by Alison Kent
More carefully this time, she cleared several empty mugs and snifters from the bar and was seriously wiping the finish from the surface when Cali next wedged her way between the cooler and Erin’s backside.
“Definitely a story of some sort,” Cali said, grabbing a second bottle of ale.
“Dialogue markings and short paragraphs. Could be an eyewitness account of The Daring Duo. Though, if it is, I hope they never find out. They don’t need any further encouragement, thinking we’re actually enjoying their show or anything.”
“Good grief. What are they up to now?” Erin’s mental gears switched from the first subject to the second but Cali was gone again before she could answer. So, back to The Scary Guy Erin’s mind went.
And what if Cali was wrong? What if it wasn’t a story at all? What if he was a restaurant critic? Not that she served food worth a critic’s time and effort. Her simple fare was just that. Simple. Desserts and appetizers perfectly suited as complements for a bottle of wine. No, what she was selling was the ambience, exactly how she’d learned to do from Rory, though definitely not the ambience he’d sold.
An ambience The Daring Duo was taking way too much advantage of, Erin noticed. The two couldn’t get their mouths far enough apart to respond to Cali’s query about a second bottle of their favorite Pinot Noir. Erin didn’t even want to think about what they were doing with their hands.
At the thought of hands, she made the mistake of glancing toward the next table—
and found her Scary Guy’s focus not on the legal pad in front of him, but on her face, his gaze a bold and steady test of her ability to hold up under a scrutiny that was not the least bit chaste but oh, so, incredibly heady. Her fingers curled into the rag she held and squeezed.
She’d thought him intimidating when they’d passed one another near their building’s bank of elevators. She’d thought him threatening when watching in her rearview mirror as his big black muscle car rolled behind her compact Camry into the parking garage.
But the truth of the matter was that on none of those occasions had she felt a fraction, a hint, a trace of the tremors now scuttling down her spine. Tremors that worked their way into the pit of her belly, spreading down between her legs in damp anticipation as she silently accepted his unspoken invitation. Oh, but she was going to die with the waiting.
His eyes were bright, a mad sort of glittering green seeing so many things she worked to hide. Things she hadn’t told Cali. Things she would never have told Rory. Things she hated telling herself. But things he so easily divined, capturing and holding her with nothing more than a look.
But, oh, that look. It wasn’t hot; it was compelling. It wasn’t smoldering or steamy; it was devouring, possessive. Intense in a way that urged her pride to check her hair for flyaway strands, her face for a blemish or a scar. Her psyche for fears she wanted him to explore. She hated, hated, hated the vulnerability. And still she wanted to take off her clothes and give him what access he chose to take.
Suddenly, watching him there as he watched her, her chest felt too small to contain the swell of her fast-beating heart. Her skin burned, as if the touch of his gaze was a physical contact and not the mere suggestion of one. The pits of her arms, the backs of her knees, the valley between her breasts. Perspiration blistered and itched. The creases between hips and thighs grew equally damp. She was literally on fire.
How she survived the rest of the evening she had no idea. But she did, making the requisite bartender chitchat, removing and refilling glasses and mugs, all the while watching the clock over the front door, the huge clock fashioned from the top of the original Paddington’s bar, tick its way toward 2:00 a.m.
The Scary Guy she was determined to know better was one of the last patrons to leave the bar for the night.
Will, as usual, hung around waiting for Cali. And Cali always helped Erin close. The three of them had laughed and cut up as usual while wrapping things up and, between Erin’s last two trips to the kitchen, he had disappeared.
Finally, she’d been able to breathe, lock up the bar for the night and take herself home.
She had no idea if he’d returned to their shared building but a few blocks down Main, or if he had taken himself off to a club that catered to creatures of the night. And that’s exactly what he reminded her of, dressed the way he always dressed in dark colors from head-to-toe, and lean in a way that reminded her of an animal on the hunt and always hungry.
He haunted her, and that’s why she’d decided to take this bat by the wings and introduce herself the very next time their paths crossed. She’d kick herself forever if she didn’t. And, besides. Saying hello was probably the least etiquette required before she and the man embarked on her premeditated fling.
She pulled her Camry into the building’s garage and drove up one ramp after another until she reached the fourth level. Paddington’s was within walking distance from the loft and the neighborhood was no worse here than in dozens of other parts of the sprawling metropolis.
But the middle of the night was still the middle of the night, whether downtown or in the burbs. And, quite frankly, Erin valued her safety too much to tempt fate, or any lurking criminal element.
She grabbed up her backpack by one strap, slinging it over her shoulder while hitting the auto lock on the Camry’s key chain. The locks clicked and she stuffed her keys down into her front pocket. And then she heard it. In the next second. Between her first step toward the garage elevator and the second. She heard the sound she’d been waiting for, the sound she’d been hoping to hear.
A low rumbling purr, a growl that grew louder as the panther-sleek car approached. Dark-as-night black paint. Tinted windows. Shiny wheels and two cylindrical exhaust pipes to match. She remained still, standing where she’d stopped in her tracks seconds before, her hand wrapped in a death grip around the strap of her backpack draped over her shoulder.
The car crept by, a slow-rolling machine built for power, for pursuit, an intimidating shadow stalking every move she made. Foreboding settled into Erin’s belly like a heavy weight, grounding her feet to the hard concrete floor. Her gaze remained on the driver’s window from which only her reflection stared back.
But she didn’t need to see his face to feel the effects of the look she knew he’d directed her way. The electricity remained, the sizzling, popping burn of her overheated imagination and her body that had yet to shake off last night’s erotic dreams.
With practiced ease, the car slipped into the parking space at the end of the row. Erin hesitated for several seconds, knowing this was it. The chance she’d been waiting for. The chance she had to take. As soon as he killed the engine and the rumble died and the echo of all that horsepower stopped ringing in her ears, she headed for the elevator.
Once inside, she waited. Her back to the side wall of the elevator car, she waited. Holding down the door-open button, her heart hammering hard on her ribs, she waited. Listening for the approaching footsteps, heavy in the black boots he wore.
Or so she’d assumed they must be.
But she’d assumed wrong because he silently rounded the corner and moved into the elevator’s tiny square of remaining space before she had a chance to whip her hand away from the panel. He caught her waiting there. And the only thing she could do in response was smile.
So she smiled, and then she looked down because she’d lost her voice. At least she’d lost the ability to say anything intelligent or coherent. And she didn’t think telling him to strip to his skivvies was any way to break the ice—even if she wanted more than her next breath to see him naked.
She didn’t know enough about men’s clothing to guess his size but his boots were absolutely huge. Deep indigo jeans, nearer black than blue, bunched over the boots around his ankles. And, oh, but his legs were long.
Erin’s gaze made a slow climb, lingering for what was probably too long for prudence yet not long enough for prurience on his sweetly thick thighs and the equally compelling bulge behind the crotc
h of his button-down jeans. If only he’d turn around and complete the picture by giving her a nice close-up view of his backside.
But there was no time.
In seconds they’d reach the ground floor. She had to make her move and make it now. A deep breath did nothing to calm her nerves, only served in fact to rattle her further. She tried again, producing a smile she hoped showed at least a small degree of the sultry sensations giving birth to tremors that ran down her spine to the soles of both feet.
But then the bell dinged and the door opened and she had no choice but to exit and hope he followed. He did. He followed even when she bypassed the main building’s elevator and headed for the mailroom in the basement. She felt him behind her like the ethereal kiss of a shadow, a warmth with no substance but that which her wanton imagination bestowed.
A rich hunger stirred to life in her belly, accompanied by the twisting and turning of nerves knotting into a near painful anticipation. The short, dimly lit hallway echoed with their alternating footsteps, hers almost louder than his. The air inside sizzled with blue white waves of electrical pulses. The scent of imminent danger burned with a pungent intensity and caused her nostrils to wildly flare.
Then she caught a second scent. The barest trace of an exotic cologne, an expensive blend of green woods and spice. His scent. And the first time she’d been so aware of his individual, unique, arousing allure. She shuddered then, holding the feeling close as desire blossomed and as she stepped into the mailroom and headed for her box.
He made his way straight to his and Erin could barely concentrate on separating junk mail from bills as desperation grew. Never again would she have a more perfect chance than this one. The hour was late and they were both alone and unattached. Two healthy sexual beings lacking a single reason to say no.
Unless he didn’t want her. Didn’t find her desirable. Unless she’d imagined the earlier sparks spitting and popping in Paddington’s air.
She took a deep determined breath and slammed her mailbox door resoundingly. Then she turned, pausing at the trash bin to toss out flyers and sales papers and the postcard reminder from her gynecologist. The rest of the mail she tucked into her backpack, zipping it closed just as the second mailbox door slammed shut. Three footsteps brought him to the trash bin where he tossed the same junk mail she’d discarded.
The rhythm of her heartbeat was pure rock ’n’ roll as she lifted her chin and raised her gaze to meet his.
“Hi,” she said, her voice amazingly steady when hunger had her weak at the knees. “I’m Erin. Erin Thatcher. I decided it was time I introduced myself considering we’re about as close as neighbors can be, you living above me and all.”
His eyes were the clear sort of green of old Coke bottles, a beautiful contrast of light against lashes and brows an indisputably rich gothic black. His upper lip was narrow, his bottom lip full, giving his smile an innately sexy and boyish appeal. Nothing else about him, however, could be mistaken as belonging to anyone but a man.
His gaze that still boldly met and held hers never wavered. Neither did he flirt, or tease, or pretend to sidestep what they both so obviously wanted. Amazing how the want was so obvious. Like sex between them wasn’t even a question but was a foregone conclusion, a decision made long before this moment, a reality that neither had any say in defining.
Then, in a voice that sounded as if he rarely had reason to speak, in a voice that reminded her of his car’s powerful engine idling at a low RPM, in a timbre that held enough resonance of simmering emotion to reassure her she wasn’t out of her mind, he told her his name was, “Sebastian Gallo.”
Right before he lowered his head.
It wasn’t his kiss she found unexpected. She’d been ready for this since before her fantasies had stripped the both of them bare. What she hadn’t anticipated was the hunger he was able to restrain. She felt the tension in the barest brush of his lips to hers, in the distance he kept between them even while standing so close.
Her body came alive and the hands that had been holding the strap of her backpack moved to hold on to him. He was tall and he was solid, his biceps beneath her palms as unyielding as stone. She had to lift her chin, lean back her head, stand on the balls of her feet to reach him. And she was not a short woman.
But the way he settled his hands at her hips—his hands, heavy with warmth and confident possession, his hands that were long-fingered and broad-palmed and were the hands of her fantasy—made her feel tiny and feminine and desired. And then, as if the test was complete and time had come to explore the extent of her willing nature, his kiss deepened, grew hard and hungry and his hands pulled her body flush to his.
She knew she was going to die. Her skin burned with a fever too hot for a body to bear. Her heart thumped with an unimaginably hard rhythm and any moment she expected her ribs to crack. The pressure in her chest was that intense. But neither that pressure nor that burn had anything on the ones clawing and growling deep in her sex.
The moisture she knew to be musky and hot soaked into the crotch of her panties. She wanted more than anything to spread her legs wide open. She wanted Sebastian Gallo to slip his hand between her thighs, to finger flesh damp and swollen both inside and out.
She wanted to feel his mouth, his mouth making wild magic with hers, the very same mouth she wanted more than anything to tease and release the explosive nerves drawn taut.
She wanted all of that. She wanted more. And so far they’d shared no more than a kiss. She wondered how she would ever survive the bump and grind of sex. He took a step into her body, pushing her into the waist-high sorting table that ran the length of the mailroom wall. The sharp edge cut into the center of her back. Cut harder when he pressed harder, pushing his full length against her, grinding a most impressive erection into the soft give of her belly.
Tongues tangled, warm breath mingled. Noses bumped, teeth clashed. Erin slipped her arms beneath his and moved her hands to his back then down to his backside, squeezing and urging him forward, closer. She wanted him closer. But clothing and location stood in her way.
And frustration mounted because there was nothing she could do but stand still beneath his touch and…oh, oh, yes, right there, she silently begged, easing her thighs apart when he wedged his knee between. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe. His mouth was stealing too much of her air. The world tumbled away from beneath her, but his thigh between hers kept her from falling.
How could she have known he would taste like this? Like forbidden fruit, sweet and smooth, addictive. Warm sugar melting like heaven on her tongue. The taste of heat and velvet honey.
Yet this kiss, this press of lips, this open-mouthed exploration of tongues and teeth, nibbling and nipping, was an appetizer leaving her hunger to be sated. Leaving desire to be satisfied. Leaving the ache between her legs to be soothed.
He pulled away, panting, struggling. Choppy breaths, both ragged and raw, blew over the skin of her neck. She shuddered, pulled her arms back between their two bodies and curled her fingers into the material of his shirt. She buried her face against the backs of her hands. She didn’t know whether to hold on to him forever or to let him go.
The one thing she did know, the one thing that was not in question, was that she wanted more. And so she lifted her head and she looked into his eyes and she smiled, encouraging him to respond similarly.
But his face remained solemn, even when he lifted a hand and brushed wild strands of hair away from her face. Then he leaned forward slowly, brushed his lips tenderly to the corner of one eye and rested his forehead on hers. “Nice to meet you, Erin Thatcher.”
Oh, the sound of her name in his mouth. “The pleasure is all mine,” she managed to get out before her voice or her legs collapsed completely.
And then he chuckled, lifting Erin’s spirits and saying, “That’s good to hear. I was hoping I wasn’t the only one getting off on this.”
“No, this is definitely a mutual mailroom mauling,” she said and pulled
in a deep shuddering breath.
And then he hooked an arm around her neck and made sure he had her attention before he asked, “So what do you say we take this party upstairs?”
4
ERIN BRACED HERSELF against one wall of the main hotel elevator she used to access her loft. Sebastian leaned against the opposite, legs crossed at the ankle, hands braced behind him, head angled back and chin lifted. His gaze never wavered or left her face.
And that caused her to smile. A nervous smile, she admitted, yes. But the upward pull of her lips was still a smile—one of pure excitement.
She tried not to shuffle her weight from one foot to the other, to switch her backpack from left shoulder to right, to hold in her stomach, hold up her head, straighten her shoulders and her flyaway hair. It was so damn hard to stand still beneath a scrutiny that intense.
