“Hey, you weren’t complaining when you scored the buy-one-get-one designer wife beaters.”
He arches a brow and nods. “This is true. And why you New Yorkers call it that I will never understand.”
“What? A wife beater?”
“Yes, it’s kind of stereotypical, don’t you think? I don’t plan on beating on a woman every time I wear a white cotton tank.”
“I get your point.” I laugh as a hasty cab driver nearly clips my ass while waiting at a corner to cross one of the not-too-crowded streets of SoHo. “But I guess it’s just one of those things you mid-westerners can’t relate to.”
During one of our conversations at the hospital this weekend, Lane told me all about his upbringing in Illinois. He lived there most of his life, until he moved to New York to attend college. While he hadn’t grown up on a farm, wrangling cattle and such, I like that he’s more mellow and laid-back than the guys from around here. New Yorkers like myself are known for being quick and abrupt, sometimes brash and forward. If you don’t like it, fugetaboutit! It’s easy to see that living in the city all this time certainly hasn’t tainted Lane’s easy going nature. It’s refreshing.
The insecurities that are usually at the forefront of my mind seem to melt away in the easy silence between the two of us. We walk inches apart, wordlessly enjoying each other’s company and that, too, is rather invigorating.
I follow Lane’s lead as he crosses the busy, buzzing intersection and hangs a left on the next block.
“So, where are you taking me again?”
“La Esquina,” he says, with an adorable attempt at a Spanish accent. “You did say you like Mexican, right?”
“Si, señor. It’s my favorite.” And it is, but suddenly I’m starved from all the shopping and walking and drool has accumulated at the corners of my mouth like a rabid animal. No bueno when you’re worried about what kind of diet friendly meal you can get at a place that’s known for its smothered corn on the cob and the most kick-ass queso north of the border. Even though the jeans I purchased earlier are three sizes smaller than my norm, the five pounds I put on during my recovery and the Mexican feast looming ahead bring my spirits down.
“Then why the long face?” Lane must notice the apprehension in my slowed pace and he bumps his hip with mine.
“Ugh. Calories.” Not something I’m proud to admit to a prospective date, but it’s the truth and I feel comfortable enough around Lane to let it out.
“Oh, don’t be crazy. You worked out this morning and we’ve been walking all afternoon. You’re allowed to live a little, Leni. Trust me.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter under my breath just as we approach the hostess stand outside the building made to look like a very unassuming diner.
Lane places a hand at the small of my back, grazing the dip where my butt becomes bubbly, and escorts me closer to the hostess. The raven-haired beauty eyeballs the two of us as if we’re a pair of mismatched socks. No doubt she sees me as the one with the ugly holes at the toes.
“Reservations for Sheffield.” Lane breaks Miss Judgmental out of her stupor and she reaches under the wooden podium for the menus. I don’t miss the confused slant of her brow as she appraises how close Lane’s body is to mine. Yeah, chola. He’s with me. Fuck off.
“Right this way.” Bitch sways her mini-skirt clad hips dramatically as she leads us through the dim, cozy atmosphere.
I take in the quaint yet lively room, appreciating that Lane thought to take me somewhere so romantic. I would’ve never guessed it had such a classy Latin flair from the outside. Looks are deceiving—maybe that’s the theme of the night. The root of that belief takes hold and burgeons within me. Regardless of the disapproving glare from our hostess, I boldly take Lane’s hand in mine and squeeze with delicate fervor.
Placing the menus on the table, she politely hums, “Enjoy your evening.”
“Oh, we will.” I smile the fakest smile known to man and curtly wave her off.
The warmth of Lane’s hand leaves mine as he pulls my chair out for me. “This table okay?”
It’s secluded and toward the back corner of the dining room, but in full view of the band at the far end of the room. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Lane removes his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair before sitting. His olive-colored Henley makes his eyes look greener than normal even in the faint candlelight. And those arms. Guns, I tell ya. Lethal, sexy, weapons of mass ovary destruction. To think a man with such a perfect physique just had his hand entwined with me—a woman on the total opposite body-shape spectrum.
The waiter interrupts my self-doubting to ask if we’d like to order cocktails.
I start to ask for a water with lime, but Lane lays his hand atop mine. “Allow me?”
I nod with a curious smile and listen as he recites something off the menu that sounds totally complicated—and fattening.
I lean in, our hands still touching. “A water would’ve sufficed.”
“Leni, this is one of my favorite places. I’m a regular. I’d love to take the lead tonight, if you’d trust me.”
“You’re just a regular ol’ regular, aren’t you? Here, the park, anywhere else you frequent that I should know about?”
Lane laughs, deep and addictive, toying with the buttons on his shirt with his free hand. “Let’s just say when I moved here from Tuscarora, I really wanted to take it all in. And I have. Every bit of it. I love my hometown, but New York is so diverse and rich in culture . . . I can’t seem to get enough, you know?”
Of course I know what he means. Most people feel the same. “I guess I’m just used to it. Not that I don’t love it, too, but I probably don’t take advantage of everything right under my nose because it’s just always been here.”
“Silly girl. You think too much.”
“You know me so well already.”
“And I know you’re looking at the menu and worrying about what you’ll eat. Don’t think I didn’t hear your little comment before.”
“What comment?”
“When I told you to live a little you said it was easy for me to say.”
Ah, so he did hear. “Guilty as charged.” No use trying to deny it.
Lane takes the menu from my hand and tucks it underneath his. Leaning across the red tablecloth, he caresses my hands with his thumbs, tickling my palms with the rest of his digits. “I think you’re beautiful, just the way you are. And before you go doubting what I say, you should know that I completely understand your struggle.”
My straightened posture slumps as I flip him an oh really pout.
“Looks are deceiving, Madeline. I’m not the person you think I am.”
Cryptic much? And there’s that phrase again. “Oh yeah, then who exactly are you, Mr. Fancy Pants? Because what I see before me is a devastatingly good-looking man with a body that makes girls weak in the knees. And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve seen you in action—on the track. You’re a machine and it shows with every sinewy groove of your muscled form. So, how, dear Lane, can you relate to my struggles? Because every molecule in my body is begging me to order the nachos supreme and the double enchilada special with extra guac, but I can’t because that would ruin everything I’ve worked for up until this point. Including sitting here with you.”
I expect that to render him speechless, but instead it pushes him to continue. “Like I said,” he whispers, his face, his eyes, his lips, closer to mine than they’ve ever been, “looks can be deceiving.” His fingertip taps the tip of my nose and then he retreats. “Now, if you want those nachos and the best enchilada in town, that’s what you should have. I will never judge you, Leni. That much you can count on.”
¡Ay caramba! with a side of guacamole. My snark has left the building. There’s no comeback for what is the biggest turn on I’ve yet to experience in my life.
LANE HAS PROVEN TO BE the king of surprises. Not only is it utterly flabbergasting that he can barely keep his hands and eyes
off me throughout our meal, but every little thing about him makes me wonder if he’s just too good to be true. Screw it if he is. I have no intention of letting this one go for a while.
We finish off the shared plate of fish tacos and a mango salad, which were ordered by Lane with special instructions to the chef to keep things light in the kitchen. My stomach is sated and my heart—that lonely sucker is bursting at the seams. I can’t remember ever feeling this happy in the presence of a man. Not Alex, not Hudson, nobody. Putting all my eggs in one basket isn’t usually my thing—especially since deciding to do me before doing anyone else—but if Lane asked me out again, or to be exclusive, or to marry him and have two point five kids and move to Schenectady—I’m there. And I haven’t even kissed the guy, so that’s saying a lot.
There’s just something about him that is so addictive and . . . dare I say, inspiring? Of course, there’s the handsome packaging—perfect from head to toe—but it’s so much more than that. When he speaks, words flow out of his mouth like poetic prose. His storytelling is passionate and each tale about his past or even his daily life brings every one of my senses to the exact place and moment in time he describes. It’s an escape and it awakens an awareness I haven’t had much experience with.
I like him. A lot. Now that I know him as more than just Mr. Fancy Pants, runner in the park, I’m definitely smitten. And from what I can tell through his dreamy eyes and the gentle nature of his touch—he likes me, too.
“Your smile is gorgeous, Leni. You need to do that more often.” Lane pushes the empty plates aside and licks his lips as his eyes hone in on my mouth.
I nip at my bottom lip, feeling the weight of his stare boring into the tender flesh. “Then I need to hang around you more often. I haven’t had such a nice day in a long time. Thank you, Lane.”
His dimples appear and he winks, sending a jolt right to my lady parts. I squirm in my seat, fighting the urge to jump across the table and hump Lane right here at the restaurant. He must notice the heat that’s risen to my cheeks because his own brighten in color and he glances down at his lap, surprising me yet again by his reserve when things start to cross the skinny line between like and lust.
When his eyes return to mine, he smiles and takes my breath away once more. “Is it horrible of me to say that I’m happy you bumped into that tree?”
The pitter pattering in my chest might actually be visible through my chunky chenille sweater. “Horrible or not, I don’t care. I’m glad it happened, too.”
We share a quiet moment, basking in the delight of our unusual first encounter. A growing need to kiss him swarms within me. Maybe even a need for much more. If the physical connection is anything in comparison to the way we’ve clicked thus far, the chemistry will be way beyond anything found on the periodic table.
“Check please!” I cry out when I spot our waiter, a desperate plea for his aid in ending this part of the night and allowing us to get on with the next.
The kind, older man obliges. Lane insists on taking care of the bill, and together we put our coats back on. The irony isn’t lost on me. I’d rather be stripping away our layers of clothing, not adding more.
“Ready?” Lane asks, sticking out his arm and creating a place for me to hook our elbows together.
I gladly take his lead and latch on, my hand traveling down the length of his forearm and finding it’s home in his hand. I hold on extra tight as we pass the jealous hostess from earlier and make our way back outside. Adios, muchacha.
The sky has darkened since we arrived, the temperature cooler than this afternoon. I snuggle closer to Lane and suggest, “Let’s get a cab back to my place?”
A glint of apprehension washes over Lane’s handsome features, but it doesn’t take long for him to comply. And after a few chilly minutes of cuddling together on the busy corner of Kenmare Street, the taxi pulls up and my heart kicks into high gear because once we’re at my place, I intend on escorting Lane directly into the bedroom.
“How long will you be in Miami?” Lane asks after the cabbie takes our directions and we settle in for the fifteen-minute ride.
“About a week.” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. I was so excited about the trip just a few hours ago; now I wish I could pack Lane alongside my new tankini and bring him with me. “Gonna miss me while I’m gone?” The question oozes from my lips before I can stop it from happening. I regret it for a moment, but it’s fleeting because Lane’s response is something far better than what I was after.
“Oh, Leni.” He turns so his back is flush with the car door, our eyes locked on each other. His warm hands cup my face as he tilts his head so our foreheads touch. I can feel his cool breath on my skin, and like the presence of a ghost it haunts me. Kiss me, kiss me, my brain chants on a repeat reel of longing. Lane’s fingertips trail along my jawbone and his thumb caresses my practically panting lips. Do it, do it, please, please do it. I might burst into flames if he doesn’t. Talk about your panties being on fire. If he postpones this any longer, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. I don’t mind making the first move, but I’m in awe of his spellbinding touch and finding it impossible to react.
“Lane,” I pant. Never have I wanted my lips to connect with someone else’s more in my life. His name is a plea. No, a demand for him to take me in the back seat of this cab. My arms wrap themselves around his neck and my fingers inch into his stylishly tousled hair. I withdraw my forehead from his and angle to go in for the kill.
Thankfully, he responds to my desperate need and by the merciful grace of God, his lips press against mine. The tender friction is equal parts sweet and sensual. It takes my body a nanosecond to soar into overdrove and my lips part in invitation. Lane’s tongue penetrates, a ribbon of silk dancing in my mouth. I love nothing more than a slow, romantic kiss, but—fuck me—I need more.
In a bold move, I claim his tongue and suck it into my mouth, my fingers meandering wildly in the perfect length of his hair.
Lane groans against my mouth, his hands traveling from my face, down my neck, to my arms. He pulls me to him so we’re as close as two people can be without becoming one, and deepens the kiss.
I don’t dare open my eyes, blocking out the driver and the fervent heat swirling through the car. Why does our first kiss have to have a witness? Why can’t we be alone? Why are my clothes still on? Can’t this car go any faster?
My brain is in overdrive and I beg it to shut the hell up so I can enjoy the heady touch and taste that is Lane. It takes me to a place where all of my insecurities about weight and size fade away. But then, of course, the dirty part of my mind goes right back to size, making me wonder if all this kissing has Lane as worked up as I am. Why don’t you check it out for yourself, Len? Cop a feel.
Shall I? Our lips and tongues are still enjoying this back seat party and our hands have voyaged everywhere from the waist up, but—yeah, I shall. One hand anchors itself at the base of Lane’s neck, eliciting another growl from him, the other scales his rock hard chest and abdomen on it’s decent to his lap.
Without breaking contact, I take the plunge and palm meets peen. Hello! Size certainly does matter and his overwhelming thickness is rigid in my grip. Lane sucks in a breath when I squeeze his shaft through his jeans, and then the cabbie clears his throat. We’ve come to a stop and haven’t even noticed, and here I am, all cat ate the canary—aka dick in the hand—and our driver’s waiting for his fare.
I giggle from pure embarrassment and return my very full, very greedy hand to my own lap. My head falls against Lane’s shoulder as he adjusts himself and rakes his hand though his just-made-out-in-the-backseat-of-a-cab hair. I expect him to reach into his wallet so we can hop out of here and straight into my bed, but when Lane speaks, I freeze. “Can you hang around a second? I’ll be right back.” His question is for the cabbie who nods with a sly smirk as he eyes me through the rearview mirror.
Lane opens the door and offers his hand to help me out. I slap my palm to his, and
he tugs me outside. Once on solid ground, he pulls me close and closes the door. The loud crash and squeak of the old hinges startle me into reality.
“You’re not coming up?” I ask, my voice laced with incredulity.
Lane ushers me to the front of my apartment and backs me up against the wall. He cages me in his arms, one above my head for support against the building, the other hugged around my waist. His green eyes, no longer dark with desire, bore into mine as he explains, “Leni, I want more than anything to come upstairs and continue what we started back there.”
“I’m sensing a but.” A familiar pang of rejection steals my dignity.
He takes a deep breath and primes himself, but it’s me who needs readying. “But it’s not a good idea. I like you a lot and—”
“I like you a lot, too,” I interrupt. Apparently he’s taking the lead though, because he shushes me with a finger at my gaping lips. The touch ignites the passion that fueled our intense make-out session a few minutes ago. How things can go from frenzied to flat-out frozen is beyond me. What did I do wrong?
Lane tucks a piece of unruly hair behind my ear. “You’re leaving in two days. You’ll be gone a week. I’d like to see you when you get back.”
Any other time I’d be chomping at the bit—Sure thing, Lane. Let’s do this again. Anytime, babe. But I feel like I’m being dismissed and quite honestly, I’m confused.
My body stiffens underneath his touch. I have nowhere to go, no escape. I’m dying of self-consciousness inside. “I don’t get it. What am I missing? I thought we were having a great time.”
Lane looks over his shoulder to the waiting cab and raises his finger to indicate he’ll be another minute. A minute. I’m only deserving of one more minute of his time to wrap up this crazy turn of events? Excuse me while I remove the tail—and vacant, throbbing need—from between my legs.
His warm lips meet the chilled skin of my cheek—such a step back from the progress we made with our lips—and he retreats with a shy smile. “There’s no need to rush things. I told you I’m not the kind of guy you think I am. Can you trust me enough to accept that you did nothing wrong? You’re beautiful and sexy and I really, really want you, but—”
Moore To Love Page 10
