by T. K. Leigh
“Where are you going?” Evie asks as I shrug into my jacket, then pull on my gloves and wrap my scarf around my neck.
I meet their curious expressions, parting my lips as I struggle for a way to explain this. There’s so much I should tell them, but time is not on my side. Instead, I give them the short answer.
“I need to go see a man about a pair of panties.”
Then I turn from their confused faces, running as fast as I can in my rather impractical boots away from the bar and toward the Park Hyatt, pushing through the crowded sidewalks, tourists and locals not moving as quickly as I want them to. At least Lincoln chose somewhere close to our usual Thursday evening spot. I would’ve been screwed otherwise.
The air is frigid, the wind whipping my face, but I’ve never felt so warm, so sure, so happy. When I reach the hotel, I momentarily pause, staring up at the tall building. Everything’s about to shift. I’m taking a risk if I walk inside. And I’m taking a risk if I don’t. But now I know which risk I want to take. I can no longer deny there’s a reason our paths crossed. The universe made that loud and clear tonight.
Resolved, I step into the foyer, then take the elevator to the lobby. The ride seems to last an excruciatingly long time instead of the few seconds it actually does. When the doors open, I exit and am instantly swallowed up into the frenzied atmosphere of the lobby in the Manhattan luxury hotel.
Spying The Living Room past the check-in desk, I move toward it, my heels seeming to echo in the cavernous space as I cross the threshold into the swanky lounge. Couches and chairs fill the area, giving it the feel of being an actual living room instead of a bar.
My eyes float between the tables, looking for a familiar face. But I don’t see one. I grab my phone out of my purse to check the time. 9:30. Maybe I’m too late. Maybe he’s already left, thinking I wouldn’t show up.
My shoulders dropping, I turn around, hoping the universe will ensure our paths cross again. At this point, it’s all I can do. Or Facebook stalk him. Thank god for social media.
Just as I’m about to head out, my gaze settles on a pair of familiar green eyes at a table in a secluded corner, and my mouth ticks up into a smile, a tiny exhale of air escaping. He’s dressed similarly to the way he was during our first few encounters — tailored jacket, crisp shirt, designer shoes. It’s been less than forty-eight hours since I last saw him, but it feels like it’s been an eternity.
His stare unwavering, he slowly stands, buttoning his suit jacket as he makes his way toward me. You know those scenes in movies when everything else falls away, leaving just the two main characters? That’s what happens here. The world around us instantly disappears. We’re no longer in a popular lounge in Midtown Manhattan. I’m no longer thinking about all the stress in my life. It’s just Lincoln. Just us. Just this bubble. An incredibly sexy and addictive bubble.
As he approaches, his scent grows stronger, wrapping me in comfort. I thought it would be strange to see him anywhere other than Vegas, but it’s not. It feels…right.
“You’re late.” His deep voice sends heat curling down my spine.
“I’m rarely on time.”
Several silent heartbeats pass as he peers at me, almost convinced I’m not real. “These panties must be pretty special if you came all the way here just to get them back.”
I slowly shake my head. “You can keep them.”
“Then why are you here?” He arches a single brow.
I stand on my toes, my mouth feathering against his. “For you.”
He brings me into his warm body, enclosing me in his perfect embrace. “God, I was hoping you’d say that.”
He’s about to kiss me when I press my hand on his chest, stopping him. “But this doesn’t mean I’m going to move in with you,” I say, repeating the same words from his own plea. “This doesn’t mean I’m going to be your girlfriend… Not right away. All this means is that I’m willing to get to know you. That I’m willing to let you know me. That’s all this is. Just a chance.”
“That’s all I ever wanted with you, Pixie. A chance.”
Chapter Thirteen
I’ve often wondered what heaven would be like.
Not really as motivation to live a virtuous life. More like…curiosity.
Is it like floating on clouds with beautiful music playing in the background, St. Peter welcoming you with open arms, as is depicted in popular folklore?
Or maybe everyone’s heaven is personal. Maybe Mother Theresa’s heaven is filled with all the people she strove to help, no more signs of hunger or abuse. Robin Williams is probably free from depression, cracking jokes about anything and everything. And Steve Jobs’ heaven is probably a replica of that garage in Los Altos where he built the first Apple computer.
Just like my heaven is wrapped in the arms of a man who was a mystery mere days ago, one I never planned to see again. But I couldn’t stay away.
Yup. I have found my own personal slice of heaven here on earth. And his name is Lincoln Moore.
An arm snakes around my midsection, pulling me against a large, firm body. Chest hair tickles my back as I relax into him. Nuzzling his nose into the crook of my neck, he inhales, then moans. The deep, guttural sound sparks my libido to life, although it doesn’t need much help. Not after our night of some of the most amazing sex I’ve experienced. Of acting like two long-time lovers who haven’t seen each other in months, maybe years.
In reality, we’re practically strangers. All I know about Lincoln Moore is he’s a lawyer I kept running into while I was in Vegas for the bachelorette party from hell.
Oh, and that he’s incredible in bed.
And against a wall.
And on the kitchen island.
I’m looking forward to finding out how amazing he is in even more places and positions.
“How are you feeling?” he rasps out as his tongue traces a circle on that spot where my neck meets my shoulder, causing a shiver to trickle down my spine.
It’s amazing how he’s learned to read my body in such a short amount of time. What I like, what turns me on. A trained musician playing an instrument, familiar with the exact spot that makes me hum, makes me vibrate, makes me sing.
“Horny.”
It’s silent for a beat. Then his throaty laugh echoes against the walls of his bedroom. “What am I going to do with you?”
I shift in the bed, peering into his lazy eyes, the green still dazzling first thing in the morning. Hooking a leg around his waist, I subtly circle my hips, his need for me already prominent.
“I have a few ideas.”
In one swift move, he rolls onto his back, pulling me on top of him. My legs fall on either side of him and I lean down, allowing my hair to form a curtain around us. I feather my lips against his, then retreat. He cranes his head, chasing my kiss, but I remain just out of reach.
“Do you like being a tease?”
Readjusting my position so I’m sitting upright, I bite on my lower lip, smiling coyly as I move against him. “I think you like it when I’m a tease.” My voice is demure as I bat my lashes.
With a growl, he grabs the back of my head, his fingers digging into my scalp as he brings my mouth within an inch of his. My breathing becomes ragged, raw hunger flowing through me.
No man has ever turned me on to the level Lincoln has. No man has ever brought me to the brink of the kind of pleasure I didn’t think possible, then pushed me over the edge to the point of oblivion. No man has ever brought me to my knees, made me want more.
But I do.
I want so much more from him.
I lick my lips, then plump them out, encouraging him to dive in for a taste. Instead, his teeth clamp onto my lower lip. The ache hits me in my core, making me burn even hotter for him. He wraps his arm around me and flips me onto my back, covering my body with his. Brushing my hair away from my face, his eyes lock with mine, vibrant green to my lackluster gray. I wonder if he can read my thoughts, if he knows I’m mentally comparing him to ever
y man in my past, every mistake, every reminder of why I’ve always done things my way.
“Don’t.” A single word is all I need to confirm my suspicions.
I part my lips, but he captures my protest with a mind-erasing kiss.
In my lifetime, I’ve been treated to thousands of kisses. Not one of them has touched me like Lincoln’s do. Have made me feel like they were invading my soul. Like I needed them to breathe. Like I’d perish without them.
“I don’t want you to think about anything else when you’re with me,” he whispers against my mouth, the roughness of his unshaven jawline invigorating as he leisurely makes his way down my body. “Like we said last night.” He floats his eyes to mine as he settles between my legs. “I’m just asking for a chance. We’ll take things slow.”
When his tongue lands on that spot that brings me extraordinary pleasure, I sigh, succumbing to him. I doubt this qualifies as taking things slow.
But it feels too good to tell him to stop now.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I check my watch to see it’s almost eight in the morning, then drop to my hands and knees and search under Lincoln’s bed for my panties. It’s a mystery how they always seem to disappear around this man. Then it hits me.
Jumping to my feet, I grab my boots and head down the hallway of his apartment in the heart of Chelsea’s art center. The exposed brick, combined with steel accents and reclaimed wood furniture, give it a masculine vibe. It’s not a huge place, but given the real estate prices in this part of the city, it’s probably valued at a couple million. Yes, he’s a lawyer, but he’s still young. At least he seems young. I’m not sure how old he is. I’m not sure I want to know how old he is.
I round the corner into the living room and skitter to a halt, the scene that greets me leaving me breathless.
From the instant I met Lincoln, I found him attractive. Dark hair. Mesmerizing green eyes. Muscular build. A perpetual five o’clock shadow that had me fantasizing about what it would feel like scraping on my thighs.
When I was treated to the vision of him playing guitar, I didn’t think anything could top that in terms of sexiness.
I was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
Because I’ve discovered something even sexier than Lincoln Moore, all six-foot-three of pure masculinity, playing guitar.
And that’s him sitting at the round bistro table in his breakfast nook, an impressive view of the Manhattan skyline visible in the wide expanse of windows behind him, reading the New York Times, a pair of dark-framed glasses on his face.
“Fuck me,” I murmur, then slap a hand over my mouth.
He looks up, a brow cocked. With a smirk, he folds the paper and pushes back from the table, standing. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing him dressed this way. Something about the dark jeans and tweed blazer makes him look like a sexy college professor. Maybe if my professors were as attractive as Lincoln, I would have been more excited about learning. Hell, I may have even taken them up on their offers of extra help.
“I think I did.” He leans toward me, his lips brushing against my cheek. It’s an innocent gesture, but it still leaves me lightheaded. “Quite a few times, if I’m not mistaken.”
He pulls back and winks. I briefly consider dragging him back into the bedroom for one more quickie.
With the glasses on.
Increasing the distance before I make us both late for work, I cross my arms over my chest, pinching my lips into a tight line.
“On that note, you wouldn’t know where my panties are, would you?”
“Why? Have they gone missing?” he asks in faux surprise.
“Indeed.” My hands rest of the lapels of his jacket, able to make out the defined muscles even through the few layers of clothes.
“Hmm. It’s quite the mystery, isn’t it? We should open an investigation into the matter.”
I shake my head, inching my lips closer to his. It doesn’t matter how many kisses he showered me with over the past twelve hours. I still need one more.
I have a feeling I’ll always need one more.
“That’s unnecessary. I already have a suspect in mind.”
He playfully arches a single brow. “Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
He palms my lower back, yanking me hard and fast into his body. “And who is this panty thief?”
“You,” I breathe.
“Prove it.”
“I can’t. Not yet. But it fits your M.O. You do have a track record of stealing my panties and using them as a bargaining chip.”
His lips feather against mine. “You know what they say, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” My husky voice is unrecognizable. I suppose that’s the Lincoln Moore effect. He has me acting like a completely different woman.
Or maybe being with him allows me to be myself for a change.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” His lips move from mine, trailing hot kisses along my jawline, settling in that spot where my neck meets my shoulders. He nibbles as I throw my head back, allowing him to push me against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The chill of the January air on the other side of the pane tempers the heat coiling in my veins.
“And what had you desperate enough to steal my panties?”
“It worked last time, didn’t it?” His gaze locks with mine, his smile revealing the devil hiding beneath the tweed jacket. “I had to make sure you came…” He smirks, then finishes, “back.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him to me. “I knew I could get you to admit you took them.”
A beat passes before he groans, grinding his body against mine. “Naughty girl. You play a wicked game, don’t you?”
“It’s how we got here, isn’t it?” I say breathlessly. “By playing wicked games?”
“There’s no one else I’d want to play these games with, Pixie.” The sincerity in his voice almost has me running for the hills. Instead, I lean in, savoring in the heat of his mouth pressed firmly against mine.
When he retreats, I avert my eyes, out of my comfort zone. I’ve never stayed the night with a guy before. Well, I suppose I did Tuesday night when I let Lincoln sleep in my bed during the blackout. But there was no awkward goodbye. I ran off and locked myself in the bathroom before we could get to that point.
But now, I’m at that point. What do I do? What’s the proper protocol? Do we make plans to see each other again? How soon is too soon? I wish I’d asked Nora or Evie. But that would mean telling them about Lincoln. I’m not sure I’m ready to share him with anyone yet. I’m not sure we’re at that stage in…whatever this is.
“Well…” I clear my throat, pushing against him. “I should get going, so…” I arch a brow, expectant.
“So?” he says when I don’t finish my thought.
“My underwear?” I hold out my hand.
“What about them?”
“Aren’t you going to give them back?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” There’s an arrogance about him as he retreats from me, bringing his now empty coffee mug into the open kitchen area. I look around his clean apartment, marveling at the simple act of him washing out his coffee mug. I tend to allow mine to collect for days before I finally throw them all into the dishwasher.
“Why?” I follow on his heels. “Concerned the only thing of value you can offer me is my own underwear?”
He ponders my question for a moment, then advances toward me as I stand near the island, a hand on my hip. “I’m more than confident I can offer you something else of value.”
“And what’s that?”
He shrugs, the heat that was present in his eyes turning into something…more. “Me.”
“I— ” I stammer, words escaping me. I’ve never met anyone so transparent, someone who laid it all out there for the world to see. In a way, I envy that about him, wish I could be more like that. But I can’t. Not with my past. Or my present.
Able to sense my une
ase, he covers my mouth with his. “Whenever you’re ready. No pressure. Like I said—”
“I know,” I breathe. “Just a chance.”
“Exactly. Just a chance.” His reassurance lingers as he places a hand on my lower back and leads me toward the foyer. “But I’m still keeping your panties.”
Huffing, I playfully roll my eyes. “I’m going to run out of panties soon. Then what are you going to do to lure me back to your lair of sex?”
“I’ll figure something out.” When we reach the door, I face him, and he curves into me, our lips meeting. “I can be pretty resourceful.”
“I’ve heard that about you.”
Chapter Fourteen
The familiar drone of a frenzied newsroom meets me the second I round the corner behind the reception desk of Blush magazine. Nails click at keyboards. Phones ring incessantly. Low music plays from some cubicles…except those belonging to the fashion department. Their little area is often akin to a rave.
Glancing at my watch to see it’s five minutes before ten, I hurry to my desk and drop my bag before continuing through the open space, a woman on a mission.
I duck into the breakroom to find it empty, considering most of the editors are probably already in the conference room waiting for the weekly meeting. I’ll need to pull some sort of story out of my ass to pitch today. It won’t be the first time.
I make a beeline to the Nespresso machine, pop a pod into the brewer, and place a cup beneath the spout. The instant the nutty aroma fills my senses, my shoulders relax. After my night of little sleep, I need this magical concoction. Espresso is the perfect pick-me-up when you want something stronger than coffee but weaker than cocaine.
“You needed to see a man about a pair of panties?” a familiar voice cuts through my moment of peace.
I curse under my breath, then whirl around, meeting Evie’s hardened expression as she leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest, an inquisitiveness in her green eyes.
How was I going to explain my sudden retreat from the bar last night? And the panties? I hadn’t given it much thought this morning, thanks to the spell Lincoln cast over me.
