One Taste

by Cari Quinn

  She whipped around, her chin high. The last of the sun carved severe lines along her face, amplifying now cold eyes. “I what?”

  “Until you weren’t.” He snapped a tissue from the box on the coffee table and took care of the condom. Tucking himself back into his underwear and jeans, he did up enough buttons to keep them up before he stood. She wound her hair back into one of her knots, walking to her desk for a clip to start the process of buttoning up Miranda again.

  He scraped his fingers through his hair. “Did I do something wrong?” He reached out to touch her but she sidestepped him, moving to the wide expanse of windows that looked out on the street. A neon sign from the sandwich shop across the street bathed the darkness in pink.

  “No, of course not.”

  His fingernails bit into his palm as he stared at her back. “Don’t shut me out.”

  “We don’t know each other enough for you to know when I’m shutting you out,” she shot back over her shoulder.

  He shook his head, scrubbing his eyes before he laughed. It was a harsh sound, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Is this when you throw me out and never talk to me again?”

  She didn’t turn around, just opened one of the French doors to the small balcony. Her oversized shirt brushed the tops of her thighs as she stepped outside. She grasped the wide ledge of the half wall and looked out on the endless hill of Union Street that climbed into the skyline. “Do what you want.”

  He followed her out to the small patio. She was strung so tight he expected her skin to split open. “You’re what I want.” He placed a hand on either side of hers, the aged stone cool to the touch.

  Her head fell forward, leaving her nape exposed, taunting him with the reality of her there, but not within reach. Not really. Surprising him, she straightened and leaned back on him, just a little. “Are you sure?”

  He wrapped an arm around her middle and pulled her flush against him. “I want you,” he said against her temple. “Not just your body, Miranda. I didn’t mean for this to happen when I came to see you.”

  “Are you sorry?”

  “No, God no.” He pressed his lips against the fragile skin between her neck and shoulder. Telling a woman he just had sex with for the first time that the end was less than stellar wasn’t the way to gain himself a repeat performance. Because he knew it was hovering an inch away from awesome.

  She scraped her nails down his forearm lightly. “I’m a truck full of crazy, Nate.”

  He knew she was trying to scare him off, he just had to figure out why. “I happen to be a very good truck driver.”

  She laughed and slapped his hand. “Lame.”

  He tightened his hold on her. “I might be lame, but that goes really good with crazy.”

  She laughed again, the sound not so strained this time. Turning in his arms, she rested her cheek against his chest. He held her against him and tried not to notice how perfectly they lined up.

  “I just want to see you again, that’s all.”

  “That’s the orgasm talking.”

  Determined not to let frustration make him say something stupid, he kept it light. “I gotta admit, the orgasm is a plus, but it’s not the only thing I’m looking for.”

  She peered up at him. “Shouldn’t that be my line?”

  “I’m comfortable with my feminine side.”

  She laughed, and the puff of breath on his skin felt good. “You’re kinda weird, aren’t you?”

  “That’s debatable, depending on the brother you ask—you’ll get a different answer from all of them.”

  Her thumb brushed over the bit of chest hair around his nipple and he beat down the groan that wanted to climb out of his throat. He was afraid to scare her off. “You’re close with your family?”

  “For the most part. You saw me with one of them at the bar.”

  “Tats?”

  “Yep, that would be Matt. He’s the one that’s in Sylar.”

  “The guitarist, right?”

  He nodded, tracing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “And I have two others.”

  “Two more?”

  “Don’t sound so horrified.”

  “I can’t imagine having to deal with that much family.”

  He continued his path into the muscles just below her neck until she groaned. He couldn’t imagine life without his family. “They’re not so bad. Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Is this your version of non-pillow pillow talk, Nate?”

  He smiled into the dark, soothing her renewed tension with patience and an easy hand. Touchy about family—got it. It was an ass-backward way to learn his way around her, but if that’s what he had to do, then that’s what he’d do. “Actually, my version of pillow talk is more of a no-talk thing.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  And just like that she relaxed into him. He wasn’t sure how he was going to work around getting to know her if a question like whether she had a sibling was cause for red flags, but he’d find a way.

  “I’d like to see if this is more than just a hook-up, Miranda. Go out with me, we can do whatever you’d like.”

  She was quiet for a long moment, then she sighed. “Sunday, meet me at the Embarcadero. It’s my day off.”

  He wrapped both arms around her tightly. Relief and determination infused him. “Thank you for giving me some of your day off.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You’ll be spending a boring day mashed between tourists, me and Stella.”

  “Nah, you’re confusing relaxing with boring. I’m there.”

  She sighed. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Is there a bikini in this for me?”

  She rolled her forehead along the center of his chest, her warm sigh ending in a groan. His cock instantly hardened, knocking for the second time against his button fly. Her hands slid from his waist to his butt and squeezed. “Why? Do I get a Speedo?”

  He pushed her back. “I don’t wear a banana hammock for anyone, not even for a girl I’m trying to impress. Actually, that’s the least impressive thing created for a guy.”

  “C’mon, pretty please?” She brought one hand between them and followed the ridge of his erection. “I bet this would look really good in a royal blue Speedo.”

  He groaned as she palmed him through the denim. “Miranda.” He arched into her touch. “You’re good, but not that good.”

  “Oh you have no idea.” The sheen of her eyes in the semidarkness made him want to test that theory. “The things I could do to you would—” She broke off and stepped back.

  “Hey.” He caught her wrist. She was gone again, pokering up as though he’d dumped ice water on her. When she twisted free and headed for the front door, he sighed. Grabbing his shirt off the floor, he caught Stella’s gaze under the desk again. Her tail whumped twice before she carefully crawled out. He patted her head and tugged on his t-shirt.

  Miranda swung the door open and Stella took her rightful place at her side. “Good night, Nate.”

  He bent down to her and she turned her face so he got cheek. Instead of leaving it at that, he nudged her chin back forward. The kiss was easy and slow, just a brush of lips without tongue. She stilled under him, not participating but not pushing him away. He drew back with a sigh. “What time on Sunday?”

  “Nine.”

  He nodded and kissed her temple. When he pulled back, she was frowning up at him. He decided he liked the frown better than the ice queen and tugged at a lock of her hair that had fallen from her clip. “See you then.”

  Miranda flipped her sheets back. Sleep just wasn’t going to happen tonight. If she stared at the ceiling for one more hour she was going to shoot her entire staff by morning. She was completely aware of her body right now and it was his damn fault. She snagged her laptop off her bureau and folded herself into her chaise. Hissing out a slow breath, she crossed her legs Indian style and eased back.

  Her body hurt in so many places. No, hurt probably wasn’
t the right word. Tender maybe? She wasn’t used to the filled feeling, and now it was as if something was missing. Disgusted with that thought, she popped open her Spotify account. Flicking through her playlists, she settled on a little female rocker angst and let Pink’s smoky voice fill the room.

  She focused on the hurts instead. Her thighs ached from holding her weight up against— Flashes of Nate on his knees, Nate against the wall, his strength and the grip of his fingers on her flesh.

  She’d been right there with him until he’d gotten inside her. The familiar stretching and excitement had revved her up until all she could think about was taking, fucking, driving him insane. MJ had taken over. Everything she’d done to push her past away, and with one touch from Nathan Cross she was just as crazed as if she were sitting in the A-list VIP section of Skybar all over again.

  How many men had she taken home from there? How many men had she taken up into the brilliant hotel only to use them and discard them? She forced herself to take a deep breath, to push the memories of the drugs, the alcohol and the lost nights out of her mind.

  She’d been so very careful to keep herself focused on work, to leave behind her past and all her transgressions. She didn’t want to be tempted again. She couldn’t afford to be tested again.

  Nathan Cross was a temptation. From the width of his absurdly perfect shoulders to the way he filled her. He was dangerous on too many levels to name. And she’d agreed to see him again? She couldn’t even blame the wine. She’d been stone-cold sober when she’d thrown herself at him like a whore.

  Who says you have to be a whore to know what you want? Just because you enjoyed a man? When did you become such a fucking prude?

  She shut out the voice. She wasn’t that woman any longer.

  And what about Nate?

  Her what? Lover? She’d denied herself for so long it wasn’t surprising that she’d finally slept with someone. At least she’d been smart this time and had the foresight to worry about protection. An angel had certainly been sitting on her shoulder all those times she’d been less than careful.

  Rehashing her past was stupid. Tapping a little harder than was necessary, she pulled up her personal email and the files for her blog. It wasn’t as if she could change what she’d done, she just had to make sure it didn’t happen again. Nate wasn’t exactly the type of guy she’d found herself with in the past.

  Maybe that’s how he’d wormed his way in. She didn’t have a defense against a nice guy, but even the nice guys had one ultimate goal in mind. Getting naked. She’d thrown herself at him. Sweet Pete, he’d even made an attempt to stop her—twice. No—it was her fault that Nate had walked into her problems.

  She scrolled through her emails, deleting most as junk mail, smiling as she saw an email from Macy. She’d kept one friend from her days in the Lyons’ den. She flagged that to look at after she got some work done. Macy was always good for a laugh. Her acidic humor was what had drawn Miranda to her in the first place. It was also what kept them friends. Macy kept her in the loop without giving her crap for leaving that life behind.

  She spent the next hour going through emails for her blog. Rated by Randy was a fun site she’d created long before blogging had been cool. Not to mention her obsession with gadgets hadn’t exactly fit in with her high society circles.

  Rated by Randy was probably a man as far as her followers were concerned. She left no personal information and remained androgynous in her posting by staying in first person. The occasional visitor tried to figure out who she was by asking leading questions, but her readers mostly cared about her snarky or thoughtful posts, not whether she played for the pink or blue team.

  She finished her current posting, losing herself in the mindless and lighthearted prose, she found herself curling into the corner of her chaise. By the time she’d finished and responded to comments on her previous post about the Thumb Lock, she was relaxed.

  The gadget was on backorder, but so many of her readers wanted to talk about it she’d ended up starting a separate forum to discuss it. It was the little things that sometimes made the biggest splash.

  She clicked on the Thumb Lock’s site and winced. The inventor could use a makeover on his website. It wasn’t easy to navigate and didn’t give any particulars on the inventor him- or herself. Not everyone could build a site, and this one looked like one of those free ones that were as impersonal as a telemarketer call.

  Logging off from her server, she saw the email again, grinning as she opened it.

  Okay, Sister Friend—this is not meant to make you start hurling valuables, but I got a reliable tip last night that I think you should check out. Don’t click this shut. I know you, Randy.

  Still with me? All righty, I knew you still had that brass set of balls under the corporate gear you wear. (Regrettable, mind you—you have a rockin’ figure that you are so wasting on gaytown.) Jazz is starting trouble, darlin’. You need to nip it in the bud and quick.

  *Macy*

  A hyperlink stared at her in that blue that shouted click me! Her thumb shook as she hovered over the touchpad. She didn’t want to know, dammit. She’d made her peace with the past.

  You walked away. There’s a difference, princess.

  She clicked off the email window. No, she didn’t want to know. Closing her laptop, she shoved it up on her dresser again and slid between her cool sheets. She glanced at the clock and groaned. It was already three in the morning. She didn’t have time to look at it. She could survive on three hours of sleep if she closed her eyes right now.

  Go on and look. You know you want to.

  She folded her pillow around her ears. Dammit.

  What did Jazz do? What did your mother do? Does the illustrious Jason Lyons have a new mistress? Maybe this one will actually be as old as you are this time.

  She slammed her hands into the mattress, hurling her pillow across the room with enough force to send her highboy rocking. “Dammit!” She swung her legs out, not even stopping when the tenderness between her thighs zinged through her. She threw her laptop on her bed, opening it and banging on a few keys to get it to come out of hibernation.

  That’s right, kiddo. Let’s see just how much trouble the Lyons family is in.

  She clicked on the hyperlink, waiting for the page to come up. The Third Annual Lyons’ Cervical Cancer Gala screamed off the headlines. She shut her eyes. God no. She covered her eyes. How could she have forgotten that?

  Her Grandmother Lyons had died from cervical cancer four years ago this week. Work and Nate had completely fuzzed her brain. She blinked against tears as pictures scrolled by of her parents, Jason and Claudia, in their finery. They’d even managed to stand side by side in a picture. Her mother’s sleek fall of platinum blonde hair accented a teal and white beaded dress showing her support for the cause. Her father went with the understated white and teal pocket square to accentuate his charcoal Armani suit.

  Her sister Jacqueline, ever the wildcard, wore a handkerchief dress in a pristine white that barely skimmed her thighs. Her pale blonde hair was cropped in a severe cut that only emphasized her unnatural thinness. A white and teal vine was painted from her ankle to her thigh with matching stilettos. “Jesus, Jazz. Grandmother would spin in her damn grave.”

  Background noise and the echoing sounds of a microphone being muffled filled her room. “Jazz, where’s MJ? She’s been underground so long we’re beginning to wonder if she even still exists.”

  Her sister’s glittery princess makeup seemed to harden right on camera. “Why would anyone care about my cow of a sister? My grandmother would be so ashamed of her and what she’s done with her life since she died. She took the money she inherited and is sitting on a beach drinking Mai Tais while we grieve for that wonderful woman.” Jazz pulled her new best friend into the frame. “James—isn’t MJ just pathetic? No need to even talk about her, right?”

  Jamie Cavanaugh laughed, a matching teal vine curled around her neck and down her arm. “No one cares about her.�
�� She stared deep into the camera, her pupils mere pinpricks. “I dare you to find her.”

  Jazz’s eyes went flat as she pulled away from Jamie. “Who cares about her?” she snapped.

  The correspondent turned to the camera. “So, where is MJ Lyons? How can one of the most infamous socialites of the last ten years simply fade away? And is she really gone? Or just gone for now?”

  Ignoring the glorified gossip scout, she watched her sister’s reaction and cursed. Jazz was fighting with Jamie, pushing her back into the shadows as she screamed at her.

  The interviewer smiled her perfect veneered smile. “Let’s take a look at a few of MJ Lyons’ more colorful stunts, shall we?”

  Miranda shut the laptop again, pushing it away as she fell back on her pillows. God no. She’d closed the doors on her life as MJ. She was Miranda now. They couldn’t find her, dammit.

  Not now.

  Chapter Six

  “Nathan Patrick Cross!”

  Nate jerked his gaze back to the dinner table. “Sorry, Ma.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and picked up his fork. “Tastes delicious, as always.”

  “Did you meet a woman?”

  Amanda Cross was a scary woman. She had to be, raising four boys. He didn’t want his mom digging into his brain yet, but she knew when he was lying. It was her amazing talent.

  “Mom,” he said with a sigh.

  “Leave him alone, Mandy,” his father said. “Just because he’s staring moon-eyed out the window doesn’t make it a girl thing.”

  Nate pushed his food around his plate. “You’re not helping, Pops.”

  His father lifted his hands. “What? I’m just saying.” Big Mike Cross’s wide, ruthlessly scrubbed hands belied his profession. Amanda Cross ran a tight ship and dirty mechanic hands did not belong at her table.

  Nate leaned back in his chair. “I met a woman—”

  His mom lit up. “What’s her name?”

  “Don’t get that look in your eye, Ma. We just started—”

  “Knockin’ boots,” Matt chimed in.