybe a nine.”
Jules squealed, once again drawing the attention of the entire salon. “Way to go! Now we’re talking!” Clapping her hands, she rattled off several additional questions. “How many times? Did he make you come? Did he go down on you?”
I gestured for her to lower her voice. “Three, yes, and yes.”
Impatient, she motioned for me to continue. “And? Go on.”
She wasn’t going to give up, so I decided I had to tell her everything. I gave her a quick synopsis of my night with Ian, but glossed over a few key details—mainly, his request to see me again and our rather intense conversation before our shower.
“So there you have it. That’s everything.”
Jules took a large gulp of wine. “Damn shame you didn’t get a number, because that’s worth a repeat performance.”
I nodded, wondering—not for the first time—if I’d made a mistake.
The alarm sounded at 5:30—way too early after such a busy weekend. Two late nights and a busy Sunday made me feel as if I needed another weekend just to recover.
Forcing myself out of bed, I hustled around the apartment. Coffee was my priority. Jules had already left for her three o’clock shift at the hospital, but she’d placed a giant blueberry muffin with a single candle and a card beside the coffee maker, knowing that would be my first task of the day. I nibbled on the muffin while the coffee brewed, reviewing my notes and list of questions for the Shaw interview. It was my first feature assignment with the magazine, and my nerves were starting to get out of control.
Shaking off my jitters, I took a quick shower then dressed in a black pencil skirt and my favorite blouse—sleeveless, grey silk with ruffles down the front. I decided to skip stockings and slipped on a pair of strappy sandals with three-inch heels. The mirror confirmed I’d made the right choice...
Until I was distracted by the hickeys that were still noticeable.
Frustrated, I made a quick change, exchanging the ruffled blouse for an off-white chiffon with soft pleats and a lightweight blazer. For good measure, I tied a silk scarf in a hot pink and grey leopard print around my throat before braiding my hair and winding it into a low bun at the nape of my neck. I made another cup of coffee—to go—and rushed out the door.
I arrived at the Verona apartments shortly before my 10:30 appointment. It was obvious Mr. Shaw did quite well for himself because the rent in that neighborhood wasn’t cheap. I checked in with the concierge, and he asked me to have a seat while he notified the studio. A few minutes later an attractive young man sauntered over to introduce himself.
“Good morning. I’m Troy Davis, Miles’ assistant.”
I stood and took his proffered hand. His grip was firm but somewhat cold and clammy. “Hello. Flemming Blake, Dallas Arts Journal.”
Troy was average height and build, with dark hair and eyes. He didn’t bother masking the hunger in his eyes as his gaze raked over me. A generally alarming vibe radiated off him, and his overall demeanor confirmed my initial impression—player.
“I wasn’t expecting a woman,” he said, a smug expression on his face.
Maintaining a pleasant manner, my lips curved into a smile. “I get that a lot.”
His eyes roamed over me once more before he released my hand. “If you’re ready, I’ll take you upstairs to meet Miles.”
“Yes, please lead the way.”
We made pleasant conversation during the brief elevator ride to the tenth floor. He unlocked the door and gestured for me to precede him into the studio. The total visible area was well over two thousand square feet. Obviously a converted apartment, the space was decorated to look like a warehouse loft with brick walls, hardwood floors, wooden beams, and exposed ductwork. A desk sat to the right of the door, an apparent reception area. Various props and lighting equipment populated the large, open area that comprised his studio space. I was surprised by the four-poster bed and Victorian chaise, although it should have been expected since he specialized in erotica. Three doors were located at the rear of the apartment, one most likely his office, and one a dressing area. I didn’t have a clue about the third. Several large black and white prints adorned the walls to my left and behind the reception desk.
“These are just a few examples of his work. We’ve already sent most of his prints to the gallery for the exhibit on the twenty-second,” said Troy, pointing to the photos.
The first to catch my eye depicted a couple on a bed, entwined with each other, both naked from the waist down. The bed covers were wrinkled as if they’d been lying atop them for some time, or the bed wasn’t made to begin with. It was a “moment in time” image, an illicit glimpse of a tryst, perhaps, a feeling that was brought home by the man’s dress shirt. The one visible cuff was still buttoned, giving the meeting a sense of urgency.
I swallowed around a lump in my throat and moved onto the next photo: an extreme close-up of two faces, a man and a woman. Her mouth was open, gasping in want toward the man’s stubble-covered cheek. His face was turned slightly away from the camera but appeared as though he was describing what he wanted to do to her as his thumb and forefinger pressed into her face, holding her in position.
There was nothing overtly sexual about the third image, yet it stirred something deep within me. Two hands, masculine and feminine, palms pressed against one another and fingers slightly entwined as they reached upward. A flush crept over my skin as I admired the prints, images of my night with Ian replaying in my mind. I couldn’t say why exactly, but this image, in particular, reminded me of him. I supposed it was because it elicited an emotional response that insinuated a more intimate connection between lovers.
I turned toward Troy, speechless. It was remarkable, but also completely hot.
Troy smirked, noticing my reaction. “Pretty hot stuff
, huh?”
“Yes. I’ll admit I wasn’t sure what to expect.”
“Yeah, most people have that reaction.” He swept his hand toward the back of the studio. “This way, please.”
I followed him to what must have been the master suite. This room was at least four hundred square feet with an adjacent bathroom to the left. A futon with an over-stuffed cushion sat against the adjoining wall. Immediately before us was an antique mahogany desk with a large monitor placed diagonally on the corner. A high-backed executive chair sat behind it, turned to face a plate glass window. Jean-clad legs with bare feet crossed at the ankles perched on the credenza. The low murmur of his voice became audible as we approached. Something niggled at the back of my mind, some feeling of familiarity, but I shook it off.
“Have a seat.” Troy pointed to one of the guest chairs. “He’ll be with you in a moment.”
He walked around the desk to alert Miles of my presence. He winked and gave me a polite nod as he walked past. The guy was definitely a piece of work. The chair behind the desk rocked back and forth as brief snippets of conversation floated through the air.
“Okay, Mom. I have to go now. I’ll talk to you soon.” He paused. “I love you, too.”
The call ended, and he lowered his feet, swinging the chair to face forward as he began speaking. “Sorry about that, the call took—”
We made eye contact and stared at each other in shock. No Way.
“Ian?”
3
Ian
“Emmy.”
Fucking fate—she was just as gorgeous as I remembered. The way she styled her long auburn hair exposed her face, bringing attention to her incredible teal eyes. She wasn’t wearing much makeup—not that she needed it. It didn’t take long for her shock to morph into anger, and a rosy flush bloomed across her porcelain skin, making her even more beautiful. Her thin blouse fluttered with the rapid rise and fall of her chest, marking time with the pulse in her neck. She clenched her teeth, making her jaw twitch, and those full, pouty lips pressed into a white slash.
