Smoldered

by Rachel Blaufeld

  I knew a few things he didn’t, and I wanted to make sure I was around when he figured it all out.

  I definitely wasn’t looking forward to it. Neither was Lynx, which was why she helped me keep tabs on Natalie. Lynx felt the same responsibility to her old neighbor as I did to the man who employed me.

  Startled, I was knocked out of my thoughts when my girl jumped on top of me and started kissing me—all over.

  Maybe I was going to get a repeat after all?

  FRESHLY SHOWERED, I was reaching into my beverage fridge to grab a water before heading out when Lynx wrapped her arms around me from behind and kissed my neck. When I turned around to face her, she stopped me from planting one on her full lips by saying, “She’s dating someone.”

  I knew who she meant. Goddamn it.

  “Well, it was bound to happen, baby. She deserves a life, yeah?” My words might have sounded calm, yet I was anything but that. Asher would shit a duck if he knew, and the reality of Natalie moving on made my mission to protect her harder.

  “Of course she does,” Lynx said. “I want her to move on, but that’s not my choice. You know better than anyone why I can’t stand Asher. But this guy she’s dating, it sounds like she’s forcing it. I don’t think she wants to move on. Mostly, I think she has no one down there, and she’s grasping for something so she doesn’t feel so all alone.” She leaned her head against my chest, nestling it where my heart was beating, her breath warm through my lightweight T-shirt.

  “Fuck, Lynx. I don’t think there’s much we can do. She doesn’t know about you and me, so I can’t get involved, and Natalie wants zip to do with anyone at the Tunnel. And you know I can’t tell Asher. He’ll hire a plane and drag her right out of Florida, probably chain her up inside his mansion until she swears to give up the dude. I think we have to let her live her life.” I smoothed my palm down the braids that hung over her back, and she snuggled closer.

  “I know,” she murmured against my chest. “I know it’s all true. We have to figure out what we are and let Natalie do the same. But still, I don’t want Quinney to get hurt. We know he’s about to get the wind knocked out of him as it is.” She looked up to me, leaning her head back, her golden eyes meeting mine.

  I nodded my head in agreement, wanting to talk more about us, but now wasn’t the time. I was already late for my rendezvous with Hadley.

  “L, I know it’s tough, but we’ll work it all out. I gotta go. You never know when Ash is going to lose it and drop the bomb.”

  Lynx stood on tiptoes and planted a kiss on my cheek. Grabbing my track jacket off the back of the chair, I turned to say good-bye and caught her worrying her bottom lip. “L, look at me. It’s all going to work out. I care about you, and it’s all going to be fine.”

  She didn’t respond. I took one last look at the gorgeous woman leaning on my kitchen counter, her hair still wet from the shower, her tiny frame swimming in one of my T-shirts, and my heart swelled. But knowing where she was going and where I was headed made my head feel like it was going to explode.

  Who had time for that?

  No one, so I pressed forward.

  Caught with My Pants Down

  Natalie

  Miami

  THURSDAY HAD come and gone four times since our first date, and I’d tried to convince myself that what I felt with George was passion or heat, when I knew it was anything but. The gentleman had wined and dined me on my night off each week, and on the weekends we’d had brunch together with Quinn and his son. George had played tag with the boys at the playground, and once had sneaked into the club to see me.

  Although he kept to the back, hid in the shadows, and only stayed for a half hour.

  Thursday was here again, and as I walked the grocery store aisles searching for corn-syrup-free snacks for Quinn, I repeated my recent mantra to myself: George is good for you. George is great for Quinn. Florida is better than Vegas.

  At the end of the day, it was bullshit. Life with George in Florida was nothing but normal, predictable, and painfully fucking boring. I barely recognized myself when I sat at brunch like a desperate housewife in skinny jeans, a big bulky taupe-colored sweater, and ankle boots. Often I found myself looking around the restaurants at the perfectly manicured, carefully plucked, and well-dressed women there doing the same as me, and my heart ached. I missed Petal jumping around our old dressing room with her tits bouncing, and I missed my mom and her stories of the good old days. My body screamed for Asher and his gruff words, the way he would pull my hair to the side and kiss my neck. My body had never felt as empty as it did with this perfectly respectable, well-to-do man and our two children between us.

  Sneaking a look at the Gentleman’s Quarterly in the checkout, I swore the guy on the cover was modeling the same type of shit George wore to the club.

  Ugh.

  If this was truly a full life—here in Florida with my investment banker—I now understood why so many men sought escape in strip clubs. It appalled me the way all these people sat around at brunch, pretending to smile while hiding their true desires. My mind would wander during these meals, and I couldn’t help but wonder what those people really wanted to do. What would happen if they caught sight of my bare pussy, just a glimpse as I slid up and down the pole in nothing but a thong, my breasts swaying to the music, my recent nipple piercings catching the glint of the strobe light?

  Would they get turned on? Or would they suppress it?

  I giggled to myself, thinking of a way to test my theories as I threw my items on the checkout belt, and the clerk gave me a wary glance before shaking her head.

  As I loaded my bags into the car, I decided that tonight I was going to conduct an experiment. Violet, who had become the only person I considered family in Miami, was taking Quinn to the movies and keeping him for a sleepover. George was making reservations for the perfect evening out, and had arranged for his boy to spend the night with his grandparents.

  I had other plans, which I carefully crafted on my drive home from the store.

  AS SOON as Quinn was out the door, Plan B went into play. I’d kitted myself out in a brand new emerald-green thong and matching lace bra, five-inch black-patent stiletto Mary Janes, a magenta kimono-style dress covering all the goodies up, and my hair curled in light waves. Just as I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup, the doorbell rang.

  When I opened the door George was on the other side, looking dapper in professionally hemmed designer jeans, a white oxford tucked in, and his standard Italian leather loafers. I grabbed hold of his collar, wrinkling his shirt, and pulled him inside the door, my plan firmly taking root. The poor guy looked a little confused with my come-on. We’d been taking it slow.

  Of course we had. Between the kids and the formal brunches, who had time for any sexual urges?

  George is good for you. George is great for Quinn. Florida is better than Vegas. My mantra playing on repeat in my head, I added one more message: You are hot for George.

  I ran my hand down his arm seductively, turning him to me and initiating a kiss. George rose to the occasion, literally and figuratively. Our bodies touched and we stilled, kissing a bit more. There was no grinding, he didn’t push himself against me, and I didn’t press my somewhat less than hot and bothered body against his.

  George pulled away, breaking the moment by asking, “I thought we were doing this right with a fancy dinner and all tonight?”

  “Well, I was thinking we could stay in and enjoy some quiet. And each other. Maybe some Chinese takeout?” I said while continuing to run my fingers up and down his arm.

  He swallowed. Pretty certain I’d caught him by surprise—he’d probably never been with an assertive woman—I let him take his time.

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  Somewhat awkwardly, he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me in, tucking my head under his chin, then kissed me on top of my head.

  I wanted to tell him to grab me roughly, bite my neck, mark me, get a little possessive, but
I didn’t.

  Instead, I repeated my mantra. George is good for you. George is great for Quinn. Florida is better than Vegas. You are hot for George.

  Caught up inside my head, I didn’t notice George on the phone canceling our reservation until he stood, lightly took my wrist, and led me over to the couch.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  Now what?

  “We could have a drink,” I suggested. “Relax, order some food? I could dance for you.”

  His brow furrowed. “Dance just for me?”

  I nodded.

  “Where would we do that?” He looked around the room. I didn’t know whether he thought he was being punked or just trying to understand where we would actually do that.

  “Anywhere. I can improvise. The dining room. My bedroom.”

  George is good for you. George is great for Quinn. Florida is better than Vegas. You are hot for George.

  This really wasn’t working. This being my attempt at making something out of nothing.

  The silence in the room was killing me, so I stood, walked over to the side table, and picked up the remote to my iPod dock, looking for something sensual. Not as obviously screaming sex as Buckcherry, but a little toned down. I found my hips moving to the soft beat of Enigma, the chords pulsing through the room, growing deeper, setting a more adult tone to the moment.

  I swayed toward George. He stood and walked toward me, his feet eating up the floor between where he’d been sitting and where I was making a fool of myself. His eyes were hooded and he appeared to be affected by me, but he didn’t move beyond the halfway mark. I slithered a little closer, my heels clicking on the hardwood, announcing my arrival.

  George swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sliding in his throat, but he didn’t say a word. He was entranced by my seduction, and I’d barely done anything yet.

  I reached for my neck and started popping the buttons on my dress, releasing them one by one until my cleavage was on display, the edge of my green bra peeking through. Licking my finger, I ran it down my breast bone straight into the valley between my breasts. It was there I paused and lifted my finger, crooking it, motioning for my prey to advance.

  Christ, I’ve never had to put this much work into a man. No wonder those housewives bitch all the time.

  Needing a small sign that the man actually wanted me, I held my ground. George moved closer until there was nothing but an inch or two between our bodies. A combination of need and apprehension spilled from his; mine vibrated with nothing but anxiety. There was no pulsing between my thighs, no wetness dripping from my core, and my nipples were only hard from my own fucking finger.

  What the fuck?

  George lifted his hand and gently slipped it around my back as though he couldn’t believe this was happening to him. It was as if he was witnessing this moment as though he were someone else.

  I can’t do this. The thought hit me like a freight train racing through the night, spreading a fine layer of sweat over my skin and making panic rise in my throat. I didn’t want to go through with this, but how was I going to stop what I had started?

  That was when a horrible pounding started at the door. Someone was banging on it incessantly, and it sounded as though they were ramming their shoulder into the door. Because this was an apartment, the door wasn’t very thick. At any moment, the only protection between us and whoever was on the other side was going to come flying off the hinges.

  George froze, his mouth hanging open as his gaze pinged between me and the door. My tits were hanging out and my fingers were shaking so badly, I couldn’t close my dress. Damn those fucking little buttons.

  Seconds ticked by, and still the man didn’t move. I knew I should never trust a guy in loafers.

  George is good for you. George is great for Quinn. Florida is better than Vegas. You are hot for George.

  My resolve hardened as I forbid myself from repeating that ridiculous mantra anymore. I couldn’t talk myself into anything with George; the man was barely equipped to confront who was banging down my door.

  Shaking my head as I cleared my thoughts, I thought I heard my cell phone chime.

  What is this? Armageddon?

  Feeling faint, I took a deep breath and inhaled as much oxygen as I could before I walked over to the door, ignoring the ringing phone and trying to react despite the commotion. Mentally thanking God that Quinn wasn’t home, I leaned as close as I could to the door and yelled, “Who is it? Stop banging or I’m calling the police.”

  The knocking came to a halt. Then the phone started chiming again as I heard, “Nat, it’s me, little doll. Let me in. Please.”

  Let Me Color You a Picture

  Asher

  Las Vegas, the night before

  BACK AT another bar where I was quickly becoming a regular, I was watching the jumping water across the way and thinking about what a freaking crock it was to have an enormous fountain smack in the middle of the desert, when I spied Beck heading toward me. God, he looked like a first-class jerk in his preppy getup. I knew where the dude grew up, and he certainly didn’t wear polo shirts back there.

  I lifted my glass and tilted the twelve-year-old single malt down my throat, then signaled for another. I was not on a good path—in fact I was traveling a rather rocky, precarious journey to hell—and I couldn’t give a damn.

  Three weeks of hanging out with Beck, and I had nothing. The guy was a goddamn sap, boring as all get-out, and nearly pissed himself with excitement every time we got together. The loser almost creamed his pants the one time he came to the Tunnel, and he was one giant question-seeking asshole about the girls there. Will she do me in the back with her shoes on? What an absolute idiot. I couldn’t believe this was the father of Natalie’s son.

  Honest to God, he acted like a virgin. If I didn’t know Beck had fathered a child, I would never believe he’d ever been laid.

  No wonder Natalie didn’t want him in the picture.

  Here he came, waving and gesturing to me as if he had to take a crap rather than meet another dude for a drink. As he sat down next to me, the bartender—Louie—brought my second scotch. Thank fucking whoever is up in the sky.

  “Hey, Asher. Isn’t this great? You, me, getting together all the time? Never would have thought back in the day that you and me would be buds.” The freak plopped on the seat next to me.

  I gave a small, barely perceptible nod and tipped my drink back, sending fire racing down my throat, spreading through my belly, warming my insides, making me yearn for a female’s touch. A certain female. My mind wandered to Natalie’s ass while Beck placed a complicated drink order.

  Pulling my head out of the gutter, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Mike had arrived. Thank fucking whoever for the second time in five minutes.

  “Hey, man,” Mike said to me and lifted his chin toward Beck, sitting pretty in his jeans and a polo, looking like he was a banker. I knew my right-hand man didn’t exactly like the dude, and I couldn’t blame him. Beck was about a zero on a scale of one to ten, but Mike was taking one for the team.

  More than anything, I needed the jerk in order to redeem myself with Natalie. I just hoped to Christ she took his money and didn’t get too close to the man himself; I didn’t know if I could stand the idiot for too much longer. And I planned on sliding into the picture after I served Beck Hadley up to the woman I wanted to claim.

  Mike yelled, “Heineken” across the bar to Louie as Beck sipped on some orange-colored drink served in a martini glass. What a pussy. We were a funny-looking group for sure, but I was on a mission, and tonight that shit was getting done.

  Screw the small talk. I launched right in with, “Speaking of the old days, Beck, do you remember Natalie? Small world, she was working for me for a while.” Then I threw my hand up in the air, motioning to Louie because I needed a fresh scotch, pronto.

  Beck brightened and said, “Yeah, of course I remember Natalie. Haven’t seen her in years. Not since I left the old ’hood, my man.�
�� Something crossed his face, a fleeting look of adoration, compassion, or some other girly emotion before he schooled it.

  I tried to hide a cringe. God, I hated when he called me “my man.”

  “Is that so? I forget, when did you get out of the neighborhood?” I asked as I reached across the bar and took my drink from Louie.

  “Probably right after Natalie. You know what? It was right after that going-away party for her. The one where everything got so out of control on her birthday, and I decided I needed to do something with my life after seeing all that shit go down. Enrolled in community college two weeks later, got a job bartending, and made my way out. Now, look at me.” He waved his hand up and down his scrawny chest like a game-show host, sporting a smirk.

  I can’t take much more of this loser.

  Mike got up and mumbled something under his breath about not being able to listen to the ass, then he headed over to talk to one of his bouncer buddies.

  I brought my attention back to Beck. “Hmm. I vaguely remember that night. I think I got pretty faded…I was still hitting the powder back then pretty hard. Had to clean up my act because the Tunnel was just starting to get real, and I needed to be running on all cylinders. Natalie was off to break out of the life too, back then. Shit, we all thought we could escape our destiny. No fucking way. We were Vegas through and through. Look at us. Still here.”

  I leaned back in my bar stool and closed my eyes for a moment, trying to picture young Natalie. She was curvy in all the right places, so young and vibrant with lush brown hair, long lashes…and not jaded. She had her eyes set on something better.

  “…too bad you don’t remember.”

  Deep in my memories, only hearing a part of what he said, I sat up and said, “What? What did you just say?”