by Julia Harlow
She reached out to place her hand on his muscular forearm then pulled back before touching it. “Give me a few days. Look . . . today was lovely. I’m thrilled I got to meet Victoria and Jamie. I’ve got to go now.” She headed up the steps, aware that he was watching her. She turned around before unlocking the door to wave at him.
~~~
By Wednesday of the following week when Isabel hadn’t heard so much as a peep from Ty, she was beside herself. What in holy hell had she done? Why had she told him she wanted a few days to think? Now he’d probably decided he didn’t need a woman who was so damn much trouble and moved on to someone who didn’t jump to idiotic conclusions and second-guess him at every turn.
She, on the other hand, could barely concentrate on anything else. She’d spent all of Sunday, dreaming up things to do to keep from texting or calling him. It took an hour to rearrange her meager wardrobe by separating and grouping skirts, blouses, dresses, and slacks together in the closet, and then organizing each of those sections by color. She decided to fold and stack her sweaters on the closet shelves instead of in her dresser drawers; she’d even been desperate enough to iron several blouses, something she normally put off until the moon was in the second house and Jupiter aligned with Mars.
After a long walk with Pilot, she checked out new startups online and spent time on tech sites to keep up on the latest development on app designs—all the while checking her cell for missed calls and texts: a call from her mom, a text from Quvadus about going out soon, and an email message from Victoria saying she’d be coming to San Francisco next week and they should get together for dinner, but not a single word from Ty.
Sunday night she’d had an X-rated dream.
She and Ty were in the living room of the loft. They’d been drinking wine by candlelight while soft jazz played on the sound system. Ty pulled her up from the couch to dance. She’d pressed her breasts against his chest, meeting hard muscle with plump softness. It felt so good that she eased her hips against him and heard him suck in his breath and go still. She inched back to smile up at him and saw his half-lidded blue eyes drinking her in.
Starting at his shoulders, she trailed her fingers down over his biceps then across his chest and circled his taut nipples through the fabric of his cotton shirt. As if they had a mind of their own, her hands moved over the defined muscles in his abdomen. Her breath quickened and her pulse pounded. She curled her fingers inside the waistband of his jeans already slung low on his hips; an inch or so lower and she’d reach nirvana.
She unsnapped his jeans and heard the rasp of the metal as she struggled to pull it down over the substantial bulk of his erection. In the dream, she was determined, brazen even, and she peered up at him as she lowered herself to her knees, pulling his jeans and boxer briefs down to free his thick length. She felt him shudder and twitch when she grasped him with both hands, stroking him up and down.
He felt iron hard and silky smooth at the same time. The tip of her tongue swirled around the rim of his penis and caught the pearly bead that had escaped from the slit. He tasted so good, and she drew him into her mouth. As she did, his big hands cupped her head and held her to him. She grasped his solid buttocks, still gazing up to gauge his reaction. His eyes were shut tight, his face streaked with perspiration, and his mouth open to accommodate his heavy breathing. She sucked him hard, drawing him to the back of her throat . . . and then . . . she jerked awake.
The cami she’d worn to bed was wet and clung to her skin while her panties were drenched. What the heck! Where did that dream come from? As she lay there trying to calm her rapidly rising and falling chest, she realized she’d wanted to do that to Ty.
Now, deflated, she realized that this was the only way it would happen—in a dream. There were so many things she wanted to share with him: lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee and reading the papers; holding hands; going to the movies; talking about books they’d read; ferreting out his favorite things to do; and discovering his favorite foods, favorite authors, and details about his childhood. She hardly knew anything about him and would never know now because of her colossal screw-up.
Unfortunately, the erotic dream about Ty had dredged up the unpleasant memory of her first, and only, sexual encounter. She’d lost her virginity in college to Craig Nelson, a pre-med student she’d met at a campus bookstore when he had enlisted her to help him find a textbook. With his thick dark hair, striking violet eyes, and tall, lean, muscular build alone, Craig would have stopped traffic. But his angular face, strong jaw, blade of a nose, and self-confident attitude made him one of the most desired men on campus.
For some reason that Isabel couldn’t fathom, the handsome senior had asked the mere freshman to go for coffee the day they’d met at the bookstore. Right away he put her overwhelming insecurities at bay by telling her that they made the perfect couple with her beauty, dark hair, and statuesque figure. No one had ever referred to her as a “beauty” or “statuesque” before, and it gave her a welcome, if completely unaccustomed, jolt of confidence.
She knew she’d given in to him too easily; although she did insist on them having clean bills of health and using condoms, even though she’d started birth control shortly after she’d met him. A week after they’d gone for coffee, the two ended up in his apartment. Craig didn’t waste any time. His kisses were hot and demanding, tasting slightly of the beer he’d been drinking. She met them with an eagerness and intense arousal she didn’t know she possessed.
When he’d stripped down to his boxer briefs, the sight of him made her lower regions clench. His body was broad-shouldered and long-limbed with defined muscles and a flat abdomen. The small patch of dark hair in the center of his chest and the arrow leading into his boxers were so sexy Isabel couldn’t resist touching him, and she didn’t hesitate. His big body trembled when she splayed her hands over his chest.
When he started to unbutton her blouse, Isabel’s self-doubt resurfaced and she backed away. He seemed to sense her uncertainty and soothed her with soft words of encouragement about how pretty she was and how much he wanted her, all the while slowly undressing her. His hands were all over her, cupping her breasts and stroking her bottom. The wonderful sensations of his touch tingled all the way to her toes.
Before she knew it, they were in his bed, and he was coaxing her thighs apart with his knee, his fingers in her slippery folds and then inching inside of her. The orgasm that tore through her as his deft fingers massaged her clit was as intense as it was unexpected. Craig had thrust inside her right after that, not able to wait a second longer.
That first time had been painful for her; Craig hadn’t held back. He apologized afterward, soothing her, telling her he’d wanted her for so long he couldn’t control himself, that she was so irresistible and sexy he’d almost lost his mind. He promised to be gentler the next time and attend to her needs first, which turned out to be fifteen minutes later.
Craig was insatiable. They spent the majority of their time together naked, mostly at his apartment but sometimes at the apartment she shared with three roommates when they all happened to be away. They had sex in every way possible, in every place possible: in the shower, on the couch, against a wall, on the kitchen table, in the bathtub, on the living room floor. Isabel loved the sex, no doubt about that. This handsome, sexy, young man had awakened her considerable libido, but she longed to broaden their relationship, to share experiences with him with their clothes on.
She wished they would go to a movie or a play or to dinner or lunch, but whenever she suggested they do something else other than have sex, he turned moody and pouted. So she usually acquiesced.
But one time she refused to meet with him because she had an assignment due. Despite how many times Willard had berated her about her lack of brains, she took challenging upper-level courses. She’d made the Dean’s List every quarter so far in her freshman year and needed to keep her grades up in order to qualify for the substantial scholarship she had received.
When Craig didn’t call her for two days, she decided to surprise him with a carryout lunch on Saturday. She stopped by his favorite deli, picked up a grilled ham and Swiss on rye for him and a club sandwich for herself, and hummed “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” as she briskly strode the two blocks to his apartment.
She heard deep male voices as she approached his door. His Saturday morning football buddies must have stopped by after their game. When she raised her hand to knock, the mention of her name stopped her hand in mid-air.
“So, Nelson, you lucky dog, are you and the juicy Isabel Beachwood an item now?”
Craig’s deep voice responded, “Not really. She’s got that killer body, great tits and ass, and a pretty face. I’ve fucked her every way known to mankind. And canine.” Raucous bellows of laughter followed this last comment. “But that’s about it. She’s just a fuck buddy.”
Isabel shrank back as if she’d been slapped hard across the face. Whatever else might have been said was lost on her as she raced as fast as she could out the front door of his apartment building.
He’d called her dozens of times after that and stopped by her apartment more times than she could count, but she refused to have anything to do with him. She avoided anyplace she might have run into him on campus. And she made her roommates promise not to give him any information about her.
That had been six years ago. Until Ty, Craig was the only man she’d been with, and that had been a regrettable, sorry experience as far as she was concerned. He obviously hadn’t felt the same way about her as she had about him, and afterward she felt used and cheap. She’d meant nothing more to him than someone convenient to screw whenever he wanted, and the whole pathetic experience had left her wary about ever entering into another relationship. And then she’d met Ty.
The sounds of voices welled up around her in the office like the volume being turned up on a television. It brought her back from her musings, and now she endeavored to concentrate again on the project on her laptop. Her eyes slipped to her cell. No texts or calls.
In her peripheral vision, she noticed Logan staring at her. What the heck was going on with him? She thought they’d come to an agreement when they’d talked after the celebration at the bar. But whenever she realized he was watching her, he quickly turned away.
At five thirty, she made her way to the restroom before heading for home, and after peeing, she washed her hands and straightened her tangerine skirt and ivory blouse. She ran her fingers through her hair and freshened up her lipstick. Since no one else was in the restroom at the time, she studied her reflection, something she avoided doing except for a cursory glance because all she ever saw were her numerous flaws. She smoothed her forefinger over her eyebrows. That simple gesture instantly transported her back to a memory from ten years ago.
After Clarissa had divorced Willard, she’d splurged and taken Isabel to one of the best salons in town for a mini-makeover. Her mother had finally realized the deleterious effect living with the Daniels had had on Isabel’s fragile self-esteem and hoped this would be a step in the right direction to repair her negative self-image.
Doing anything alone with Clarissa delighted Isabel. Her mother had a way of turning any activity into an effervescent, feel-good party. Gina, the outgoing Asian stylist, had taken extra time with Isabel. With some strategic shaping and the use of a few hair products and a round bristle brush, she’d arranged her hair in a natural, shiny style that framed her face and accentuated her cheekbones. She also showed Isabel how to care for her hair, and made a list of the best products to use that weren’t as pricey as the ones the salon sold.
The stylist had raved about Isabel, insisting she was a beauty with a European model look about her. She said her eyes were an unusual color of green and she should emphasize them with a simple trick of the trade.
Gina shaped and tidied Isabel’s eyebrows, using a brush and warm wax. The effect was immediate and dramatic. Instead of two furry black caterpillars stuck above her eyes, her brows were arched and separated, framing and widening her eyes. After demonstrating how Isabel could keep her brows shaped for the most part with only minor plucking, Gina suggested waxing once or twice a year at a salon. She had told Isabel that she’d kill for eyebrows like hers; Isabel would never have to use an eyebrow pencil for color or to fill them in.
The stylist also told her she should always wear bright colors instead of the black jeans and oversized shirt she’d worn to the salon. She convinced Isabel that vibrant shades of orange, pink, red, and green would look spectacular on her with her coloring, and that she should never shy away from wearing them.
Gina topped the hot fudge sundae with a cherry and a squirt of whipped cream by telling Isabel that she had flawless skin and would only ever need to wear minimal make-up.
As she left the restroom at Baycrest, the corner of her mouth edged up almost into a smile at the recollection. But even though that singular afternoon ten years ago had been a step in building her up-until-then non-existent self-esteem, doubts still pummeled her like pellets of freezing rain. No wonder Ty had forgotten about her. He was too gorgeous, too wealthy, too successful, too intelligent, too self-assured, too sexy, too everything. Obviously no match for him, Isabel fell far short in every category.
There was no denying her deep feelings for him. In addition to all his stellar physical attributes, he also possessed far more important qualities: kindness, a terrific sense of humor, intelligence, and the ability to be a good listener. He was so damn sexy she melted just at the thought of him. It would be easy to give her heart to him only to have it annihilated like a cauldron of dry ice when he flung the cold, dense, pieces back at her.
She rounded the corner toward her desk, high heels silently padding on the gray industrial carpet, and came to a dead stop when she spotted the imposing figure standing right in front of her desk.
Chapter 10
“Sorry, Isabel. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just couldn’t wait any longer to see you. Here, why don’t you sit down? You look a little pale.” Ty gently clasped her around the waist and led her to the desk chair then lowered himself close to her on the edge of the desk, his brow creased in concern as he leaned over her.
“I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting to see you.” She beamed up at him, her heart still hammering. “Doesn’t mean that the surprise isn’t a pleasant one.”
Her remark caused him to grin broadly and lean even closer. “I’m very glad to hear that. So . . . are you saying we can start over again with a clean slate?”
When she nodded, totally irresistible in that orange-sherbet skirt and blouse that contrasted with her flawless creamy skin and cloud of dark hair, he fought a powerful urge to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her senseless.
God, he’d ached inside with missing her these last four days. Missed the way she always made him feel comfortable, even when she gave him a taste of her spunky attitude. Missed the way she calmed him after all the stress of his packed days at Grandin Financial. Missed the way she somehow understood him without him speaking a single word. Missed the way everything seemed to be right in his world when he was with her.
He’d started to call her a dozen times these past days, but the last thing he wanted to do was risk his chance of seeing her again by rushing things. If she needed a little time, he’d give it to her even if it killed him.
“Conrad’s outside. How about a ride home and we can make some plans?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.” She stood and tugged open the bottom desk drawer to collect her handbag and tote. He waited while she passed in front of him and then placed his hand on the small of her back as they walked out to the curb and the waiting limo.
On the ride back to the Mission District, Ty reached for her hand and closed his eyes, sighing when he felt Isabel’s hand automatically curl into his. They fit so perfectly together, her smaller one inside his like a precious bird finally come home to its nest.
“Are you free for dinner on Friday?” He
couldn’t help the almost quiver in his voice. Christ. He never lost control of himself with anyone, except this extraordinary woman.
When she gazed up at him with those moss green eyes and her plump bottom lip curled into a smile, all the blood surged to his groin. Good thing they were sitting down and his jacket covered the tenting in his trousers.
“Yes, Friday is perfect.”
He squeezed her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles, thinking of all the other places he could hardly wait to kiss her.
When they pulled up to the loft building, Conrad got out and opened the door for her. She grinned up at him as he helped her from the Maybach. “Hi, Conrad. How are you doing?”
“Great, Miss Beachwood. Good to see you again.” Conrad’s eyes briefly flickered toward his boss. Yeah, Ty knew he’d been an ass at times these last four days, but Conrad didn’t need to fucking point it out. He frowned at him as he caught Isabel’s elbow.
Ty didn’t want to say goodbye, but he’d already secured Friday evening with her, and he wasn’t going to be greedy. She surprised him by reaching up to place a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. His body trembled at the sweet contact, and he inhaled her peach and vanilla scent, leaning into her. He wanted to cover that delectable mouth with his and . . .
“Well, thank you for the ride home, Ty. I can’t wait until Friday.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.” He watched while she made her way up the stairs, his eyes glued to the swaying of that voluptuous, round ass, and she unlocked the door. Right before she went inside, she turned to wave at him, her smile almost undoing him.
~*~
The majority owner of 555 California Street was in the final stages of rebranding the fifty-two-story tower. His goal had been to entice the thriving tech tenant pool while still maintaining the tower’s core base of financial and traditional office tenants: banks, law firms, and professional service companies. Most of the tech industry in San Francisco preferred South of Market locations, but some big-name tech firms had signed leases at the Triple Five building. One smaller firm that had recently acquired a start-up had just inked a deal at the upscale address: Soter.com.
