Intimacy

by Mattie Bowman

  As I walked slowly through the club, I wasn’t one-hundred percent sure if he’d been trying to give me a hint, or just making fun of my cluelessness. Why would she want a biker-dude? Was I not enough?

  Don’t be a child. Lock it up.

  I sucked in a deep breath and nodded to myself, feeling out my new look with each step I took toward the bar. Throngs of couples danced on the floor, or above in the balconies that overlooked the club, and loud music thumped through speakers all over the room. The more I focused on the beat, the more I slipped into character. If I had been transformed into someone else, then Tara would be too, and not knowing who she was or where she’d be sent a rush of excitement through me.

  Normally, I could pick her out of a crowd from ten miles away, I was that attuned to the contours of her face, the subtle curves of her perfect body, but as I continued to search the club, I couldn’t set eyes on her.

  Maybe she wasn’t here yet.

  I took an opened seat at the bar and ordered a beer, nursing the ice-cold longneck with my back against the bar, my eyes constantly seeking and never locking onto what I wanted. There were plenty of beautiful women in the area, but not mine.

  Halfway through my beer, I spotted a gorgeous piece of work with lavender locks, and a perfect pair of breasts that were on display in a tight black corset-looking top. Her long legs were covered in leather tighter than mine, and my mouth watered.

  For an instant, guilt flared dark and heavy in my gut, but then the woman dodged an overzealous pair of dancers, and the way she’d moved—effortless, graceful, and with her hands up so she avoided touching anyone on the overcrowded floor—flooded me with a relief I didn’t know possible.

  Mine.

  I licked my lips, ready to leap over the railing that separated the bar area from the dancefloor and claim her mouth, but I stopped myself with an effort I didn’t realize I possessed.

  A stranger wouldn’t do that, and looking at her now, her eyes still scanning in the way I had when Anderson first shoved me in here, I knew that was the fantasy—to be strangers when we knew absolutely everything about each other. To be new. So, I told my dick to forget about how good she felt around me, and my heart to relax at the sight of her in such a different look.

  I leaned harder against the bar, setting my beer down as I took pleasure in watching her walk around the club. She was downright delicious, and I hoped the role she played included me worshiping her in our suite without sound restraints.

  Tara, I thought, wanting to whisper her name as I slid between her legs and reminded her how fucking sexy she was…even before this new getup.

  As if she heard me, her eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, she was my Tara—the evidence of our life filling those deep brown eyes as she recognized me. Then, in a blink, she wasn’t there anymore. She strode toward the bar, swishing her hips until those high stilettos brought her right up next to the seat I occupied.

  “Can I get a vodka-cranberry?” She asked the bartender, ignoring my presence completely.

  I tried to contain my smirk as I openly ogled her, my eyes trailing every inch of a body I knew with my eyes closed.

  “Something on your mind, stranger?” she asked, and I brought my eyes back up to hers.

  I shook my head, turning toward her. “Was just thinking you look more like a red wine kind of girl.”

  She flipped the lavender hair that grazed her shoulders, laughing after she took a sip of the vodka-cranberry the bartender handed her. The movement of her hair exposed a black trace of lines across her neck that swirled down her shoulder and onward to her back. The design was intricate and delicate and made me want to find out how far down it went.

  “You’ve got me all wrong,” she said, taking another drink.

  “Is that right?” I asked, my leg brushing hers as I turned toward her even more. A rush of heat shot across my skin and the ache returned, hot and hard. My hands itched to run over her skin, through her new hair, and to trace every edge of the temporary tattoo inking her skin.

  “Mmhmm,” she murmured from around another drink.

  “You here alone tonight?” I asked, wishing I had a smoother line to lay on her, but hey, it’d been over a decade since I’d had to put moves on her at all.

  Maybe that’s the problem. You stopped seducing her.

  She nodded and I shook the thought away as she set her near-empty drink on the bar. She tapped the rim of her glass, and the bartender nodded. The relaxed, confident move made me lick my lips in a desperate wish they were hers. “You?” She asked.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, kitten,” I said and reached over to claim a drink of the fresh vodka-cranberry the bartender brought her. I set it down, a challenge in my eyes. “Seems like my whole life.”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, honey, you’d have to do a lot better than that to get between my legs.”

  My eyebrows shot up my head. “You’re a saucy one, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea,” she said, tilting her head as she slowly trailed her eyes up and down my body. “But you do look like a good time.”

  “I’d be the best you’ve ever had,” I said, smirking.

  “You think?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve had some pretty spectacular rides. What makes you think you’d wow me?”

  I slowly reached out, tracing a finger down her bare arm, smiling deviously when I felt chill bumps raise beneath my touch. “Why don’t you let me show you? Then you can be the judge.”

  My heart raced inside my chest as she pondered my offer, the thrill of the unknown fueling every piece of our exchange, and the power she held over me completely fucking hot.

  She could shut me down, but the way she shifted against her barstool—as if she needed relief from the ache between her thighs—told me she wanted me as badly as I wanted her. I glanced down at where her perfect ass connected with the barstool and cocked an eyebrow. “I’d be happy to take care of that for you.”

  Her red lips popped into the shape of an O before she smirked. She stood up and grabbed the back of my neck, jerking me toward her so fast my head spun before she pressed her lips against mine. I pulled her against me from my seated position and slipped my tongue between her painted lips, the taste pure Tara and lipstick and vodka—a combination that made me rock hard in seconds.

  Taking control from her position above me, she gripped the longer strands of my hair and arched my head back, sucking my tongue deeper into her mouth which made me dig my fingers into her perfect hips. I hooked one of her legs upward, wanting nothing more than for her to settle on top of me right there in the fucking club.

  She flicked her tongue along the edges of my teeth, teasing me in the perfect way no stranger ever could, and a low growl rumbled in my chest. I hefted her upward enough for me to stand without breaking our kiss. Our bodies flush, I held her to me, getting lost in her mouth, in the feel of her body so pliant against mine. It’d been too long. And now I was ready to sweep her off her stiletto covered feet and rush her back to our suite.

  I pulled back, her eyes snapping open and filled with lust as she locked onto mine. I grinned, ready to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of the bar, but her gaze went from one of want to one of shock.

  I didn’t even have time to tilt my head before something jerked on my shirt from behind.

  “What the fuck?” The woman—clearly drunk from the way she slurred her words—screamed at me as she yanked me to her. “Devin, how could you!” Her long red hair was slightly disheveled, as was the black mini-dress she wore. She swung an opened palm toward my face, and I ducked just in time to miss her slap. “Asshole!”

  I cut my eyes to Tara, wondering if this was part of the fantasy. If it was, it was the dumbest fucking part. Tara’s shock didn’t seem fake, though. Her laughter, on the other hand, was genuine. I shook my head at her. Not funny.

  Ducking another swing from Mrs. Hysterics, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Skank!”
The woman yelled, this time rushing at Tara. I hooked an arm around her middle, stopping her from overrunning my wife.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy now,” I said, trying to use the calm voice I elicited when Blaire was in full tantrum mode as a child—not so unlike overreacting drunk girls. “You don’t understand—”

  “Understand what? That you’re a lying, cheating, asshole! How could you bring me here and then go after the skankiest chick you could find?” She failed against me, and I held her tighter.

  I looked to Tara for help, but she barely hid her laughter behind her hands.

  “This is so not funny, Tara!”

  “It’s actually kind of hilarious, Quinn.” She held her side, now doubling over from laughing so hard.

  The woman thrashed harder before spinning around to face me. “Baby, don’t you know I’m the best for you? Don’t you remember what I do to you?” Her breath reeked of sour, fruity alcohol, and I scrunched my face against the assault. She went limp against me, her hands sloppily groping my face. “Let me make you remember.”

  “No—” I was jerked around for the second time that night. This time it was no drunk girl, but a big fucking dude with a scowl on his face.

  “What the hell?” He asked, and my mouth dropped open because I couldn’t find the right response. He had on a similar red shirt and black jeans, and almost exactly the same boots. His hair wasn’t too far off either—if I was a drunk girl, I could see how this would’ve been confusing.

  “Wait—” she looked from Mr. Scowl to me and back again. A quick gasp and she flung her hands over her mouth.

  A sharp crack hit my jaw, so fast and unexpected it took me a second to realize it was the dude’s fist. My head snapped back, but I quickly blinked away the pain, my fist hurtling a return hit to his nose before I could even think about it.

  “Quinn, no!” Tara yelled, popping up to grab my already launching fist. The feel of her touch against my forearm stopped me from completing a second hit. I dropped my hand as she examined my face, a sting searing the corner of my mouth when she swiped her fingertips across it. She held them up stained with my blood. I glared at the dude behind her, still puffing his chest out like he wanted to fight.

  “Look at him!” Tara said to the guy, pointing at my clothes. “Look at you.” He complied. “Now, look at her.” She pointed a red polished finger at Mrs. Hysterics who had frozen.

  It took him a minute, but recognition finally clicked behind his eyes, and he relaxed his stance.

  “I’m so sorry!” The drunk woman slurred. “I thought…I swore that was you making out with her!” She jabbed a finger into his chest, and I didn’t envy the wrath he would get despite not having done anything wrong. Well, besides sucker punching me.

  “Come on,” Tara whispered into my ear, reminding me of where we’d been moments before the woman had interrupted us. “Let’s go put some ice on your face.” She took my hand and led me out of the club, leaving the drunk couple to work out their problems.

  She ordered me to the bed in our suite as she fetched an icepack from the kitchen. I sank onto the king sized mattress, the feather comforter protesting from the weight. Tara’s heels clicked against the hardwood floor when she came in the room, pressing the icepack against my jaw and covering it with my hand until I held it there. I winced from the cold but soon sighed as it eased the searing pain pulsing where he’d clipped me.

  Tara chuckled as she ran her hands down my legs until they reached my boots, and she slowly took each one off, sitting them neatly in the corner of the room.

  “You’re still laughing,” I said, wincing after I smiled.

  She knitted her eyebrows. “Well, I haven’t seen you get in a fight since junior year when Bobby tried to convince me to go to prom with him and not you.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No. Just funny.” She ran her fingers through the lavender wig she wore before she slipped it off her head and tossed it on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. Her natural dark brown locks tumbled down, stopping just after her chin. “The illusion is kind of lost, isn’t it?” She slid her hands down the sides of the tight top she wore before shrugging.

  “Hey,” I said, reaching for her. “I don’t need an illusion.”

  She didn’t grab my hand. Instead she walked toward the bathroom. “You should keep ice on that,” she said, motioning toward the icepack I’d let fall to my side when I’d reached for her. “It’ll swell up if you don’t.”

  I slowly put it back to my jaw, not flinching this time. I couldn’t feel the pain because the tightness in her eyes had me on edge.

  “I’m going to change.” She tapped the side of the wall before shutting the bathroom door behind her.

  Do you need an illusion?

  The question I needed to ask died in my closed throat.

  Pussy.

  The once desperate ache of need shriveled faster than if she’d dosed me with a bucket of ice water—the thought of her needing a fantasy to be turned on by me killed the fast-formed heat that moments before had set my blood on fire.

  By the time she came out of the bathroom, I’d shed myself of the clothes chosen for her stranger fantasy, and returned to the form she’d always had me in—only this time, as she climbed into the bed next to me and flicked off the light—I wondered if that was what she wanted at all.

  5

  Tara

  Quinn sat next to me on the couch in Grant’s office, as silent as he had been at breakfast. It wasn’t a bad silent, but he was more contemplative than usual, and I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was—that our first shot at letting go had been an utter disaster.

  I’d enjoyed the way he’d looked at me when I was playing someone else. It had been exhilarating, but then…well, everything happened and shot us straight back to reality. Where I was no one exciting, just plain old Tara—which is exactly who I hadn’t wanted to be last night.

  Grant was perceptive when it came to knowing what we wanted, at least for me. I’d gotten a rush over seeing Quinn so outside his comfort zone, too. The whole scenario was perfection…until it wasn’t.

  “I don’t need an illusion.”

  Then why do you need divorce lawyers?

  “Nice painting,” Quinn said, shaking the thoughts from my mind. His voice washed over me like a warm bath. He hadn’t spoken all morning. I glanced at where he pointed, smiling slightly as I realized he was motioning toward the wall of canvas I’d helped paint two days ago.

  “You like it, yeah?” Grant asked from where he held an acoustic guitar and was haphazardly plucking the strings.

  Quinn nodded, not adding anything more than that.

  “Well,” Grant said, sucking in a deep breath. “I asked both of you to meet with me today because I’ve decided to grant you access to the Wonderland rooms.”

  My heart leaped into my throat. “What?” I blurted the question out, knowing from my research that you only were granted access to those specialized rooms after Grant had done several sessions and deemed you ready.

  “Does that surprise you?” Grant asked, his hand splayed flat over the strings of the guitar where he sat perched on the end of the couch.

  Quinn tilted his head at me, and I could easily read the confusion in his eyes. In reality, I shouldn’t know any more about the rooms than he should.

  “What are they again?” I asked, my voice pinching like Darth Vader gripped my airways. I wrung my hands, missing the confidence my lavender wig and fake tattoos had given me last night. I wanted to be her again—not this woman who was questioning if her husband still wanted her after all this time…after only seeing her in the role of mother.

  Quinn shifted, focusing on Grant whose eyes jumped between the two of us. The disappointment was clear in them as he realized I had yet to come clean with Quinn over the real reasons we were here.

  The heat between Quinn and I had been off the charts before the drunk woman had shown up, and I couldn’t tell if that
was because I’d been someone different or he had, or we had…and the end result left me with more questions—and frustration—than ever before.

  “I’ll have Jessica take you through the steps,” Grant said, strumming the guitar again. “But, basically they are designed to give you those quick shots of fantasy you may not have access to outside of the resort. Those instant and universal wants that we as humans have, yet life doesn’t always allow us to experience.” He grinned, the smile lighting up his eyes. It was infectious, his confidence and positive attitude toward life and love.

  I found myself smiling, too. The idea of picking something with Quinn and getting a fast do-over for last night while we waited on our second fantasy, fueled my excitement.

  “Interesting,” Quinn said.

  Grant tilted his head, his long black hair slipping off his shoulder. “What’s that?”

  Quinn shrugged. “The concept. Like an adult amusement park with a different kind of ride.”

  A flush raked over my cheeks, shocked that Quinn had offered that insight. I cut my eyes to him, wondering if he was intrigued or annoyed with the idea? It was hard to tell if he was complimenting Grant or mocking him.

  “Nothing wrong with having a little fun in a safe environment, yeah?” Grant asked, arching an eyebrow at Quinn.

  “Not at all.” Quinn stood up and reached for me.

  I took his hand, the same warmth penetrating my skin as it had last night when he’d touched me. Maybe he did want this. Want me. Still.

  “You two ready for the tour?” Jessica popped her head inside the office, her megawatt smile lighting up the room.

  “Sure are,” I said, nudging Quinn.

  He smiled down at me, but I could tell he was still inside his head, and I hated that I couldn’t figure out what exactly he chewed on. It could be a number of things—the same things I was worried about or whatever had sent him to the lawyer’s office in the first place or what had happened there. A piece of my heart clenched every single time I thought about that day, but I forced it away. These two weeks were about finding myself again, and Quinn. After we were done, then I’d deal with reality.