Sinful Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

  I’m suddenly intrigued.

  “What’s your deal, Ryan from Chicago?”

  “My deal? I don’t have a deal. Just doing the right thing.”

  I hate his answer.

  “Wouldn’t the right thing have been to let me have the cab in the first place? I could have been long gone and out of your life by now.”

  He smiles a perfect white-toothed grin and speaks with sarcasm, “Yes, but you wouldn’t have had any money to pay for your cab. Aren’t we lucky that things worked out this way?”

  I purse my lips at him but feel my cheeks rise.

  Damn him.

  The cab pulls up to my building, a gorgeous glass and steel apartment tower. Ryan opens the door and then stands to let me out. When I’m on the sidewalk, I spin around and see he’s getting back into the car.

  “Don’t you want to come up?” I ask him, the breeze off Lake Michigan lifting my hair off my neck.

  He stops moving, waits a beat, and then turns around to face me. “Why would I come up?”

  My body falls with his peculiar sense of aloofness. “You paid for my cab, so I’m offering to pay you back.”

  Standing by the open door of the cab, he puts his hand in his pocket. His tousled dark brown hair becoming ruffled in the gentle wind. “I’m not looking for sex.”

  I roll my eyes to the heavens. “And I’m not offering it to you. Just a drink. I might even have some cash upstairs to pay you back.”

  He thinks this over for a second.

  I find myself growing impatient. “Any minute now.”

  “How do you know I’m not a serial killer or a rapist?” he asks.

  Oh, for the love of Christ.

  I walk over to the cabbie and motion for him to lower his window. When he does, I talk to the driver, “I want you to record the time and place of this conversation. My name is Heather McCallister, and this is Ryan…” I pause and then look over to Ryan. “What’s your last name?”

  “Pierson.” His brows are furrowed.

  “His name is Ryan Pierson. If I go missing tomorrow or am found hanging in my bathroom, I want you to alert the media that you dropped off a devastatingly beautiful brunette name Heather McCallister at her residence at ten thirty-two in the evening. Got it?”

  “The fare is twelve dollars. You gonna pay or what?” The driver sounds very concerned for my safety.

  I turn to Ryan for the fare. Instead of handing it over, he just looks at me. It’s an odd look, one I’m not used to sharing with men, and quite frankly, it makes me a little uncomfortable.

  His eyes are slanted ever so slightly. His brows gently curve in. There’s an intensity. A knowing aspect that makes me want to tell him that he knows nothing about me, so he should stop trying to figure me out.

  Ryan gives him twenty and then closes the door.

  When the two of us are alone on the sidewalk, we stare at each other for a moment. I turn and walk into the building, him following me like some sort of lost puppy.

  Charlie, the doorman, is on duty. I pull Ryan by the hand and walk him to Charlie’s desk.

  Nudging Ryan, I say, “Give him your shoes.”

  Not asking any questions, Ryan takes off his shoes and hands them to Charlie.

  With my hands on the concierge desk, I look at Charlie with a serious expression. “This is Ryan Pierson. You are not allowed to return his shoes until I call from upstairs and say that I am alive and safe. Sound good?”

  Not one to argue with me, Charlie takes Ryan’s shoes and hands him a valet ticket.

  Pulling on Ryan’s hand, I drag him to the elevator bank and up to my apartment. With my stilettos on, I’m as tall as he is, giving me the brass balls I need to be commanding over him. For someone who was arguing with me twenty minutes ago, he sure is playing the submissive awfully well.

  I open my front door, turn on the light, and let my trench coat fall to the credenza.

  “Um, did you mean to do that?” he asks from the threshold.

  I raise a bare shoulder and smirk. “You’ve already seen the goods. What difference does it make now? Want a drink?”

  I’m halfway to the minibar when Ryan decides to take a tentative step into my house. I have the tumblers out and the vodka poured when I catch him eyeing up my apartment.

  I hand him a glass and hold mine out for a cheers. Our glasses clink.

  “Nice place you have here,” Ryan says.

  “Goes with the package. A woman needs the right aesthetics to attract the right buyer.” I take a sip from my glass.

  “Are you selling?” he asks. It’s somewhat endearing.

  “No.” I smirk. “I’m in the market for a man. A rich one.” As the words come out of my mouth, I think of Jarrod and his pelvic thrusts into Misty Waters.

  Oh my God, he was still pumping, even while I was standing there!

  I take a deep breath through my nose and blow it out my mouth. Why do I always pick the shittiest men? Last year, I was two years into throwing myself at my last boss, Alexander Asher, only to have the man, who said he would never marry, meet another woman and marry her. She probably drugged him or some other nonsense. For two years, I’d tried to get that guy and nothing, not even a one-night stand.

  At least with Jarrod, we’ve had a relationship. I couldn’t tell anyone, of course. He is my boss, and that kind of thing is frowned upon. But, once he proposed, who would care if they fired me? I could find work somewhere else, but I couldn’t find another Jarrod.

  At least, not another Jarrod with his kind of trust fund.

  “You have a CD collection?” Ryan walks over to the entertainment unit and fingers through my music. “I’ve never met anyone who actually owns CDs.”

  He’s brushing his fingers over the plastic of a Rihanna CD, like it’s an artifact. Without asking, he turns on the CD player and puts the disc inside. I haven’t listened to this album since college. The Barbadian singer’s voice bellows out from the speakers, and Ryan goes back to exploring the room.

  He’s nice to look at. Tall with a muscular frame that’s more lean than bulky, he’s strong and secure with a face like a Calvin Klein model. Man, why do the poor ones always have to be so damn handsome?

  “You don’t have any pictures,” he states.

  I motion to the scenic one above the sofa and wonder how in the world he is missing the giant picture.

  “I mean, personal pics, like with friends, family, travel. You know, the kind of pictures people place around their homes?”

  “I don’t like people, so why would I have pictures of them?”

  “Not even your parents?” he asks with the rise of perfect brows.

  “My dad sucks, so, no, not even them.”

  He does another glance around the room. “So, all of these things are just props to attract a wealthy man?”

  I raise a finger and give him a wide-eyed and open-mouthed face that says, Bingo!

  He leans back on his heels and takes a lingering drink from the tumbler, his lush lips kissing the crystal. Those piercing eyes are steady on me. “You ever been in love, Heather?”

  “You ever been cheated on, Ryan?” I refill my drink.

  “No.”

  “Of course not. Look at you.” I take a fresh sip.

  “If you’re basing this on beauty, then I can’t believe a man would ever be dumb enough to cheat on you.” His eyes assess me. No, they appraise me from the tips of my toes, up to my shapely hips, and dip across my swollen breasts, landing on the doe-eyed expression I’m giving him. From the look on his face, he means what he said.

  I swallow down any notion of attraction I might have just gotten from that look. “Who said I was cheated on?”

  “With that question, you did,” he says with a smile.

  I hate observant people because you have to watch your every word.

  “Shit happens,” I say. Then, I raise a finger. “I’m not sleeping with you, so flattery will get you nowhere.”

  That damn smile widens his
face again. He takes a step toward where I’m standing in the middle of the room. “I don’t want to go to bed with you. I want to know you.”

  “Why?”

  “I have absolutely no idea, but I’ll tell you this.” His voice is deep and low. “I’ve never met a woman like you. You’re different from the other girls. I’m hoping you’ll tell me enough to quell this aching curiosity inside me.”

  “Different good or different bad?”

  Instead of answering, Ryan moves closer. Our eyes are level, but his body overpowers mine by the energy he’s exuding. My insides tingle, and it’s the good kind of tingle, the kind that makes me want to unleash my corset and climb the man in front of me like a cheetah in heat.

  I inhale a breath and remind myself why I can’t be attracted to any ordinary Tom, Dick, or Harry.

  Or Ryan, for that matter.

  “You have cards?” he asks.

  My brows furrow in confusion.

  “Blackjack. I’ll play you. A win for a sin.”

  I like this guy. I’ve been in his presence for under an hour, and I can’t get a read on him. It’s fun, being kept on my toes.

  Placing my drink down on the coffee table, I grab a deck of cards from a nearby drawer, hand it over and take a seat on the couch. Ryan shuffles the deck, like he’s a professional dealer, and hands out two cards each.

  I hit. He stays.

  He wins.

  “Why a rich man?” he asks.

  He waits for my answer.

  “I grew up watching my father have unhealthy relationships with women and alcohol. I escaped my personal hell by reading People magazine and watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

  “Rich people have problems, too.”

  “Not money problems. I had a job at ten and paid our rent because the deadbeat would blow all his money. By the time I was sixteen, I moved out and supported myself. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Where’s your dad now?” His interest in my life is uncharacteristic for the men I usually spend my time with.

  “Homeless,” I state matter-of-factly. “Deal.” I wait for him to hand out the cards.

  I split a pair and win with twenty to his nineteen.

  “First time following a woman home?” I ask.

  “First time she was wearing lingerie,” he says as a joke.

  I raise a brow at him.

  “Yes, this is my first time. I wouldn’t say, I followed you home as much as you pulled me in.”

  Ryan deals, and I win again.

  I always judge a man by how he answers this question. “How many women have you left the morning after?”

  He doesn’t blanch at my question. “Two. A howler and a biter.”

  Honest and without conceit.

  He wins the next deal. “Worst thing you’ve ever done to a person?”

  “Sabotage their career. Don’t look at me like that. It’s a cutthroat world for a woman, and I’ll take down anyone in my way.”

  “A woman taking down a man in the corporate world is impressive, if not scary.”

  I tweak my mouth in mild embarrassment. “It was a secretary. She was encroaching on my position. I tried to push her back down the totem pole.”

  Ryan whistles through his teeth. “Damn. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

  “You threatened to punch me over a cab!”

  “Only if you were a man.” He deals and wins again, getting blackjack. “Something you hate but pretend to like?”

  “People,” I answer.

  He looks back at me like that was obvious. He’s right. I told him earlier that I don’t like people.

  I don’t know. What else do I pretend to like? “Coffee. I drink it because everyone wants to meet for coffee, but it’s pretty gross. And sushi. It’s so popular right now. Everyone wants to have business meetings over Asian fusion, but I really just want a pizza.” My mouth waters at the thought. I haven’t had good pizza in forever.

  “I’ll have to take you to Giordano’s then. You’ll love it.”

  The way he says it—as if he is actually going to be back here, taking me out for deep dish—makes my stomach flutter. I dig my nail into my thumb to bring myself back to reality.

  “What are you hiding?” I ask. He hasn’t dealt the cards again, but I ask anyway, “What’s the one thing that would make me hate you as a person?”

  Please say you killed someone, stole money from your grandmother, cheated on your wife…

  “I get terrible road rage. Bad. You’ll want to throw me out,” he answers as he deals the cards again.

  “That’s it?” I lean forward and ask incredulously, “Never stabbed anyone in the back? Taken a bro’s girl? Cheated on an exam? Taken steroids? Lied to a boss about your abilities?” I’m fishing for something, anything.

  “No. Sorry to disappoint. Were you looking for a bad boy? I do have a temper though. You saw it on Wacker. Sorry about that, by the way. I’d never hit a girl or anything. I just get heated. I played football, and the adrenaline rush is still lingering under my skin.”

  I stare back at him and wonder why a handsome man with few flaws, minus a temper over hailing cabs, has to wear generic clothing and come from a suburb in Chicago. “I hate you, and I hardly know you.”

  “You hate everyone,” he says. “This is a good song. Wanna dance?”

  Ryan stands and raises the volume on the stereo. His hips sway from side to side as he moves to the music. He must have an incredibly low tolerance for vodka because I’ve never seen anyone actually dance like no one is watching. Plus, I am, in fact, sitting here, watching him dance in my living room.

  He leans down and offers me his hands. I scrunch my face at him. I think I’ve let a drug addict into my home.

  “You don’t dance?” he asks.

  With a slow shake of my head, I say, “Not with strangers. Not to old-school Rihanna. And not on my shag carpet.”

  He quirks up a grin. “So, you don’t have a problem with letting strangers come up to your apartment, play CDs on your ancient stereo, and drink with you on said shag carpet, but you do have a problem with dancing.” His brows lower over his lids. “Interesting.”

  “Nothing about me is interesting.”

  “Everything about you is interesting.”

  I look down at my glass, the ice melting in the clear liquor. Nothing lasts forever, including this night. I might as well see where it takes me.

  Kicking off my shoes, I rise and let my stockings dig into the plush carpet. As soon as I’m erect, I notice how tall Ryan is. Looking up to him now, I feel dwarfed and vulnerable.

  He grabs my waist and pulls me toward him but not in a sexual way. He’s pulling me toward him, so we can actually dance in the same vicinity of each other. When I am close enough, he releases me. The chorus kicks in, and so does Ryan. He sings the words to the song. I know them, too, so I dance.

  A huge smile christens Ryan’s face as he sings. My arms rise above my head, and my toes sweep across the carpet. I’m not so much dancing as I am jumping, but who cares?

  I don’t.

  Ryan doesn’t.

  It’s quite liberating.

  My boobs bounce, and my ruffled bottom flounces, yet Ryan doesn’t seem to notice. I hold my hand up to my mouth, like it’s a microphone, and start lip-synching the words, outstretching my other arm and pointing a finger toward Ryan, as if he is the man the words are meant for. He acts out his hurt expression but keeps dancing. His eyes meet mine, and I find myself lost in them, singing to them and dancing to them. And I like the way it is making me feel.

  The song ends, and there is an awkward silence as the track changes. My heart is racing from dancing, and I’m slightly out of breath, but my lips curve into a smile.

  When the next song comes on, it’s a slow song. Ryan grabs my hand. I don’t fight it. Instead, my head lands on the sculpted curve of his chest. My hand clings to his waist, and my other is being tightly held in his. He rests his chin on my head, and the
act feels oddly intimate.

  For a second, I contemplate pushing him away. This is super weird and uncalled for. Yet, when he snakes his arm fully around my waist, I realize that I’ve never been held before. Not like this. Not by anyone.

  Wrapped in the arms of a stranger, I feel more protected than I ever have in my life. I close my eyes and nestle into his embrace as our feet move in harmony to the music. With my ear to his chest, I can feel his heart beating. At first, it was wild with excitement, but now, it is slow and steady, as content as mine is.

  A mirror by the dining area catches my eye, and I see a glimpse of us together. His magnificent body is holding mine, like I’m the most cherished thing in the world. My small frame is nestled into him. His eyes are closed, so I can appreciate his beautiful face—from the perfect slope of his nose to his broad chin and full lips.

  Wouldn’t it be magnificent if he were actually a rich mogul? I could live with waking up to a face like that every morning. Maybe he moonlights as an ordinary guy in non-designer shoes because he doesn’t want to meet a gold digger. Wouldn’t that be something?

  It’s obviously not true, but, hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

  The song ends, so Ryan steps back, releasing me from his hold. My skin tingles with goose bumps. There must be a draft in here because I am suddenly cold.

  I look up to Ryan, and those cobalt blues are open and bearing down at me.

  His hands are raised, as if he wants to reach out and grab me. I take a tentative step forward, inviting him to do so.

  His mouth parts slightly, inhaling a breath. A shiver runs down my spine.

  His tongue darts out and skims his lower lip. I bite down on mine.

  His eyes are on my mouth and then continue to travel to my breasts, which are heaving with anticipation, and further down to the piping of the corset. They stop just at the edge of the ruffled bottom where skin meets garter.

  Those dark brows furrow, and his mouth falls.

  But then his eyes dart to the side.

  With the clearing of his throat, he says, “You must be uncomfortable in that thing. Why don’t you change?”

  My eyes widen for a second as I try to decipher if he means change into something more comfortable—wink, wink—or if he actually means to change into something more comfortable.