Thrill Me

by Isabel Sharpe

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the man moved his pelvis forward, toward the juncture of his partner’s spread legs. The spotlight shifted, grew brighter, then dimmed blue; the musical beat quickened.

  May took in a slow breath, watching the progress of his barely covered sex toward the soft vee of hers, feeling slightly dizzy. She took a long swallow of her drink and put it on the table, fighting an urge to slide her hand along Beck’s thigh, explore his lap and see if he was enjoying the show as much as she was.

  The music grew louder; the lights dimmed farther, the model’s impressively bulging groin made contact with the tiny strip of white material covering his partner’s sex. Oh—oh—oh. May tilted her pelvis up, pushing against an imaginary male. The dark yearning grew inside her. Why hadn’t she ever felt this way before with Dan? Except maybe right before her peak, when this same type of wildness sometimes took her over.

  Beck’s fingers made contact with her bare knee at the same time hers made contact with his linen-covered one and Dan was totally forgotten. She moved back against the couch, let her knees fall open, fairly sure the table hid her from the waitresses and patrons walking about, but not caring as much as May ought to. “Is this what you brought me here for?”

  His hand moved up her thigh at the same slow pace hers moved up his. “Not entirely.”

  “Oh?” She was whispering, aching for his hand to complete the journey.

  “I’m revising a scene. Exhibit A seemed like a promising place for a new idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “The usual.” He was whispering, too, and his breath seemed to be coming faster than normal. “Seemed like a good place to kill someone.”

  May winced. “You’re not going to want me to try that, are you?”

  “No.” He let his eyes wander down the length of her exposed thigh, which made her want to open her legs and let him see what she wasn’t wearing. “But being down here with you has given me some other ideas, too.”

  “Really.” She blinked sweetly. “About murder?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Suicide?”

  “No.”

  “A tasteful maiming?”

  “Much less violent.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I’d rather show you.”

  “Show me.” She whispered the words and managed to shock herself with how hot and desperate she sounded. She was out of her mind already. He or the hotel or something had her in some kind of sexual spell. Or maybe she’d pretended to be Veronica for so long she couldn’t go back. She’d be stuck like this forever. Walk into work Monday morning and immediately try to seduce half the campus.

  The thought of going back to the office seemed so barren and dull and horrible that she pushed the thought as far away as possible and concentrated on Beck, who instead of starting something hot immediately, leaned forward, hand still on her thigh, took a small card on the table, and propped it against his drink.

  “What’s that?”

  He turned back and gave her a wicked grin. “Do not disturb.”

  “Oh, I like that.”

  “So do I.”

  The music slowed. The male model began a gentle rocking, undulating his body against the woman in time to the newly relaxed beat.

  May settled herself against the hard muscle of Beck’s side, letting the arousal build, sliding her hand slowly the rest of the way up his thigh, feeling his warm hand sliding slowly the rest of the way up hers.

  She was wet already; she strained for his touch where she needed it most. As arousing as it had been lying on his bed fantasizing about him, this was ten times more so. Enticing, erotic, daring, dangerous. May would never do anything like this. And here she was, wanting to do it all.

  The blue light changed to a frantic strobe, flashing around the room, framing reality in brief snapshot bursts. She found his hardness; his fingers found her, and she released a small “oh” of blissful relief.

  He groaned, and his penis surged against her hand. “You’re not wearing panties.”

  “No.”

  “You just about killed me.” His voice was low next to her ear; she drew back so their lips were inches apart, the strobe flash making the visual strange and untrustworthy. Only the touch was real, and he felt hard and large and real against her hand.

  “There’s your murder scene.” She murmured the words, stopped for a breath as his fingers parted her and explored. “Death by no panties.”

  “Ah, but they’d die happy.”

  Their waitress, Jessie, walked by close to their table; May tensed, closing her knees reflexively.

  “Relax. They’re trained not to look.” His low whisper brushed her hair. “I wanted to touch you like this so badly when you were on my bed.”

  “Why didn’t you?” She stroked him through his pants and felt him lengthen, harden, strain against the fabric. She wanted him out.

  “Because you were so good on your own.” He found her clitoris, started a rhythm like the one she used herself—he knew how to please her exactly the way she liked it best, because she’d been able to show him.

  She fumbled with his fly, praying she could please him half that well. Pants unzipped, she put in exploring fingers and found he’d worn as much underwear as she had. The hard male heat felt so perfect, so smooth, so inviting. For a second she wished they were in a room, his or hers, on a big bed, so she could taste him, take him inside her. In the next second she was grateful they weren’t. How far and fast would she fall for him if she allowed him that close? Women like May couldn’t handle intense sex and then goodbye. It was better this way, public and controlled.

  She matched his stroking rhythm; the couple on the stage sped theirs in time to the frantic beat of the music and the strobe. The man’s body thrust harder, lifting his partner with each push, then letting her back down, his body undulating in earnest, sweat glistening on his torso.

  May spread her legs wider, kicked off her other shoe and pressed her feet together, any desire to be private or discreet lost to the passion and arousal in and around her. Beck’s fingers dipped into her in time to the music, smoke swirled, the couple gyrated in a mock sex dance. Her hand closed over the top of Beck’s penis; she felt drops of liquid and used them to lubricate the motion, loving that his body tensed next to her, and his fingers grew momentarily clumsy.

  The music blared, filled the bar, made conversation impossible; the couple’s motions became less dancerly, more animal. May turned from the sight, wanting to watch Beck, wanting to experience his pleasure, to share hers with him. He met her eyes and suddenly the crazy give-and-take flash of the strobe, the feel of his cock in her hand, the plunge of his fingers inside her, and most of all, the hot look in his eyes, made the need to come overwhelm her.

  His name came to her lips and she lunged for his mouth, joined hers to his in a frenzy of kissing that sent her over the edge in a stomach-tightening free fall. She moaned in his mouth and moments later felt his moisture on her hand, warm drops of his pleasure that prolonged hers for the deep and unexpected joy of sharing ecstasy.

  This was the way it should be. This was—

  This was sex in public. And she was falling for him, like the impressionable easily dazzled vulnerable small-town girl she was.

  The noise and strobe light in the bar became disorienting, claustrophobic. A sudden pressure in her chest signaled tears on the way up. No. Bad. Wrong.

  She tried to smile sexily into his eyes, but had a feeling she was gazing adoringly at him instead, which wasn’t the plan at all. Worse than sobbing.

  Oh, no. Please don’t let her ruin this by being May now. The evening had been so perfect the way it was, even if she had been more Veronica than herself. All she needed to ruin everything was this desperate vulnerable need to know if he felt the deep overwhelming feelings she felt.

  “May.” He kissed her gently, savoring her lips as if they were the sweetest treat he’d ever tasted. He drew back and the strobe slowed, stopped; the musi
c quieted. “You amaze me. Or maybe we amaze me.”

  “We?”

  Of course she tried not to look hopeful. Of course she failed. And of course instead of saying, “Yes, you are obviously the love of my life,” Beck just looked uncertain, and began getting himself cleaned up, put away and zipped, which was necessary, but not romantic.

  Time to back off. “You mean the fact that we nearly melted the couch?”

  “Yes.” His face relaxed into a smile. “I’m not sure I’ve ever experienced this much…melting power before.”

  “Oh?” Oh? Because she sure as hell hadn’t, either. So maybe she wasn’t alone in this? Maybe she should stop being such a chicken and risk admitting how she felt. “I haven’t, either. This is really…special.”

  He nodded, gave a small smile and reached for his drink. May felt like dropping her forehead onto her hand and groaning. Oh, for Pete’s sake. They’d just given each other hand jobs in public and she was calling it special?

  Except…it had been. The arousal in her body had triggered something much deeper in her heart, regardless of the less than classically romantic circumstances. But based on what? They’d barely had more than a couple of conversations. Strong sexual attraction wasn’t exactly a solid foundation for a relationship.

  Even though, yes, it was a hell of a fun place to start.

  She and Dan had—used to have—much more than this. Tastes in common. Shared friends, habits, values. What did she know about Beck except that he turned her on? She needed to back away from this overpowering emotion before she opened her mouth and blurted out something idiotically premature. “Special” was bad enough.

  “So. How is the romanticizing of Mack going?” Her voice came out too high, too chipper, and the question seemed grossly out of place.

  Beck shot her a look, acknowledging her need to change the subject, though she couldn’t tell if he was grateful or not. “The scene you helped me with went like gangbusters. My agent loved it, she called today and said my editor loved it, too.”

  “Oh, good.” She smiled, absurdly pleased. “I’m glad I could help.”

  “Me, too.” He drained his drink and put the glass down. Silence settled over their table.

  “Just think.” She gave a stupid-sounding laugh. “In a way, millions of readers will be watching me touch myself. Funny.”

  He nodded in a distant way, watching the now-empty stage as if there was something still there to see. Was he trying to think of a way to extract himself from the evening? Maybe she should finish her drink and make the first move.

  She was about to reach for her glass, when he took her hand and held it loosely, stroking her fingers with his thumb, which didn’t seem like something a man trying to extract himself would do. Oh, that was nice. She could sit here and hold hands with this man all day, not that she minded being blown out of her mind by orgasms, either.

  “How’s the rest of the book going?” Her voice came out dreamy and contented this time, and the question seemed natural and just right.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “Why not?”

  He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed each finger, slow, deliberate kisses that nearly made her slide off the couch. “Mack has to fall in love.”

  “And?” Ohhhhh, if he didn’t stop being so fabulously romantic she was going to fall more in love than Mack could ever hope to. Until this moment she thought the whole hand-kissing routine was fake and overblown. But Beck Desmond made it seem genuine and sexy and…well, loving. She dared hope.

  “Write what you know.” He lowered her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Mack’s never fallen in love. And I’m…starting to think I haven’t, either.”

  “Starting to think?”

  Argh! Why did she say that out loud? She could cheerfully strangle herself, except that it wasn’t physically possible. What now, blink yearningly at him until things got so awkward neither of them could stand it?

  A corner of his mouth lifted in a grin, sadly on the non-dimple side. “Maybe Mack…and I…have just been with the wrong women.”

  Oh—oh—oh. Was the fake smoke in the bar making it hard to breathe? Or had her heart just stopped? Was he really saying what she so wanted him to be saying?

  Except…for one problem.

  There was always a problem.

  Until tonight, she’d been posing as someone else. Even tonight, for all her vows to the contrary, she hadn’t exactly done much to show him the farm girl she really was. He knew next to nothing about her. Any feelings he might be developing…if he was…were as far out in fantasy as one of his books.

  And yet…she was enough of a Pollyanna optimist…

  “Maybe Mack has been with women that are too perfect, too New York, too sexual. Maybe he needs someone who is a total contrast to him. Like a nice girl from…the country. Maybe from…” She gestured aimlessly, while her brain instructed her not to say Wisconsin. “…Iowa.”

  Beck frowned.

  May held her breath.

  “Maybe.”

  Maybe. That was good. Better than, no way in hell. “Maybe someone with an unglamorous office job, not worldly, not sophisticated, but honest and supportive and…”

  God she sounded dull.

  “Hmm.” He rubbed his chin back and forth on his thumb. “Nice idea. But I can’t see a woman like that holding Mack’s interest for more than a chapter or two.”

  Fwoosh. May’s precious little fantasy went up in flames. She couldn’t hold Mack’s interest. And therefore not Beck’s. Write what you know.

  How naive could she be? Apparently very. She took a long swallow of her drink and put it down a little harder on the table than she needed to. Well that was just clucking ducky, as her mom would say.

  Enough. She was drained, and wanted out of this weird noisy kinky place. She didn’t belong here. “So are you done with your research?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Did you accomplish what you wanted to?” She gestured between them. “Professionally?”

  He shook his head slightly, frowning. “That’s not what I was doing.”

  “But you said—”

  “That’s not what this is about, May.”

  “Then what is it about?”

  He looked perplexed and she would have shut herself up except she was too hurt to care. “I don’t know. But it’s about a lot more than research. And a lot more than…couch melting.”

  “Oh?” She knew exactly why. Because the woman she’d showed him was about a hundred times more exciting than she was. The thrill every man wanted times ten. She just had nothing to do with May.

  He took hold of her shoulders, brought her close and kissed her eyes, her temples and finally her mouth, then leaned his forehead against hers. “I want to see as much as possible of you, May. I wish you were going to be here a hell of a lot longer than just one week, because I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and certainly not in three days.”

  There. There it was, all of it. Everything she felt about him, everything she wanted to say, reflected back at her as she’d dreamed.

  Just one little problem.

  9

  Note on Exhibit A waitstaff board:

  Hey, Jessie, I’m happy to take your shift tonight at Exhibit A. Think Beck will be there again? Maybe I’ll have more luck seducing him away from his new love than you did, ha!

  Ciao

  Sarah

  Note on Exhibit A waitstaff board:

  Thank you, Sarah!!!! You’re a goddess. Yeah, good luck with Beck. He only had eyes for Ms. Ellison! Bet housekeeping only had to change one pair of sheets for them this morning!

  Jess

  “TAXI, MA’AM?”

  May smiled at today’s hunky doorman, shook her head and thanked him. No taxi. In one hand she clutched bus directions to Clarissa’s apartment. In the other, she held a bag containing her sketch pad and drawings. Maybe Clarissa was just being polite, but she seemed sincere about wanting to see the drawings when she call
ed to confirm their tea date this afternoon, so May brought them.

  This morning, after opening Trevor’s daily gift—bright orange fur-trimmed lingerie, oh thankyouverymuch—she’d decided not to return Ginny’s call and had gone for a swim instead. The situation with Beck was complicated, May’s feelings were complicated, and she wasn’t in the mood for Ginny’s over-the-top romantic interpretations or advice.

  After her swim, she’d gone up to the roof garden to touch up some of the sketches she’d done the previous day, to use her new pencils to add color and life. Up there the humidity had lightened, the temperature had dropped, the sky had been a shade of blue deeper than any she’d seen in Wisconsin, clouds a dazzling white contrast, foliage in the garden vibrant green and lush.

  Even the surrounding buildings seemed cleaner, less angular, somehow they blended in better with the landscape. Maybe she was getting used to the idea of nature existing midair amid concrete like this. Maybe that’s what New Yorkers did: grabbed a slice of green wherever they could get it and hung on for dear life.

  She’d also ventured out this morning to a shop the concierge recommended and had found a cotton flowered dress, flattering and pretty without being revealing or trampy. The clothes in her suitcase were suitable for a week of hay-rolling in a sex palace, nothing that would cut it for afternoon tea with a lady as elegant as Clarissa—except the damn traveling suit, and that seemed more like a straitjacket these days.

  Heading over to Fifth Avenue, she let her arms swing, going with the crowds, acting more confident than she felt, but feeling pretty good. It helped to have a concrete destination and a surefire way of getting there.

  The bus stop appeared just where Clarissa said it would on the corner of West 42nd Street and Fifth. May waited with a harried-looking mother of twin toddlers until the M5 appeared.

  After helping the grateful mom with her boys and bags, May chose a seat next to an older woman, instead of the teenage boy with so many body parts pierced he looked mechanical, and sat back in relief. First stage accomplished.

  The bus moved on, traveling slowly south on Fifth Avenue, stop after stop, letting teenagers and business people and families, couples and seniors on and off. The mom with twin toddlers disembarked near Broadway, and a few people helped her with her stroller and packages after one of her boys sat down in the aisle of the bus and refused to move. The driver chuckled and made a remark about being glad his own kids were grown, which made several passengers smile and nod.