Fahrenheit

by Alex Rosa

  I smirk, entertained and oddly turned on. “That so?”

  Nate chuffs, nodding comically before reaching for his wine for another sip. “Among other things he’s into. He doesn’t seem to have a hard time finding willing participants. Power helps, of course. What pussy wouldn’t get wet over a guy like that? He’s announcing his presidential candidacy this year.”

  I drag my vision back to the table in the far side of the room. The two women that sit on each side of the senator are striking brunettes. I’m confused by what two beautiful women gain spending an evening with a seventy-three-year-old man.

  “Isn’t the senator married?”

  Nate nods again.

  “Does he know those women?” I ask.

  Nate shakes his head. “Doubtful, but I know the one on the right is from the club.”

  An involuntary blush creeps up my neck. “From the club? Like, you can hire your partners?”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  The blush crawls up my neck to my cheeks, leaving a burning trail. I jot that fact down as I exhale a gust of humid air. A question slams into my skull, and I lift my chin to look at him. “Do you know that girl from the club personally?”

  Nate’s confidence wavers in his eyes. His stare breaks away from mine to claim another sip of wine.

  “Yes,” he replies when he’s done.

  I nod, turning away to hide the fact that steam is coming out of my ears at the omission. I shouldn’t be shocked or offended, and I try to push those irrational emotions down to the depths of my gut.

  “Does that bother you?” he asks.

  I flick my stare back to his with more intensity than I intend. I shake my head. “No. It’s a reality check, that’s all”

  The brief knitting of his brows tells me he doesn’t like my tone. He’d be right not to. I mean it as it sounds. Petulantly nasty.

  I don’t like the idea of him hiring someone for sex, or another woman touching him for that matter. The latter is a staggering realization.

  “I have needs, Lauren. Plus, I’m clean. If that’s your worry,” is his seamless response.

  It’s an absurd reply.

  “Like I said, reality check. Our worlds are just very different. My concerns are silly. Forget it.”

  He squeezes my leg again, his fingers riding higher this time. I almost forgot his hand was there, tempting me under the table.

  I peel his fingers and palm away from my skin, placing it back on his leg.

  Nate laughs as if he’s placating a child’s tantrum. I don’t like it.

  He leans in closer, putting us almost nose to nose. It’s his way of dominating the moment with his stifling sex appeal. It’s hard to breathe. The only thing I can smell is his crisp cologne, and the wine on his lips.

  “You think our worlds are so different? They aren’t anymore,” he says.

  I endeavor to remember to inhale and exhale no matter how much I want to taste the nectar on his lips. It’s irrational, and I attempt to gather my scattered wits. I’m more than my hormonal whims, or at least I hope so.

  I push him back into his seat. “Yes, they are,” I reply. “What makes you think our worlds are similar in any way?”

  He smiles wickedly. I swear the man could wear any emotion like a God damn couture outfit at a men’s runway show, and be artisanly crafted and heart-stoppingly beautiful at the same time.

  “What makes you think you’ll be able to stop wanting Fahrenheit once this assignment is over?”

  “Um, because I’d never pay for my companionship,” I reply, smoothing out the purple napkin on the table.

  “You could easily find a willing participant. It’s not about that,” he goads, as if knowing this from experience.

  I shake my head. “Contrary to what you might think, Nate.” I enunciate the T, knowing that the unfortunate fact I’m riled up only amuses him more. “This is not normally my thing. I made an exception for casual sex because, well, I want that promotion.”

  It’s not an entirely true statement. I know that that’s half the reason. The other half was me, an occasionally high-strung prude, seeking an outlet, and I was as curious as a cat.

  That’s when I realize I am like everyone else who walks through that neon tunnel. It nearly knocks me out of my seat.

  The waiter appears, interrupting our banter. He places our plates of food in front of us, and refills our glasses with wine. Nate and I sit across from one another, searing each other with our stares, this intangible spark crackling between us.

  The waiter scurries away when the electric silence becomes even too much for him to handle.

  “I think you underestimate the power of casual sex,” Nate says, filling the void.

  “I think you underestimate the power of commitment,” I retort.

  “Then you obviously haven’t had your heart ripped out.”

  The conversation stumbles, and the brief bob of Nate’s lips tells me he wishes he could take it back. I wish he could, too, even if the statement gives more to the conversation than it takes.

  His words send me to a place I hate. Loathing and disdain sits at this level. This area of my psyche has had me picking up the pieces of my shattered heart many times over before forcing myself to get up and move on.

  Nate knows nothing. He doesn’t need to know my last boyfriend cheated on me for months, or that the one before that chose to move across the country without me. These are facts I have told myself don’t matter when it comes to my self-worth. Regardless, Nate’s ignorance has me losing my patience.

  But it isn’t about me, is it?

  I attempt the iciest glare I’ve ever attempted. I now know what it means when they say a smile doesn’t meet one’s eyes. My lips are stale with emotion as I reply, “Actually, I have had my heart ripped out a couple times, but it’s good to know that you have, too. I’m just more of, hmm—” I pause, finding the right words. “—optimistic.”

  We both know that one interesting fact has been revealed. It seems Nate has had the foundation of his heart broken like mine. Whoever this she-wolf might be, it’s obvious she did a number on him. I don’t need grand gestures to know this about Nate. I can feel it ingrained in his being. It’s in every tick of his restraint, and every tock of his avoidance of personal details. His broken heart wrote the boundaries to our bizarre arrangement.

  Time freezes.

  I revel in the reveal, and place it on the list of my mini-victories, like his laughter and his taste in music. All facts that add up to the enigma that is Nathan Sanders.

  I wonder if everyone who comes to Fahrenheit has been broken in one way or another.

  I reach for a cherry tomato on my salad, and plop it into my mouth, chewing twice. “Careful now, Nate. You’re giving yourself away, and I know how you hate it when we get personal. Broken hearts are probably not a topic you want to cover.”

  I’ve pulled the proverbial carpet from under him.

  I fork my salad as his blank stare softens his chiseled features.

  “You do have a way of snaking out the personal details,” he quips.

  I shake my head. “I didn’t mean to. You just happened to walk into that one. If you don’t want to get personal, it’s probably best you don’t assume things you have no clue about.”

  He clicks his tongue, the corners of his mouth twitching. His eyes dart all over my face before gifting me with an understanding smile.

  Just like that, we’re back to ground zero. My breathing goes back to normal, and my glare vanishes.

  I should analyze this exchange later. It can’t be normal, but then I realize when two people communicate, it can take them a long way.

  He cuts into his steak, forking a piece of the red meat into his mouth. I try not to notice the way Nate eats, how his mouth wraps around the fork, how he smiles from the taste, or how his strong jaw clicks with every chew. Nope. I try not to stare, and instead, I dig into my salmon.

  My food is mundane compared to the man sitting next to me, a
nd as I force myself to take a bite, I realize I’m not hungry for food.

  “Try this,” sounds from beside me.

  I turn my chin toward him. He’s extending a piece of red meat between two fingers to me.

  He wants to me to take a bite, and I find the irony sort of ridiculous. A bite? I’ll take a bite, damn it.

  I lean over, watching his eager gaze at my mouth. I wrap my lips around the small bite, dragging my lips over his fingers as I pull away. I nip at his fingertip before finishing, but with ferocious intent. He yanks it away when I’ve done it a little too hard.

  I grin, chewing through my gifted bite, licking my lips. The food tastes divine, especially when it’s been served by him. He would taste as good, too. The man is a slab of red meat to be feasted on.

  I’m on the verge of panting, knowing that writing about Nate might be the easiest part of my article, even if I hide him under a prose of anonymity.

  Nate shrinks the distance between us, tutting as he does and taps the same fingers I bit against his waiting lips, directing me with one wag.

  The bastard wants a kiss, and when I hesitate, he taps his mouth again, one eyebrow raised as if to say, “You better.”

  I’m grinning so much it hurts, finding this game of seduction strange and exciting. It doesn’t feel like we’re in a room full of people as I get closer.

  I press my mouth to his in one gentle caress, but he presses his lips to mine harder, nearly pleading for my mouth on his as I obey.

  Our strokes turn long, passionate, and almost frantic. His tongue swipes over mine, and after a few beats of time, he pulls away, a proud smile slicing through his face.

  “I think I like it when you get hungry for control, but you still give it to me anyway. You play a dangerous game. This push-and-pull is new for me,” he says, returning to his food, exhaling as if to steady himself.

  Is it hot in here or is it just me?

  “Any more questions?” he asks, leveling the conversation.

  I roll out my shoulders. “Go figure, I’ve lost my train of thought.”

  He growls out a laugh.

  We finish our food in delightful silence, his hand dancing close to mine on the table from time to time before I safely place my hand back in my lap to quit the teasing.

  I don’t know what we’re doing, but I know my original plan of keeping my distance is shifting like a fault line during an earthquake, making its foundation unstable.

  The waiter comes back, eyeing our empty plates. “Any room for dessert?”

  I smile. “No, thank you.”

  He nods. Our encounters with our waiter are polite, but most importantly, short and purposeful, like dealing with any employee associated with Fahrenheit. They don’t wear nametags, but instead plastic smiles for pleasing and precision. He removes our plates from the table. “Have a good evening, Mr. Sanders.”

  My blush is back. How could I forget that a membership here comes the ultimate customer service experience? They know Nate by name. Of course, they would.

  “I think I’ll have you for dessert,” slices through the empty air between us when the waiter is out of earshot, as if prudence matters here.

  I shake my head, knowing this is my moment to be strong, and to show some fricken discipline.

  “No. I think I’m full for the night.”

  He shakes his head, rejecting my words with another devilishly carved grin as he rises from his chair. “I’ll give you full.” His hand curves around my chin, lifting it so I’m looking up at his standing form. He’s quick and determined as he leans down and presses another brain-melting kiss against my mouth. It’s purposeful, but chaste. He pulls away, the corners of his mouth ear-to-ear, seemingly proud of something that I can’t figure out. “Be right back.”

  He’s leaves, and I don’t know where he’s running off to. Bathroom maybe?

  I exhale, grab for my glass of wine, and down the rest of it in one unladylike gulp. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here without getting filled by Nathan Sanders.

  To distract myself, I scribble away on my notepad, writing notes and thoughts on the people around me. What they wear, their smiles, and what their night might hold, and why.

  It isn’t until I’ve got two full pages of bulleted notes on my mini-pad that Nate reappears.

  “Ready to go?” he asks, extending his hand to me. He smiles when he sees my empty wineglass.

  “Yes,” I reply, taking hold of his hand as I rise. I slip my notes back into my purse, and follow him out.

  No need to pay a bill when I’m sure they could easily charge your account.

  We stroll past the many occupied tables to the marble entryway we came through. Nate enters another ten-digit code into the keypad next to the elevator doors. His thumb slides back and forth over my knuckles as we wait in comfortable silence for it to arrive, though I can’t help but feel the slow ticking of carnal tension rising.

  I try not to peak up at him, and lucky for me, the elevator opens sooner rather than later.

  When the doors to the elevator shut, sealing us alone inside, he yanks his arm, twirling me into his chest.

  There’s no warning before his lips are on mine. I don’t resist, but I try to speak.

  “Nate,” I reprimand. “Get ahold of yourself.”

  He laughs and turns around, pressing me against the elevator wall. He’s looming over me, and his growing erection presses into my stomach.

  “Now why the hell would I do that?”

  Good question. I don’t know.

  I kiss him back, lifting my hands to tangle into his unruly hair, anchoring his mouth to mine. His hum in approval is panty melting.

  When the doors swing open, it brings me back to reality, and I try to remember that whole resisting thing I told myself to do before I left my apartment. I pull away from his grasp, smoothing out my dress as I walk into an unrecognizable underground garage.

  I attempt normal breathing. “Where are we? This is the wrong floor. Where’s the valet?”

  Nate exits the elevator, wiping the corners of his mouth, and digs into his pants pocket.

  “It’s not the wrong floor.” He pulls out the keys to his car, jingling them between us. Apparently, they have been retrieved from the valet. I guess I know where Nate ran off to now.

  I raise a brow. “Why?”

  “Always so many questions,” he scolds as he grabs for my hand, and pulls me across the parking lot. Not a person in sight, just rows of fancy cars.

  We reach his Mercedes, and he turns around to catch my guffaw.

  “What are you playing at tonight?” I ask.

  “I just want to play with you.” He smirks.

  “Obviously,” I quip. “What if I told you I think you should take me home instead?”

  He shrugs. “Then I’d take you home.”

  His lack of fight bothers me. It makes my restraint seem less legitimate.

  “But I’d probably jerk myself off to the idea of fucking you in that dress. I was hoping for the real thing,” he adds, saving me from myself.

  I laugh, turning away to hide my blushing. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

  “You don’t think I already know that?” he rebukes, grabbing for me, yanking me against him so he can push me back against the car.

  He drops a chaste kiss against my lips to tease. “Any more questions?”

  “Are we going to the club? What are we doing?”

  His left hand curves over my ass, pulling me into him, and his other slides over my breasts and up my neck, smoothing around the skin there, his thumb dancing against my throat.

  “I was hoping to fuck you in the backseat of my car actually.”

  His hand against my throat stirs something inside me that I feel almost guilty loving. It’s rough without being too much, and the feeling of the control he has over me pumps my adrenaline. It’s the same feeling I got when he tied me to the bed, or spanked me senseless. Sometimes the wrong, feels right.

 
“What if someone sees us?” I ask.

  He lifts a shoulder. “I’d let them watch.”

  A thrill rolls through me, and my eyes must tell him something I can’t say because he doesn’t wait for me to speak. His mouth crashes into mine.

  Fuck. I love his mouth. His lips are unrestrained as they stroke against mine. I can sense his desperation. I can feel how much he wants me, wants this. The more I refuse, the more crazed he seems to get.

  I’ve never felt so powerful, and it gives my whole body a buzz that rumbles all the way to my fingertips digging into the muscle of his biceps over the thin material of his shirt. I’m drunk on this heady feeling.

  “Tell me how bad you want me?” I ask, taking a page from Nate’s book of seduction.

  He slides his lips away from mine, groaning as they swipe down my jaw to the soft skin of my neck, next to where his fingers curve around the pulsing flesh.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “I can’t remember when I’ve wanted something more.”

  And that’s it. I lose my resolve. Why would I hold back any longer? Whatever it is that we have going on, I don’t have a reason to fight it. Maybe logic should play a part in this decision, but for what reason? There isn’t anything on the line, or at least I don’t think so. It’s called casual sex for a reason. However, this feels anything but casual. This is fierce and overwhelming, and teeters on addicting.

  He pulls away, only to unlock his car with a little beep from his keys, and opens the back door behind me. I shimmy inside first, laying back and waiting for him, legs open, waiting to cradle him there, eager for him to be inside me.

  He climbs in and over me, pushing my dress farther up the closer he gets. I giggle when I hear the door shut behind his feet. The air is thick and full of static, electrically charging the mood as the temperature rises.

  “What are you laughing at?” he says, pressing his mouth to the corner of my mine.