Call Me Saffron (Greenpoint Pleasures)

by Talia Quinn

  I grabbed my jacket. “Stop meddling. Just stop.”

  “Whatever. I was only trying to help.”

  “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help.” I slid my arms into the sleeves. In my haste, I got it fouled up. My right arm got stuck, and the jacket was twisted around and upside down.

  Jeanine grabbed the jacket from me, turned it right-side up. I took it back. “Thanks.” Hard to thank someone when you’re mad. It inevitably comes out like a scold. “I could have fixed that.”

  “I know.”

  I put my arms into the sleeves the right way this time. “I think I should find my own place to live.”

  “You do that. And remind me to never do you a favor. Fix you up with a hot guy? Forget it. I’m the devil. You screw things up with the hot guy? Heaven forbid I try to help you figure it out by, oh, I don’t know, putting you together in the same room so you can talk like normal people do. Clearly I’m a bad friend. Got it. You can mess up your own life from now on. I’m done.”

  She flounced out of the room, destroying my own chance to make a huffy exit. I sank into the armchair, onto a pile of jackets, which puffed up around me, then subsided.

  Jeanine. My best friend. I’d run into her in the college quad after my second attempt at a relationship dissolved in a pile of recriminations and miscommunication. She’d taken me to her dorm room, plied me with hot chocolate liberally dosed with schnapps, and told me firmly that I wasn’t broken. She’d said nobody gets it right the first or even the second time, and that was okay. I knew she was wrong and that I wasn’t built for intimacy—that I was broken, at least in that way—but I let her think I agreed. I loved having someone so confident on my side. The next week, she’d brought me here. To Greenpoint Pleasures. Where I’d found a home with the other off-kilter souls in search of a nonjudgmental home away from home.

  I owed Jeanine everything. I owed her whatever emotional stability I had.

  I looked for her as I left the stockroom. We had to talk this out. We couldn’t leave it alone, or it would fester and decay. I couldn’t move out. I couldn’t lose her friendship.

  But when I found her, she was wrapped in the arms of a skinny, bearded redhead, kissing him like he was whiskey and she was on a bender.

  I went home.

  Chapter Eight

  By the time Jeanine came home, it was dawn. I woke briefly to hear her giggling in the living room with the redheaded guy as they stumbled inside, shushing each other, and tiptoed loudly to her bedroom right across the tiny hallway from mine.

  I put the pillow over my head to block out light and sound and the male intruder in my home, and went back to sleep. I’d have to catch her later.

  But later came and our male intruder was still there. As I made myself a sandwich in our narrow galley kitchen, Jeanine didn’t budge from her cozy perch on the couch, her legs thrown over the guy’s legs. They had their heads bent over his iPad, watching something that was apparently hysterically funny.

  “Do you want lunch? There’s cold cuts but not enough cheese.” I knew I sounded surly. I couldn’t help it.

  “Nah, we’ll go down to the deli later.” She lifted her head from the guy’s shoulder. “This is Sean.”

  Sean nodded at me. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Yeah.” It sounded so halfhearted, I belatedly blurted, “You too.” Which made it worse. It just underlined the faux pas.

  Did this Sean know what Jeanine did for a living? Did he care? It usually made guys uncomfortable. On the other hand, he met her at a party at Greenpoint Pleasures, so maybe it didn’t matter.

  Jeanine gave me a sideways look. I wasn’t forgiven for last night.

  I should be the one forgiving her. I slapped together the two slices of bread, ignoring the mayo oozing out the sides, and sliced it down the middle. No, that wasn’t fair. She’d meddled, but for the right reasons. Maybe.

  Dylan.

  Our arrangement.

  I came halfway into the living room. “Have you checked your email yet today?”

  “I did, not that it’s your business.” She went back to the iPad. “I want to see that again.” She tapped the screen, and a loud noise bleated from the device.

  I leaned against the kitchen counter and bit into the sandwich. Too much mayo. “Did Dylan email you?”

  She frowned at me. “Should he have?”

  Yes. He’s supposed to seduce me. He needs to set a time and place for an encounter. But I can’t tell you any of that, because you’re not alone. And maybe you don’t care anymore. And I miss you. “Let me know if he does, okay?” I took my sandwich into my bedroom and turned on the computer. I should get some work done.

  And yet somehow I found myself doing a web search for Dylan Krause, Juniper Designs. I pulled up his executive profile, the one I’d seen that first day.

  Chiseled jaw. Dark slashes of eyebrows. That hungry gaze, which seemed more like yearning to me now and less like pure sex.

  Dylan. My boy-toy to-be.

  Ha. That was a joke, a man like that acting the role of escort.

  But he was going to follow through on it.

  Wasn’t he?

  ~*~

  The on-screen walk-through glared from the screen reproachfully. My part of it was due to the group by the end of the day, and yet instead of working on it, I was on the phone, listening to it ring on the other end, then a click. I tensed, ready to talk.

  Jeanine’s cheery recorded message told me to leave a message, yo.

  “Hey, you. You were busy with Redheaded Boy all weekend, and I’m happy for you and all, but we need to talk. Let me know when. I, uh—” I paused to formulate the thought. It seemed tacky to apologize in voice mail, but I had to say something. Before I could figure out the right phrasing—assuming there was one—I spotted a group of suits walking into the main room with Fernando. Five of them. One was Dylan. “Let me know.” I hung up.

  Dylan’s shoulders seemed larger in his dark blue tailored suit. He looked so formal, so professional. Maybe I’d ask him to wear the jacket on our rendezvous. The jacket and nothing else.

  “What’s that wicked smile about?” Rudy peered over the top edge of my widescreen monitor, holding a mug, a tendril of steam rising from the dark liquid. Coffee run, clearly. “Thinking wicked thoughts? You? Ms. I Don’t Date?”

  “Just because I don’t date doesn’t mean I have no interest in sex.”

  Wrong thing to say. His eyebrows shot up, and his smile showed a perfect row of white teeth. “Good to know.”

  Dylan walked past. He glanced over at us. I flushed and gave him a look that I hoped conveyed it’s not what it appears and I still want you and when do we do this thing?

  His mouth twitched, but he said nothing, not even hello. He just went past. As he walked down the row of drafting tables toward Fernando’s office, I watched his ass in those well-fitted pants, grateful he wasn’t one of those guys who stuffed a wallet in his back pocket.

  Beside me, Rudy whistled quietly. “Those guys are something, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They stroll through here like they own us. It’s kind of pissing me off. Especially since rumor has it we’re going to have to work overtime on their stupid project.”

  “I’m not scheduled to work on it.” Even though I’d stood him up for dinner, Dylan hadn’t threatened to back out of our deal. I figured our upcoming liaison made up for it—assuming that was still on.

  “I bet you are. Why do you think we have to hand in the blueprints for the Newark building ahead of our original deadline? So we can be free for Juniper. Fernando’s going to tell us at the meeting this afternoon. They must be forking over a lot of money.”

  I must have looked dismayed, because Rudy shook his head and grinned at me. “Hey, I’m only grouching because I can’t afford their furniture. It’ll be fine. It’s a good company. A good gig.”

  “I know. It’s just hard to switch gears.”

  “True th
at.”

  I shifted my attention to the screen and slid my finger on the trackpad, signaling the end of the conversation. Still, I glanced down the row toward the conference room. The door was open. I could see a glimpse of dark blue fabric. A leg, seated. Dylan’s?

  He was in there. In my workplace. Again. And now his company had hired mine. To work for him.

  If Juniper had hired Alvarez, if I had to work on the project despite myself, then it was all kinds of wrong for me to order the client around in the bedroom. Tell him to strip for me, tell him to kneel in front of me, tell him to lick my…

  My computer beeped at me, a CAD program warning. I’d done something against code. What? I stared at it for a good two minutes before I realized I’d created an entire floor plan with no bathrooms, no doors, no access points at all.

  The meeting lasted an hour and forty-one minutes. Not that I was counting. When they were done, Fernando came out, clapped Dylan on the back, and chatted with him as they walked down the row of desks. I couldn’t even meet Dylan’s eye without Fernando catching me at it.

  Our liaison was a nonstarter. Dylan had obviously reconsidered. Maybe he’d decided it would be too complicated, what with my firm working for his. He’d ignored me on the way to Fernando’s office, and he looked like he was about to ignore me again on the way out.

  The thought felt like a rock in my gut. I’d had my first real fight with my best friend over this, and now I couldn’t even have him for a single, greedy night.

  Not that I wanted him. Just his body. And that hungry gaze, trained on me. And those whispered words. And that sharp intelligence.

  This was not good. I didn’t do relationships. Maybe it was just as well we weren’t in one, not even for one night.

  Yeah, I could keep telling myself that and maybe I’d eventually believe it.

  After Dylan and Fernando passed by and my heart stopped skipping unnecessary beats, I realized there was now a folded piece of paper on my blotter. No doubt Dylan’s discreet way of calling our assignation off. I unfolded it ever so casually, as if it were a normal note from a coworker.

  The note only had a few words, written in a slanted, strong script.

  Keats Hotel. 8 p.m. Friday. Check in as Samantha Saffron. Bring checkbook. Corset optional.

  My body woke up. My nerve endings were alive, sparking like a child’s firecracker.

  It was going to be a long week.

  I picked up my cell phone to call Jeanine, but put it down. She wouldn’t want to hear from me. But before I could set it back on the desk, it rang. Her ringtone. I grabbed it. “I’m so glad you called. I—”

  “Found another place to live? Good, because I have rights over the place, you know. It’s my aunt’s rent control.” She sounded grumpy.

  “I know. And if we break up, I mean, if we decide to live separately, I’ll be the one to move out, I promise. But we should talk through it first. Not make any hasty decisions. I miss you, and I’m sorry I got angry. I know you had my best interests at heart.”

  “You only like me for my apartment.”

  “Well, duh.”

  We both laughed. An uneasy truce. I leaned against the wall, looking out at the potted plants and marbled wallpaper.

  “So what did you call about?” She still sounded wary.

  “Do you have a corset I could borrow Friday night?”

  This time her laugh was loud and entirely genuine. “Sam! What have you gotten yourself into?”

  By the time I got off the phone, we’d agreed to go clothing shopping in Midtown on my lunch break tomorrow, and my head was clear enough to go back to work, though my body buzzed like I’d stuck my finger in an electric socket.

  Was it Friday yet?

  Chapter Nine

  My heels struck the cement with sharp, distinct strikes. Under my light jacket, I wore an ensemble that made me feel like a goddess. The leather zip-up top fit me perfectly, and the multicolored skirt floated around my ankles. My shoes were gold, a fitting touch. I’d left off the panties again.

  I hoped Dylan liked the outfit.

  The Keats was a boutique hotel in the far West Village, amid the warren of cobblestone side streets. I walked through the ironically old-fashioned lobby with its inlaid tile floor and swirling cherub ceiling, and stopped by the gleaming mahogany check-in desk.

  “I have a reservation. Samantha Saffron.” A mellifluous mouthful. Did it sound as fake to her as it did to me?

  She handed me a card key. “Room 302. Your husband checked in already, Ms. Saffron.”

  My hand spasmed, clenching the card key. Husband. This wasn’t marriage or anything remotely close. This was an assignation.

  There were no mirrors in this elevator, just dark wood paneling. It was like a tiny but perfect room. The doors opened to reveal the third floor before I was quite ready.

  I paused before the door to room 302. Dylan was on the other side, waiting for me. Would he be in his bathrobe like last time? Wearing tight leather pants and a wifebeater? What was the male equivalent of a corset?

  I fit the card key into the lock. The light blinked green, and I opened the door.

  Dylan stood by the window, a slim fluted champagne glass in his hand. He turned from the view when he heard me at the door. He gave me a cool smile. “You’re on time. Excellent. I prefer a punctual client.” He was wearing a charcoal gray suit. Like the blue one he’d worn on Monday, it looked like it had been specifically tailored for his broad shoulders and tall frame.

  I put my bag down by the door and stood uncertainly.

  He gave me a slow, calculating smile, the kind that showed off his dimple but didn’t light up his face, and proffered the bottle. “Champagne?”

  “Sure.” It might take the edge off.

  He poured me a glass, then came over with it. Glided, more like. He had this down. “Take off your jacket.”

  After I shrugged it off, he tossed it onto a chair without looking. “Drink.”

  I took the glass from him, wrapping my fingers around the cool stem, and took a sip. Champagne bubbles in my throat, tickling the roof of my mouth, dancing on my tongue. “Dylan…”

  “Shh.” He came around behind me and massaged my shoulders. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. That’s what you’re paying me for, Ms. Saffron. To think for you.”

  That name. So deliberate. All of this, so deliberate. Not a seduction, not exactly. Something else.

  I closed my eyes and relaxed into the sensation. His thumbs kneaded my shoulders through the fabric. It hurt, and because it hurt, it felt good. I leaned back against him. “If I’m paying you, why are you still dressed?”

  His hands stilled. “Do you want me to…?”

  I turned, put my hand on his chest. Mine. The thought was fiercely possessive and absolutely terrifying.

  “Not yet.” I gulped down the champagne. “First I want you to take my clothes off.” I touched the zipper nestled between my breasts.

  His eyes got that feral look. “Whatever the client wants.” He moved in, so close I could smell the sweet alcohol tang on his breath, and snagged the zipper pull. I braced myself, but he merely teased the pull, sliding it down a few teeth, then stopped. His fingers played along the top edge of the tight-fitting bodice, dipped underneath.

  I closed my eyes, savoring the sensation.

  “Open your eyes.” A whispered command.

  I opened them. “Who’s the client here?”

  “You need to stay focused. Get your money’s worth.” He leaned in and licked the edge of my ear. Sensation slicked through me, hot and urgent.

  To hell with this. I turned my head and kissed him hard. He groaned, deep in his throat, but disengaged.

  “First things first.” He pulled my zipper down another inch, then kissed and licked down the exposed bare skin. Unzipped, licked, unzipped, licked, unzipped, and then he pulled my top off entirely, exposing my torso. He bent to take my nipple in his mouth, palming the other with his hand. It felt delicious.

&
nbsp; It also felt entirely too controlled. Like Dylan was the professional he was pretending to be. Was he even enjoying this?

  I tangled my fingers in his hair and gently tugged. He tilted his head, looking up at me questioningly. “Is my technique acceptable?”

  I sat on the bed, my breasts tingling from the exposure to air. “I get it. You want to show me what it’s like if it’s just sex.”

  “I want to have sex with you, however that needs to happen. You’re the one who doesn’t want more.” He sat on the bed beside me and stroked down my bare belly with one finger, then slid that finger beneath my skirt, skimmed the top edge of my pubis. I melted against his touch. A single finger. And he was still fully dressed. And it was sex and nothing more, no personal entanglements. The way I wanted it.

  And yet… “When I came to your apartment in May, you asked me about myself. You wanted to know who I was before I—before we—”

  His finger stilled. “I’d expected it to be a simple physical release. A way of exorcising Persephone screwing my best friend from my head. But when you walked in, all bravado and vulnerability, I had to know who you were and why you were there. What it meant to you. It turns out that sex is personal.” He smiled, brief and wry. “At least, to me it is.” He sounded more like himself now, and I was surprised how much that mattered to me.

  “Does it have to be, though? Can’t we just enjoy the way it feels?” I crossed my arms in front of my breasts, acutely aware of my seminudity.

  Dylan laced his fingers through mine and pulled my arms back down to my sides. “We can pretend whatever you want. As long as it means we get to do this.”

  He leaned in and kissed me, his tongue seeking, probing, promising. His chin rubbing against mine, rough bristles against tender skin. I wanted to cry, and I didn’t know why.

  When he broke away from the kiss, I murmured a protest, but he trailed a line of kisses down my neck, down my chest, and it was all good again. I sighed against him. But…