Kiss & Makeup

by Alison Kent

  Her fingers found his cock, and she dropped to her knees, lifting him free of his boxers and taking him into her mouth. He leaned back against the door, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

  The darkness intensified all that he was feeling—the moist warmth of her mouth, the cup of her tongue to his head, the tight ring of her fingers, the blood rushing to fill him until he thought he would burst.

  He didn’t want to come this way. He didn’t want to rush. He wanted time and space and knew he had neither. He reached for Shandi, pulled her to her feet, pushed his pants to his knees and helped her work hers down and off.

  And then he bent to taste her, to make sure she was ready, that her anticipation was in sync with his. He lifted her by the hips once he had and backed her into the smooth tile wall. Her legs came around his waist. She dug her heels into the base of his spine.

  Sheathed, he drove into her, gripping her bottom and holding on to her thighs as he thrust. He could smell her woodsy shampoo, the softly scented soap she’d used to bathe. He could smell her sex, a mix of grapefruit and the salty marine of the sea.

  He ground the base of his shaft against her, rubbing, arousing, and it wasn’t a minute later that he felt her first contractions. She cried out, her hands slapping against the tile as she came.

  Her spasms did him in. His face buried in the crook of her neck, he followed, pulsing, pumping, spilling himself into her body there in the dark. He came down slowly from the high to which she’d taken him.

  And then he realized what they’d done.

  What he’d done.

  They were in a bathroom in the back room of a bar. Talk about crass. What in the hell was wrong with him? He eased her down to stand on the floor. She groaned, and guilt seized him.

  “I’m sorry.” He rested his forehead against hers, gently kissed her eyelids and the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Her laugh cleared the room’s murky shadows. “I’m pretty sure that was mostly about feeling. If we were supposed to be thinking, nobody told me.”

  She bent to retrieve her pants. He discarded the condom and repaired his clothes, as well, grumbling under his breath as he put himself back together. “I’m too old for this.”

  “For what?” she asked, reaching over and flipping on the light. He blinked. She blinked. The bulb sputtered. “To act on what you want? To go for it?”

  Her expression was a cross between hurt and confusion. He didn’t want her to feel either. “Not to show more restraint. Not to treat you better.”

  At that she laughed. “If you treated me any better, I’d need a wheelchair. Besides, I don’t want you restrained. Do you know what you’re doing for my ego?”

  Her remark shouldn’t have cut him the way it did. He’d heard it so often, he should have been immune. But hearing it from Shandi brought home the depth of this attraction, the strength of its roots.

  He shook them off and said, “I’m glad I could stroke it for you.”

  Stepping in front of him, she reached up, took his face in her hands. “It’s more than that. You’re the best time I’ve had in my life, and I’ve only known you for a few days. What kind of sense am I supposed to make out of that? Of you, being who you are and wanting me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I want you?” He didn’t understand her surprise at his attraction. “You’re beautiful. You’re open and honest and sexy as hell.”

  “I’m a bartender. A student.” She let him go, backed toward the door. “You’re world-famous and have traveled in circles that awe most of us mortals.”

  “Don’t.” He shoved his hands to his hips, hung his head, reined in his temper. “Don’t put me on a pedestal. I’m human. A man. Nothing more.”

  She studied him with ardent curiosity. “Why do I get this feeling that you don’t like yourself very much?”

  “Because there are times that I don’t,” he answered, unnerved by her intuition.

  “The hype thing, right?” she asked, and when he didn’t respond, she wrapped him up in her arms and pressed her body to his. “Beating yourself up as much as you do has got to get old.”

  He couldn’t help it. He chuckled. “I suppose.”

  “Remind me when I’m as successful as you not to be so hard on myself.” Her fingertips kneaded their way down his spine. “I’d rather enjoy the pleasure of what I’ve earned than suffer all that needless pain.”

  He wanted to think her naive but knew that she wasn’t. She was an optimist. A light in the dark. A go-getter who had the moxie not to fail—and not to fall if she did. “I don’t think you have it in you to be hard on yourself.”

  At that she pushed him away, headed for the door with a self-deprecating laugh. “Remind me not to introduce you to any of my friends. They’ll quickly set you straight.”

  “Oh, really,” he said, his curiosity piqued.

  “Yep. They’ll consider it their duty to tell you every single detail of the truth,” she replied, then just before walking out and back to work, added, “And I kind of like having my hype believed.”

  THREE-THIRTY THAT MORNING found Shandi sitting on the floor in her apartment in front of the windows, waiting for Evan and wishing she’d accepted Quentin’s invitation to spend the night in his room. She still wasn’t sure why she’d turned him down.

  Physically she was certainly up for what a night in his bed offered; instead she was engaged in the routine of self-inflicted torture required to work the night’s kinks from her body. She leaned forward and stretched, grabbing her toes and forcing her face to her knees.

  When he’d told her he didn’t think she had it in her to be hard on herself, she’d wanted to laugh. She was glad she hadn’t, of course.

  She liked him liking her, thinking she was more balanced, a better person, less insecure than she actually was. She’d been telling the truth when she’d said she liked having her own hype believed.

  But now that she’d had time to think about it, his beating himself up did make more sense.

  She didn’t like that she couldn’t get over where she’d come from. He didn’t like that the life he’d lived, the dream he’d attained, had turned him into a cynical bastard.

  She wondered what he’d expected to find at the end of the road. If he thought he’d be the same man who’d embarked on the trip once he reached his destination.

  She picked up the phone on the floor at her side and dialed his room at Hush to ask him.

  He answered on the second ring. “Quentin Marks.”

  She shivered at just hearing his voice and his name. “Did I wake you?”

  “Hardly,” he said gruffly. “I haven’t slept much since meeting you.”

  Her stomach pitched. He made her nervous. So very nervous. It didn’t make any sense how nervous she was.

  “Well, that’s not good. You need sleep so you’ll have a clear head for all that big-dollar business you’re doing.”

  “No. I need you. In my bed. Now.”

  Eyes closed, she inhaled a shaky breath. “You just had me.”

  “That was hours ago. Up against a wall. It wasn’t enough.”

  He sounded angry; she didn’t know if it was with her or with himself. “Quentin, what’s going on?”

  “Where?” he asked too casually for her to buy.

  “Here. With us.”

  “We’re having an affair.”

  She waited a long moment, listened to him breathe, listened to the silence swirling in the room. She could almost hear his heartbeat. Almost, because hers was too loud.

  “An affair. Is that all?”

  “No,” he said, biting off the word and adding a litany of raw ones that spoke volumes about where his head was. “That’s not all.”

  She had to be honest. “I think it’s too much too soon.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been thinking the same.”

  His agreement didn’t stop her from asking, “Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

  “What tim
e?”

  “Eight?”

  “Are you cooking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forget the food. I’ll have you.”

  Smiling, she got to her feet, walked barefoot toward the window, resting her forehead against the cool glass. “My roommate and his girlfriend will be here, too.”

  “Uninvite them.”

  “I can’t,” she said, nearly breathless. “I need them here.”

  “Why?”

  “For protection.”

  “From me?”

  “Yes.”

  Several long seconds ticked by before he quietly asked, “Do I frighten you?”

  “No.” An admission more telling than the first. “I frighten myself.”

  His laugh echoed with his own desperate need to understand. “You frighten me, too.”

  “I don’t get it. Any of it.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She heaved a heavy sigh. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Nothing to look back on and regret when she was eighty years old. “Then you’ll come to dinner tomorrow.”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “That you tell me about the class project you want me to help you ace.”

  APRIL SAT IN FRONT OF HER bedroom’s vanity at four in the morning, unable to sleep and staring at her reflection in the oval mirror.

  Staring, too, at the images of the room behind her—or what she could see by the soft light of her bedside lamp—a room furnished with antiques and original oil paintings.

  Her mother’s decorator’s idea. Her father’s checkbook.

  She didn’t know a single one of her classmates who had a dorm, apartment or loft to match what her parents had provided for her. Because of the way that made her feel self-conscious, she rarely entertained. Evan and Shandi were the only ones who spent time at her place.

  She would never deny that she was spoiled. As Lawrence Elton Carter’s little girl, she’d been that way from birth. What she hadn’t realized was how it would feel to be the exception rather than the rule once she moved to the city and was living on her own.

  Growing up, she’d been used to her girlfriends having similarly adorned bedrooms. Oh, sure, they’d hung posters of their favorite boy bands. She’d been all about Justin Timberlake and Nick Lachey.

  But the posters had been easily hidden behind fabric wall hangings during her mother’s garden club’s Christmas Parade of Homes.

  She’d hated that, strangers traipsing in and out, having her personal space open to the public—the sort of personal space even now she was missing.

  She sighed, realizing that as beautiful as her room was, it wasn’t her. She wanted what Shandi had, a bedroom of fun thrift-store finds.

  Cushy pillows piled against a headboard fashioned like a theater marquee. A dressing screen in a Mae West print, an armoire that had once housed a popcorn machine, a clothes rack with stage hooks.

  April wanted her home to be about her tastes, her interests, not decorated to reflect the Carter family’s affluence.

  But what she wanted most was Evan in her bed.

  Instead he was sleeping on the sofa again. Her mother would be appalled—though not as much by Evan being there as by anyone doing more than sitting on that particular piece of furniture. It had been custom-covered in soft blues and greens to match the apartment’s water lilies theme.

  She didn’t know why they weren’t having sex. Well, no, that wasn’t quite true. What she’d told Shandi was exactly how it was.

  April had seen too many of her girlfriends sleep with guys who’d then proceeded to dump them. She didn’t want to mess things up with Evan that way. To make love, then have him move on to another challenging conquest.

  And, yes, she realized thinking that way didn’t say much about her commitment to him or what they shared. But if she lost him for any reason, she wouldn’t be able to stand it. She’d be miserable and then she’d be embarrassed when her daddy tried to buy him back.

  Because that’s exactly what would happen. Her daddy always said he hadn’t met a man yet who couldn’t be bought. Maybe it was time he met Evan.

  Except Evan would never meet with her daddy’s approval. He wasn’t from the right family, didn’t have the right blood running in his veins.

  And that rejection would be so unfair because Evan Harcourt was the best man she’d ever known. He was kind and generous and caring. He made her laugh, and she couldn’t stand not being with him.

  She loved the way he gave her silly souvenirs from their dates; she had a drawer full of paper menus with the meals they’d eaten circled in red.

  Subjecting him to her family seemed so wrong, even while refusing to include him was worse. God, but she was so confused—and suddenly so needed to hold Evan close.

  She stood, tightened her knee-length silk wrapper at the waist and padded softly into the living room that was lit by only the moon coming through the bay window. “Evan? Are you asleep?”

  He grumbled as he awakened, shifting up onto his elbows, then scooting up to sit in the corner of the sofa, rubbing at his eyes.

  They’d cuddled up earlier and watched three episodes from the DVD of Alias’s first season. She was a total fanatic about that show.

  “What’s up?” He cleared his throat. “What’s wrong?”

  She curled up in the other corner, pulled her knees to her chest. “I wanted to talk.”

  “What time is it?” he asked, still groggy.

  “Fourish.”

  “In the morning? What are you doing up?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t sleep. I missed you.”

  He stilled. “I’ve been right here all night.”

  “I know,” she said with a sigh, making an admission she had often wondered if she would ever be brave enough to make. “But I wanted you with me.”

  “You wanted me with you how?” he asked, and she felt him tense.

  “I don’t like fighting with you. I don’t like not talking about it when we fight. There’s stuff going on here that we need to deal with.” Shandi had been right. Getting out that much, acknowledging the existence of the problem, lifted a huge weight.

  Evan was still rubbing sleep from his face. “And you want to deal with it at four in the morning?”

  April shrugged because she didn’t want to seem desperate. “I should let you sleep. It can wait.”

  “No. It can’t. At least, I can’t.” Evan sighed, turned, dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward as if he thought she’d come in to kick him out.

  He spread his blanket over his lap, covering his legs that were bare but for his boxers. “I’m sorry for hanging up on you last night, the night before. Whenever it was.”

  She hated not being able to see him better. The room was too dark, his face in the shadows. And she cringed at the eggshells crackling between them. “I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to me either. I was such a bitch.”

  He turned toward her then, stretched out a hand. “You weren’t a bitch. I was being an ass. I wanted to see you. And I wasn’t in the mood to wait.”

  She scooted closer and wrapped his fingers that were warm around hers that were freezing. “We need to do something about missing each other the way we do.”

  “Hey,” he started, rubbing his free hand over her icy one, “I’m up for any suggestion that doesn’t involve a change of address to an alley and a cardboard box.”

  She laughed because she’d considered that very same thing. “I was thinking of being proactive. You and me. Together. A team. And by proactive I don’t mean getting drunk.”

  He hung his head. His hair fell over his brow. “Shandi told you, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Tucking her legs beneath her, April rested her cheek on his shoulder. “I don’t like it when you do that, you know.”

  He nodded, rocking the both of them back and forth slowly. “So what did you have in mind?”

  Here goes nothing, she mused, knowing it was everything she was risking.
“I want us to move in together.”

  The rocking stopped. “What? How? My grandmother will kick me out on my ass if you’re there. And your parents will do the same if I’m here.”

  “Then we get a place of our own. One no one in our families has any say in.” She hurried on before he could interrupt. “I’ll get a job, and we’ll get Shandi to move with us. With three of us paying bills, we can do it.”

  He didn’t answer right away. In fact, he was so silent for so long she began to worry that she’d said the wrong thing. That he didn’t understand how very much she wanted to be with him.

  And then he pulled his hands from hers, pushed back into the corner of the sofa, his withdrawal and the distance making her feel even worse.

  Several long seconds ticked by before he spoke. “Why, April? Why now after so long of saying we need to be patient and not mess things up?”

  But things were already messed up, weren’t they? “You don’t want to live together?”

  “That’s not what I said—”

  “Then what?” she demanded, ignoring the tears aching to roll down her cheeks.

  “I want to know if this is just so we’ll see each other more often or if it’s a permanent commitment?” His breathing was ragged, jerky, as if he couldn’t get out what he wanted to say. “You and me as a couple for real?”

  Did he think they weren’t for real now? How could he when she’d just proposed sacrificing so much so they could be together…. And then it hit her. “You mean am I going to sleep with you?”

  “That, too.”

  This was it then, wasn’t it? The test of whether or not making love would bind them together forever or be the first brick to fall from the relationship they’d been meticulously building for months.

  Were they ready? Were they strong enough? Or were they making the biggest mistake possible?

  It was time to find out. Slowly, she unfolded her legs and got to her feet, holding out her hand and waiting breathlessly for him to take it.

  8

  Armand—I owe you BIG TIME for this!

  I swear, the next shift you need me to cover, I’m there! Oh, you might want to check the cocktail napkins—I think we’re down to one case.