The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton)

by Lucy Woodhull

  He turned his head and gaped up at me…taking in my face, my dress, my legs, my buff patent leather open-toed pumps. The moss gaze raked me from top to bottom, leaving me breathless. “For what?” he croaked hopefully.

  I controlled my immediate impulse to re-enact the dirty parts of Risky Business. “For dinner.”

  Nate stood and moulded his hands to my hips, gently pulling me towards him. He leaned in and nuzzled my neck, intent on breaking my will to stay on my feet instead of on my back—which was not too hard for him to do, truth be told. But in the end, he gave me a quick kiss and let me go.

  “Shall we?” he said, stiff as a teenager on a first date.

  I swallowed. “Uh-huh.”

  We walked across the lobby of the hotel hand in hand. Nate was quiet as we came to the restaurant…and as we sat down…and after he had ordered a bottle of wine…and as he stared at me, appearing vaguely confused.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Nate the Inscrutable blinked inscrutably. “Nothing. You look beautiful.”

  “You don’t look like I look beautiful. You look like you ate a bad egg.”

  Finally, a smile. A dimple even. “You’re a bad egg.”

  “Yes, but I’m your bad egg.”

  He paled and concentrated on folding his napkin exactly so.

  I shouldn’t have said that. I should have let my dress talk for me. It knew all the right, non-threatening, man-friendly things to say.

  The waiter came back, lovely Pinot Noir in hand. I held a glass to my nose and inhaled the fruity aroma. Alcohol had the soothing effect it always had on me, and everyone else, I suppose. Although sometimes it caused a terrible demon inside me to sing ‘Xanadu’ in public, but not tonight. Tonight, my shoulders fell, and my eyes closed in relaxation. For a moment, I felt like a normal person, whatever that was.

  When I opened my eyes again I found Nate fixed on me. He absorbed all the light in the room, rendering me unable to see anything else. He really did have the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Feeling my cheeks colour, I stared at the table. His hand came into focus as he grabbed one of mine and brushed his thumb over my knuckles. Suddenly I was wet.

  “So.” I couldn’t take these looks and feelings anymore. Climbing across the table and ripping his shirt off was a shameful idea, right? What happens in Vegas can still get you arrested for public indecency.

  “So?”

  Saved by the order-taking waiter. More wine splashed into our glasses.

  I twiddled my fork and tried to think of something to say that wasn’t ‘do me’, ‘do me now’ or ‘let’s find the cloakroom’. Did places even have cloakrooms anymore or was my brain so rattled by the scent of his skin that I thought we were suddenly transported back to nineteenth-century England? Forsooth, but I could not wait for the gentleman to divest me of mine corset and begin sexual congress with me anon.

  Nate licked his lips and burrowed his gaze in my cleavage, which didn’t help me stamp down my wanton lust. His fingers drummed the table.

  “Say something!” I begged. All the super-romantic phrases are belong to me. “And if you just repeat the word ‘something’ I’ll beat you with the wine bottle.”

  “You really know how to sweep a guy off his feet.”

  “It’s a curse.”

  He laughed, breaking the spell of strange whatever-it-was over us. “I think I understand why you moved to Los Angeles. You’d want a few hundred miles between you and the Southern Siren.”

  My brow furrowed. “Don’t bad-mouth my mother!”

  Nate twisted in his chair. “I’m not! It’s just—she’s mean to you.”

  “She’s not mean.” I twirled the fragrant wine round and round my glass. “She wants me to succeed and—”

  “And what? Be perfect? There are lots of different kinds of success.”

  I glanced up at him as if seeing him for the first time. “That’s very deep. Did they have a pop psychology course at Thief Camp?”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Yes, God forbid we talk about you,” I snapped. He looked stung. I slumped in my chair and reached for the wine bottle.

  Lots of different kinds of success, indeed. I had mastered none of them, not even the charitable ones, like being kind to idiots, or adopting a stray cat. My dingy apartment didn’t allow cats.

  Silence. The slot machines chirped.

  The pathetic thing was—this was simultaneously the most and least romantic dinner date I’d ever been on. I took a gulp of wine. The alcohol asked me if a chorus of ‘Xanadu’ would help the situation. Probably not.

  Nate made a floppy origami something with his napkin. He soon folded it into a perfect rectangle. “I didn’t mean to insult your mother. I’m sorry.” His handsome features and the sentimental set of his shoulders told me he meant it. He turned into a puppy, eyes luminous and consuming. “You really do look beautiful. If she can’t see that, then she’s been staring at tacky flamingos dressed like Civil War generals for too long.”

  I became kibble. My mouth tugged upwards again. “Thank you.” Gazing into the enormous fountain out of the window, I added, “I’m too sensitive when it comes to my mom. In many, many ways.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  I turned sharply, trying to read anything from his face, decipher any clue as to who Nate was. His expression shifted to wistful, open, but then closed again as he shut the door. “What shall we talk about now?” he deflected. “Do you think I can manage not to piss you off for five minutes?” The door clicked shut, the dimple the key in the lock.

  Gorgeous, savoury steaks arrived. They sizzled like the tension at the table—red meat for red-blooded lovers. Or red-blooded liars.

  The butter pooling under my filet soothed me. There was nothing that butter couldn’t make better. I almost nuzzled the plate. “Telling me how amazing I am is always a good start.” I tore into my dinner.

  “You’re amazing.”

  I stabbed a fork full of steak and mushrooms. “A touch of artistry, please?”

  “Hmmm.” He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up at a disarming angle. With theatrical flourish, he said,

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  Of cloudless climes and starry skies

  And all that’s best of dark and bright

  Meet in her aspect and her eyes

  Thus mellowed to that tender light

  Which heaven to gaudy day denies.”

  My forkful of food hovered just outside my mouth. It took quite a lot to make me forget to eat. A little Byron and I melted. Pathetic. He probably repeated the poem to every girl who had the misfortune to type in ‘boobs’ on a numbered keypad.

  Nate exhaled. My eyes leapt to his. “Are you not a fan of Byron?”

  “I…” Get a friggin grip, Samantha! “I adore all works of art by wicked men.” I drained the last of my alcohol—it tasted like panic.

  “You don’t look like you adored it. You look like you ate a bad egg.”

  I gritted my teeth to prevent a scream. Who was he that he should run around seducing strangers and quoting Byron and…just…who the hell was he, anyway? “I need to go to the bathroom.” Rising to my unsteady feet, I threw my napkin onto my seat and fled in angst-ridden dramatist fashion.

  In the bathroom, I put a wet, cold paper towel to my forehead. For several minutes, I took great, gulping breaths into my lungs, yet could never seem to get enough air. My skin felt coated in damp heat.

  Stupid me. Stupid because I’d tricked myself into believing this was a real date. In a real relationship.

  If this was a relationship, the Titanic was unsinkable.

  I took a deep breath and reviewed the situation. I didn’t even know his name. I had only known him for days. Days! In a few more days he would say goodbye and go royally fuck up someone else’s life.

  I was desperately in lo—

  No.

  I splashed water onto my heaving bosom. Not lo—Not something so fo
olish, dumb, heartbreaking, gullible, nonsensical and senseless.

  I was in lo—ust. I was in lorvst.

  Lorvst could admit to some tender feelings, but not all the way tender feelings. Lorvst was a mixture of tender feelings and fuckalicious feelings, which were centred in the pelvic region.

  Why couldn’t I just be the cool girl who banged the hot guy silly and sauntered away on her five-inch heels? I’d never been her. She had better money-management skills and was immune to those giant, bulbous zits that lasted three weeks and hurt like the devil.

  You are not in lo—. No way, no how, I told myself. I washed my scary emotions down the drain. My hands dry, I woman-ed up to rejoin my not-date.

  Nate looked confused eight different ways when I returned. That made sense. Lorvst was a confusing emotion I had just invented. Even I was still getting the hang of it.

  I removed the napkin from my seat and planted my tuchas there. Ripping at my steak with a sharp knife filled me with grim satisfaction.

  Fingers drummed on the table again, but Nate remained silent.

  I cleared my throat. “Why are you too sensitive about your mother?” Oh, shit. That had been a very ’date’ question. I willed him to not answer—he’d probably act cutesy and parry it anyhow.

  “Because she left when I was nine.” He took my dare. “Dad left after the positive pregnancy test.”

  I stopped, a mushroom halfway to my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “It’s okay.” He flashed a wan smile. “She left me with her parents and would pop by every couple of years or so to say hello and ask if she’d missed my birthday. It was a favourite ‘joke’ of hers.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were,” he said into his glass of wine.

  Grimacing, I replied, “Now Suzie doesn’t seem so traumatising. Those are the grandparents who passed away?”

  “Yes.”

  My voice pitched too high when I asked, “Were they good to you?”

  His lips curled up slowly. “Yes, Samantha, they were very good to me. They shouldn’t be blamed for how poorly I turned out.”

  “But now you’re all alone in the world.” Oh, damn, way to hammer that home, moron. “Shit! Sorry.”

  With a bigger smile, he grabbed my hand and squeezed, hard. “Don’t be sorry, don’t be sad, don’t be angry at me anymore. I will attempt to only say non-stupid things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something non-stupid?”

  “Yes. If you can,” I added, smirking.

  He squared his jaw. “I think the patriarchy sucks.” I laughed. He rallied. “There is no such thing as too much Monty Python. And—”

  “Is that it? That’s all you got?”

  “Sex with you is the best I’ve ever had.” He held his breath and my gaze.

  My cheeks burned. My everything burned. The bastard. “Um.”

  “That’s all you got?”

  I grabbed at my wine. By the time this day ended, I would be an alcoholic. “Well, there’s nothing else to say. You’re obviously telling the truth for once.”

  Snickering, he muttered, “Obviously.” He drummed the table with two fingers. “I’m not all bad, you know.”

  “Only mostly.”

  He flicked a sharp glance to me. “Not mostly. I don’t kick puppies, I don’t sell children to slavers. There are worse than me. Most of them live in our same city, but that’s just a coincidence.” He shook his head and flashed a wry smile. “I don’t know when the karmic axe will fall on me. Probably when you marry some rich stockbroker named Tucker.”

  “Or Chad.”

  “I think I see Chad Tucker over there, soliciting a prostitute.”

  I giggled and played with my wine glass. “I don’t know if any of us want to know what our karmic hammer will be.”

  “Why? Have you got any deep, dark secrets, Miss Lytton?”

  Nope. Well, except for the fact that when you purr things like that my panties immolate. “I do, Mr…Whoever. Perhaps I can show them to you upstairs.”

  His lips parted, and his eyes went soft. “Do I deserve them?”

  “Of course not.”

  We did not order dessert.

  He dragged me through the casino, intent on getting back to the room. I pulled away, and he almost proceeded without me.

  “What is it?” He turned around.

  An impromptu wedding reception had caught my attention. The bride, in a sequin and mesh nightmare of a mini dress, giggled in the arms of her new husband. They danced in a little open bar near the poker tables. More than a few couples joined them.

  The jukebox music changed, and the sudden twangs of a steel guitar sounded odd in the glitzy casino.

  “Do you want to dance?” Nate had come up behind me. Arms stole around my waist as he asked the question. “As long as you don’t sing,” he added in a whisper at my ear.

  I turned my cheek to his. “That remains to be seen. Uh, heard.” With a chuckle, he pushed lightly in the small of my back, and we wove in between cocktail tables and into the cleared space for dancing.

  He led. My head fell to his chest. Feeling the vibration of his singing more than I could hear it, I stole a glance and saw him mouthing the words to the song playing. Shock registered in my brain. Randy Travis? Nate’s mouth continued moving.

  He swung me out in a turn. I joined him in my terrible soprano.

  He pulled me in close again. “What did we say about your tone deafness?” The teasing whisper tickled my earlobe, sending a shiver down my everything.

  “I didn’t offer an opinion—you tried to impose your will on me. I don’t think you hate the patriarchy as much as you say, you domineering male person.”

  He dipped me instead of answering. Just in time for the song to end.

  “Let’s get outta here.”

  He didn’t need to ask twice.

  No sooner were my high-heeled feet in the room than Nate unzipped the back of my dress. Swift hands hurried the hem up, up and over my head. He began to lift me into his arms when I protested, “Stop.”

  He groaned, “Stop?”

  “Sit on the couch.” The ridiculously expensive underwear had given me ideas.

  Obediently, he backed away and fell onto the cushions. I followed, stalking him. Never taking my eyes from his, I ran a finger up my arm and slid one shoulder strap of the bra down. Nate clutched his thighs. My heart leapt in my chest. I reached around behind my back with both hands to unhook the bra. He groaned and interrupted me with a, “Don’t you dare.”

  “Want me to leave it on?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  I moved to him and bent to massage my hands up his legs, giving him a front-row ticket to my cleavage. Climbing onto his lap, I straddled him and unbuttoned his blue shirt. I flattened my palms against his chest to push the garment aside. Nate leaned in to kiss me, but I put a finger to his lips. “No.”

  I ran my tongue along his neck—his head fell back to give me access. He grew harder against the crotch of my thin, tiny panties. Hands reached around to pull my bottom in closer. My legs parted wide as I moved forward over his straining erection. Groaning, he bucked his hips up and into the tender flesh of my sex. I gasped from the intimate contact, my mouth jerking away from his collarbone. He devoured it in his own, forcing my lips open and biting on them gently, all the while rocking against me, hands kneading into the skin of my backside.

  With a low moan, I tore myself away and stood. Nate’s hands followed me, trailing up the backs of my thighs. Without ceremony, I pulled a condom out of my suitcase and removed my panties, leaving the garter belt slung low on my hips.

  I made fast work of the zipper to his pants, freeing his cock and taking it in my hand. “Oh, Samantha.” Hearing him say my name like that took the air from my lungs and obliterated my patience. My breasts tingled with maddening anticipation. Nate grabbed at my waist and hauled me onto his lap.

  I slipped the condom over him with fumblin
g fingers. He could not stop moving against me, his hands digging into my flesh, clutching me, willing me closer.

  I moaned aloud as I moved onto him, my thighs enclosing his hips, patent leather heels still on my feet. I’d never felt so damn powerful. My breath laboured as I travelled up the length of his cock. His hands supported me, cupping my ass.

  Body rolling above him, I rode him, revelling in his every inch inside me, our every inch of swaying movement. I opened my eyes and found him watching me, absorbed, enjoying getting me off. My hands mussed and pulled at his hair, pushed his face into the hot space between my breasts. He licked my flesh. I tightened my grip. I couldn’t stop—it was too good, the electric pleasure pouring through me, the desire pounding with the rhythm of my body. Looking into his eyes again, green, glazed in desire, I cried out and came while he watched. He convulsed and jerked his hips one more time, bringing his own climax.

  Holding me close, he ran gentle hands across my back as I pulsed around him. I smiled and rested my cheek against the top of his head. He smiled, too—I felt his lips tickle my breasts. I straightened up.

  “Don’t move on my account.” Nate pushed strands of hair from my face, trailing his finger along my neck.

  I giggled and gave him a gentle kiss. “I never even got your clothes off.”

  “I won’t stop you.” He nuzzled the top of my breast, spilling over my bra. “This outfit you’re wearing is very nice.”

  “Nice? I can’t think of one way in which this underwear is ‘nice’.”

  “Perhaps I should have said filthy?”

  Eyes glinting wickedly, he lifted me off him and onto my bottom. Then he tossed me, bare-assed, over his shoulder and walked to the bed. My expensive shoes dropped onto the carpet. He set me in the sheets and made a side trip to the bathroom while I shivered with bliss. After emerging, he stripped, watching me smile at him the whole time. I gave him a ten for technique, a ten for choreography and an eight hundred for sexy, muscular, hot body. I murmured contentedly as he joined me, smooth skin moulding against mine as he lay back and drew me in the crook of his arm. The warm, spice scent of him made my head swim. Not to mention the unmistakable smell of sex in the air.

  I tried so hard not to seek meaning in what we’d just done. Using one’s brain was the best way to ruin wicked sex with wicked partners.