After Hours

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “Aysia—”

  “And now I’ve ruined my chances of doing that, so I’ve got to move on.”

  “Everyone has to get laid,” she said. “Even you.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “You’re so crass.”

  “Oh, please. You told me two weeks ago that if you did it with your vibrator one more time, you were going to name it and marry it.”

  “Shut up.” So maybe I had said that. Maybe I’d even gone so far as to tentatively try out the name Francois. But I hadn’t actually gone through with it. Yet.

  “You’re not going to quit,” my friend said. “And you’re not going to marry something that runs on double A batteries. You’re going to drink that drink. You’re going to drink another. Then you’re going to—”

  “Stumble around then pass out in a taxi?” I interjected.

  “Stop that!”

  “Fiiiine. Then I’m going to what?”

  “You’re going to march right past Carl, and you’re going to walk up to that tall blond guy with the polka dot tie, and you’re going to whisper in his ear to meet you in the bathroom in ten minutes. Then you’re going to thank me for making you wear the black lace panties instead of the grannies.”

  “C’mon, Liv.”

  “Just once, I’d like to see you throw aside your plans and live a little.”

  “I do live. A lot.”

  “Then why is that glass of yours so full?”

  “Because I’ve got a modicum of self-restraint.”

  “Drink!” she commanded.

  Obediently, I lifted the lukewarm beverage and sucked it back. As Liv signaled the waitress, I craned my neck, trying to get a look at whatever poor, unsuspecting soul my friend had picked out for me. I spotted him right away.

  “Curly hair, wide shoulders, and a little scar beside his nose?” I said.

  “What? We’re not close enough to see that.”

  “Yeah, I know. But that’s the guy, right?”

  “Polka dot tie,” she repeated.

  “Uh-huh. That’s Gillian’s husband.”

  “No way! Gillian from supplies? She’s twice his age.”

  “She is,” I agreed. “And I know it’s him, because I’ve eaten dinner at their house. Twice.”

  “Ugh,” Liv replied. “Okay. Fine. We’ll pick someone else.”

  “You do realize that my sex life isn’t yours, too, right?”

  “Your lack of a sex life affects me directly.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because when you’re moping around all unsatisfied, I feel guilty being satisfied.”

  I snorted. “Right.”

  My friend sighed and hopped off her barstool. “I’m serious. And I’m going to the bathroom. By the time I get back, that second drink better be gone. You’d better have picked another guy out—one who’s going to fuck the melancholy out of you in the most delicious way possible—or I’m going to make you ask Gillian and her husband about the possibility of a ménage.”

  Rolling my eyes, I took a pointed sip of the full drink that had magically appeared to take the place of the old one. Liv nodded approvingly, then sashayed across the floor, her minuscule hips swaying with the beat of the background music. It was my turn to sigh. Admittedly, my love life was pretty slow. But it was by choice, not chance.

  I’d spent the last two years focused on work, climbing from an actual temp position to a director inside human resources­—just a short jaunt away from my ultimate goal of running the department completely. The two years before that were dedicated to a course in personnel management, and in the three years before that, I’d crammed in a four-year ecology degree. So at twenty-five years old, the notches on my bedpost were a little slim. Not that I was a nun. I’d had a few short-term, strictly for-fun relationships. And few hookups. And of course, most recently, the month I’d wasted with cringe-worthy Carl from accounting. Even putting him aside, none of it was worth bragging about.

  So maybe it really is time for a change.

  Absently, I scanned the bar, searching. My eyes landed on a pair of wide shoulders immediately. He was alone. Hunched over a full beer, a scowl on his face. He looked about as unhappy as one guy with a burger could. So why my gaze stayed there, I don’t know. But something about the tight line of his back made me curious. His hands—clean but strong, masculine but tidily groomed—flexed on his glass in a way that made me tingle. And when he glanced up and back at me, his gaze hit me like a Mack Truck. He stared at me just long enough to make my pulse race, and just long enough for me to note the ruddiness of his skin, the brown of his eyes, and the sexy cut of his jaw. Then he looked away again, and I wished he hadn’t.

  “Go for it, babe. Misery loves company.”

  I jerked my eyes up at the familiar voice, and I cringed. Carl had somehow managed to extricate himself from the redhead, and he stood beside my table, his smug face smiling down at me. How the hell had I ever thought he was attractive?

  I opened my mouth to tell him where he could shove his clichéd observations, but a warm hand landed on my bare shoulder, stopping me. Somehow, I knew exactly who those fingers belonged to. They squeezed against my skin in the same way they’d closed on the beer glass.

  “Sorry, babe,” said a new voice—not familiar, but deeply, distractingly buttery and touched by a hint of dark humor. “Didn’t see that you’d come in.”

  The stool Liv had vacated slid out, and a whiff of understated cologne filled my nose as an arm dropped over my shoulder possessively.

  Chapter 2

  Marcelo

  Talking to her was a mistake. I knew it before I opened my mouth. Before I even got as far as her table. The memory of the red negligee wrapped around her cleavage was too fresh in my mind. Her wild mess of brown curls, her seductive mouth, and her utterly curved but completely petite body were even more enticing in person.

  Letting the asshole continue to torment her, though, was out of the question. A quick glance up had told me she was uncomfortable, and that he wasn’t going to back down. Now his eyes were narrowed at me suspiciously. I let my mouth curve into a grin. He flinched. I grinned harder. Then I tightened my grip on the woman’s shoulder again, and after a second, her hand came up to mine and squeezed back.

  “I didn’t see you come in either, honey,” she said, her voice not wavering at all. “Carl was just leaving.”

  Carl from accounting, I thought, nice to meet you. Now I’m looking forward to firing you.

  He opened his mouth. Closed it. Fixed an angry look at the girl, then turned and strode away.

  I released her shoulder and started to pull away. Her hand shot out and landed on my knee, stopping me.

  “Don’t,” she said. “He’s still watching.”

  I leaned closer. “It’s a shitty thing, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “When a girl has to pretend to be with one guy to fend off another.”

  She laughed and tipped her head my way, some of the tension in her face easing. “That is a shitty thing. But trust me when I say that I can handle Carl. I take a particular satisfaction in knowing he’s over there seething.”

  “So you want me to stay for selfish reasons?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Nope. Use me all you want.”

  “You say that now…” she teased, reaching for her drink.

  She got the glass as far as her chin before my hand shot out to close on hers. Her skin was deliciously soft and smooth. Cool from the drink she clasped, but it still sent heat up through my palm. An image of her fingers filled my mind. Sliding over my forearm to my shoulders and my chest. Slipping down to find the buckle my belt and caress my already eager cock. It was an image that I wanted to make into a reality.

  Instead, I forced the cup back down to the table, then dragged my hand away. />
  “Don’t,” I said.

  “Um. Why?”

  I swallowed. Why the hell had stopped her? Maybe because the liquid sliding down her throat would be more than I could handle. Maybe because alcohol could explain away Carl and the red negligee.

  Back to that, I thought, irritated by the fact that the other man had intruded upon my interaction with her.

  I shoved down a reminder that he and his douchebag video were the whole reason I was talking to her in the first place and shrugged as casually as I could manage. “I don’t want you to do anything you might regret.”

  “Like pretending to be here with you?”

  “Is that something you think you’ll regret?”

  Her too-blue eyes met mine levelly. “No.”

  For a long, fiery minute, we didn’t move. Our gazes stayed locked, and her succulent lips parted, her breaths shortening into near-gasps. And hell if her pink tongue didn’t come out to dart across her lips.

  Goddamn.

  It was the hottest staring contest I’d ever had.

  Forget the fucking dress as a guaranteed hard-on. Those eyes…

  If a perky voice full of surprise hadn’t cut in just then, I might’ve been tempted to toss aside the fruity drinks so I could take her on the table then and there.

  “Um, hello?”

  The brunette drew back, a lacy blush creeping up her throat. “Oh. Hi. This is…”

  I stuck out my hand for a quick shake. “Marc.”

  The blond grinned. She was a pretty girl, too, I noted absently. Voluptuous and clearly not shy. Far more my type than the crazy-haired brunette whose syncopated breath I could still hear over the clatter of voices and music. But parts of me didn’t twitch when I looked at the blond.

  “Lovely to meet you,” she said. “I’m Liv. This is my friend Aysia. And you’re in my seat.”

  “He was saving me from Carl,” the brunette—Aysia—replied.

  “Saving Carl from himself,” I corrected.

  Liv blinked at me. “Oh, you’re slick, aren’t you?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m guessing you’re no less slick.”

  “I’m honey-tongued,” she replied, then lifted an eyebrow at her friend. “Do we need to pretend to be lesbians?”

  Aysia eyed me, that spark jumping between us once again. “I don’t know. Do we?”

  I met her gaze evenly. “Under normal circumstances, I’d encourage it. But right now…I think it’d just make me jealous.”

  Liv let out a low whistle. “Wow.”

  “Very slick,” Aysia murmured, not taking her eyes off me.

  “All right then,” said her friend. “Just let me get out of your way before you hop up there on the table and start making a baby.”

  Aysia inhaled sharply, and I could tell it took real effort for her draw her attention back to her friend. “You don’t have to—”

  The blond cut her off. “I do. I think Gillian’s husband wants to ask me something, actually. Something about three people and a bed? Yep. He’s definitely waving.”

  I had no clue who Gillian was, but Aysia’s face reddened, and Liv laughed before jumping up and dancing over to her side of the table. She leaned in to give her friend a kiss on the cheek and whispered something in her ear, a knowing look on her face. Then she waved and did a thorough hip-sway in the other direction. I watched her go, but only to give myself a moment to curb my libido. It was a useless endeavor. The moment I turned back to the sweet-mouthed brunette, the blood in my body refused to cooperate with my plans to regain a bit of control.

  I shifted on the stool, and she drew in a breath that sent her chest up high enough to make me want to groan. Her fingers slid toward the drink again. Like a security blanket. My knuckles brushed the back of her hand, stopping her from getting a grip on it. I spread out my own fingers and dragged them to her wrist. God, her skin felt good. I stroked back and forth, losing myself in its silkiness. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she lifted her eyes and met mine with a challenging look.

  I slipped my palm up past the crook of her arm and moved my thumb over her shoulder. I leaned a little closer and inhaled. She smelled clean and fresh, making me think of unscented soap and steaming hot showers. A vision of Aysia, wild hair damp and calm, mouth dropped open in pleasure as the water beat down on her, filled my head.

  Holy hell.

  Any second, I was going to have to stand up and adjust. Sitting there with the throb between my legs was hitting the point of pain.

  I pulled my hand back down to hers. She clutched her glass tightly now, more like a lifeline than a security blanket.

  She looked up at me again and swallowed. “It was just one drink.”

  “It was at least two,” I said before I could stop myself.

  “Were you watching me and counting?”

  “Maybe I was just admiring your dress from afar and happened to notice.”

  “My dress, huh?” She glanced down at the strapless top and the skin-tight, satin bottom. “This one happens to have been Liv’s idea.”

  “You always let your friend pick out your clothes?”

  “No. She thought I should wear it because—” She stopped abruptly, then started again. “I thought there might be dancing.”

  “Liv thought you should wear it, or you thought there would be dancing? Which is it?”

  She glanced over my shoulder quickly before looking down at the liquid in her glass as she muttered, “Both.”

  I didn’t really want to follow the flick of her eyes, but the compulsion to know what had drawn her attention was too much. I swiveled my head. Carl. King of accounting and illicit photography and—at the moment anyway—redheaded women. It annoyed the hell out of me that he’d taken her focus away from me again. It bothered me even more that she’d worn that sexy-as-sin dress in order to make him feel regret. A shot of irritation mixed with shot of jealousy, and together, they hit me in the gut. I tried to push them off. I failed.

  “There could be dancing,” I stated instead.

  Her eyes flickered with surprise. “What?”

  “We could be dancing.”

  “We could?”

  “You. And I.”

  “Um.” She shot a glance past my shoulder that told me she was looking straight at him again.

  Goddamn, Carl.

  Why the hell did she care what he thought? I bit back an urge to ask her about the video. Whether or not she knew about it. Something told me if I did, she’d simply get up and walk away. It was the last thing I wanted. But if she wanted to make it about him, I could, too.

  “Let’s make that asshole wish he’d stayed home,” I growled.

  Then I grabbed her hand, ignored the way she gasped as I pulled her to her feet, and dragged her to the middle of the hardwood floor, hoping damned well that the other man would get a suitable eyeful.

  * * * *

  Aysia

  For about thirty seconds, I worried. That Liv would come back and see me and that she’d be far too gleeful. That Carl would be watching and wondering why I was openly gyrating across the floor with this man—a stranger—when I’d insisted that we keep our tryst a secret. I worried that my co-workers—and I could see at least three of them—would be whispering about me behind their hands.

  But as Marc spun me out, then in again, and pulled my hands to his waist, my body talked my brain into letting it go. I gave in to the pure pleasure of being handled by a man who could move. And every little hip thrust, every little bump and consequent grind—all of it—made me sure those moves extended beyond the dance floor. Damn how I wanted to find out.

  “Aysia?”

  He’s talking. Shit.

  Conversation had been the furthest thing from my mind. I scrambled, trying to make my brain rewind to what he’d just said.

  I
cleared my throat. “Sorry. I missed that.”

  He chuckled. And it was more buttery than his voice. In fact, it was so buttery that it might as well have been warm caramel, kind of dripping down my body, then pooling between my thighs.

  Oh God.

  “Was I speaking too quietly?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then maybe it’s because I was too far away?”

  His hand pressed to the small of my back to pull me flush against him. His fingers were warmer than both his voice and his laugh, and it was the kind of heat that traveled. It slid up my spine then trickled outwards. It spread along my shoulders and down my arms, then into my chest. There, it hovered for several seconds, expanding out in a way that made my heart thump against my ribcage. Then it skidded again and brought my skin to life. Goosebumps lifted across every inch of flesh, and under the thin fabric of my filmy dress, my nipples rose to life, too.

  I could smell his musky scent and feel his distinctly caramel-y warmth. I sucked in a breath, trying to draw both in. And the inhale seemed to drag him even nearer. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to a spot just to the side of my ear.

  “Maybe this is better?” he murmured.

  “I can hear you,” I managed to get out, albeit breathlessly. “What did you say before?”

  “I just asked if the asshole was your boyfriend.”

  “What?”

  “Carl.”

  “Oh.”

  “Forget about him that quickly?”

  “He wasn’t worth remembering.”

  “Good.” He pulled me even tighter and swayed a little slower than the low beat thrumming from the speakers. “Is the dancing living up to the dress?”

  “It’s better.”

  He spun me out and gave me a slow onceover before pulling me in again. “I don’t know about that. The dress is pretty fucking hot.”

  “I’ll tell Liv you said so.”

  He leaned away just enough to look into my eyes, and his gaze caught and held me. His look was so penetrating that I half-wondered if he was trying to read my mind. Or maybe trying to make me spontaneously combust.