by Talia Quinn
We rolled over to the other side of the king-size bed and explored each other’s bodies. I marveled at the slide of skin on skin, at the ripples of his muscles, the way they bunched and clenched. We fooled around but weren’t up for much more. It was about touch and wordless contact.
I ended up nestled into the curve of Dylan’s arms, my ear against his chest, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. I told myself I’d get up as soon as he fell asleep. It was morning now, the sky growing lighter by the minute, and the last thing I wanted was toast and bacon with this man. With any man. It was far too cozy.
But I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, his phone was ringing with a non-Persephone ringtone, my bladder was full, and the sun was way too bright.
As I sat up, Dylan picked up the phone and started talking about mergers and office space, saying he’d stop by on Monday. His voice sounded so different from the way it had during our night-dark confidences. His tone now was that of a polished executive in a suit and tie, for all he looked delectably naked and rumpled, the sheets a tangled swirl around his knees.
I got up to use the bathroom. When I came out, he stood, skated his fingers playfully along my bare shoulders, and went into the bathroom, all while still on the phone.
If I waited for him to get off the phone, we’d probably have sex again. My groin throbbed, a pleasant ache, but I’d ridden and been ridden and was ready for a hot bath and a long nap. Still, another round with Dylan would be worth it.
But if I stayed into the morning, that glint in his eye and the way he stroked my skin as he went past, they said this thing between us would turn into something more. It felt like it already had. And that wasn’t okay.
My heart thumping, I grabbed one of his T-shirts from the dresser and threw it on, then retreated to the living room, scooped up my skirt and boots, and rescued my coat from the kitchen floor. Then I fled.
When I got outside, I gazed up. The second floor from the top, over on the right side. His living room windows. I raised my hand in a half salute. Good-bye, Dylan. It was amazing being with you.
Chapter Four
I’d planned to slip quietly past the presumably ailing Jeanine’s bedroom and make it to the privacy of my own room without telling her anything. Oh, I would eventually, but not yet, not until I’d had a chance to process it myself. But she wasn’t lounging in her bedroom on her computer, nor was she taking one of her hour-long scaldingly hot baths. Or, for that matter, sleeping off her flu in bed.
Nope. She was perched on the couch facing the door, remarkably healthy.
“Look who finally showed up.” Jeanine smirked at me. “It was fun, right? Can I say ‘told you so’?”
I growled at her and walked past into my bedroom and privacy. Or, rather, I tried. She leapt up from the sofa and followed me in. “Nuh-uh, you don’t get to walk away. Spill. I’ve been dying since that tantalizing text you sent me at some crazy hour saying that you were spending the night.”
“You seem awfully perky for someone who was moaning under your comforter yesterday. Don’t you have to go lie down? Being sick and all.” I took the coat off and hung it up.
“Good immune system. I bounced back quick.” She gaped at my attire—Dylan’s tee engulfing my torso, a stark contrast to my provocative skirt. “What happened to the corset?”
“Left it behind. Won’t be needing it again anyway.”
“That was mine!”
Right. I knew that. I was so tired this morning, I wasn’t thinking straight. “Buy you a new one?” I sat on the bed to unzip my boots.
“I’ll let it go if you tell me everything. You had sex, obviously. Was it great? Did you like being me? Did you do naughty things to him? Was he as hot as his picture?”
“It was pretty good. I had an okay time.” I tried to keep a straight face.
“Not getting out of it that easy. Tell all. And I mean all.”
I let the boots drop to the floor and flopped back on the bed. It felt good to rest. My groin gently ached, a pleasant reminder. “Okay, yes, he was hot. He was wearing a bathrobe when I got there, and I thought about climbing him like a mountain, licking him like a lollipop, and humping him like we were billy goats in heat. And we pretty much did all three by the end of the night. That good enough for you?”
Jeanine looked only slightly mollified. But that was all she was getting. I yawned and closed my eyes, reliving the moment I walked into that apartment. The drop of water glistening on his chest. The look on his face, hunger mixed with pleased recognition.
I sat up abruptly. “You planned it, didn’t you?” I jumped up off the bed and made for the door.
Jeanine stepped back out of my way as I barreled past, and then followed me across the hall. “I was sick. I’m much better today.”
I paused in her doorway. “And what about the picture? Don’t you send your prospective clients a photo of yourself? He recognized me. From your photo. Which makes sense. Because we look so much alike.” I stared at her dusky Indian complexion, the luxurious black hair that fell to the small of her back, her oval Modigliani face, and her turned-up nose. My hair was reddish brown and shoulder length, my nose was straight, and my face was more triangular. Heart-shaped, my father had called it.
I plopped down in her desk chair and turned on her computer.
“Hey, that’s mine. You can’t—”
“And my life is mine. And yet…” I arched an eyebrow at her, daring her to stop me. “I want to see the picture you sent him.”
“Fine. I’ll show you.” She made shooing gestures.
I got up. She sat in my place and quickly pulled up the message with, yup, a photo of me smiling into the camera, taken last summer on the High Line. Hard to believe she used it as a come-hither shot for a call-girl gig. Sure, I was wearing a hot-pink tank top, but I was hardly seductive, with my hair blowing across my mouth and into my eyes while I finished off an ice-cream cone. “You used that picture?”
She grinned. “You look adorable. All mussed up, like you just got out of bed. And the ice cream is very suggestive.”
I almost laughed with her, but then I remembered I was still mad. “Why did you do it? Why set me up like that? That was a crap thing to do.”
Jeanine swiveled her chair around to face me. “Was it?” She gave me a once-over, and I was suddenly aware of my disheveled, satiated condition, not to mention the huge black T-shirt I’d filched from Dylan, emblazoned with an image of Animal, the wild drummer from The Muppet Show.
“You should have asked. You should have included me.”
“And you’d have said no. Like you say no every time some guy invites you out for a drink, like you say no every time we’re invited to some big party where there are lots of hot guys. Come on, Sam. You and I both know you needed a kick in the pants.”
I folded my arms across my chest, protective. “Is there something wrong with wanting to be alone?”
“You don’t want that, though. You’re just afraid to put yourself out there.”
“So you did it for me?”
“That’s what friends do. They help their friends. I did it because I love you, dammit! And because you needed to get laid. To loosen up about the act without worrying about what comes after. I just got rid of the hard part for you—the dating dance.”
“You think that’s the only hard part?”
Her gaze sharpened. “What happened? Did he do something inappropriate? Did he hurt you?”
“God, no. He was an incredible lover. Considerate, passionate. Sexy.” I inhaled, remembering. “But you know the part where he didn’t want a GFE? Where this would be a simple sexual encounter, leave your feelings at the door? Not so much.”
She leaned forward, compassion in her eyes. “Tell me.”
So I did. And it felt good, replaying the night in detail, leaving out little. This was Jeanine, after all. She talked sexual positions as if she was recounting dinner at an exclusive restaurant, with zero embarrassment. But eve
n her eyes widened when I described my striptease while Dylan was on the phone. She whistled and clapped. “You go, woman! Awesome.”
“It wasn’t like that. It was…” I shook my head. I had felt so many things, how could I sum it all up?
I thought about Jeanine, about her relationships with her clients. About some of the questions Dylan had asked. “Do you ever think about giving up the life?”
“And pay for grad school how? Go into massive debt like the rest of my classmates? No thanks.”
I was about to push her, but her email chimed with an incoming message. She swiveled toward the screen. “It’s from Lover Boy.”
“Which one?”
“Yours. Dylan Krause.”
The jolt I felt at his name was entirely unexpected. The flush more so. Damn. He was just a one-night lay. What was wrong with me?
“What did he say?”
“Read it.”
I leaned forward, cursing my eagerness.
Sorry you left so fast. I was looking forward to breakfast, or rather, lunch. You’re pretty amazing. Best therapy ever. I’m still smiling as I look at the corset. Which, by the way, doesn’t fit me. If you give me your address, I’ll mail it to you. Unless you want to pick it up in person? Maybe try it on again?
Dylan
I shivered, hearing the words in his deep voice, the memory thrumming through me.
See him again?
Jeanine gave me a sidelong smile. “Want to set up a return engagement? Maybe you can get another T-shirt out of the deal.”
I almost said yes. The sex was so good, and I’d still be Saffron, not Samantha. He’d pay me. An exchange of services.
Yeah, right. After last night, did I seriously think Dylan would keep a safe emotional distance? That he wouldn’t ask me a million personal questions, that he wouldn’t share intimacy like it was a gift rather than a ticking time bomb?
If I walked into that spookily beautiful empty apartment today or next week or even next month, he’d greet me like an old friend. No, an old lover. We now had a past, he and I. Shared intimacy. And if I went back, we’d share more. We’d build a relationship.
And I couldn’t risk my heart. Not for him, not for anyone.
“Once was enough. Write him back, say thanks for the night. It was fun.”
I made myself turn around and leave Jeanine’s room, closing the door behind me.
Chapter Five
Dylan, it turned out, wasn’t the kind of guy to give up easily. He must have had as good a time together as I had. He’d emailed back and forth with Saffron a dozen times that first week. He asked where to mail the corset. It’s okay, I don’t need it. Asked where to send flowers. Sweet thought, but you won’t get my address that way, sneaky man. And then he got to the real point and asked when he could see me again. Said he’d pay for a night, an overnight, a weekend. He was exuberantly extravagant at first, and Jeanine kept gazing at me with sad eyes over her breakfast oatmeal, asking when I’d finally say yes, because I obviously wanted to.
Though Saffron was kind and warm and even a little flirty at times, her schedule was crazy busy. She wasn’t sure when she could fit him in, but she’d let him know. Then she was laid up in bed with a bad flu. If it worked for Jeanine, why not me? And then I—or rather, she—said she couldn’t see him again. That it was too close to a real date.
Yeah, a little bit of truth crept in there, despite my best intentions.
Then he stopped emailing. And that felt worse.
The first month, I told myself I could live on the memories and my handy-dandy vibrator.
The second month, I stopped by Greenpoint Pleasures on my way home to pick up another vibrator. My old one was obviously faulty.
The third month, I tossed the new vibrator. It buzzed louder than the ancient window air conditioner keeping my room semicool in the midsummer heat wave. Mostly, it wasn’t the same as the real thing.
The fourth month, I leaned over the divider at work and asked Rudy if he had time for a quick lunch. Anything to distract me. To remind me there were other men. We sat at a plastic booth in a pizza joint around the corner and munched on calzones. Rudy was charming and funny, and I felt nothing for him. We did have lunch again a couple of weeks later, though.
The fifth month, I told Jeanine I was taking a vow of celibacy. She laughed. I smacked her with a pillow.
Now, six months after the most intimate night of my life, I sat at my drafting table in the large main office at Alvarez and Associates and tried to work on a remodel of a Greenwich Village brownstone, but my mind kept wandering. It had been exactly six months. To the day. May 15th to October 15th. Dylan had undoubtedly moved on. I should too.
I bent back to my work. Let’s see, if we removed the wall between the living and dining room, we’d have to add a couple of columns to maintain the structural integrity…
A voice rumbled through me. It came from behind me. Was it my imagination? The fact that I’d been thinking of him? It had to be. What would Dylan Krause be doing here? And why on earth would he be saying, “We’d have to examine the costs of building from scratch versus renovating the sales floor”? Clearly, I was mishearing the Juniper Designs guy Fernando was meeting with this afternoon while dreaming of that amazing night six months ago.
Still, I turned around on my stool to check. Even while I scolded myself, I turned around. And couldn’t breathe.
It was Dylan. Far too handsome in a slim-cut dark blazer and a pale blue shirt, no tie. Clean-shaven. Hair only a tiny bit mussed. Rock-star hot. Here.
I hastily turned back to my drafting table. Maybe he hadn’t spotted me. He’d been focused on my boss as they walked together down the aisle toward the corner office. I gripped my pencil so hard, it snapped in two. Another second and he’d be safely past me.
No such luck. I felt his sudden looming presence by my table. “Saffron?” He sounded incredulous.
Compelled, I looked up into those dark eyes. Hungry? He looked ravenous. And something else, something I hadn’t seen that night: a quiet fury, tightly leashed.
Fernando was right behind him. And if Dylan was the client, then damn. Because Fernando had been talking all week in meetings about how big this fish was, how important it was that we land this account. If I screwed it up by being Saffron at the wrong time…
I stuck out my hand. “Samantha Lilly. Nice to meet you, Mr…?”
He wasn’t fooled, not for a second. “You work here?”
“So it would appear.” I tried for light, casual. Puzzled, even.
Fernando was frowning. “What’s going on, Sam?”
“I’m not sure.” I turned back to Dylan, cocking my head. “Oh, wait, I think I remember you. Didn’t we meet at the Steiners’ cocktail party, back in May?”
Please, Dylan, take the hint.
He did. “That’s right. I’m sorry, I guess I forgot your name.” I could see his fists clenched by his sides and the twitch in his cheek, but, with luck, Fernando couldn’t.
Dylan turned to Fernando. “I’m sorry, do you mind if we delay our meeting a few minutes? There’s something I’d like to ask your colleague.”
Fernando looked baffled but nodded.
Dylan grabbed my arm. “We need to talk.”
I got up. He kept his grip firm, as if he thought I might bolt.
I glanced back over my shoulder at Fernando. “It’s the Steiners. Their situation is complicated. Big fight. Disaster of a party.”
My last glimpse of him as we walked away was a furrowed brow. Fernando wasn’t a dumb guy, even if he was a little stuffy. I’d have to come up with something more plausible later. But right now Dylan was holding my arm, and I had to find a place we could talk where my sexploits wouldn’t be broadcast through the entire office in a matter of minutes.
Marie’s office. She’d gone out on maternity leave two weeks ago. She had an office with a door that closed and no window glass. Completely private. I led Dylan there through the familiar warren of computer workst
ations and drafting tables, trying not to think about what this all meant, what Dylan would say. Trying to ignore the frisson of pleasure that snaked through me at the thought that he was here, walking mere steps behind me, his footsteps hard on the cement floor.
Once safely inside Marie’s office, I locked the door and heaved a sigh of relief. Dylan turned to me, his face a mask. He thrust his hand out. “Dylan Krause. And you are…?”
I ignored it. “I know, it’s weird. And I understand if you’re angry.”
Though he didn’t seem angry, not exactly. “Is it something you do on the side for kicks?” He picked up a snow globe from the desk and shook it, then stared at the white flakes drifting over a plastic palm tree as if what I said didn’t matter one bit. Which was how I knew it did.
“I didn’t do it for kicks. I did it…” How to explain? “I got roped into it by my roommate. I’ve never done anything like that before. I’m not a call girl. That’s why I didn’t respond when you emailed. That’s why I couldn’t see you again.”
“Because you didn’t want to admit you’d lied? Or because you couldn’t have me as a repeat client because you didn’t want to see me again?”
Oh God. “Neither. Both, I mean.” I couldn’t look at him.
He set the globe down. “I thought about you constantly. Every time I spoke to Persephone, or even her lawyer, God help me. Every time I sat on my couch. Every time I sliced into an apple. I still do.”
He took a step toward me. I couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move.
“Are you saying you forgot me after that night? Are you saying you didn’t feel it too?”
I was wildly turned on. Aware of his heavy breathing, his dilated pupils. His smell. His nearness. My own heart beating wildly out of control. My groin throbbing like he was going to take me against the wall, and oh, I wanted it. Desperately. “I didn’t. I don’t.” My breathing gave me away. But if I told him the truth, I’d be giving him too much power over me.
He knew, though. He brushed my lips with his finger, the lightest touch imaginable, and yet it was the most sensual contact I’d ever experienced. “If I kissed you, if I fucked you right now, would you still feel nothing?”
