by Elaine Fox
And she was considering trusting him? Was she crazy?
Then again, if she just assumed she couldn’t trust him and didn’t let her heart become involved…what would be possible then?
Steve stepped through the door as she stared at the floor. It was silly but she was afraid that if she looked at him she might do something stupid. Like throw herself at him.
“Thanks for, uh, dinner,” Steve said, amusement in his voice. “It wasn’t quite as good as last time, but I guess that’s because I provided this meal.”
Roxanne laughed. “I’ll cook you something better next time.”
She looked at him quickly, nerves buzzing with implications she was both dying and afraid to make.
“That is,” she added, “if Skip invites you over again anytime soon.”
He was standing in the hall, looking as reluctant to leave as she was reluctant to let him. His hands were shoved in his jeans pockets and his eyes, though laughing at her joke, were uncertain.
Desire washed over her. He wanted to stay, she was sure she could see it. He wanted her again…as much as she wanted him again?
“Steve,” she said, not sure what she intended to say next.
Their eyes met and she stopped breathing.
“Yes, Roxanne?” His voice was quiet and seemed to whisper along her nerves.
She stepped into the hall and put her fingers around one of his wrists, where his hand disappeared into his pocket. His hand came out and she took it in hers, looking at it.
They were strong hands, sculpted, somehow refined-looking. She imagined him at the Library of Congress, writing away as he researched whatever it was he researched.
His fingers curled around hers.
She looked up at him, stepping closer until their bodies almost touched.
She took a deep, tremulous breath, knowing she wasn’t going to back away. Though her brain told her she was being stupid, self-indulgent, her body would not obey her commands to stop desiring this man.
“Do you think this is a mistake?” she asked him.
His eyes dropped to their clasped hands and his other came out of his pocket to snake around her waist. Pulling her gently but firmly into him, he brought his gaze to hers.
“I don’t know,” he said.
He looked so sincere. So serious and yet so uncertain, she wanted to take his face in her hands and tell him not to worry, it didn’t matter.
But…she was the one who was worried, wasn’t she?
“Are you afraid that it is?” she asked.
He shook his head slightly, a small laugh escaping. “If it is, it’s the best damn mistake I’ve ever made.”
That made her blush and she looked down briefly.
“How about you?” he asked softly. “Afraid?”
She shrugged one shoulder, then looked up at him. “Life is scary.”
“Only if you live it,” he said. With that he bent his head and kissed her.
Their lips met tenderly, experimentally. Soft kisses that followed one after the other. Roxanne’s hands rose up his chest, and his clasped behind her back, keeping her close.
His embrace felt so warm, so fragile and sweet, she was almost taken off guard when his head tilted to drop kisses along her jawline and her breathing accelerated. His lips moved down to that spot below her ear and sucked lightly, sending shivers shooting through her body in all directions.
She gasped lightly, arching her neck, and that impulse, that overpowering thing within her, took over. It was a wave of longing, a physical demand that she knew she couldn’t resist—didn’t want to resist—an impelling force that turned her insides to lava and made her passion volcanic.
He moved against her, his desire hardening between them, and she pressed her hips against it. Her hands dropped to his waistband and she grasped two belt loops in her fingers to pull him closer, circling her hips into his just enough to massage that hardness.
He made a sound low in his throat. His hands held her buttocks and stilled her against him.
They stood a moment, breathing hard in the hallway, under the dim overhead bulb. Steve dropped his head to her shoulder, seeming to think about the next move.
Was he asking himself if it was a good idea to continue? she wondered. Had she read him completely wrong? Maybe he was regretting stopping by. Maybe he thought it would be wiser to stop it right here. Should she tell him she’s sorry and let him go home?
He sighed. “Am I going to have to wait for Skip to invite me in again?”
Laughter bubbled up from inside her, relief cascading out of her lungs.
She took his hand again and turned, leading him back into her apartment. As she started down the hallway toward the bedroom he stopped her.
“Wait.” He pulled her back toward the living room, turning out the light as he did, then turned her in his arms as if waltzing.
She smiled quizzically, thinking he wanted to dance.
But when he circled nearer the sofa, he lowered her as if in a dip, onto the cushions.
“I want you to think of me every time you sit on this couch.” He lowered himself on top of her and kissed her, hard, his mouth devouring, his hands weaving through her hair to cradle her head.
Their hips met and circled together, their hands reached and sought each other’s body, pulling up shirts and searching for skin amidst the fabric.
Steve’s hands pushed her shirt aside, his long fingers finding the peaked nipple of one breast through the fabric of her bra. With a gentle pinch, he sent desire coursing through her.
Her hands fumbled for his jeans, undid his belt buckle, then popped open the button. She unzipped his fly and felt his hardness through the thin cotton of his boxers.
Steve’s lips took the peak of one breast as his hands reached the top of her jeans.
Roxanne’s hand found the opening in his boxers and Steve gasped as her fingers found flesh. She caressed the velvety softness of his skin and his hands stopped as if he were paralyzed above her.
“Just a second,” he said, standing to pull off his jeans.
Roxanne sat up and watched him, saw him pull his own shirt over his head to reveal that defined, muscular chest, saw him push the boxers down to reveal the straining hard evidence of his desire.
Naked, he looked down on her like a warrior regarding his prize. His gray eyes were direct and glittery in the darkened apartment.
She pushed herself up to stand before him, then turned and moved toward the bedroom, unclasping her bra and slipping it off as she walked.
“Wait right there,” she said in a husky voice.
Once in the bedroom, she opened up the bedside table drawer, pulled out a condom, then moved back to the living room, her eyes meeting his as she walked slowly across the room, unbuttoning her jeans.
She reached the floor lamp and turned the dimmer so that the barest candle of light shone. Then she pushed her jeans past her hips and stepped out of them.
“Oh my God,” he breathed, then grinned at her. “Another thong.”
She smiled her best slow smile and took one side of the thong, twisting it in her finger. Then she pulled it down, her eyes never leaving his. She could see him pulse with the effort of control, and his eyes burned into hers. She pulled off the thong and walked the rest of the way toward him, twirling it on one finger.
She dropped it on the floor by the coffee table and cupped his penis with her hands, then moved her fingers up and over it. Her eyes were still on his as she lowered herself to her knees, and took the long shaft into her mouth.
Steve shuddered and swore, his eyes closing as she took him in. His hands held her head, his fingers diving into her hair as she moved back and forth, holding his length in her mouth and moving her tongue to increase his pleasure.
He moaned and pushed his hips gently into her, his hands holding her head. “Oh God,” he muttered. “Ah…”
He was nearly out of control, she could feel him trembling with the effort, and she was the one pushing
him toward the brink. She controlled his every sensation, directed every reaction, anticipated every involuntary response he made. She did it.
She held him captive.
When he was on the verge of losing it, he pulled her up and took her mouth with his, his tongue plunging into her. She answered with a kiss just as hungry and wound one leg around his hip. He grabbed it, pulled her upward and she wrapped the other around him too. Then he lowered himself onto the couch, sitting with her on his lap.
Knees on the cushions, she rose and held his penis gently as she unfurled the condom onto it. Then she guided him toward her with one hand, lowering down, then pulling up just long enough to look into his eyes.
“Say my name,” she whispered.
He looked at her a long moment, his eyes intense enough to see right through her.
“Roxanne,” he said finally, in a voice as hot and sweet as toasted honey.
She pushed him inside of her.
The sensation was brilliant.
He exhaled sharply, and his eyes seemed to look inward a moment before boring back into hers.
She pushed herself onto the shaft again and her eyes closed halfway with pleasure. He was so hard he filled her and she rose slowly, not wanting it to end too quickly.
His palm was hot as he took her breast and held it for his mouth to find the nipple. Closing his lips around it, he sucked, pulling hard, but she didn’t care. She wanted it harder, wanted him to brand her with his lips. She lowered herself on him again, felt him deep within her, then rose. Her body clenched around him and he groaned.
Then he rose up, holding her impaled against him and lay her back on the couch.
“You’ve been in charge long enough.” His eyes sparkled like the devil’s own as he rose above her.
Then he thrust into her deep and she gasped with pleasure. He thrust again, then again, seeming to get deeper and harder with each plunge and chills raced up and down her spine. Her legs held his hips and she countered his every thrust as his penis coursed up and over her most sensitive spot again and again.
She cried out his name as she came. His eyes met hers and she could swear they held the light of more than just desire. Or maybe it was just her, bathed in the sensations of love as her body dissolved into starlight.
He pushed into her one final time, and with an uninhibited sound of release he came into her.
She held him as tight as she could then, with her arms, her legs, and her body, until they both melted into the cushions.
15
Dessert Special of the Day
Génoise, Crème au Beurre avec Langues de Chat—
because you shouldn’t put real Cheetos in a dessert
Light butter cake with buttercream frosting and cats’ tongues—pencil-shaped strips made of sugar, butter and vanilla
The restaurant was crazy. Just when Roxanne thought she’d surely seen the end of the boom of being the new kid on the block, another round of reservations would come in, filling up Friday and Saturday before they even opened on Wednesday.
A few things had gone wrong. The freezer had burned out (the one piece of equipment from Charters she’d counted on not having to replace) and they had to offer a world of unusual specials to use the food before she could get the new one in. On the plus side, business had been so good she had enough money to be able to get a new one, but it cleaned her out.
Then M. Girmond’s sous-chef of twelve years had quit because of a sudden opportunity to head his own kitchen, and the replacement had yet to be found who would live up to Girmond’s standards. In addition, she had to watch her normally buoyant and enthusiastic chef grow increasingly short-tempered without his right-hand man, which affected the entire kitchen staff and annoyed the hell out of the waitstaff.
For Roxanne, however, it was all a blur. She was cooking more, faster and better than she’d ever done in her life, while trying to manage accounts and keep the staff happy and productive. Before starting the restaurant, she had thought her biggest worry would be making ends meet despite slow business for the first few months. Now she thought running at capacity might kill them.
The synchronized waltz in the kitchen she had reveled in those first few heady nights had become more of a pinball game with the constant nightly pressure. The new sous-chef—Ralph, available on short notice—bumped into everyone, the dishwasher had been deported; her seafood purveyor had become unreliable—bringing grouper when she ordered sole, clams when she ordered mussels; and the bakery down the street was going out of business, meaning she now had to get up at the crack of dawn to make bread until another supplier of suitable quality could be found.
Nights, after leaving the crazy, hot atmosphere of the restaurant, she would crawl into bed exhausted. On Monday and Tuesday, when they were closed, she tried to catch up with her prep work and get ahead on the bread-making as much as she could.
A few times Steve had come down for dinner, and had stayed the night, at least until she got up before dawn to make the bread.
Those nights were crazy too, in their own way, but energizing. Their chemistry was incredible, but Roxanne wondered what was really going on between them. They talked, but never about themselves, about what was happening between them. And between being so tired and getting up so early, their time always seemed short. Too, too short.
Even aside from the doubts she had about her own judgment—she’d been crazy about Martin at first, too, though their chemistry hadn’t been anywhere near as good—she worried about the fact that she and Steve worked together, and slept together, but rarely did anything else other than occasionally eat together.
Had she somehow signed up for a purely sexual relationship? Is this what she got for caving in completely to her desires before establishing some kind of friendship with Steve?
But then, she thought, they were friends, weren’t they? Just friends who couldn’t talk about the elephant that sat between them—the relationship.
They certainly had some fun at work, before the evenings became chaos. But when it came to seeing each other alone, they came together like shipwreck victims grasping at the lone life raft—and went off together like a flare, only to fade quickly after their moment of fire.
Maybe they were both just too damned tired for anything else, she thought, realizing that she was every bit as guilty as Steve was of dropping immediately off to sleep on the nights he was there.
“I don’t know,” she told Skip on the phone, after confessing what was going on. “It seems to be enough for him. And maybe it’s all I can handle, too.”
“That doesn’t sound very romantic,” Skip said.
“No, but…I just don’t know.”
“That’s about the fiftieth time you’ve said that. What are you really worried about?”
For the umpteenth time she searched her heart, focusing on that feeling of dread deep in her chest. “I don’t—” She stopped herself. “I guess I’m worried about being wrong. Being fooled. Like I was with Martin.”
“I think you’d notice a wife and kids traipsing up those stairs,” Skip had said, with an attempt at laughter.
Roxanne shook her head. “It’s that bet. Or no, not the bet, really—I believe him about that. But it’s like I was left with the feeling of mistrust after that—even though I do trust him now—and it won’t go away. I mean, this is a guy whose best friend said to me he thought Steve could be guilty of a crime. A crime against me. Shouldn’t I be taking that into consideration?”
“First of all, do you really think Steve wouldn’t tell you if he found that draft he’s been talking about? It’s not like he’s kept it a secret or anything,” countered Skip.
“No, but if he’s the one behind the break-ins, what does that mean? Breaking and entering isn’t exactly legal, even if he did plan to tell me what he found. But if he was planning to tell me about finding the draft, why wouldn’t he tell me about looking for it? And why would he do so much damage? And if he wasn’t going to tell me about finding the
draft, then he was basically planning on stealing it from this house, and therefore from me.”
“Hold on. Hold on. I’m getting confused.” Skip inhaled loudly over the phone. “If the draft is found in your house, it would be yours?”
“I don’t know, and frankly I don’t really care. That’s not the point.” Roxanne put a hand to her forehead and squeezed. This whole situation was giving her a headache. “The point is, if Steve is digging around and making it look like a break-in, it means he’s lying to me, probably because he’s afraid the draft might be mine if he finds it on my property.”
“Well, yeah, I guess that would be a pretty big breach of trust. But that just doesn’t sound like Steve to me,” Skip said.
“I know, but you and I barely know the guy. And if P.B. could think him capable of it…”
“P.B.?” Skip scoffed. “He was bitter, Rox, come on. I wouldn’t believe a thing that guy said.”
“But…it’s the only theory about these break-ins that makes sense.”
Skip laughed. “The only theory that makes sense is some guy looking for a draft of the Declaration of Independence in your basement? That’s pretty pathetic. And I’m sorry, but a cop shouldn’t be going around whispering suspicions about people without any real grounds for having them.”
She sighed. “You’re probably right but…maybe he does have grounds. Maybe he knows something about Steve that we don’t. And maybe he was hoping I would say something to Steve so Steve would stop doing it and he wouldn’t have to arrest his buddy.”
“Or maybe he made it all up to get back at both of you.”
“Maybe…” Roxanne felt the weight of the world descend on her shoulders. “Or maybe it doesn’t matter who’s doing what or lying about whom. Maybe I shouldn’t be sleeping with a guy I could suspect of destroying my property.”
And that, Roxanne thought, was the bottom line.
