Man of the Moment (Gentlemen, Inc. Book 1)

by Thea Dawson

  “I’ll take you to see our tree house,” she says.

  “You have a tree house?” I say. “So cool.” I’m in such a good mood right now that everything just sounds amazing. And oddly, it’s only partly because of my potential meeting with Zac. The fact that Mrs. Winter actually saw my production of The Seagull makes me unreasonably happy … and seeing Annabelle walk down the dock toward me as I tied up the canoe seems to have been the icing on the cake.

  Annabelle laughs at my enthusiasm. “Yeah, my dad built it for us the summer he bought the house. Bree and Carina outgrew it before I did. I used to come out here to read by myself all the time.”

  “What kind of books do you like to read?”

  She smiles and blushes a little, so of course I have to know more.

  “Science journals? Classic literature?” I press.

  She rolls her eyes. “Romance novels and mysteries, mostly.”

  “Ah, the formidable Dr. Winter has a weakness for pulp fiction,” I observe, rubbing my beard thoughtfully with my free hand. “I wonder if there’s blackmail potential here.”

  Her face is scarlet, but she laughs. “I’m not going to be Dr. Winter for at least a couple more years. And I think if you want to blackmail me, you’ve already got better material on hand.”

  “That’s right,” I snap my fingers. “You still sleep with a teddy bear too.”

  She laughs again. “You’re in a good mood. I guess my parents weren’t too mean to you?”

  I grin. “Your parents are awesome. Turns out your mom actually saw this little theater production I was in last year.”

  “No kidding?”

  I fill her in quickly on The Seagull and my role in it.

  “Sorry, I’ve never heard of it,” she says apologetically. “I was never really into literature classes. Does it have a happy ending?”

  “Hmm … not really.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “Eh, I only like happy endings. Or at least endings where you find out who committed the crime.”

  “You might want to avoid the Russian playwrites,” I suggest. “Is that it?” I point to a small wooden structure that’s built about six feet off the ground around a large pine tree.

  “Yeah, come on.”

  There’s a small wooden ladder nailed into the trunk of the tree. Annabelle climbs up with surprising grace, and I get a good look at her backside as her hips move from side to side with each step.

  Seriously, what’s with these baggy khaki shorts? She’s not skinny, but the curves she’s got on her are nothing to be ashamed of. Unbidden, an image of her in a pair of tight, cut-off denim shorts floats into mind, and suddenly my fingers itch to reach out and give that round little booty a firm squeeze.

  Fortunately, she clambers up into the tree house and her ass disappears from sight, leaving me a little astonished at my sudden attraction to her.

  But then, it’s not so sudden, is it?

  She annoyed me the first time I met her, but even then, she got my attention, if for no other reason than that her first impulse was to say I “wouldn’t do.” On our coffee date, and on the ride up here, I was struck by her genuine niceness and how easy it was to talk to her, and ever since then, I’ve been feeling an odd buzz of energy whenever I’m around her, noticing things like her delectable ass and her pretty, green eyes.

  I remember the feeling of her in my arms when we woke up this morning, and think how strange it is that I’m standing here in the middle of the woods, four hours north of Los Angeles, attracted to this geeky little librarian-looking girl. I squint at the tree house above me as if it will give me answers.

  She leans over the edge of the tree house and looks down. “You coming up?”

  I mount the ladder quickly and pull myself into the little hut.

  “So this is where Annabelle Winter spent her formative years,” I observe.

  It’s just a bare plywood floor with three walls and a rail, with a roof overhead. Perfect kids’ playhouse.

  “Well, some formative weeks, maybe. I used to keep an old cooler out here. I’d leave books and a pillow in it so they didn’t get wet. I’m sure everyone knew exactly where I was, but it still felt like it was my special hideout.” She smiles nostalgically at the weather-stained wooden boards.

  “I had a tree house when I was a kid,” I say.

  It’s been years since I thought about it. Annabelle tilts her head at me, a go on kind of look on her face.

  “My mom used to climb up in it with me and read to me or have picnics with me. I never went in it again after she died.”

  Annabelle takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, then pulls me down to sit next to her on the creaky plywood. “Tell me about it,” she says …

  … and I do.

  I tell her about my mom and how wonderful she was. About my dad, who always drank a little too much anyway but really started getting carried away after she died. About the night I came home after curfew and he hit me and I left and never went home again. I tell her about spending rainy winter days at the local multiplex, where I’d pay for one movie and sit through five, falling in love with the magic of movies and their potential for reinvention. I tell her about the women I met caddying at the country club, women who taught me that my companionship was a commodity, something that could be exchanged for useful things, like upscale clothing and college classes.

  And I tell her about Elsie, beautiful, successful, twice-my-age Elsie, who seduced me and shaped me, smoothing my rough edges and teaching me how to dress, how to talk, how to act, and how to please a woman … and who kicked me out of her life after two years when she decided to marry a man her own age.

  Annabelle just listens as I pour out everything I’ve kept inside all these years, things I’ve never shared with anyone, not even Alex. There’s no judgment or pity; she just listens, and never lets go of my hand the entire time.

  When I’m done, she takes out the bottles of water and opens one for each of us. Handing one to me, she clinks it gently with her own.

  “To you,” she says.

  I give a light snort. Already I feel a little self-conscious for having shared so much with her when I’ve known her only a few days, but I also feel an enormous sense of relief.

  “You haven’t lost all respect for me?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

  Annabelle shakes her head, seriously. “You got a raw deal, Archer. I’m not in any position to judge. All things considered, I’ve had a pretty easy life. You did what you had to do to get by and now you’re making it on your own. You moved to an entirely new part of the country, you’re going after your dream, and you’re succeeding at it.” She smiles. “You’re going to be a big star someday, I know it.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and I feel a pang of guilt, and for a moment I wish I’d never heard of Zac Borstein. His presence is standing between me and Annabelle and she doesn’t even know it. I open my mouth to clear the air, but she stands up abruptly.

  “Come on, it’s getting too hot here,” she says. “Let’s get back to the lake.”

  And because I’m a coward, I keep my mouth shut and follow her out of the tree house.

  20

  Annabelle

  I lost my nerve.

  There was a moment there, after Archer told me his life story, that we were gazing into each other’s eyes, and I thought about kissing him—for real, not a stage kiss to impress one of my sisters. I wanted to somehow let him know that he was so much more than just a pretty face and a hot body. God knows he was plenty of both, but he’s also smart and self-reliant and determined. His past makes me sad, but it also makes me admire him.

  But at the last moment, I chickened out, afraid of getting a let’s-be-friends speech, or worse, that he’d think I was just another well-heeled woman after some easy companionship

  So we left the tree house.

  It’s not until we’re almost back at the house that I realize Archer’s been holding my hand the entire time, even
though there hasn’t been anyone to see us. I tell myself it just means that we’re friends, that he trusts me and likes me … Could it mean more?

  “How about a swim?” he suggests. “I’m pretty hot.”

  In more ways than one. How about you just take me upstairs, and …

  “Okay.” I bring my mind back to reality. “I’ll go get changed.”

  A little while later, I’m floating lazily, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on my face and the cool water around my body.

  Archer slides into the water beside me with a satisfied grunt. He swims a few strokes then stretches in the water. He’s so at ease in that long, strong body of his—and why wouldn’t he be? He's beautiful.

  Archer catches me staring at him, and I blink away, embarrassed, but he gives me a sly smile. “C’mere,” he orders, swimming around to the far side of the dock, the one most sheltered from the house.

  I swim after him. “What?”

  He smiles at me, then holding on to a railing with one hand, he wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me closer. My breath catches. I can feel his whole body pressed up against mine, his long, lean legs against my thighs and his muscular abs against my stomach. He’s holding me up so that I don’t have to sink my feet into the silty mud at the bottom.

  Surprised, I wrap my arms around his strong, wet shoulders for balance, relishing the excuse to feel his bare skin under my hands. Heat curls in my belly, my heart beats in my throat, and I stare at him in surprise.

  I’m hoping, praying, that he’ll kiss me, but instead he dips his head and presses his lips to my neck. I swallow as he trails his mouth down my throat to my shoulder, which he kisses, and gently bites, and kisses again.

  The hormones are in full-on revolt once again. It’s all I can do not to wrap my legs around his waist and beg him to take me right there in the water. Stupid one-piece bathing suit, I think.

  “Who’s watching?” I choke out in a whisper.

  In answer, he brings his mouth to mine, and for the first time in my life, I experience a kiss that is both completely dominating and perfectly gentle. It’s seductive and sweet and powerful, and I melt into it forever before he breaks softly away.

  “No one’s watching,” he whispers. “This is just for us.”

  Much later, we have dinner. Carina, a vegetarian, has cooked an amazing array of dishes that include quinoa-stuffed red peppers, spinach polenta with a creamy basil sauce, and a heart-of-romaine salad. It’s delicious, and the tastes and the textures, even the colors, seem enhanced. The electric energy from this morning is back, buzzing and sparking with every breath I take, and every sensation is heightened.

  My make-out session with Archer at the dock lasted both an eternity and a moment. Given the barest encouragement, I probably would have slipped out of my floral bathing suit, planted my feet in the mud, and gone all the way right there, but he was a gentleman, never pressing his advantage below my collarbone.

  Which didn’t mean I hadn’t felt his hardness pressed up against the soft flesh of my belly. He wanted me too, and the knowledge that a god like Archer could desire me—short, button-nosed, unglamorous me—sent an extra thrill through me whenever our eyes met.

  Somehow, without discussing it, we've reached an agreement. We want each other and we're going to have each other. I want the anticipation to last forever … and I want to run upstairs with Archer then and there.

  Dinner lasts ages. Then there is the usual evening of cards, and conversation, and that damn puzzle. Finally—finally!—my parents drift off to bed. After waiting what I hope is a decorous amount of time, I fake a yawn, declare that I'm tired, say goodnight to my sisters, and take Archer’s hand as I lead him to our room, Carina’s and Brianna’s sly smiles following us.

  No sooner have I closed the door of our room behind us when Archer presses me up against it, his lips crushing down on mine, his tongue parting my lips impatiently, his hands pulling my blouse out of the waistband of my skirt.

  “We can’t make too much noise,” I whisper, afraid that my entire family will hear us once we give in to our rising temptations, and then deciding that I might be able to live with that if we can just please get going.

  “That’s going to be hard,” he says, his voice hoarse. “But I like a challenge.”

  He picks me up and my legs wrap around his waist of their own accord. His fingers press into my bottom, his hardness into my sweet spot. With me still wrapped around him, he carries me to the bed where he lays me down gently, my head sinking into what was, just last night, our chastity pillow. The lamplight casts a warm glow on his face and his eyes are dark with desire. I smile at him, and for a moment, I think a shadow crosses his expression, but he lowers his mouth to mine and all other thoughts are driven out of my head by the exquisite weight of his body fully against mine.

  I tug at his t-shirt and he responds by pulling it over his head. I run my hands over his bare chest, relishing the feeling of his jeans against my legs, bare where my short skirt has ridden up. Archer’s skin is silky but the muscles beneath it are like iron, and I think I could spend the rest of my life just touching him. I lean up and run my tongue over one powerful pectoral muscle. He groans, and I feel him grow harder against my thigh, but he presses me down again.

  “Slowly, sweetheart. I want this to be all for you.”

  No, I think. I want to give him as much pleasure as I can, I want to touch every part of him, kiss and explore each gorgeous inch of skin, become intimate with his hands, his face, his legs, his chest, his everything.

  But he’s unbuttoning my blouse and opening it, and tracing his fingers over the lace of my bra, and I’m losing my mind, and then he lowers his mouth to one nipple and even through the lace, the hot, wet feel of his mouth elicits a high-pitched gasp that I hardly recognize as coming from me.

  “Oh!” I moan. “Oh, please …”

  “Arch your back for me, sweetheart,” he orders, and I do. Behind me, his fingers fumble with the clasp of my bra and then it’s gone and I’m bare-breasted beneath him.

  He lowers his mouth to my breast again, pulling slowly, gently, and my nipples, which were hard before, respond by becoming almost painfully tight.

  I whimper.

  He begins to explore. His tongue trails white-hot flames across my skin, and his fingers stroke and pinch and pull, and his mouth leaves tiny bites everywhere it touches.

  Somehow he gets my skirt off, and I’m down to nothing but a small pair of panties, the nicest ones I’ve brought with me. He traces one finger like a snake from my collarbone, between my breasts, down my belly and finally, excruciatingly, he circles my sweet spot through the fabric of my panties.

  I’m so wound up by now that I want to cry and scream and explode all at once. I half sit up and fumble at the waistband of his jeans. I can see him straining through the fabric and long to release him, but he shakes his head and gently removes my hand.

  “Not yet, babe,” he says and gently pushes me back again. “Just lie there and enjoy.” He grips my panties on either side of my hips and begins to pull them down slowly, an exquisite torture.

  Finally, they’re off, and I’m naked. I should feel vulnerable, but instead I feel like I might combust. He slowly draws one finger through my folds, and this time, skin to skin, I can’t repress a sob of frustration.

  “What are you waiting for?” I groan. “I’m so ready.”

  He smiles darkly at me. “I can tell,” he says, slipping first one, then two fingers inside me. I press against him, my hands fisting the sheets.

  “I want you inside me.” My voice is low and hoarse. I’ve never been this forward with a man … but then, I’ve never wanted one this badly.

  “We’ll get to that,” he promises, “but first I want to see you come.”

  Without warning, he thrusts his fingers into me, hard, again and again, his thumb grazing my clitoris, the heat building, until I’m only barely holding back the screams that threaten to let the entire house kn
ow what we’re doing.

  Finally the pressure releases in an explosion of pleasure so exquisite it’s almost painful. I choke back my shouts and fall into a mumble of incoherent words and phrases in a desperate attempt to let him know how amazing, how wonderful, how incredible he is.

  I’m lying in his arms and he’s holding me tight as I calm down and get my breath back. Gently, he kisses my forehead, a gesture that goes straight to my heart.

  I'm dying to ask him what he's feeling, what he’s thinking, where this passion and affection have suddenly come from, but I retain just enough sense to keep those thoughts to myself. I know better than to ruin the moment with a bunch of questions that I might not want an answer to. There will be time to sort out what this means—if it means anything—later.

  For now, I just want to live in the present and make the most of it.

  “Your turn,” I whisper, running a hand down that beautifully sculpted chest to the waistband of his jeans where I tug at the button.

  His eyes are dark with desire, but I can sense hesitation in him.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  Are you kidding? I barely keep from rolling my eyes. “Yes, I'm sure. I want to feel you inside me, and I want to know that you're having at least as much fun as I am.”

  He still looks doubtful.

  “What's wrong?” I ask, a hint of unease running down my spine. Is he doing this because he feels sorry for me, poor little Annabelle who can't get a decent date? Or because he feels like he needs to hold up his end of our bargain? That he doesn't really want to have sex with me at all?

  He’s silent for a moment. Then, “You’re not a virgin, are you?” he asks.

  I breathe out a sigh of relief mingled with exasperation, roll my eyes and shake my head. Maybe I should be offended that he thinks I'm that inexperienced, but I'm mostly relieved that that's what seems to be holding him back. “Tommy Lipstein, remember?” I cock my head at him. “Is that what you're worried about?”