by Liz Talley
Rosemary pinched Sal, who yelped but didn’t move his hand, and for that, she was thankful.
She wanted his hands all over her. That was the point of surrendering her girdle, right?
She felt wicked and loved it.
Sal’s hand crept farther up her thigh, turning her knees to jelly. Who knew making out in the back of a Central Park carriage was such a turn-on? She’d read about people who got off on having sex in public places and could never imagine how the heck they could concentrate on the task when they could get caught any moment.
But now she understood the thrill.
His fingers stroked her, making her heart pound and liquid warmth pool in her pelvis. The achy want intensified as his other hand wandered up the column of her neck to lightly stroke her ear. It was as if that hand was the decoy for any onlookers who happened upon them . . . while his other hand was up to naughtier business.
“You are wicked,” she whispered, sliding her hand onto his thigh.
He swallowed and she knew she’d affected him. “Of course I am. Isn’t that what you want? Now help a brother out.” He lightly tapped her other thigh.
Rosemary didn’t know what came over her. Yeah, she did. It was called being horny. She opened her thighs a little bit more.
“Good girl,” Sal whispered.
Rosemary held her breath as he moved his hand higher, tickling the inside of her thigh, making her pant a little.
“Oh my gosh,” she breathed, yanking the sweater her mother had insisted she bring with her over her lap. She was fairly certain Patsy would die if she knew how Rosemary was using it.
“Good plan,” Sal whispered in her ear, moving his lips toward her mouth. She turned her head and met him, letting his tongue tease her as much as his fingers were beneath the perfectly tasteful summer sweater.
Simon droned on, thankfully unaware of what Sal was doing to Rosemary in the back of his carriage.
And what he did was oh so nice.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, his finger traced her cleft. She knew she was spectacularly wet and might have been embarrassed about how revved she was if Sal hadn’t sighed like he’d reached the Promised Land.
“Oh, so sweet,” he murmured against her lips. “Just a bit wider, Rose.”
As if she’d deny him anything. She opened herself a bit more to him and he moved his fingers so that he finally strummed her clitoris.
“Oh,” she panted, her chest heaving as his fingers performed a magical rhumba or fox-trot or . . . sweet mother of . . . she was about to come. “Maybe we better—”
“Shh,” he said, dipping his finger lower, entering her briefly before withdrawing and moving back to that sweet aching bud that needed to be . . .
She moved her hips, wanting more. Needing Sal to give her the ecstasy hovering on the edge, waiting to shatter her.
The carriage halted.
Rosemary’s eyes flew open and she pushed Sal away while simultaneously slamming her thighs shut.
Holy crap.
“And that concludes your tour of the largest and most famous of New York parks, Central Park,” Simon said with flourish.
Sal pulled his hand away. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Rosemary plastered on a smile as Simon turned and said, “I hope you folks enjoyed learning a bit more about this wonderful national treasure.”
“Oh yes,” Rosemary said, tugging her skirt over her knees and nodding like a lunatic. “It was so beautiful and very informative.”
Sal didn’t say anything. Simon looked at him, lifting his bushy white eyebrows, awaiting comment.
“Uh, it ended way too soon,” Sal said.
Rosemary coughed to keep from laughing. “It certainly did.”
Simon jabbed a finger at the sign attached to the carriage. “You can pay for more time.”
Sal looked over at her. “You know, as good as it was, I’m ready for bed.”
“It’s only nine o’clock, but I guess you have a good reason there,” the old driver cackled, winking at Rosemary. “And be glad I’m not giving a test on the tour, because I know you two were back there making out. So you can give me a tip that reflects appreciation for my discretion.”
Giving a laugh, Sal reached into his back pocket. “Point well made.”
After settling up with Simon, Sal helped her out of her fairy-tale carriage/porno movie set. Simon said, “Hey-ah,” and Buttercup obligingly stepped into a trot, heading toward Central Park South and a watering trough.
Rosemary gave a little wave.
“Horses don’t wave back,” Sal teased.
“Ha, you think I don’t know that. Who’s the country girl around here, anyway?” Rosemary sassed, sticking her hand on her hip. She still felt wet, turned on, and slightly disappointed she hadn’t had an orgasm in a Central Park carriage. Oh, the story she would have had to tell . . . to hardly anyone. Okay, she’d totally tell Eden and Jess. Or at least hint at what had almost happened. A little locker room bragging to her girls.
I didn’t see that one on the fifty orgasms list, Lacy. Her thoughts made her smile wider.
Sal set his arms on her shoulders, bringing her to him. “I’d look appalling in Daisy Dukes and a gingham crop top, so I’m going with you as the country girl around here.”
“I’m pretty sure I’d look appalling in that outfit, too,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, twisting the dark hair that kicked up around his neckline.
“I can promise you, you’d look amazing. Any place we might pick those things up?”
Rosemary silenced him with a kiss.
And Sal seemed to like that answer.
But he seemed to like it even more when she said, “Let’s go back to the loft and finish what you started.”
He swept her into his arms à la Rhett Butler and said, “Frankly, my dear Rosemary, I think that’s a fabulous idea.”
She looped her arms about his neck, ignoring several people who tittered and pointed. “You’ve been dying to quote Gone With the Wind at some point, haven’t you?”
“As if I even know what Gone With the Wind is. I’m a Yankee, remember?”
“So I can’t scream, ‘The Yankees are coming! The Yankees are coming!’” she asked, using her best Prissy voice, still flushed from their earlier naughtiness but loving the romance Sal brought her.
“Are you suggesting a Yankee will be coming tonight?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.
“I think I am,” she said nuzzling his neck. “A Yankee coming is a real possibility.”
Sal laughed as he walked to the sidewalk and set her down. “Then I suggest we grab a cab. A really fast cab.”
“In my experience New York cabs only know one speed—suicidal—so your chances are good.” She fit her hand into his as he raised the other one to flag down a cab from the fleet of yellow taxis whizzing down Central Park West. “Thank you for the carriage ride.”
As a cab pulled up, Sal glanced down at her. “Don’t thank me yet. We have unfinished business.”
Chapter Twelve
Rosemary turned on the lamp and set her sweater and purse on the bar. “Well, this is it.”
“Whoa, fancy. What does your cousin do? Rob banks?” Sal asked, running a finger over the funky cowhide-covered angular chair. He lifted his eyes to the industrial ceiling before sweeping around to spot original abstract paintings and no doubt expensive furniture.
“More like she robs pocketbooks. Halle’s a shoe designer,” she said, opening a cabinet and pulling out the bag from Eataly he’d left with her a few nights ago. Setting it on the marble countertop, she walked over to the entertainment center and grabbed a remote control and a laminated piece of paper. After several attempts, soft music flooded the space. Billy Joel. Nice.
“So creativity runs in the family.”
Rosemary made a questioning face as she set the clicker down and went back to the kitchen. She pulled out two goblets. Of course they weren’t the kind of goblets made
for drinking reds, but he wasn’t about to point that out. Not when her hands were trembling. “How?”
“You design pillows, right?” he clarified.
“Oh yeah. But that’s more a hobby than a career. I’m assuming you want the wine we bought?”
“The rain check wine?” he said before sinking onto the sofa, ever mindful of the plush bed over his shoulder. He wanted to bring back the passionate woman he’d held in the carriage, sweeping her once again into his arms before laying her across the gray bedspread or coverlet or whatever they called the puffy things you covered a bed with. And then he’d show her how a New Yorker took a woman to bed.
“Rain check something, I guess,” she said, pouring the wine.
He leaned forward and picked up a design magazine and leafed through it while Rosemary occupied her hands with mundane things. He heard her tear into the bag of Italian crème chocolates they’d purchased with the wine and he slid a gaze over as she clacked through a stack of plates. He noticed she kept casting glances his way, reminding him of a bunny ready to hop away at the first sign of a gun. There was a nasty joke in there somewhere, but he wasn’t about to go there.
The vibe had shifted from fun and sexy to . . . strained. And he had no clue why. They’d been teasing, kissing, and daring not ten minutes ago.
Finally, Rosemary walked toward him, setting the plate of chocolates on the concrete coffee table before extending a full-to-the-brim glass to him.
“You’re nervous,” he said, taking the goblet from her shaking hand. Wine had sloshed over the side and he caught the droplets with his hand before they could splash onto the fluffy white rug. A single rivulet ran down her hand, so he grabbed her hand and licked it. Which was a weird thing to do, so he tried to turn it into something sexy by taking her index finger and sucking it into his mouth. And it didn’t work. He’d made an awkward moment ten times more awkward.
“Wow, uh, that’s an interesting way to mop up a spill,” Rosemary said, watching him as he nipped her index finger with his teeth before dropping it. Feeling like a freak, he grabbed the paper napkin she’d set beneath the plate and wiped the residual dampness from his hand.
“I’d make a crack about being talented with my mouth, but that would make this moment more awkward than it already is.” He gave her a sheepish smile before pulling her down next to him. “What’s wrong?”
At that moment a cat jumped onto the arm of the couch and nearly scared his socks off. If he’d been wearing any. “Jesus.”
“No, that’s Moscow,” Rosemary said before pointing toward the oddly carved red footstool. Inside sat another cat curled into an S shape. “And that’s Melbourne. They’re my job.”
“Cats?”
“My cousin loves them more than apple pie, designer handbags, and her own parents combined. I’m their caregiver for the next two weeks.”
Sal didn’t like cats. Or maybe he did. He hadn’t a clue. So he reached out to give Moscow a pet. The cat hissed and slapped at him.
Yeah. He definitely wasn’t a cat person.
“Down, Moscow,” Rosemary said, reaching over and sweeping the snarling beast off the arm. “Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, he doesn’t like me much, either.”
“It’s a small one,” Sal said, placing his arm on the back of the couch. She reacted, stiffening slightly.
He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her. Less than half an hour ago, she’d been close to an orgasm. But now the vibe between them was tense.
Moving his hand so that it stroked her shoulder, he said, “Relax. We don’t have to do anything, okay?”
“But I want to.”
“You’re way too keyed up right now.”
She sighed. “I know. It’s strange because all I could think about was, you know, and then the whole carriage thing was wonderful, but now it’s like I’ve built things up too much in my mind and now that we’re here, it just feels wrong. I mean not wrong wrong, but strange. I’m sorry. I—”
“Shh,” he said, pressing his finger against her lips. “Let’s just drink some wine and chat.”
Rising, he went to the kitchen and grabbed the glass of wine she’d poured herself and brought it back. Taking his own goblet, he took a big gulp, mostly to keep it from sloshing again. “Even though we’ve been on a few dates, I still don’t know a lot about you. So I’m thinking we play twenty questions.”
“Twenty questions?”
“Yeah, like . . . what’s your favorite color?”
Rosemary took a small sip of wine. “Lilac.”
“Is that yellow?” he asked.
“No, it’s almost the exact color of your shirt. A sort of light purple. What’s yours?”
“Blue,” he said.
“Yeah, but what shade? Navy . . . royal . . . or periwinkle?”
“I don’t know what those are. Um, the color of the sky on a summer day.”
“You’re such a poet,” she teased.
He felt her relaxing by degrees and congratulated himself on thinking of the silly game he’d always used when he was a camp counselor at Pine Ridge. “Favorite subject in school?”
“Home ec.”
“Duh,” he said, reaching out to twist a hank of her hair around his finger. “Mine was math. Go figure, huh?”
“Why?” she asked, looking genuinely perplexed.
How could she know he’d struggled with schoolwork? He’d suffered from mild dyslexia and ADD, which made school more than challenging, but something about numbers made sense to him. “Well, I ain’t no genius, you know?” he said in his best Rocky voice. “Favorite singer or band?”
“That’s easy. Elvis Presley,” she said.
“Really? You’re not one of those weirdos who have a whole room dedicated to him, are you?”
Rosemary pressed her lips together, her gray eyes dancing. “Uh, maybe. I actually went to his eightieth birthday party at Graceland.”
“You know he’s dead, right?” Sal joked.
“If you’re going to disrespect the King of Rock and Roll, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. He’s a fellow Mississippian. Besides, everyone knows Elvis is alive. Let’s just say I looked very closely at the partygoers,” Rosemary said, wiggling her eyebrows. “And what attracted me most to you was that you resemble him.”
“Thank ya. Thank ya very much,” Sal said.
“Oh jeez, your Elvis impersonation is as bad as your southern belle,” she said. “Okay, what about favorite actor?” she asked.
“That’s easy. Robert De Niro.”
“Why’s that easy?”
“He’s the epitome of a New Yorker. ‘You talkin’ to me?’”
“Much better impression.” She settled into his side with a sigh. “Well, I like Vince Vaughn.”
“Really?” He’d never have guessed that one. He’d had her pegged for liking stuffy British guys off Downton Abbey or Poldark. She had that romantic streak he liked so well, but Vince Vaughn?
“He’s funny but he also has this sweetness, this lovable loser vulnerability, you know?”
“You’re an odd one, Rosemary,” he said, turning toward her.
She made a face. “Hey, at least I don’t lick people.”
He laughed and then grabbed her, hauling her against him. “You complaining about my licking abilities?”
She reached over and set her wine on the coffee table. “I don’t know. Maybe you’ll have to try again,” she said.
And just like that, the sexy factor came back. Sal brushed her hair from her face, loving the clearness in her eyes, the bloom in her cheeks, the way her pretty lips beckoned to be tasted. “Maybe I will.”
He gently kissed her, savoring the spicy wine on her lips and the sheer softness of her body pressed against his. One hand slid up to brush the five o’clock shadow on his jaw and her touch inflamed. Just like that. He’d gone from laughter to desire in seconds.
Pulling back, he smiled. “Better?”
She nodded. “Weirdness gone.
But we only got to, like, four questions.”
“We don’t need them anymore,” he said, covering her lips with his again. Rosemary opened herself to him, kissing him with more heat this time. Her breasts brushed his chest as she shifted herself, tilting her hips so her butt settled on his thigh. He helped her out by pulling her all the way into his lap, groaning slightly at the friction of her softness against the erection surging against his fly.
Her fingers tangled in the hair at his neck, reminding him why he always ignored his mother’s plea to cut his hair. He loved the way a woman’s fingers felt running though his hair . . . and that they were Rosemary’s fingers scratching that sensitive skin made it even better.
He’d always been a sucker for sweets, and kissing Rosemary was sweeter than honey from a hive. Hit the spot.
And even better, the woman gave as good as she got, abandoning any hesitation.
“Mmm,” she sighed against his lips, tilting her head, giving him access to her neck. He took direction well, so he obliged, grazing his lips down the column.
“Nice,” she sighed, dropping her hands to his shoulders, stroking, making his blood heat.
He moved the hand resting on her bent knees, loving the smooth length, the softness of her skin. His fingers found her hem and he paused. Lifting his head, he looked down at her.
“What?” she asked, gray eyes dilated, hair spilling onto the sofa arm where the cat had sat minutes ago.
“Want to take this over to the nice soft bed?”
She rose up and looked over his shoulder. “It does look nice.” Without any warning, she hopped from his lap. Then with a twinkle in her eye, she jerked her shirt over her head and tossed it toward him. As he pulled the shirt off his head, she scooted around the end table and started for the bed.
“You little minx,” he said, making her laugh. It was in the flutter of her laughter that he realized why he constantly teased her. He loved the sound.
He chucked her discarded shirt toward the cow chair and jumped to his feet. He managed to grab her and scoop her into his arms before she reached the bed. Her squeal made him grin.
Then he tossed her on the bed.
