He wanted to spoil Francesca. He wanted to give her all the things she’d never had in life. A little something niggled at the back of his mind, warning him that the one thing a woman like Francesca would want was the one thing he was unable to give—his heart.
But that was a worry for another time.
The museum’s entrance was ahead, and he parked on the street a half a block away. The classical architecture and massive colonnades outside the three-story building appealed to him and were a perfect complement to the campus buildings surrounding it.
He turned to face her and tightly held her hand when she would have opened the door to exit. “What’s the problem, Francesca?”
“Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered, not meeting his gaze. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s go see some photographs.”
The last sentence was said with such fake enthusiasm it almost made his teeth ache.
“Something has changed since this afternoon,” he said softly. “What is it?”
She worried her lower lip for several moments before glancing up at him through her lashes. Her eyes were so damned beautiful, big and brown. Yet the worry he saw there was like a punch to the gut.
“This is our third date,” she said finally, as if that explained everything.
“I hope not our last.”
Her brows furrowed. “I want there to be more but...” She looked down to where their fingers were linked, and smoothed her thumb back and forth along the top of his hand. The touch was soft, like the butterfly kisses his mother used to flutter against his cheeks with her eyelashes. “I’m a little worried about meeting your expectations.”
“My expectations?” he repeated.
She nodded. “A lot worried, actually.” She kept her gaze on their hands, now tracing figure-eight designs on his skin.
“Francesca, would you look at me?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she raised her chin and met his gaze.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked her.
Her laughter rang through the interior of the car as her shoulders shook and she squeezed shut her eyes. “Third date sex,” she said through another fit of giggles.
“Sex?” She might as well have knocked him on his arse with a cricket bat. He felt absolutely poleaxed by both her explanation and the fact that she couldn’t stop laughing at the idea of having sex with him.
“You’re experienced. I’m not.” She made a face then dissolved into laughter again. “I’m messing up so bad, Keaton. This is who I am.” She tugged her hand away from his and covered her face. “I babble when I’m nervous. I laugh at inappropriate times.” She spread her fingers apart and stared at him through them. “What if I start laughing during sex?”
He inclined his head. “That would be a first for me.”
“Right? Because you have expectations. Expectations.” She drew out the syllables as if trying to teach a new word to a baby. “I’ve been with one man in my life. I probably don’t even know...stuff.” She gestured to him. “The kind of stuff you like and...”
“Expect?”
“Exactly.”
“I like you,” he told her. “I expect you to be honest and comfortable with whatever happens between us.” He turned to face the front of the car and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel. “Until this moment, I’ve never regretted any of the women I’ve been with or how much experience I have.” He slanted her a look. “Do I give off some sort of odd playboy vibe to you?”
She laughed again, only this time it sounded less hysterical and more amused. At least that was a step in the right direction. “No. Of course not. It’s me, not you.”
“That might be the oldest brush-off line in the book.”
“I’m not brushing you off,” she argued. “But I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“If kissing you is any indication, nothing could be further from the truth.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she murmured. “But you wanted to know what was wrong, and that was it.”
Keaton’s world was filled with beautiful things—a stylish apartment, gorgeous women on his arm whenever he wanted, a career that afforded him every luxury. He’d worked hard for his success but had managed to move through his life without becoming emotionally invested in anyone.
Because of how he’d seen his mother suffer from a broken heart that wouldn’t heal, he wasn’t willing to risk his own. Discovering he was a Fortune had rocked his world in many ways, but he’d chosen to channel his energy into his search for Gerald’s other illegitimate children. It was a way to be involved but still remain somewhat emotionally distant. His focus was on the task, not his feelings about all of the changes upending his own life and identity.
Without even realizing it, Francesca challenged him to open himself up in ways he never expected. She was pure emotion, always leading with her heart and true to how she felt at the moment. Even if how she felt made both of them crazy.
He blew out a breath, released the steering wheel and turned to her again. “I’m glad you told me,” he said. “But I don’t give a damn about this theory of third-date expectations. I want to be with you, Francesca, because of who you are. Third date, fifth date, thirty-fourth date. Let’s take this at our own pace. You and me.”
The grin she gave him lit up her whole face and made everything else worth it. “So we can just concentrate on having fun?”
“I hope so,” he said with a laugh. Although he couldn’t imagine anything that would be more fun than taking this woman to his bed.
They entered the museum hand-in-hand, and a familiar happiness swept through Keaton. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed meandering through the hushed galleries of an art museum, allowing the subtle lighting to guide his eye to various paintings, photographs and sculptures. With Francesca at his side, he found a whole new level of enjoyment.
They lingered at the photography exhibit he’d wanted to view but also visited several of the Blanton’s permanent collections. Francesca told him stories about her elementary-school field trip and a boy from her class who had accidentally set off the building’s fire alarm during the tour. He shared with her descriptions of his favorite London museums, particularly the British Museum, which had always been free to visit. The mix of antiquities and art from cultures around the world had fascinated him as a boy. While Austin was quickly coming to feel like home, Keaton had a sudden urge to share with Francesca all of his favorite spots in London.
They stayed at the museum until it closed, then Keaton ordered carryout from a Thai restaurant one of his coworkers recommended. He and Francesca sat on the floor of his apartment in front of the coffee table as they ate, watching the original James Bond movie starring Sean Connery.
“I could see you as James Bond,” she told him, taking a bite of Pad Thai. “You have the right accent.”
“Half of England has the right accent,” he said. “I think I’d do okay with the fast cars but I’ll leave the guns to 007.”
“You’re definitely handsome enough.”
“Thank you.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Would you be my Bond girl?”
She snorted. “I’d make a horrible Bond girl. Can you imagine me as Ursula Andress coming out of the ocean in my white bikini?”
“Yes, I can.” He dropped a kiss on her shoulder. “Quite clearly in fact.”
* * *
Francesca was careful only to drink one glass of wine with dinner. Her body was already on high alert just from being so near Keaton. It was difficult to believe a museum date was the most romantic thing she’d ever experienced, but somehow it was still true.
Once she’d told Keaton about her third-date fears, the knot of panic that had been holding her heart captive loosened and eventually dissolved into nothing. Saying the words out loud had r
emoved the power they had over her. She believed Keaton when he told her he didn’t expect anything from her she wasn’t comfortable giving. It felt amazing to be with a man who truly cared about her feelings and didn’t just see her as a reflection of himself.
The Thai food was fabulous and the conversation flirty and easy as they watched James Bond save the world from the evil Dr. No. When the movie ended, she stood and began to clear the plates and carryout containers but Keaton gently pushed her to the sofa.
“You’re on your feet all day,” he told her. “Let me take care of you for a bit.”
As she watched him gather everything and take it to the kitchen, she had to admit that a man cleaning up was ridiculously sexy. In reality, everything Keaton did was sexy to her.
He returned a few minutes later and sat next to her then pulled her legs into his lap and took one of her bare feet in his hands. She’d taken off her boots and socks when they’d arrived at his apartment, preferring as always to be barefoot whenever she had the chance. Tonight, though, she wondered if it had been in unconscious preparation for Keaton.
He began to gently massage her foot, kneading the sensitive arch with his strong hands.
“That is amazing,” she whispered, letting her head fall back against the couch cushions. “I bet not even James Bond has such talented hands.”
Keaton only chuckled and switched his attention to her other foot. A moment later, she let out a soft moan as he hit a particularly sensitive spot.
“I like the polish,” he said and she forced open her eyes to glance down at her feet.
“My mom used to do nails,” she explained, wiggling her toes. “Ever since I was little, our Sunday ritual has been for her to paint my toenails. She likes to experiment on me with her nail art.”
Right now Francesca’s toes were colored a soft pink hue with little flowers painted on her big toes. A tiny purple gem sparkled at the tip of each flower petal.
“Your toes are a work of art,” he said and then slid his hands up her calves before tugging her closer. “Actually, that could be said for your entire body.”
She opened her mouth to argue, because that’s what women like her did when receiving a compliment from a handsome, sexy, charming man. She might have left Fat Frannie behind years ago, but Francesca still saw herself as that pudgy, insecure girl with the ill-fitting clothes and flyaway hair.
Male customers at Lola May’s sometimes flirted with her, but Keaton’s attention felt different. Real. Intense.
As difficult as it was for her to imagine he meant the words, if he wanted to tell her she was beautiful...well, Francesca would just have to suck it up and accept the praise. The silliness of her internal struggle made her giggle, and a slow grin spread across Keaton’s face as he pulled her into his lap.
“Nervous?” he asked, nuzzling the underside of her jaw with his nose.
“No,” she whispered on a sigh. “We’re having fun.”
“The most fun,” he agreed and claimed her mouth.
The kiss started as a gentle tease, like he was giving her time to acclimate to him. But even without alcohol buzzing through her system, desire flamed in her like a brushfire, burning away all her nerves until she was left with nothing but her need for him.
As if he could read her mind—or at least her body—Keaton deepened the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth at the same time his palm grazed up the bare skin of her leg and just under the hem of her dress.
She welcomed the touch, wanted everything this man could give her. She wound her hands around his neck, pressing closer to him. His body was hot and hard against her and she lost herself in the feel of him.
His fingers inched up her thigh and curled into the fabric of her panties. The sensation overwhelmed her, forcing her to pull back as she tried to catch her breath.
“I don’t have matching lingerie,” she told him. “Just so you know.”
“I don’t give a damn.” He kissed her again, and the words he spoke tickled her lips. “Just so you know.”
After that, Francesca stopped talking other than to give whispered demands. Yes. There. More. Now.
He really didn’t need any direction from her. Keaton knew exactly how she liked to be touched, and every stroke of his fingers drove her closer to the edge. But he listened and incorporated her breathy commands into the blinding pleasure he was giving her. As his fingers worked against her, he continued to kiss her and it wasn’t long before a brilliant pressure built inside her.
“Open for me,” he murmured and she did without hesitation, too consumed by desire to be concerned with nerves or doubts. She gave herself over to the moment, and it was better than she could have imagined. When she would have rushed her release, he slowed his movements like he had all night to devote himself to her pleasure.
Eventually she couldn’t hold on any longer. The pressure and need coalesced to a fever pitch. With a cry that Keaton caught in his mouth, she broke apart. It felt like a thousand shooting stars rained down on her, the light behind her eyes a shower of sparkles.
She held on to him as she came back to reality, realizing as she opened her eyes that he’d straightened her dress and now traced lazy circles on her back with the same hand that had sent her over the edge just minutes before. That had been the most amazing experience of her life, and she hadn’t even taken off her clothes. What would it be like to have sex with this man? The thought boggled her mind.
He pressed a kiss to the top her head. “See how much fun we can have without expectations?”
“I had tons of fun. A million sparkles worth of fun.”
He chuckled. “A million sparkles are good for my ego.”
“What about your fun?” she asked.
He pulled away just enough to look into her eyes. The tenderness she saw there took her breath away. “Giving you pleasure is the best sort of fun for me. I plan to have many, many more opportunities to show you just how much fun we can have together.”
“I can’t wait,” she whispered.
Chapter Eleven
“Need coffee now.” Francesca stumbled out of her bedroom toward the small kitchen the next morning. It was almost seven, and she wanted to shower before her morning class. She wasn’t scheduled to work at Lola May’s, which was the only bright spot looming in her day.
Before she’d even made it to the counter, Ciara thrust a steaming mug into her hand.
“I didn’t hear you come in last night,” Ciara said with a slight smirk. “Must have been a late one.”
“I fell asleep watching a movie at Keaton’s,” Francesca mumbled.
Ciara winked. “Which is code for...”
“For I fell asleep,” Francesca snapped, “and didn’t get back here until after midnight.” That part didn’t bother her. It had been lovely to drift to sleep snuggled against Keaton’s chest. But after he’d walked her to her door, given her a slow kiss and said good-night, Francesca hadn’t been able to fall asleep again.
She should have been relaxed after her night with him, but she’d tossed and turned for hours. Her body, which had been so sated earlier in the evening, had continued to hum with need.
More. She wanted more. And she could have had it if she hadn’t let her stupid third-date insecurities engulf her.
Ciara took a sip of coffee. “Where’s your glow?”
Francesca opened the fridge and pulled out her favorite vanilla creamer, dumping double her normal allotment into the coffee. “What glow?”
“Your post-sex glow. You can’t expect me to believe a man like Keaton can’t give you a glow. Heck, just looking at him makes me—”
“I don’t,” Francesca ground out, slamming shut the fridge door, “want to know what he makes you feel.” She gulped down half the coffee then reached for the pot to refill her mug. “I’m glowing.”
“You’re growling.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“I hope because he kept you awake all night?”
Francesca set both the coffee pot and her mug on the counter with a thump. “We didn’t have sex,” she shouted.
Ciara blinked. “Okay.”
Tears rushed to Francesca’s eyes. “It’s not okay. It’s the opposite of okay.”
“Did you and Keaton have a fight?” Ciara’s voice was gentle.
“Nothing like that. It was a great date. The best. And we...he...stuff happened. Fun stuff.” She blew out a breath, remembering the feel of Keaton’s hands on her. “Amazing stuff. But not sex.” She glanced up at her long-time friend. “It’s your fault.”
Ciara took a step back. “What did I do?”
“You mentioned third-date expectations,” Francesca answered miserably. “I freaked out. Keaton was totally understanding, but it slowed things down.” She picked up her coffee and took another huge swallow. “Maybe it’s better. I don’t even own cute undies anymore. Why would I have needed them with Lou? He didn’t want to have sex with me. But Keaton does—or at least he did. And I—”
“Need to go easy on the caffeine,” Ciara said, nabbing the mug out of her hand. “I’m sorry, Frannie. I didn’t mean to send you into a panic. You deserved some third-date fun. But you know it doesn’t matter when it happens. There’s no official timeline.”
“I want it to happen,” Francesca said, running a hand through her tangle of curls. “Now I feel like every time we go on a date, what didn’t happen last night will be hanging over us.”
Ciara snickered. “I hope you don’t mean literally.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Francesca said, but it felt good to laugh with her friend. “What am I going to do?”
A Fortune in Waiting Page 12
