Melt for You

by J. T. Geissinger

  “Another one? This is a record week for you.”

  Cam takes the glass of wine from my hand and carefully sets it on the counter. Then he looks at me with shuttered eyes and an expressionless face. “Maybe I’m bein’ too hard on you, lass. I did offer you my help, after all.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “So. Go ahead, then.”

  I furrow my brow and stare up at him. “Go ahead and what?”

  “Kiss me.”

  The sound of Mr. Bingley scarfing his food is the only noise in the kitchen for a moment, until Cam prompts, “C’mon, let’s see what you’ve got. I have to know what I’m workin’ with if I’m gonna be any help.”

  Heat spreads over my chest and up my neck, then my ears are burning.

  Cam shrugs. “Or don’t. It’s no sweat off my back if pretty boy tries to kiss you and winds up with a face full o’ slobber.”

  He starts to go back to the table, but I grab his shirt. “Wait!”

  He slants me a look.

  “Um . . . okay.” I take a deep breath. “But you can’t touch me.”

  “I see,” he says drily. “So it’ll just be our auras kissin’, then.”

  “Stop being sarcastic. This is serious!”

  Cam sighs, folding his arms over his chest. “Lass. I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve kissed someone, but there are these things called lips involved? I’m pretty sure that counts as touching.”

  “I meant with your hands!”

  He holds his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  When I narrow my eyes at him, he chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stand here like this”—he strolls to the opposite counter, puts his hands behind his back, and leans his weight against them so they’re pinned—“and you can do your thing with no worry about stray hands.”

  He looks completely nonchalant. I, meanwhile, am a whirling vortex of emotions.

  What I haven’t told him is that the last time I went on a date—eons ago—the good-night kiss was so disastrous I cried myself to sleep that night. The guy pushed me away by my shoulders, gasping for air, and said, “That was my lung you just licked!”

  I guess I was being pretty aggressive. A long enough dry spell can make a girl desperate, and apparently I had my tongue so far down the poor guy’s throat I was examining his internal organs with it.

  Needless to say, I never saw him again.

  My heart pounding, I smooth my hands down the front of my dress. Cam watches me silently, looking bored.

  “Promise me it won’t be weird after.”

  “Well, you’re obviously gonna fall instantly in love with me, lass, but it won’t be weird on my end.”

  I roll my eyes, relieved a little that he’s teasing. I take a step toward him, then stop. “Do you have any STDs that can be passed through your saliva?”

  He sighs, closing his eyes.

  “I’m just being safe.”

  “No, you’re just bein’ chicken.”

  “I’m not a chicken!”

  His look of dry disbelief challenges that statement, and now I’m mobilized. I put my shoulders back and lift my chin. “Fine. We’re doing this. If you get handsy, I’ll crack your skull.”

  His long exhalation is that of an exasperated parent dealing with a fussing child.

  A few more steps and I’m standing right in front of him. In heels, I’m four inches taller, and he’s a few inches shorter because he’s leaning against the counter with his legs spread, but I still have to tilt my head back to look up at him.

  “You have gold flecks in your eyes,” I blurt.

  He chuckles. “Maybe you should write a sonnet about my beauty.”

  I slap him on the shoulder. “Shut up.”

  “C’mon lass, you’re makin’ too much of a production of this. Just get it over with. I don’t have all night.”

  I scowl at him. “Sorry to be taking up so much of your precious time, prancer!”

  “You’re forgiven. Now lay one on me so I can give you some helpful tips for your quest to land Mr. Perfect.”

  Extremely nervous, I blow out a breath and give myself a little mental pep talk. “Okay, but . . . when you give me your tips, please be gentle.”

  Cam’s brows slowly lift, and the heat spreads into my cheeks. “I’m not exactly talented in this area. The last guy I kissed was left with permanent emotional scars.”

  His voice is soft when he answers. “I promise I’ll be nice.”

  Okay, Joellen. Be brave. It’s not like either one of you is going to enjoy it. This is purely educational. And God forbid you screw it up if Michael ever tries to kiss you again.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Cam obediently closes his eyes. There’s a faint smile on his lips, which is encouraging because I take it as evidence that he’s amused by this whole exercise.

  My hands shaking, I take a fortifying breath, then I lean in and press my mouth against his.

  His lips are surprisingly soft. Also surprising is how much heat is emanating from his body. He could be running a fever he’s so hot. He smells like clean skin and male musk and something indefinable, dark and earthy, secret and magical, like a midnight walk in the woods.

  Delicious.

  I break away with a gasp and stand there blinking at him, my heart going a million miles an hour.

  He opens his eyes and frowns. “Was that it?”

  “Yes!” I shout, on the verge of a meltdown. “Why? Was it that bad?”

  “No, it was perfectly fine, lass. If I were your grandma.”

  His lips curl up, and I realize he’s laughing at me.

  “Oh my God, you’re impossible.”

  I whirl away, but he grabs my arm and gently drags me back. “You were just nervous, lass. It was a good first effort, nothin’ to be embarrassed about. But if I could make a suggestion . . .”

  I stand in front of him vibrating with embarrassment, my cheeks so hot they’re glowing. “What?”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Oh. I was doing that, wasn’t I?”

  Cam nods. “Just try to relax into it. Also . . .”

  His pause terrifies me.

  “A real kiss includes tongue.”

  I grimace. “To be completely honest, I’m afraid my tongue has a mind of its own. You might find yourself in a wrestling match to the death with it.”

  He tries to suppress the laughter shaking his chest by clapping a hand over his mouth but isn’t successful.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “It’s hilarious, and you know it!”

  I look into his sparkling eyes and have to admit he’s right. I groan. “Oh God. I’m so pathetic.”

  Instantly, Cam’s laughter vanishes. “No, goddammit, you’re not,” he growls, his eyes blazing. “Now kiss me again before I change my mind and take you over my knee for bein’ such a bloody idiot.”

  I search his face for a moment, wondering why he gets so mad when I say things like that, then decide it really doesn’t matter.

  What matters is Michael. So here we go.

  I step into the space between Cam’s spread legs, remove my glasses and set them on the counter beside him, flatten my hands over his chest, and, with a final exhalation, press my lips to his.

  FIFTEEN

  If I thought Cameron McGregor tasted good with his mouth shut, he becomes the most succulent, delicious bonanza of flavor when his lips part and my tongue touches his.

  His mouth is sweet, hot, and plush. He applies gentle pressure, sucking lightly on my tongue, and makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

  That sound—combined with the taste of his mouth and the hard heat of his body pressed against mine—sends an electric current of pleasure shooting through my veins.

  “Oh!” I jump, startled by the shock of it, and pull away. I stand in front of him with wide eyes, my heart thumping, my mind a writhing snarl of dangerous thoughts like a box full of snakes.

 
Cam’s eyes drift open. “Easy, lass,” he says softly, pulling me back to him. “We’re not done yet.”

  Before I can decide if I want to keep going, he decides for us both by taking my mouth again and easing his tongue between my lips.

  Boy, he’s being a really good friend.

  “Think of pretty boy,” he whispers when I stand there stiff as a board, uncomfortable because I’m liking this little experiment a tad too much. “Pretend I’m him. Pretend it’s his mouth on yours. His body against yours. His hand in your hair.”

  Cam’s hand is in my hair. When did that happen?

  I discover with a twinge of terror that I don’t care because I like it so much. He holds my head in place as we kiss with his hand fisted at the scruff of my neck, an action so wholly and unexpectedly erotic my mind blinks off-line. I sag against him, desperately drawing breath through my nose.

  Oh God. Oh that. Oh yes, that. Do that again. You’re a genius. My nipples could cut glass.

  He’s so big, and hard, and hot as a furnace, but his mouth is the softest thing in the world. It’s a cloud. A sweet, delicious cloud that’s impairing my thoughts and kicking up the release of eggs from my ovaries until I’m sure I could make omelets on a hotel brunch’s buffet line with all of them.

  Somehow my arms have wound around his shoulders. Somehow his other arm has become an iron bar around my waist. Somehow I’m making desperate growly kitten noises and grinding myself against his body.

  Somehow he’s making desperate growly wolf noises and grinding back.

  The doorbell rings.

  We break apart like we’ve been caught plotting the overthrow of the government and stare at each other.

  “Someone’s at the door.” My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed a toad.

  “Are you gonna answer it?” His voice sounds like he’s swallowed a handful of gravel.

  I wheeze out an asthmatic breath. “It could be important.”

  Cam’s gaze drops to my lips, then flashes back up to my eyes. The heat in his eyes almost incinerates me. “More important than this?”

  Whoa. Was that an earthquake? No, we don’t have earthquakes in Manhattan. Then why is the ground moving?

  Sounding irritated, the doorbell rings twice more. It breaks the weird spell I’m under, and I’m able to jerk away from Cam and draw a breath before I throw myself back into his arms and beg him to do naughty things to me.

  I wonder if his ChapStick is drugged?

  I grab my glasses and shuffle to the door with a jolting, stiff-kneed gait, like a zombie. When I open it, Mrs. Dinwiddle stands there in a royal-blue lounging robe with peacock-feather trim at the sleeves and hem, a martini in one hand and an unlit cigarette in a long black holder in the other. Her turquoise sequined headband sports a spray of seed pearls on one side that bob as her head moves.

  I’m too discombobulated to bother with small talk. “Since when do you smoke, Mrs. Dinwiddle?”

  “Good gracious, Ducky, I don’t!”

  I look pointedly at the cigarette holder in her hand.

  She waves it around like Hermione casting a spell. “Oh, this! Isn’t it elegant? I found it in a trunk yesterday afternoon, packed away in the back of my closet with some of my old stage costumes. I had Blessica run to the store for a pack of cigarettes, because it looked quite sad without one. Ducky, did you know a pack of cigarettes costs thirteen dollars? Shocking!”

  She doesn’t look shocked. She looks positively giddy. I wonder what number martini she’s on. “How can I help you, Mrs. Dinwiddle?”

  She sails past me into my apartment on a cloud of Chanel No. 5, shedding peacock feathers. Mr. Bingley scampers over and starts batting at the feathers, his tail bristling with excitement.

  “I had a thought, my dear, since you’ve embarked on your program of self-improvement.”

  I close the door behind her. “Who told you I’ve embarked on a program of self-improvement?”

  She spins around, chin lifted at a regal angle, cigarette holder with its ridiculous unlit cigarette held aloft. The cat scurries around her floating feathered hem with insane-o hunter eyes.

  “Cameron did, my dear.” She notices him leaning against the counter in the kitchen. “Oh! Hello, Cameron!”

  “Hullo, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”

  She squints at him. “Are you all right, my dear? Your face looks funny.”

  At the same time, Cam and I say, “Intestinal gas.”

  Our gazes meet across the room. I look away first because I’m not sure what my expression might be doing.

  “I’ve got something for that, my dear. I’ll have Blessica bring it over, along with my makeup kit.”

  “Your makeup kit?” I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

  “We’re giving you a makeover!” she crows in glee, then turns practical. “Now that Michael is getting divorced, we have to move quickly. We don’t want another girl snapping him up. And forgive me, Ducky, but I thought you might need professional help with your hair and makeup. It’s Friday night, so we’ll have plenty of time to experiment with different looks.”

  I form a terrifying mental image of me, postmakeover, with scarlet-slashed lips, heavy blue eye shadow, a fake beauty spot glued to my cheek, and false eyelashes so long they arouse Mr. Bingley’s hunting instincts when I blink.

  “Um. That’s really nice of you, Mrs. Dinwiddle, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Pssh! Poppycock!” She waves a hand in the air. The seed pearls on her headband quiver madly. “It’s a capital idea! Don’t you think so, Cameron?”

  “Sure. We want her to look her best for Michael, don’t we?”

  His tone is casual, but his jaw is tight, and his back is stiff. Is he mocking me?

  Mrs. Dinwiddle is vindicated. “Exactly!”

  “Well, fine. If Cam thinks it’s a good idea.” I didn’t mean for it to come out sounding like a challenge, but it does, and Mrs. Dinwiddle is befuddled. She looks back and forth between us.

  “Why wouldn’t he, Ducky?”

  Cam and I stare at each other. The sudden tension is excruciating. I’m so confused and just want everything to go back to the way it was before that stupid kiss. That incredible, delectable, stupid kiss.

  Leave it to me to mess up everything.

  “Actually, I was just about to make dinner, Mrs. Dinwiddle—”

  “No,” says Cam abruptly, pushing away from the counter. “You girls have a good night. I’ve got things to do.”

  His tone is like “I’ve got better things to do,” and now I’m unreasonably hurt.

  Without another word, Cam strides out of the kitchen, pulls open my front door, and disappears through it. In a few seconds, his apartment door slams, and then his godforsaken rap starts up at full volume, like a big musical middle finger in my face.

  The cat chasing her hem, Mrs. Dinwiddle minces over to the door and shuts it. She downs the dregs of her martini and turns to me with a mysterious smile. “Ignore him, Ducky. Men are children.”

  I mutter, “Some of them are more like juvenile delinquents.”

  Her smile grows wider. “Now, while we wait for Blessica, let’s go through your closet, shall we?”

  The evening was about as pleasurable as having my fingernails pulled off and all my toes smashed with a hammer.

  By the time Blessica showed up with the makeup kit and another martini for Mrs. Dinwiddle, I’d finished the rest of the bottle of wine while being subjected to an elderly woman’s shock and horror at the contents of my wardrobe. You’d think she’d stumbled across a mass grave the way she carried on. Horrified exclamations of, “Good God, what is this?” were regularly heard from the bowels of the closet, along with disgusted clucks and muttered choruses of My word.

  A confidence booster it wasn’t.

  Then I was treated to the unforgettable experience of having a makeover by a person who’d consumed approximately half a dozen martinis and didn’t have the steadiest hands to begin with. Clowns have more attrac
tive makeup. By nine o’clock, my face looked like a Rorschach test, and I was drunk and miserable.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head.

  “What do you think, Ducky?” asked Mrs. Dinwiddle at one point, peering over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror as she breathed gin fumes into my face.

  “I think it’s perfect. If I’m starring in a play about a Kabuki warrior.”

  Eventually, Blessica carted Mrs. Dinwiddle off to bed, and I fell asleep in my blue dress, still in all my makeup.

  I’m awakened by pounding on my front door.

  “Ow.” There’s pounding inside my skull, too. I lift a hand to my head, wincing when I touch my forehead because even that slight pressure hurts. The clock on the nightstand reads five minutes after five in the morning. I wonder if there’s an emergency and the building is being evacuated.

  More pounding, then the doorbell rings. I swat Mr. Bingley’s tail away from my face and attempt to sit up. The room swims woozily, and I clutch my stomach, groaning.

  “Joellen! Are you in there? Open up!”

  Oh God. It’s Cam. I’m late for our morning run.

  I’d rather die than go on our morning run.

  I shuffle out of bed, fighting nausea, and pad out of the bedroom in my bare feet. When the cat meows for his breakfast, it’s like steel spikes being driven through my skull. It takes all my strength just to pull the door open.

  Cam jerks back when he sees me. “Sweet mother Mary! What the hell happened to you?”

  I grumble, “Mrs. Dinwiddle happened to me.”

  “Did you lose a bet?”

  “Ha. Go away—your voice hurts.” I try to shut the door, but Cam pushes it open and barges inside because he’s a pushy, obnoxious pain in my butt.

  I shuffle away from him, waving a hand over my shoulder. “Do me a favor and feed the cat. I’m hungover. I’m going back to bed.”

  “For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  “What about our workout?”

  Bleary eyed, I turn around and stare at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in no condition to exercise, prancer.”

  He inspects my appearance, fighting a smile. “You have a point. It might be dangerous to allow you in public—you’ll frighten the children.”