After Hours

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After Hours Page 18

by Melinda Di Lorenzo


  “What do they make you want to do?”

  “So now you want to talk?”

  “Only if it’s dirty talk.”

  I laughed. “Come here for a second then.”

  She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Please?”

  “Save it for tonight.”

  “Don’t trust yourself if you get close again?” I teased.

  “Exactly.” She blew me a kiss, then closed her fingers on the door hand, where she paused. “Marc?”

  “Yeah, honey?”

  “I’m scared,” she admitted softly.

  My throat constricted, but I answered lightly. “Of dinner with me?”

  “No. I love shrimp scampi,” she joked, then sighed and shifted from foot to foot.

  “But?”

  “Well. I’m scared of the fact that I’m even willing to tell you I’m scared.”

  “You know that you don’t have to tell me anything, right? I’ll still feed you dinner. Even if you’re just using me for dessert.”

  Her mouth tipped up. “Believe it or not, I do like talking to you, too.”

  “A compliment that involves my brain?”

  “Definitely. And that scares me, too.”

  “You could work your way up. Start by telling me I have nice eyes. Then make your way to the part where you like the talking.”

  “I don’t mean the compliments scare me, you big nerd.”

  “I know. Tonight at seven?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  I watched her go, admiring the smooth, panty-free curve of her ass as she exited.

  * * * *

  Aysia

  The rest of my day flew by in a flurry of activity. I set up the reviews I needed to set up, powered through the overdue raises, then set aside the reprimands for a different day. Finally, I slipped out of the office, and made my way home.

  Now I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bathroom giving myself a final onceover.

  My emotions flipped back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball. And not just a regular Ping-Pong ball. More like of the ones used in the Olympic Games, whipping around so quickly that it can barely be seen.

  On one side, I felt guilty. Like I was betraying the unofficial pact I’d made to put my job first. And like I was betraying the job itself. Which was actually true, even if I wasn’t being nit-picky.

  But I was elated, too. Giddy with anticipation. And my libido was in overdrive. All of my body was on alert, the slightest rub of fabric making me want to gasp. As if it had been three months since I last gave in to temptation that was Marcelo Diaz rather than a mere three days.

  Temptation. Is that all he is?

  My hands and my heart both quivered at the self-directed question, and the Ping-Pong ball froze for a minute, hovering right over the little net in the middle of my metaphorical table. When I’d told him I was scared, it was the truth. Though maybe scared shitless would’ve been slightly more apt. The man officially knew as many of my secrets as anyone on the planet. As many as Liv, which was kind of crazy. What that meant, I wasn’t sure. But heading to his house now was a definite way to find out. Dinner and conversation and ‘dessert.’ In the opposite order, if I had anything to say about it.

  I leaned closer to the mirror and wiped my thumb over an invisible smudge. My makeup was actually perfect. Deliberately overdone. Lipstick the color of wine, eyes thick with charcoal liner. A burst of silver beneath my brow and even a sweep of blush over my cheekbones. Far more than I needed for a night in. But just enough to match the outfit I’d picked to wear. Black. Lace. A whole lot of exposed skin. And not much else.

  “Perfect,” I said to my reflection.

  I exited the bathroom, snapped up my jacket from the bed, tugged it around my body firmly, then snagged my purse. I hurried out of the apartment, making it to the front step just as the cab I’d pre-ordered pulled about. Breathlessly—and with mine and Marc’s first cab ride on my mind—I gave the driver the address. The ten-minute ride went by quickly, and I handed over my fare blindly, then rushed out of the tax and all but ran up the steps of Marc’s apartment building. My eagerness made me so oblivious to the world around me that I didn’t even notice the arguing trio at the top of the steps until I just about crashed into one of them.

  “Whoops!”

  A fiftyish woman with pale red hair put out a hand to stop my stumble. “Careful, honey.”

  “Thanks,” I breathed, smoothing down my jacket.

  “Do you live here?” asked the man standing behind her.

  Shaking my head, I turned my attention his way. He was smiling at me from behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses, and there was something vaguely familiar about him. I studied his salt-and-pepper hair for a moment. Did I know him? If I did, I couldn’t think from where.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I fumbled with my answer. “Yes. No. I mean, I’m fine. But I don’t live here. I’m just meeting someone who does.”

  “Oh.” The man’s face fell.

  “But if she’s meeting someone,” said the woman, “then she knows how to work the buzzer.”

  “No one in their right mind knows how to work that thing,” interrupted a third voice, this one young and feminine.

  And when the owner of that voice stepped into view…

  Shit.

  She was my age. Short, and pleasantly pump. A crown of enviably thick, gloriously auburn hair topped her head. But it was her eyes that pinned me to the spot. They were the exact same shade of brown as Marc’s.

  His sister.

  It had to be. Which meant that the couple standing beside her had to be his parents.

  The copper-headed woman was the one who supposedly called Marc special.

  The good-looking man was his dad.

  Not just shit. Crap-shit-damn-hell in a soggy cardboard box.

  I swallowed. I needed to leave. Quickly.

  “I can help you work the buzzer,” I said, adjusting my coat self-consciously. And then I can run.

  “That’s a relief,” replied Marc’s dad. “We’ve been standing here for a good ten minutes. We wanted to surprise our son. Marcelo Diaz.”

  Dammit.

  It would’ve been a lot easier to sneak away if they hadn’t said his name.

  I forced a smile. “Oh. That’s a happy coincidence. I’m here to see him, too. We work together.”

  Not wanting to see their reaction, I turned toward the keypad and punched in his number. It only rang once before Marc’s voice came through the speaker.

  “Aysia? Why didn’t you—”

  I cut him off. “I’m here to pick up that thing for work. But your family is down here at the door, too. I can reschedule.”

  “My family?”

  “Yes. Your mom and dad. And your sister.”

  “Lu?”

  “Lu?” I repeated, utterly confused.

  “Sorry. She probably called herself Mia.”

  “What?”

  “Her name. It’s Lumia. Mom and Dad and I call her Lu. To everyone else, she’s Mia.”

  “Uh.”

  The curvy redhead finally interceded, putting her hand on my elbow as she called, “Hey there, Marshmallow!”

  Marcelo’s reply was dry, even through the speaker. “And that’s what they call me. Thanks for that, sis.”

  “You don’t have to reschedule,” added his mom. “We’ll bring her up with us!”

  I stepped back and cast a vague smile in the direction of his family, waiting for him to protest. To tell them he and I could reschedule, just like I’d suggested. Instead, the buzzer went off, and his dad walked around me to push open the door.

  “After you, ladies,” he said.

  I hesitated. Mrs. Diaz went first. Then Mia. But me…I had a chance to fl
ee. To kick the door out of Mr. Diaz’s hands and run away as fast as my feet could take me. Maybe wave my arms over my head and laugh maniacally as I did it.

  My eyes flicked to my spiked heels. To the street. To the group of expectant faces. And I groaned. I was trapped. Bitten in the ass by the fact that I couldn’t control my hormones.

  “Come on,” Mrs. Diaz urged. “We’re excited to see Marcelo’s new place.”

  Pressing my lips together, I decided not to act like a lunatic. I’d just make an excuse and leave the second I could. I squeezed my jacket tightly once more and followed the wave of Marc’s mom’s arm. Then stopped. Because I’d just realized where we were headed.

  The elevator.

  I was going to be trapped in a five-by-five room with his family.

  C’mon, Aysia, I said to myself. You can’t handle two minutes in an elevator with a group of strangers?

  From the way my heart was thundering, the answer was no.

  Maybe it has something to do with that fact that these particular strangers belong to a man whose tongue was between your legs ten minutes after meeting him.

  I suppressed another groan as the doors slid open. Yeah, that’s what you should be thinking about. Why not just bring up the shower sex? Maybe the way he fucked you against the tree during that weekend-long romantic montage of his? How about the fact that you slipped him a pair of panties just this afternoon?

  We stepped into the elevator, and I could swear a cold sweat broke out on my upper lip. And when the elevator doors hissed shut, I just about jumped. A warm hand landed on my arm, yanking me forcefully back to the moment. Mrs. Diaz’s hazel eyes were fixed on me, and full of concern.

  “Are you feeling okay, honey?” she wanted to know.

  For a second, I considered seizing on the opportunity. Pleading sick would be a good enough reason to hurry out of the apartment.

  Mia jumped in before I could say a word. “Marshmallow is probably riding her too hard.”

  “Let’s hope not,” replied Marc’s dad, smiling at me. “He’s not, is he? Riding you too hard?”

  Oh, god. A giggle threatened to bubble up.

  “No,” I got out the reply with a minimum of smoothness. Then immediately ruined it by adding, “He’s riding me just fine.”

  I wanted to smack myself in the forehead. Especially when I caught sight of the puzzled look on Mrs. Diaz’s face.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” she asked. “You look a little flushed. Maybe you should take off your coat.”

  I took a step back and clutched at the lapels. “I’m fine. Really.”

  The elevator glided to a stop, and I don’t think I’d ever been so relieved to see the inside of a hallway before in my life. I practically leaped out, sucking in a deep breath as I did. But the oxygen didn’t come. Because Marc was already standing at the end of the hall, propping open his door, and dressed in nothing but a pair of low-slung jeans and an unbuckled belt. The sight of his bare chest made me want to squirm.

  Squirm?

  Okay. No. Maybe that wasn’t the right word. It made me want to toss aside my jacket and dry hump him in the hallway.

  Stupid, unexpected family.

  Behind me, Marc’s sister cleared her throat. “You always dress that way when you’re expecting company from work?”

  “Spilled sauce on my shirt,” Marc replied easily. “You always cop that attitude when you show up unannounced?”

  Mia snorted. “Right. I’m the one with attitude.”

  “All right, kids,” Mrs. Diaz interjected, her voice full of amusement. “I think that’s good enough. Marcelo, aren’t you going to invite us in?”

  He lifted his eyes to mine for just a brief moment before flicking his attention back to her. “Come in, Mom. Dad, you, too. Mia…you can wait outside.”

  “Ha ha.”

  I hung back as they all laughed, then made their way into the condo. Marc continued to hold the door open and quirked a half-smile my way.

  “You coming to get that work thing?” His voice was serious, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

  I narrowed my eyes and answered in as sweet a voice as I could manage. “I’ll just take what I need, then get out of your hair.”

  His voice dropped low. “What you need, huh?”

  “Shut up,” I muttered back.

  “Aysia?” called his mom from inside.

  “Yes?”

  “You have to join us for dinner! Marcelo made shrimp scampi and it looks delicious.”

  Marc’s mouth twitched with a muffled laugh, and I shoved by him, careful to give him a solid jab in the ribs as I went past.

  Chapter 13

  Marcelo

  I probably shouldn’t have been so amused by the fact that Aysia’s game plan—whatever that might be—had been hijacked by my parents and my sister. I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed watching my mom hold out a linguine-wrapped fork and insist that Aysia try it before she retrieved the mysterious work item from its equally mysterious place in my condo.

  Except it was impossible not to.

  I liked the way her painted lips closed on the fork and sucked up the piece of pasta.

  I liked the way her made-up eyes widened, and the way her tongue darted out appreciatively to lick away a drip of stray sauce.

  I liked the way her gaze found mine and held it, and how she blurted out, “You can cook?”

  I even liked the way Mom, Dad, and Mia burst out laughing, then clamored over one another to brag about my mad-crazy skills. They lauded my spaghetti and my barbecued steak and my Thai chili sauce. Aysia looked suitably impressed. So when my mom told her to take off her coat and stay a while, I was sorely disappointed that she shook her head and asked if “the file” was in my office, then excused herself to go get it. I stared after her for a second before remembering that I had an audience.

  I turned back, expecting to find all of them staring at me. Not one of them was. My dad had slipped from the kitchen to the living room, muttering about a golf tournament on TV. My sister had plopped herself down on a bar stool and was glaring at her phone. My mom had started digging in the fridge in search of God knew what.

  She spoke without looking at me. “You should probably go help her.”

  “I should?”

  “I remember your office back in Los Angeles. Stuff everywhere. She’s probably already buried in a pile of papers.”

  “Right.”

  “Go. It’ll take an hour to find it without your help.”

  I bit back an urge to tell her it would take a lot longer than that to find a non-existent file in my barely-unpacked office, and acquiesced with an eye roll instead. “Yes, Mom.”

  Tossing another glance toward the rest of my blissfully ignorant family, I pivoted on a bare heel and headed up the hall. I paused outside the slightly ajar door that led to my office. I was suddenly cautious. I could feel the tension rolling out from the room.

  “Aysia?” I called tentatively.

  “Yeah, I’m in here.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “It’s your house, Marc.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I heard her sigh, even from behind the door. “Fine. Come in, Marc. Please.”

  I pushed through and stood just inside the doorframe. Aysia was leaned up against my desk. She had her slim fingers pinched on the bridge of her nose, and her nylon-covered legs poked out from under her jacket. The sheer black material gave me a perfect view of her thighs. I knew those legs well. How they felt wrapped around my waist. How they looked soaking wet and how they shook when she came. Fuck. I wanted to see and feel all of that again. Right that second. I stepped a little closer, but her hand dropped from her face and came up firmly.

  “Stop,” she ordered. “And don’t look at me like that, either.”

  “Lik
e what?” I replied, grinning.

  “Like you’re ready to go straight for that dessert you promised me but won’t be getting at all tonight because your mom is in the next room.”

  “That’s not kind of hot?”

  “Pretty sure I’m about ten years past the getting-caught fantasy.”

  Her gaze traveled over my chest, though, and her sharp inhale made me a little smug. I moved closer again.

  “You sure about that?” I teased.

  She ignored my question. “You have to get me out of here.”

  “It’s not that bad, honey.”

  “Yes, actually, it is.”

  “It’s just dinner.”

  “How long do you think they’ll buy that for?”

  “For as long as we eat?” I said.

  She sighed and reached behind her back to pull out two wine glasses. “See these? I grabbed them from the table. I don’t know if anyone noticed them and the uncorked bottle. But I did.”

  “So? Maybe I was getting ready to double-fist.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s kind of funny.”

  “How much shrimp scampi did you make? Enough to feed five of us? Or just the right amount for an intimate dinner?”

  “Enough for an army. You’re over thinking this.”

  She made an exasperated noise. “Okay, putting aside the wine, the over-sized portions, and the fact that I know your dad is besties with our mutual boss and could make every one of my worries come true…there can’t be a dinner. Not tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Undo my coat.”

  “What?”

  She put her hands onto the desk on either side of her hips and pressed her heeled feet to the floor. “Just do it.”

  “Okay.”

  I closed the gap between us and put my hands on the top button. Her eyes dropped shut as I worked it free. When I moved to the second one, her breathing quickened. My pants were already feeling snug, and all I could see was a hint of collarbone.

  “Hard not to think about dessert right now,” I murmured.

  “Just keep going.”

  I brought my fingers to the third button. The jacket bowed open, exposing a glimpse of cleavage.

  Fuck.

 

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