Delayed Satisfaction

by Blakely, Lauren

  I hold my breath. Did I go too far? Am I this bold? I’m not entirely sure what I’m going for. I don’t think I’m asking him to sleep with me tonight. But I’m also throwing caution to the wind. I’m letting him know I don’t simply want to flirt at the bar.

  His eyes darken, blazing with flickers of desire. He raises his right arm and curls his hand over my wrist on his tie. The connection is electric. My skin sizzles where he touches me. He squeezes tighter, like he can feel the charge between us too. “But a gentleman has good manners, and wherever are mine?”

  He lets go of my hand and extends his to shake. “I’m Malone Goodman.”

  “I’m Sloane Elizabeth. Two first names, but one’s my last name.”

  He smiles like that’s the best thing I could have said. “You couldn’t have any other name. A woman like you has to have two feminine names. Now, Sloane Elizabeth, let me tell you what I’m thinking.”

  “I’m dying to know.” I inch closer to him, the space between us compressing. I’m nothing but electrons and atoms, bouncing and buzzing.

  “I’d like to get to know you more. I’d like this night not to end. I thought you were stunning the second I saw you walk across the ballroom. I see that you’re clever and even more enchanting the more we connect.” He runs his fingers down my throat, touching me so sensually, so tenderly that I nearly wobble. “You seem to have bewitched me.”

  “I have?”

  “And I’m wondering if it would make you happy if we were to get out of here?”

  My heart flies high, spreading wings. “Very, very happy.”

  4

  Sloane

  We don’t hightail it to a room in this hotel. Instead, he hits the button for the elevator, and once we’re inside, he reaches for my hand, tugs me close, and says, “Would you like to go for a walk?”

  I shiver from his nearness and the sweetness of the request. From the sheer romantic possibility. “A walk sounds delicious.”

  He dips his face to my neck, dusting his nose across my skin. “You smell delicious.”

  My knees weaken. My heart hammers.

  His hand bends around my waist, steadying me. “Don’t fall, Sloane.”

  Breathy and a little nervous, I answer, “I’ll try not to.”

  I’m keenly aware of the double meaning. I wonder if he is too.

  The doors open at the first floor, and I’m both sad and grateful. While a part of me wanted that moment to unfold into a slow, mind-bending kiss in the elevator, I’m also loving the anticipation, the build. It’s a fait accompli that we’ll kiss tonight. We both know that, I’m sure. But when it will happen, where it will happen—that’s still the great unknown.

  I like a little bit of the unknown. I like wondering. I like that he’s going to keep me wondering. Because this anticipation between us is intense, seems to have its own pulse, its own heartbeat. I want to keep feeling it unfurl as we go.

  We step into the lobby and head out onto the street, turning up Fifth Avenue.

  June in Manhattan is its own slice of paradise. The weather is not too warm that you bake, and it’s not too chilly that you need a jacket. It’s Goldilocks weather, and tonight is just right for a spring breeze and a moonlit stroll.

  We head up Fifth Avenue, and as we go, Malone drapes an arm around my shoulders, bringing me in close. I sigh happily as I gaze at the expanse of my favorite city spread out in front of us. “I love Manhattan. I wish I lived here.”

  “Where do you live? Please don’t say Washington, Oklahoma, or Texas.”

  I laugh, nudging him with my elbow. “What do you have against those states?”

  “The same thing I have against Indonesia. They’re too far away when it involves a woman I hope lives closer.”

  Butterflies swoop over my shoulders and down my arms. “You want me closer?”

  He looks at me, determination in his eyes. “I want to see you again, Sloane.”

  “Even though our names rhyme?”

  He laughs. “They do. They sound a bit silly together.”

  “Naturally, we should call this off.”

  “Fine. The rhyming names are an omen. Clearly, I don’t want to see you again.”

  I stomp my foot playfully. “You really do want to see me again? Already?”

  He stops at the corner of the street in front of a florist, tucks a finger under my chin, and raises it. “Yes, and I don’t care if our names sound silly together. I do already want to see you again. Is that strange? I like you, Sloane. I already know I like you. I suppose it’s possible we could have a terrible time the rest of the night,” he says, letting go of my chin and sweeping my hair off my shoulder, a move that makes my insides pirouette. “But I doubt it. So yeah. I’m a confident man. I’m confident the next few hours with you are going to be excellent. I’m confident at the end of tonight, I’ll be asking you to go out with me again.”

  I’m confident he’s the sexiest gentleman I’ve ever met.

  He lets his fingers trail down my arm to my hand then threads his fingers with mine, our hands locking.

  I smile so wide it can’t be contained. “I have a secret,” I confess.

  “Bring it on. What is it?”

  We resume walking, and I tighten my fingers around his. “When you ask me to go out again, I’m going to say yes.”

  “Ah, that is a most excellent secret, and I’m glad I’m privy to it.”

  As we head up the avenue, passing pretty boutiques and expensive restaurants, I answer his question. “Actually, I live in Hoboken. I took the PATH in tonight. The PATH and me are like this.” I twist my index and middle fingers together. “And you? Where do you live?”

  He points downtown. “A little place in the West Village. I’m hoping to move somewhere bigger if I get the new job that I’ve been interviewing for. Getting it would be a dream, everything I could want.”

  “I’ll be crossing my fingers that it’ll happen.”

  “Me too. Plus, my cat really wants more room.”

  “You have a cat?”

  He shoots me a curious look. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”

  “No, I just think it’s adorable.”

  “Do you want to see his picture?”

  “Of course I do.”

  He takes out his phone and clicks a few times, and then shows me a big orange cat perched high on a shelf in what I presume is his apartment. “That’s Evil Genius. He’s never met a cupboard, closet, or box he can’t get into.”

  “He seems like quite a sneaky fellow. And he’s also adorable.”

  Malone tucks the phone back into his pocket and looks at me. “And you? What do you do?”

  “I graduated recently, so I’m part of the vast ranks of young people looking for a job.”

  “What field are you looking in?” he asks as we reach the Plaza Hotel, where fancy black town cars pull up in front of the famous landmark.

  “I’d like to do publicity for a shelter or animal rescue.”

  He clasps his hand over his sternum. “A woman after my own heart. An animal lover.”

  I laugh. “I’d think the rest of the people at the fundraiser tonight are animal lovers too.”

  He laughs. “Don’t shatter my illusion, Sloane. I’m pretending it’s only us.”

  I linger on the words—illusion, us. Am I letting this magical moment distract me from my mission? After all, I went into the evening only planning to network. I wasn’t looking to meet a man to spend an evening with. The last few hours do feel a little like magic though. “Is tonight an illusion?”

  We stop on the corner outside Central Park, the moonlight casting a silvery glow across his handsome features. He answers thoughtfully, “It feels a little like one, doesn’t it?”

  “It does. Like there is a bubble. Or maybe a clock ticking toward midnight.”

  He scans down the street. “Do you turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes twelve?”

  “Don’t be silly. I have a stagecoach. We can take it
for a ride.”

  “Does it go fast? Can we get it over seventy?”

  I nudge him. “It goes over a hundred.”

  “I’m so there.”

  I waggle a foot, showing him my shoe. “And do you like my glass slippers?”

  He eyes me up and down like he’s drinking in the sight of me. “Those are the sexiest glass slippers I’ve ever seen.” He steps closer, drops his hand onto my hip, and sinks his fingers to the top of my ass. “And now I’m going to tell you a secret.”

  “Tell me,” I say, breathlessly. I’m thrumming with anticipation, because this is a fairy tale so far.

  Of course, that only means one thing—something has to go wrong. Something goes wrong in every fairy tale. You get lost in the woods, attacked by wolves, or left for dead.

  Hey, drama queen, settle down.

  I will myself to focus on the good, only the good.

  To focus on this moment.

  A groan seems to rumble up his chest, and his voice goes low and smoky, so damn sexy. “I’d really like to take those glass slippers off you. I’d really like to take everything off you at some point.”

  At some point.

  I like the way he lingers on those words as if it’s not something we’re going to do this evening, and I’m grateful. No matter how much desire I feel, how much lust swoops through my body, I’m not letting him strip me to nothing tonight. “I think I’d like you to do all that, Malone. At some point.”

  “At some point, then,” he adds for emphasis, like we’ve found our catchphrase.

  We both laugh, and soon our laughter trails off. I glance up at the moonlit sky. “It does feel like an illusion, but maybe it won’t end,” I say, a little bit hopeful.

  He slides his fingers through mine. “The night is young. Let’s make it last. You know what I’ve been thinking about all night?”

  My pulse spikes with desire. “What have you been thinking?”

  “Where I want our first kiss to be.”

  He implies there will be more than one. That the first will lead to a second then to a third and then to more. That’s the romance of tonight. That’s the way to woo a woman. I didn’t head into tonight wanting to be wooed, but I want every bit of wooing that he’s doing.

  I glance up at the moon. “I think right here is a most excellent spot,” I suggest.

  He surveys the block. “You do? Hell, any place is a good place to kiss you.”

  I lift my chin and grab his tie, demanding what I want, what I desperately need. “Kiss me, Malone.”

  He cups my cheek, sweeps his thumb across my lips. I shudder with need.

  He drops his mouth to mine and brushes the softest, sweetest kiss I’ve ever experienced across my lips. I feel it everywhere. I feel it in my hair. I feel it in my fingers. I feel it inside every molecule, the faintest brush of his lips on mine lighting me up.

  5

  Sloane

  He lingers on my lips as if he’s delighting in every second of the exploration, every moment of the connection, like a chef would when tasting a new concoction.

  He laces his fingers through my hair and tugs me closer, and if I were an old robot in a sci-fi flick, I’d boop, beep, and short-circuit, then fry out.

  Because holy overload of sensation. Sweet, hot sparks rush across me, sweeping over every square inch. My pulse skyrockets, and desire winds its way through every cell.

  This man can kiss. And something else I know?

  This man wants me.

  Badly.

  He’s pressed against me, the delicious length of him thick and insistent, a tantalizing tease of what’s to come.

  Namely, me.

  In a flash, I can see the night playing out. We go to his place or a hotel. He gets me naked, sends me soaring, and we have pancakes in the morning.

  I do love orgasms and pancakes.

  But something feels different with this guy.

  Not like he can’t give me orgasms and pancakes.

  But something tells me he’s not the guy you go to bone town with on the first night. I bet when I go there with him, it’ll be an all-night-long seduction. It’ll be moonlight and fireworks and luxurious time spent exploring my body, learning my every desire, pleasuring me until I can’t see straight. That’s how he kisses. Like a man intent on delivering bliss to the woman he’s with. To the woman he wants. And that woman is me.

  This feels like it has potential. So much potential to be real. As he deepens the kiss, my mind blurs into the sort of bliss that only an epic first kiss can deliver. It’s an unraveling kind. He kisses with his whole body, with passion and fervor and heat.

  And I know—I’m certain—he’s not a one-and-done guy.

  But since I’m a straightforward woman, and I want him to know my score, I break the kiss, press my hands to his chest, and sigh happily, albeit a little woozily. “You sure can kiss.”

  His lips quirk up in a lopsided grin. “It helps that I’ve been thinking all night about kissing you.”

  I clear the frog from my throat. “But listen. I need you to know I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl. As much as I’d like to strip you naked and do bad things to you—”

  “What kinds of bad things?” He wiggles his brow. “I like bad things. Feel free to elaborate, and please be as specific as you can.”

  I laugh. “All kinds. All kinds involving lips and mouths and tongues and more. But don’t distract me.”

  He murmurs his appreciation as he wraps his hand around my hip. “You distracted me. You definitely distract me, sweetheart.”

  Sweetheart.

  The term of endearment floods me with warmth, like I’m glowing. I try to center myself and focus on what I’m trying to tell him. “As I was saying, I want to take things slow. If that doesn’t work for you, I understand. But it’s the only way that will work for me.”

  He lowers his hands, finds mine, threads his fingers through them, and squeezes. “Let’s go to a diner and get something to eat. We can talk as long as you want. And then I’ll put you in a cab back to Hoboken. Until tomorrow.”

  I shoot him an inquisitive look. “Tomorrow? Are you seeing me tomorrow?”

  He scoffs as we walk along the cobbled sidewalk next to the park. “Did you already forget? We made plans for a second date, woman. I’m not letting you back out.”

  I laugh. “I don’t want to back out. I want to see you again. I thought that was clear.”

  He looks at me, a knowing grin spreading across his face. “This whole night is incredibly clear.”

  I smile at him like I can’t hold back. “It’s the same for me.”

  I walk on air to the diner, and I float all through the meal as we chat, and exchange numbers.

  After, he kisses me under a streetlight outside the restaurant. When he breaks the kiss, he hums a line from the song “I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You.”

  I run my thumb across his lips. “But you do.”

  Then I deliver a soft, sweet kiss.

  He presses his forehead to mine, and he whispers, “What am I going to do with you, Sloane Elizabeth?”

  Inside, quietly, in the back of my head, I say fall in love with me.

  Then I wonder where that wild, crazy thought came from. But it came from this unexpected night, from this unexpected evening with a man who sang a most romantic tune.

  “I think you should do exactly what you’ve been doing,” I tell him.

  He hails a cab, and when it arrives, he opens the door, but then he yanks me in close. “Ah, hell. I need one more for the road.”

  He hauls me in for a kiss that is neither soft nor sweet. It is hot and desperate and urgent. And I’m sure it’s going to piss off the cabby. But Malone doesn’t seem to care as he kisses me ruthlessly, letting me know that as much as he can be sweet, he can be rough. He can consume me; he can be hard and greedy. He kisses me like he’s going to leave whisker burn on me, and I want it. I want to be marked by him.

  He puts me in the cab f
or good and hands the cabby enough money to cover the trip and probably a little extra, a tip for the excruciating wait through the kiss. I turn around as the car peels away, and I watch him through the back window until I can’t see him anymore.

  The entire drive home, I replay the night. I replay every single moment. Reliving us. This is the night I want to live in.

  I look down at my feet. My shoes are still black. But they do feel like glass slippers.

  * * *

  The next morning, Piper emerges from her room, yawns heavily, then lifts her brow in curiosity. “Did you network to your heart’s content?”

  I smile as I brew some coffee. “I did, and I also met someone.”

  I tell her about Malone, every detail, as we drink our beverages.

  She listens thoughtfully, then asks, “And what’s next?”

  “I’ll see him again tonight.”

  But I can’t shake the notion that the other shoe might drop.

  6

  Malone: Just a couple of quick questions so I can plan for the best date this evening. Are you opposed to wearing knee-high rubber boots for long periods of time?

  Sloane: Will we be wading through the Hudson River?

  Malone: *shudders* This isn’t a horror-movie date, Sloane.

  Sloane: Then why on earth would we need rubber boots?

  Malone: Oyster shucking, of course, but we’ll collect them first. I don’t think it’ll be too smelly.

  Sloane: Did you know that Green Point Fish and Lobster has an oyster-shucking class? Isn’t that crazy? There is a class for everything now.

  Malone: Would you actually like me to sign us up for that?