“Remember what I said I wanted to do to you?” He asked, teeth teasing my earlobe.
“I am not getting naked except for the boots in this warehouse.” I might be naughty Marcia, but I still had a few boundaries. Pretty much.
He snickered, and his hand skimmed down to my behind, squeezed. “What a picture. But no, even I can’t warm you up that much. I meant bending you over my bike.”
“Here?” My scandalized virgin gasp. But that wasn’t me anymore. I was a bad girl, making out with the guy I’m seeing in a dirty warehouse. I pointed at the video camera on the wall. “I don’t need a sex tape, thanks.”
He barely glanced at it. “They’re fake. The boss is cheap. He buys them off the internet and puts them up for show.” He nudged his thigh between my legs, rocking against me. “Trust me, luv.”
“I’m not wearing a skirt,” I said, realizing then that I was seriously contemplating this lurid proposal. Not just contemplating, quickly wanting it, too. “In your fantasy, you lifted my skirt.”
“True,” he mused, undoing the snap on my jeans, “but I also had you dropping to your knees and sucking me off, and we’re not doing that yet either.”
That image rattled me. Definitely dirty, to give him a blow job in this warehouse that smelled of cardboard and motor oil. Suddenly I wanted it more than anything.
“Why aren’t we doing that?” I asked, impressed at my sultry purr. I put my hand on his erection.
“Ah…” He actually stammered, tongue darting out to lick his lower lip. I loved it. And I got busy undoing his jeans. He stopped me, hands on my wrists. “Marcia, luv, I didn’t mean it that way. You don’t have to.”
“Because I’m a nice girl?” I got his jeans open, pushing them and his boxer briefs down. His cock sprang free and he groaned. “Cold?” I teased him. “Hang on, I’ll warm you up.”
I paused first, digging my lipstick out of the coin pocket of my jeans, freshening it while he watched, rapt, eyes tracking the back-and-forth swipe.
“What are you doing?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“Lipstick. The gals all say that’s the extra spice, visually speaking.”
“Do they now?”
I pocketed the lipstick and lowered myself, holding onto his hips for balance. The bike was right behind me, smelling of hot metal and rubber from the ride, which shouldn’t have been erotic but was. I took Damien in one hand, holding him by the root. I’d obviously never done this before, but thank God the rest of the Fab Five talked about giving blow jobs in extensive detail. The lipstick trick was Charley’s naturally, while Amy advocated the shaft-grip as necessary to control the “thrusters” as she called them, so you didn’t end up gagging unsexily.
Damien had his hands in my hair, running his fingers through it, and he might have been shaking a little. My world narrowed and all I could smell was him. His usual skin-scent, but unadulterated by the bay rum aftershave. Lighter and sweeter, but also condensed, a little sweaty, a bit musky. Man smell. A cologne never to be replicated. I licked him lightly, tasting the bead of pre-cum. Saltier than I expected, but not bad. Ice insisted every man had his own taste, and I liked Damien’s.
I liked every damn thing about him. I closed my mouth over the swollen head, sucking a little.
“Fuck me,” he breathed, hips flexing, fingers tightening.
Glancing up, I kept my mouth around him, finding him staring at me, aqua eyes wild. Releasing him, I asked, “Verdict on the lipstick—yes? No?”
“Extra fucking spice,” he grated out. “You’re killing me, luv.”
“Not yet I’m not.” And I covered him again, swallowing him deeper. I liked this more than I’d thought, the pressure of the swollen head stroking the roof of my mouth, the back of my throat. The way his taste and scent filled all my senses, his heavy shaft in my fist and his muttered curses.
“Marcia. Marcia, luv.” His hands dragged at me, pulling me to my feet. I nearly complained, but then he took my mouth in a deep, drugging kiss. “My turn,” he muttered, taking a breath, then turned me around and bent me over the bike.
Blood went to my head with a thunderclap and I scrabbled to hold onto something, finding the foot rest and clutching it for some kind of grounding. Because he’d already dragged my jeans down to my ankles.
“Oh, you gorgeous girl. Just look at this arse.” He ran his hands over my curves. “And these lacy things. You have no idea what they do to me.” Playing with them, he pulled them tight so they scraped over my clit. I tried to wiggle away from the intensity of it, but couldn’t. As he’d promised. Finally he pulled them all the way down and I panted at the reprieve.
“Lift your foot,” he rasped, tugging at it. I did, and he worked my jeans loose over the boot, then spread my legs wide. He slapped my bottom, not that hard, but shocking me, and I squealed. Which turned into a dark moan as his hot mouth fastened on me. It was different from this angle, more intimate somehow, more intense. He thrust fingers into me, saying something about my dripping cunt, words that should have offended me but only made me hotter. I ground against his tongue, whimpering, wanting, needing.
“Damien…” I sighed and pleaded.
“Oh yeah, luv. You want it?”
“Yesss,” I hissed.
“Bad girl.”
“I know it.” And I loved it. So deliciously naughty.
“You stay right like that.” He pushed my hips higher, so I was on tiptoe, precariously off-balance over the seat of the bike. I shifted, to get my feet more firmly under me and his hand smacked my bottom, making me yelp, then writhe at the startling heat. “Wide open for me, luv.”
A crinkle and I knew he was putting on the condom, staring at me with my legs obscenely spread. Then he nudged against my opening, staying tantalizingly out of full reach.
“What do you want, dirty girl?”
“You,” I panted.
He smacked my bottom, then reached around to slide his fingers over my slick clit, pinching it so I sobbed with need. “More specific.”
“I want you to…”
Pushing in a little deeper, he paused. Waiting. “Say it, luv. Say those naughty things.”
“Fuck me,” I whispered. A shudder wrenched through me as he pushed in deeper and I cried out. “Oh, Damien!”
“Yes, Marcia luv?” He sounded oh, so polite.
“Enough already,” I practically growled. “Fuck me senseless.”
“With pleasure, darling,” he drawled. Sinking his fingers into my hips in a remorseless grip, he proceeded to do exactly that.
* * *
The ride home was a dreamy blur. With my hey-hey still wet and swollen, my jeans added delightful friction to the bike’s vibration. I clung to Damien, my cheek against his jacket, floating on the erotic haze. How all of this had come about, I had no idea, but I intended to savor every minute.
Maybe one day, when they asked me about the inspiration for my perfume line, how I’d made them so erotic and yet romantic, too, I’d smile just like this. I’d remember Damien and make some mysterious reference to the boys of my youth.
We pulled up to the house, every window alight, the thump of music coming from inside. I got off the bike and handed Damien my helmet, finally able to work the clasp on my own. He gave me a long look, then glanced at the house. “I’m guessing you’re not going to ask me in.”
“Do you really want to? I mean, seriously, they’re like vultures. Delightful, charming vultures, starving to chew on your gizzard.”
He cocked his brow. “Do humans have gizzards?”
“Not after the vultures eat them.” I leaned in and kissed him, his mouth pliant and generous. Not really annoyed. “It would be just… too much for me right now, okay?”
“Okay.” He gave me a cheerful smile. “We’ll start with your mother and the new stepdad candidate.”
I put my hands over my ears and groaned. “Don’t say that.”
He laughed and tugged my hands down. “Meet you at our bench on Tuesday
?”
“Yes. Eleven-thirty?”
“I’m there.”
“And, um, Damien?”
“Yes, Marcia, luv?”
“If you don’t have Thanksgiving plans, you could come to that. If you want to. You don’t have to. Of course. But you could—if you wanted to, meet everyone then.” If we were still seeing each other after my mother got done with him.
His smile widened. “A real American Thanksgiving?”
“And Julie is cooking—she’s an actual chef—and with Daniel’s money underwriting the food. He’s certifiably wealthy, so it should rock.”
Still holding my hands, he pulled me close again. “Everything with you does, luv.”
The kiss goodnight lasted a long time.
* * *
Both because Damien liked them and my mother would hate them, I wore the blue boots on Tuesday. I even let Amy talk me into wearing a short black swirly skirt and a drapey top that matched the boots. With my fitted black jacket over it—that Amy had tailored for me—I looked almost svelte and stylish. I fretted over my knees showing, until Amy made me repeat three times that knee caps couldn’t be fat.
I’d put in an extra-long day Monday, getting everything off my plate, which meant Tuesday was nearly dead. Lots of people had disappeared already. Good thing I’d gone ahead and taken leave on Wednesday to help Julie prep. The restaurant she worked at was a family place that had closed until Friday, so she was on holiday already. You’d think she wouldn’t want to cook on her days off, but there’s no accounting for obsession.
Speaking of my own, I couldn’t wait to see Damien.
We’d been texting—sexting even, though I steadfastly refused to send him any salacious photos of me—but I hadn’t seen him since I’d left him at the curb Sunday. His exact words. The boy had a flair for the dramatic, that’s for sure.
I got down to the bench early. Ten minutes early. I’d wanted to give myself plenty of time, and so hadn’t even dawdled over any of the window displays. Unfortunately that meant waiting in the less lovely entrance area, the doors bringing in icy blasts, alternating bursts of traffic noise, and exhaust. It occurred to me—as I fretted and paced, waiting—that I hadn’t told Damien to dress up. Of course, if I’d thought of it, I still wouldn’t have said so.
Damien had his own look and I liked him for it. My mother could suck it up if she didn’t feel the same. Maybe I wouldn’t have been that brave before, but she’d changed the terms first. Liberating, maybe for us both.
When Damien walked in though—wow. My heart tumbled a little at the sight of my guy in an actual topcoat, suit jacket, and button-down shirt. Sure, the latter was a vibrant purple with narrow electric-blue stripes, and he wore a bow tie of the same blue. I nearly laughed to see that he’d color-coordinated the earrings and brow-piercing in the same array of indigos and violets. It made me think of that initial absurd image of him at the his-and-hers sinks, picking out his jewelry. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so bizarre anymore.
“What?” he asked, walking up to me. “What’s that face?”
“You look amazing,” I said.
He posed, then swept me a bow, something about that niggling my memory. He took my hand and spun me in a pirouette. “You’re hot stuff, yourself. Your hair is different.”
“Amy did my hair and makeup. She went a little crazy.”
“I knew I liked that chick. What do you have on under the skirt?”
“Maybe later you’ll find out.”
“Let’s skip lunch. Fuck your mother and the new bloke.” He leered at me, making me giggle, and I realized I wasn’t nervous anymore.
* * *
The restaurant was a fancy one—much nicer than any my mom would have picked on her own. Also a Holt property, but I doubted they’d know that.
“This George guy wants to impress you,” Damien said to me as the hostess led us to the table. “That’s a good sign.”
“Why?” I was back to nervous.
“It means he cares, and that he’s smart enough to know you could make or break the deal for him.”
I could? That hadn’t occurred to me. And then there was my mom, standing up and rushing to hug me, weeping a little, as she always did.
“My baby!” She put her hands on my cheeks, then stepped back. “You look… well, so grown up. That skirt is awfully short, though. And the boots. So bright!”
“You look great, Mom.” She did, too. Happy. Radiant, even. She’d colored her hair so it was back to the rich russet I remembered from years back, making her seem twenty years younger. It hit me all of a sudden that she was only thirty-nine. She didn’t look younger—she no longer looked old before her time. “This is my friend, Damien.”
Her smile dimmed considerably as she took Damien in, but she offered a hand and shook his, murmuring a hello. Then she turned to the man who’d been seated beside her, now standing. “Pooky, this is George.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, as I shook his hand, trying to sound more enthusiastic than my mom had about Damien. George was tall, with neat silver hair at his temples. He wore a suit I recognized as expensive, thanks to Amy’s patient tutelage.
He did the politician thing, covering my hand with his other one as we shook, but his warm smile struck me as genuine. “Really wonderful to meet you, Marcia. As you can imagine, I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
I resisted the obvious quip, that I wished I could say the same about him. I introduced Damien instead. Then we all sat—me at the window across from George and Damien across from my mother. Damien took my hand under the table and I clutched it, surprised at my fierce gladness for the gesture, and for his easy nonchalance.
The nice thing about restaurants is the initial dealing with ordering and so forth helps smooth awkward meetings. There’s choosing drinks, studying the menu, ordering food. Damien pointed out a whiskey cocktail he thought I’d like so I decided what the hell. I was officially on holiday and anything to soothe my nerves at that point.
“Since when do you drink?” my mother asked, pursing her lips.
“Since I became of legal age, several years ago,” I replied smoothly. Go me.
“Well,” she started, “I’m not sure that—”
George put a hand on her shoulder. “Rose, why don’t you have a glass of that wine you like? It’s Thanksgiving. Let’s all have a little something to celebrate.”
I found myself giving him a grateful look, and he winked at me. Would wonders never cease. When our drinks arrived, Damien lifted his glass, catching my eye.
“To the good and the bad, and the best of both,” he said. I smiled, absurdly happy that we had our own toast. My mom seemed uncertain, but George clinked glasses with us and drank, so she followed suit.
After we’d ordered, we had to search for conversation. George asked about my job, so I talked about wanting to be a nose. Damien listened with such intent interest that I realized I never had told him about my job and my ambitions. Amazing to think I hadn’t known him a full week.
“And what about you…Damien.” My mother had trouble saying his name for some reason. She sipped her wine and examined him over the rim. “What do you do?”
“Lots of stuff. Lately I see Marcia as much I can manage.”
“I mean, do you have gainful employment?”
“Mom—”
Damien squeezed my hand. “Several times over. Always with the hustle, and the like.”
“The…‘hustle’?” She managed to make it sound like prostitution or something.
“Sure. I hustle here and hustle there. Wherever they want me to go, and quick.” He slanted that crooked smile I so loved—and that she so apparently did not.
“But what are your ambitions?” she insisted.
Damien shrugged. “I have ideas. Stuff I’m working on.”
“Like what?” Her tone made it obvious she didn’t buy that.
“Okay,” I said. “That’s enough. He doesn’t answer to you.”
&nbs
p; “Who does he answer to?” She shot back.
“My da asks that very question, all the time,” Damien mused to no one in particular, and I had to muffle my snort of laughter. Comic relief, indeed.
“Rose, honey.” George put an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s maybe—”
“Marcia! Hey, nice to see you.”
I looked up to find Daniel standing there, his arm around Charley. They looked like they could have stepped out of Chicago magazine, with their glossy good looks. Charley flicked me a smile, but returned her gaze to Damien, studying him with a line between her brows. Likely as puzzled as the rest of them about why I’d picked him. It was getting old.
I made the introductions. “And, Mom, you remember Charley, of course.”
“Charley? Oh, Charlotte. Of course. Don’t you look pretty.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Moore.” Charley had on her fixed, social smile. I didn’t blame her, given my mom’s behavior to her, treating her the same way she did Damien. I liked Charley and Damien for the reasons my mom didn’t. They were both fun, flamboyant, relishing life and fuck the rules. The kind of person I wanted to be.
“If I’d known you’d be here,” Daniel was saying, using his charm to gloss it all over, “I’d have arranged something special. Let me know next time.”
“George made the reservation,” I explained. “I had no idea. It’s a wonderful choice.” I gave him my warmest smile.
“I read it’s one of the best in the city,” George said. “Did my research.”
“Thanks so much. We love to hear that,” Daniel replied, shaking his hand again.
“Daniel’s family owns the place,” I explained.
“Yes, indeed.” Daniel squeezed Charley’s shoulders and she stopped frowning, giving him a radiant smile. “And now, I’ve promised my gorgeous girlfriend lunch at the best restaurant in the city. If you’ll excuse us. See you Thursday, Marcia?”
“Looking forward to it,” I replied, then took Damien’s hand. “Damien, too, if that’s all right.”
“Great. Plenty of room,” Daniel nodded at Damien, but Charley gave me a queer look. “Any friend of Marcia’s.”
Missed Connections Box Set Page 22
