by Elise Faber
“Noted,” she murmured, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor.
“It’s hard work tolerating someone who looks like me, I know,” he quipped, wanting to see what she’d say.
“Someone who looks like Thor?” She took a step away and pretended to puke. “Yup. I don’t know how I’ll stand it.”
“Come here, trouble,” he said, reeling her in.
And then she was in his arms and it was everything.
The music faded, bar noise became a faint buzz, and it was just the two of them in the universe.
His mind felt quiet for the first time in forever.
Quiet until she gave him sass.
Jordan hated sass. Or normally he did. But coming from between Abigail’s lips and it had a completely different effect. He liked that she gave him shit. No clue why. Well, none except that fire was infinitely more attractive than soggy dishtowels.
“I keep half expecting you to make a quip about Thor’s hammer.” One of Abigail’s brows lifted, a smile curved the edges of those lush lips. “I hear it’s mighty.”
“I heard it breaks in the last movie,” he joked and when that gorgeous mouth dropped open, he had to laugh. “I didn’t say mine was broken.”
“I’m not interested in yours,” she grumbled. “I’m interested in Hemsworth’s.”
The music changed, a faster song that would make it difficult for them to talk and dance. Jordan snagged her hand before she could slip away. “Another drink?”
She shook her head.
“Food then? This place has good appetizers. The crab cakes are fresh and the artichoke dip is perfectly seasoned.” Come on, O’Keith. Jordan mentally shook his head, knowing that he sounded like an idiotic Yelp review.
When was the last time he’d stumbled over words with a woman?
Hell, when was the last time he’d actually talked to a woman who wasn’t a coworker? Or his sister?
Or both, since he actually worked with his sister.
He mentally calculated the hours he’d spent in the office—the months—and felt horror course through him. How deprived had his life become if he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten laid?
Abigail’s white teeth bit down on her bottom lip and his cock went rock hard.
That right there was the sign it had been way too long.
He was getting random, uncontrolled boners like a teenage boy.
Yes, it had been harder and harder for him to find the time and energy for sex over the last few years. Especially when every woman who was interested in him was the same.
Plastic. Botox. Extensions. Makeup at the Kardashian level.
Sometimes a man just wanted a real woman.
And Abigail in his arms was that in every sense. Her body actually moved beneath his hands, yielded in a way that made him want to strip her naked and stroke her from head to toe. She didn’t wear perfume that masked her scent, clothes that were designed to tempt him.
She was herself.
Which was a thousand times more attractive than a woman who tried too hard.
“Not too hungry?” he asked when she opened her mouth. He could see the refusal on her lips. “We could—”
“No,” she said, taking a step back. “No dinner.”
His heart clenched with something very much like disappointment. Damn. He was really starting to like this woman.
He dropped his hand from hers. “Okay.”
“I want dessert.” She closed the distance between them, breasts pressed against his chest. Her mouth was an inch from his skin, her breath hot and damp on his throat.
“At my place,” she added, tongue flicking out to graze his skin.
“Oh,” he said, gripping her waist to keep her close. Oh.
Articulate? No. But, fuck yeah. He could do dessert.
And seconds too.
Three
My place was a block away, a third-floor walk-up that was perched atop a drug store.
It wasn’t much, but it had two bedrooms, a recently remodeled kitchen, and only one shared wall. After my last place, it was practically nirvana.
I’d had the neighbors from hell. On both sides.
In fact, it was as though they’d signed up for a contest to see who could be the most annoying, disrespectful, and downright rude.
Late night parties had been only the start.
Things had progressed to growing their own pot plants and nearly setting the whole building on fire with their heat lamps. Then fighting over said ownership of the plants in the middle of the night. Then throwing the plants out of the window when they couldn’t agree.
Onto my car.
And that had just been the neighbor on my left.
The ones on my right were in the Mafia. Or smuggling illegal ivory. Or hiding a hatcheted up dead guy in the freezer.
So moving had been a priority.
It turned out the move was extremely convenient tonight. Especially considering the hot, hard man pressed so closely behind me I could barely walk.
His arm was snaked around my rib cage, brushing the underside of my breasts, teasing me with every breath I took.
“Just up these stairs,” I said, raising my chin in the direction of my apartment.
We walked up the private staircase and paused outside my door. I punched in the code above the handle and said to his questioning look, “I can never find my keys.” I turned the knob. “This is easier.”
“I like easy.”
Like what I was about to be. And with that lovely thought, I started to have doubts.
Jordan turned to close the door, locking the dead bolt with an ominous click. This was the moment we’d either find out we didn’t mesh in bed or he’d really been after Seraphina and had only settled for a late-night fuck from her pudgy friend as consolation. This was the time he’d—
“Maybe we should have a glass of wine?”
Ask if I wanted wine?
I wrinkled my nose. “Can’t stand the stuff.”
“Really? How about char—”
I put my hand up to stop the how-about-this-wine-that-is-the-most-spectacular-wine-on-the-planet spiel.
People always wanted to tell me I hadn’t found the right variety. That I hadn’t expanded my horizons enough.
Couldn’t a woman just not like wine?
“I’ve tried them all.” My other palm came up when his mouth opened again. “All. Of. Them.”
One side of his mouth tipped up. “All?”
I nodded. “As bad as that is. I know we’re basically in wine central, but I just don’t like it.”
“You’re allowed to not like wine.”
I snorted. “Not according to some people in this area. You’d think it was a capital offense.”
Jordan came close, slipped one hand around my waist, and rested the other on the back of my neck. “It practically is.”
“Oh God.” I sighed and dropped my head back. “You’re one of them too.”
Lips on my neck, soft, hot words on my skin. “One of who?”
“One of those crazy winos who waxes poetic about hints of sandalwood and notes of rose.”
I gasped when his tongue traced up my throat and paused behind my ear where he stopped and inhaled deeply. “Talk about notes of rose. The scent of your hair is driving me insane. What do you put in it?”
“In . . . it?” I asked, struggling to hold on to the conversation when the man’s tongue was running over that sweet spot just below my ear. I barely held back a moan, which was embarrassing enough when he seemed totally unaffected. “Nothing. Just shampoo and conditioner.”
“Mmm.” He slid his fingers through my hair, up to the tie holding the unruly locks in place. “And I do like wine, but not as much as I like you in this moment.”
Gently, he pulled the elastic free and tossed it to the floor.
I barely had a second to worry about it being lost in the black hole that all hair ties seemed to disappear into before his hands found my scalp and beg
an massaging.
If it hadn’t felt so good, been so perfectly erotic—my nerve endings on edge, my skin heated, his hard form pressing so tightly to my spine, his erection like granite against my ass—I might have been a little wigged out.
The dude wasn’t taking my clothes off. Instead, he was playing with my hair.
But it felt good.
I relaxed against him, jostling his hands loose. Which was fine because those hands had moved from my hair to my body. And that was really, really nice too.
“There you are,” he murmured. “In the future, just tell me if you want to stop.” He tilted my chin back, our faces mismatched as I looked up and he leaned over me to meet my eyes.
Even upside down, he was beautiful.
“You say stop and I’ll stop. Yes?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
My eyes closed and my head rested against his chest as his palms slipped under my shirt. Goose bumps broke out on my skin and I realized what he’d done.
Calmed me.
Sensed I was nervous and had taken the time to settle the anxiety instead of pushing.
My lips curved.
“Good?” he asked.
“Good,” I said, turning in his arms. Blue eyes bored into mine. “You’re so pretty,” I crooned, reaching up to stroke his cheeks. Stubble bristled my palms as I cupped his face and brought his lips down to mine.
He groaned, hands on my hips, tugging me close, and my confidence lifted. I felt like the woman in the bar again. The one who’d been secure enough to proposition a god.
I touched my tongue to his bottom lip, and he opened his mouth, transforming what I’d thought was already a hot kiss into an inferno and turning my control of the situation into a flash in the pan.
Jordan took over, hands and mouth working my body like an instrument.
Calloused fingertips slid up my ribs, reached around to unhook my bra, and whipped it and my shirt over my head.
“I—”
He paused, eyes molten, breath fast. “Problem?”
“Only that you’re still wearing your shirt.”
Buttons popped, cotton tore, and then there was only skin.
Tan, hot skin and hard muscles. That mythical eight-pack? I’d seen the unicorn, apparently, because here was one in the flesh.
“I work out”—he dipped his head, took one of my nipples in his mouth, and I moaned—“a lot.”
“Mmm,” I said, not caring about the words, only wanting him close, to keep his mouth on me. “Are you a personal trainer?”
“Something like that.” He paused and an emotion crossed his face, one that disappeared quickly as he switched breasts. Teeth made me jump, the sting soothed by his tongue as one hand came up to tease my other nipple.
My knees buckled.
“I got you,” he said, sweeping me up in his arms and dropping me onto the couch.
The leather was cool against my bare skin, but he was shirtless against me. I had plenty to keep me warm.
My hands came up to his shoulders then into the fine hairs at the base of his skull. I loved that spot, loved how it brought him closer, loved how it made him kiss me harder.
His tongue swept along my bottom lip and slipped inside to tangle with mine, his palms gripped my waist tightly. I was on fire, writhing to get closer.
“Easy,” he crooned. “I’ve got you. I’ve—”
I released his hair and slipped my hands between us, yanking at the button on his slacks, wrenching the zipper down, brushing the massive erection—excuse me, hammer—in the process.
Jordan’s head plunked onto my chest and he groaned. “Christ, Abby, slow down.” He pulled my hands free of his pants, but my work was done. The slacks were out of my way. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this and I want to—”
“Shh,” I said. “I want to touch.”
My fingers slipped into his boxer briefs and he hissed out a breath.
“Too hard?” I asked, my mouth finding one of his nipples and returning his earlier favor.
“No—” He groaned again. “It’s too good. You need to—”
“No such thing,” I said, stroking him with one hand, while I shoved my leggings down with the other.
I was multi-talented like that.
His fingers slipped between my thighs and it was my turn to gasp. That one touch was liquid lightning. I needed him.
“Abby,” he whispered and slipped a finger inside. “Fuck, you’re wet.”
“I want you,” I said. “Now.”
“I need to—” He broke off when I wriggled my hips free of his hand and brushed the tip of his erection against my center. “Condom,” he gasped.
I’d never had sex without one before, but I was safe. From pregnancy, at least. “I’ve had an IUD for years,” I said, rubbing closer to the heat of him, pressing down on the tip and groaning at the size of him.
Barely an inch in and he was stretching me to capacity.
“And I’m clean,” I added, shifting to take him a little deeper.
“Me too, but Abby, it’s been awhile. I haven’t—”
I didn’t care about the rest of his words, instead lurching forward so that he was all the way inside.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned.
“Oh fuck,” I moaned. It was so, so good.
Especially when his leash seemed to snap and he picked me up, keeping himself deep while he swept a hand over my coffee table to clear it.
The remotes went one way, my coasters the other. A paperback landed with a smack against the floor.
He knelt, laying me on the wooden surface and dropping to his knees on one end. My legs wrapped around his hips as he drove into me.
Pleasure rushed through me, rising rapidly. Sweat broke out on my forehead, my muscles locked, and it was right . . . there—
“Shit,” he said. “Shit. I’m sor—” His moan cut off his words, and I barely registered them myself.
What I did register was the thrusts slowing when I needed them to go faster.
I squirmed closer, needing—
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
“I—” My eyes flashed open as he pulled out.
Had he just—?
The throb between my legs was intense. My skin was tight, flushed. My brain was foggy, trying to understand.
“This never happens,” he said. “Just give me a second.”
“Did you just come?” I blurted, the haze of desire receding as incredulity took over. “Without me?”
Fuck if Thor’s hammer really wasn’t broken.
Jordan scowled. “It’s been a long time. I’ll take care of you.” He hitched his pants up around his hips and reached toward me. “Which way is your bedroom?”
“Down the—”
His phone rang.
I froze. He wasn’t going to pick it up. No, he definitely wasn’t. Not when I was a twisted pile of need stretched out on a—really uncomfortable, as it turned out—coffee table. Naked while he was half dressed. Orgasm-free when he was not.
So no, he wouldn’t pick up the damn phone.
He wouldn’t. He . . . would.
His hands reached to the back of his pants and he snatched up the phone, swiping a finger across the screen.
“What?” he barked, eyes on me. I felt the heat of his stare on my breasts, my lips, my puss—
Maybe this night wouldn’t be a total implosion after all.
Then I saw his body change.
Whoever was on the other end said something that made him stiffen and rise to his feet.
Then reach for his shirt. And button it . . . or rather attempt to button it since half of the little disks were scattered on my carpet.
“What the fuck?” I whispered, more to myself than Jordan.
Because Jordan was no longer in the room.
His eyes slipped from me as easily as someone ignores a vagrant on the street. One second to analyze, the next to dismiss.
I propped myself up
, wincing when the wood bit into my hip.
I watched Jordan as he walked to the door, spouting terse orders, not sparing a single backward glance for the woman he’d left unsatisfied and naked on the table.
Not another look at me.
The door slammed closed.
Four
Eight Weeks Later
“I’m searching for treasure, baby. Can I look around your chest for it?”
My eyes rolled . . . again.
“I need more booze for this,” I muttered, bringing my glass of rum and Diet Coke to my lips and taking a sip.
Gross. And I didn’t just mean the bad pickup line. My drink tasted horrible. It was probably the absence of the calorie-laden Coke. Sugar helped the alcohol go down easier. But my pants were a little tight and that meant that I needed to cut back on life’s extras until my skinny jeans stopped giving me a muffin top.
With a sigh, I took another sip and almost gagged.
Apparently, my taste buds weren’t feeling the combination.
Whatever. I was adult enough to not force myself to choke down something that tasted horrible. I plunked the glass on the bar top and pushed it away, pulling my phone out of my purse with my other hand.
“We should go,” Seraphina said. “I don’t know why we even bothered.”
“It was because we got through lunch the other day without interruption,” I said, lips curving at her pained expression. “Of course, we were probably naïve not to realize it was because the place was packed with women.”
The Tea House was one of our favorite places and not just because they served tea and crumpets—actual crumpets!—but because it was small and cozy and made us feel as though we’d stumbled into a historical novel.
The clientele was also not particularly masculine.
“It’s lunchtime now,” she whispered. “Don’t these jerks have to work?”
“Apparently not,” I whispered back as another came up to the bar and leaned close to my friend.
Who leaned away so quickly that she nearly knocked me off my stool.
“You like onions, huh?” Seraphina asked, and I wrinkled my nose.
“Who doesn’t?” the man replied back, as much oil coating his words as coated his head. “But what I’m really liking is that shirt.”
