Chapter Five
As soon as Betsy hung up, Matt sat staring in glorious confusion at the phone. Their conversation could mean only one of two things—either he was on a fast-track trip to heaven or else he was headed straight to hell.
He thought of her surly anti-guy attitude, and of her strong-arm tactics with an egg…and of her bouncy breasts.
Smiling, he concentrated on the breast part of his thoughts. She wanted his help with the suggestion he’d made about lessons to solve her “man” problem. Okay, clearly that could refer to only one thing—his advice that she practice her bedroom skills and upgrade her horizontal moves with a willing and more experienced partner.
He grinned, mentally high-fived his good-Samaritan decision to help the lady, and got up to make himself a drink while he mapped out his strategy.
Yeah. He’d made the right decision. After all, what was the threat of a little hellfire when weighed against the chance of reaching heaven with those perky boobs of hers?
****
At precisely seven o’clock that evening, he strolled down the corridor to Betsy’s apartment, thinking happy thoughts about the things he planned to do to help her with her problem, when a familiar voice stopped him.
“You’re visiting the girl in Six-A,” it said from behind.
It wasn’t a question, either. There was no raised inflection at the end of the words, no sense of uncertainty. This was definitely a statement. And an accusatory one at that. He rang Betsy’s bell, then turned to good-old-disapproving Mrs. Lattimer, who stood at her open door wearing an expression he could only describe as “pissed-off Greek god about to hurl thunderbolt at inferior mortal’s worthless head.”
Well, okay, if the lady wanted to act like the neighbor from hell, he was more than willing to play along.
Ramping up his best gleeful-lech smile, Matt leaned casually against the wall, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am, that I am.”
Mrs. Lattimer sniffed as though his what-the-hell attitude was fouling the air. “Well, I hope it won’t be a raucous visit. I hope you’re quieter than the last man she had in there.”
From inside the apartment, footsteps were coming toward the door, and Matt quickly pushed away from the wall. “No, ma’am, that, I am not.” He happily added a lecherous chuckle to his lecherous grin. “Gonna be some nonstop whips and chains in there tonight. After all, what’s the use of seeing a girl if you can’t break the bed, wrestle naked on the floor, and do a little high-octave screaming?”
The door opened, and Matt gave Mrs. Lattimer an exaggerated wink. “Know what I mean?” He sailed into Betsy’s foyer and pushed the door shut behind him.
Betsy stepped back and stared at him, looking sweet and ripe and totally confused. “Who were you talking to?”
Matt ditched his lecherous smile in favor of a smooth, innocent one. “Your neighbor.” Which was true enough. “She said she hopes we have a wonderful evening.” Which was…umm…slightly less accurate.
Betsy frowned, obviously more confused than ever. “My neighbor? Mrs. Lattimer, you mean?”
“The one and only.” Matt breezed across her foyer on his way to the living room.
Betsy scurried after him. “She said that?”
Matt nodded. “Her very words.” He hated lying, but if it gave her a sense of ease and freedom for what lay ahead, then, what the hell. They could deal with the consequences later, if there were any consequences to deal with.
He paused in the living-room doorway and looked back at her, the outfit she had on sending his body into an almost uncontrollable case of testosterone overload. She wore a filmy pink blouse with a delightfully low V-neckline, a short, pleated red skirt, and backless, high-heeled silver shoes.
The shoes are called mules. Matt congratulated himself on paying attention to the things he’d learned growing up. Having a bunch of sisters was sometimes a good thing. It taught you a lot of interesting and useful stuff, like how to cope with PMS, how to avoid getting smacked in the face by wet pantyhose hanging from the shower rod, how to handle snotty cracks accusing you of leaving the toilet seat up again, and of course, how to know that sexy shoes like the ones Betsy was wearing had a stupid name like mules.
Thank you, Diana, Amy, Sue. He glanced around at the living room, unable to control his smile as he surveyed the terrain. Things just kept getting better and better, and he’d only been here for a few seconds. First, an outfit on his hostess that was testing his willpower to the max, and now the intoxicating dinner setup he saw spread before him. Over at one side was a cozy table set for two. Really set. Fancy white tablecloth, long, tapering candles, gleaming wine glasses, what seemed to be pretty elegant dishes. In short, the whole nine yards. Obviously, a table laid for the buildup to nothing less than…he smiled…getting laid. Or learning how to do it right.
He turned to her and gestured at the table. “What’s on the menu for tonight?”
She looked tastier than anything offered on any menu he’d ever seen, but he couldn’t very well pounce on the woman two seconds after he entered her home, especially not on a woman who’d invited him over for food and a calm discussion of certain intimate man-woman problems, without any overt mention of sex being anywhere on the agenda.
For a split second, he made note of the music she had on and knew that overt mention of sex or not, from the lush sound of all those violins wafting softly on the air, that’s exactly where this evening could be headed. He hoped.
“We’re having lamb chops, roasted potatoes, steamed veggies, and tossed salad.” She brushed past to lead him into the room.
Matt followed happily after her, trying not to leer as he absorbed the full impact of the back of her outfit.
The view from in front had been perfect. The rear view was every bit as good. He trailed her and gaped at her swingy, long hair and her equally swingy, pleated skirt that moved back and forth to the rhythm of her enticing little butt-wiggle. She didn’t seem to be wearing stockings, which made the view even more pleasant. Yep, with that mouthwatering getup on that sweet, curvy body of hers, sex was definitely a good bet for dessert.
She glanced at him over her shoulder as she stopped beside the table. “A little wine first?”
“Sounds good to me.”
She bent over the table to pour their wine, and the movement made the back of her skirt hike clear up to mid-thigh. It also made Matt’s brain synapses fire into a super-heated haze of lust.
“I thought we’d have warm brownies for dessert.” She came toward him with the filled wine glasses and held one out to him. “And I put on some music, too. You know, to relax us both after a long workday.”
Matt took the glass, trying to ignore the tightening in his gut—not an easy thing to do with her standing only inches away, and every masculine instinct telling him to reach out and start teaching her the ins and outs of creative lovemaking right this minute. But he was nothing if not a gentleman, so he nodded politely.
“Brownies are my favorite. And I like the music.” Then he gulped some wine, tried to think of something besides how ripe and sexy she looked, couldn’t manage it, and gulped more wine, summoning all the willpower he had to control himself until dinner was over and the real fun could begin.
****
The soft, romantic song that had been playing in the background while they ate, ended, and another soft, romantic song took its place. Actually, all of the music she’d chosen sounded pretty much the same—lush, heavily orchestrated melodies that spoke of love, love, love, and nothing else.
But worse than the sameness and the lushness was the fact that her ploy in choosing the music was so transparent and manipulative that Betsy suddenly felt like the worst kind of slut—a conniving one…the type of woman who wore provocative clothes, dimmed the lights, put sensuous music on the sound system, and fed some poor, unsuspecting guy dinner at a table so small her knees constantly threatened to brush seductively against his. Normally, she didn’t act this way, but
she thought setting the scene for what she would ask poor Matt Pollard in a little while would be a good move, and now she suffered pangs of gut-wrenching guilt because of it.
“Are you sure you like this music?” She nodded toward the sound system, desperately trying not to show how foolish she felt. “I thought something soft and slow would be good while we ate. You know, something relaxing to help with our digestion.”
She winced. Digestion? Had she said that? Of course she had, and a stupider remark she couldn’t have made if she’d deliberately wanted to. Dumb, dumb, dumb. She quickly said, “Maybe you’d like something louder and faster?”
Anything to wipe out the memory of that last comment—the kind of thing your mother would say to you when you were twelve years old and blasting rock music through the house while you scarfed down burgers and fries. “Don’t listen to loud music when you’re eating, dear. It’s not good for your digestion. Oh, and chew each bite of food at least thirty times before you swallow. Thorough mastication helps your stomach function better.”
Turning away so he wouldn’t notice her embarrassment, Betsy stood up and made a beeline for the sound system. “I’ll change it. I’ve got some rock, rhythm and blues, country and—”
She broke off as the legs of his chair scraped against the floor behind her, indicating that he had also gotten up.
He grasped her arm and turned her around. “No, don’t change it.”
He drew her closer, but so gradually she didn’t realize it until she felt the heat of his body radiating toward her and only a few meager inches separated them.
“It’s perfect.” He swayed slightly, while keeping hold of her upper arm. His heat threatened to engulf her. “Slow-dancing music.” He smiled at her and shrugged, as though the next part was inevitable. “So let’s dance.”
Pulling her gently against him, he took one of her hands in his, slid his other hand around her back, and moved in place, rocking in rhythm to the beat. It was a slow, slow rocking, as though to absorb the cadence of the song.
Betsy nodded. All right, maybe this was good. An innocent little dance that would lead to all the things she wanted from him. She followed his example and did that same simple rocking motion with him.
Then his feet moved, and again, she automatically followed, wondering if he normally took the lead when they danced or if Rob did. He swung her around. Ah, he was the leader. No doubt about it. A smooth leader, too. With a body that knew what it was doing. “You’re good.”
“You, too.” The arm he’d draped around her back seemed to tighten, hugging her closer.
At least that’s the way it felt to Betsy as his heat surrounded her, making her feel warm and dizzy and strangely breathless. “Not as good as you.”
He smiled at the compliment, then dismissed it with a modest shrug. “It’s nice of you to say that, but I’ve had a lot of practice. If I told you how many times my trio of sisters didn’t have dates to their school parties and proms, you wouldn’t believe it. But whenever it happened, you could depend on one thing—I was the guy who ended up taking them.” He shook his head, grinning at the memory. “And, trust me on this, a school prom is one of the best places you can find to upgrade your dancing.”
“Uh-huh.” Betsy smiled, cheered by that piece of information. With so many sisters, he had to know a lot about the female psyche. Which was encouraging, because it probably also meant he had some insight into the female body. And if that was true, he could give her body all the help it needed to be good in bed.
They’d stopped dancing and had gone into that slow rocking motion again. Even more surprising, somewhere along the way he had released her hand and slid both of his arms around her.
Flattening her palms against his shoulders, she looked up at him. Do not stiffen or run. After all, this was what she wanted. She smiled at him, trying to seem sexy and flirty as her hands crept over his shoulders, her bare thighs rubbed against his pant legs, and she sucked in her stomach so she wouldn’t bulge in her skintight, semi-slut skirt.
“Well, all that practice certainly made you a wonderful dancer.” She deliberately lowered her voice to a sultry whisper as she tried not to look as foolish as she felt.
Then it hit her. Oh God, she was trying to seduce a gay guy. She’d never been too good at seducing straight men, and here she was, trying to accomplish the impossible. Or at least the highly improbable.
Of course, Tyler had never needed seduction. Once he realized she was willing and never put up a fuss, he’d taken over, jumping her at his pleasure, then taking…well…taking his pleasure before rolling away or, in the case of their semi-weekly office trysts, turning away so he could zip up and be presentable when he hurried out into the hall and rejoined his coworkers.
On the bright side, he never forced her to disrobe or make love in the light, something she hated with a passion bordering on panic. Maybe Lisa’s body was good enough for fluorescent illumination, but hers definitely wasn’t, and Tyler always chivalrously insisted that looking during sex was highly overrated. Feeling was much better, as long as the woman was amiable, amenable, and appreciative. The last word, appreciative, he always said with a laugh, as though it was just a joke and he didn’t really mean it, but Betsy somehow suspected he did mean it and made a habit of telling him how phenomenal he was. She frowned at Matt Pollard’s broad chest. Even though sometimes he sort of wasn’t.
Come to think of it, Brad, her only other bed-partner, had been pretty much the same way. Seduction wasn’t a necessity there, either. Only that she be available, willing, and uncomplaining. And, grateful they’d miraculously wanted her, she’d been all of those things.
Then something else hit her, too. With Matt Pollard, seduction wasn’t necessary. Not only was he gay, but he’d already more or less implied that he was willing to help. So she was home-free, and their relationship, including the lessons she asked for, could all be handled on a strictly business basis. Or as close to strictly business as getting naked and horizontal together could be.
Betsy frowned again as the sound system switched to another love song. Short of prostitution, that is.
She took a breath, wondering if he expected to be paid. Then she took another breath and decided probably not. If he was a lawyer, he likely made enough money to keep him from having to moonlight his body for a few extra bucks on the side.
But they could get all that straightened out during their discussion.
At the moment what she was feeling was relief—a great big, no-need-to-hold-your-stomach-in-anymore-to-look-good-in-your-skimpy-outfit kind of relief. Since no seduction was necessary, neither was the sexy outfit. She let her stomach out with a feeling of sheer pleasure.
“I’ll be back in a minute, and we can talk.” She pulled out of his arms, but very gently. Smiling a broad, I’m-not-upset-to-be-this-close-to-a-gay-guy smile, she waved at the sofa. “Why don’t you sit down and have some wine while you’re waiting.”
Then she turned and with stomach happily free of the need to be sucked in, teetered across the room on her spiky, backless shoes.
Chapter Six
Matt frowned as Betsy retreated into the bedroom. It was the kind of hasty, skittish retreat that spoke of second thoughts. A real bummer when the only thought in his mind was how long it would take to get those few scraps of clothing off her, and how soon he could start working on the project.
With a sigh, he settled himself on the sofa, poured some wine, and took a hearty swig to while away the time. He was still swigging and whiling a few minutes later when the bedroom door opened again and she came out looking like…he blinked to clear his vision, then stared…looking like a walking pile of laundry. All right, a little exaggeration there. Really looking like a small woman weighted down by too much fabric.
Straightening the elasticized waist of the butt-ugly sweatpants she now wore, she clomped toward him in her running shoes and flashed a tentative smile. “Okay, now we can talk.”
Matt nodded, dumbstruck. �
�Talk. Right.” He cleared his throat, trying to think of the best way to broach this new fashion statement she’d decided to make just when they were possibly on the verge of getting intimate with each other. “Um, your other outfit, the one you were wearing when I arrived…you’re not—”
“I decided to change.”
Matt sighed. And what a change it was—from fox in short skirt and high heels to frump in sweatpants and oversized sweater.
“So I see.” He couldn’t stop staring at what was undoubtedly the stupidest metamorphosis he’d ever witnessed in his thirty-two years. “And if you don’t mind me asking, why exactly did you decide to change? I mean, what was wrong with the other outfit?”
Betsy sat down beside him, quickly moving her knee away when it accidentally touched his. “Nothing specific. Rob helped me buy it. But I always feel a little strange when I wear it.”
“How often have you worn it?”
“Once. Only today. Well, twice, if you count the time I tried it on in the store.”
“And you don’t wear it because—”
“I call it my semi-slut outfit.”
“You mean the one that makes you—”
“Look like a semi-slut,” she cut in. “Actually, it’s also pretty uncomfortable, but considering what we’ll be discussing, I thought it might be appropriate.” She shrugged. “Then I changed my mind.”
Okay, now it was coming clear to him. Thanks to his last ill-fated relationship, he knew all the psychological lingo he needed to define the situation. Betsy Kincaid had body-image issues, confidence issues, and God only knew what other kinds of issues. Which meant if they were going to have sex, he’d have to get all those clothes off her before the fun…uh, lessons…could start. Then once that was done, he’d also have to try helping her work through some of her other issues.
Operation Sizzle Page 7
