Sensual Secrets

by Jo Leigh

  If she couldn’t gather the courage to let her roommates clean up after themselves, how on earth was she going to be strong enough to talk to him?

  Right. Like that was going to happen. And monkeys might fly out of my butt. She chuckled, only slightly scandalized at herself. The slightly was because she’d been practicing. She’d said all sorts of bad things in the past two months. Curses that would make a freshman jock blush, insults that cut to the quick, and jibes so clever she had to laugh out loud. Of course, she’d only said them to herself, but hey, it was a start, right? Soon, she’d be just as brazen and hip as everyone else at school. Maybe not so crude, but she’d be in the ballpark. Not such a freak. An outsider.

  She sighed as she leaned against the fridge door. Jay would never want a girl like her. Not in a million years. She should give it up. Chase him out of her thoughts. Forbid him to visit her dreams.

  As if.

  AT FIVE-FIFTEEN, Jay couldn’t stand it another minute. He had to do something, and do it now. “Karl.”

  His assistant looked up from behind a vintage Harley. “Yeah?”

  “How do you feel about locking up tonight?”

  Karl nodded, then pushed his Buddy Holly glasses up to the bridge of his nose. The guy was older than Jay by ten years, but his long, scraggly hair and sparse goatee made him look like one of the students who came in here to drool. “You got a date?”

  “Of sorts.”

  “No problem. Marie isn’t gonna be home until after eleven.”

  Jay grabbed his jacket from the counter, shoved it on, then picked up his helmet from the floor. “So she’s still got that job?”

  “Yeah. For some reason she likes working with numbers. Go figure.”

  Jay headed toward the door of his shop, his gaze automatically checking the display models, making sure the bikes were polished to a shine. “At least she’s working.”

  “The second income is pretty welcome. Of course, if you’d pay me what I’m worth—”

  “You don’t want to go there, buddy.”

  Karl sighed like a lovesick teen.

  “Get a grip.”

  His assistant laughed, but Jay had left behind the conversation as he pushed open the door. He’d hardly been able to think of anything all day…except Good Girl. At the café, he’d read a number of her early journal entries, and the more he read, the more intrigued he became. She came as a complete surprise to him—and that didn’t happen often.

  No one would guess that inside that Minnie Mouse of a girl lived a Jessica Rabbit woman.

  He slipped his helmet on, then mounted his bike, a 1965 panhead, full dresser, electric glide, in mint condition. The engine came to life with a jolt, and then he was off, heading straight home to his computer, relaxing instantly as he listened to his bike purr like a kitten.

  As he maneuvered through the Manhattan traffic, he kept picturing Good Girl peeling off her clothes piece by piece. But he had to cut that stimulating scenario short when he almost crashed into a hot dog vendor.

  Twenty minutes later he pulled up to his brownstone. It was an old building, right in the heart of what used to be called Hell’s Kitchen. The neighborhood wasn’t what it used to be. It had been gentrified, with trendy shops and restaurants popping up like weeds. It didn’t matter to him. They could build whatever the hell they wanted, as long as they left him alone.

  He pulled the bike into a small alcove on the side of the building, and, helmet tucked beneath his arm, secured the bike with three sturdy locks. The neighborhood might be more upscale, but it was still Manhattan.

  He headed for the door, pausing to nod at Jasper, the doorman. The guy was, like, a hundred-and-eight or something, and his uniform looked as if it had been made during the Crimean War. But Jasper had been the doorman for as long as anyone could remember, and that wasn’t going to change until the old guy died. Not much about this building changed, including the fact that the elevator smelled like a wet dog. Jay lived on the fifth floor. The elevator stopped on three. The door slid open to reveal a man almost as old as Jasper.

  “Jay, my boy. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  Jay grinned. Shawn Cody was his neighbor, and the building busybody. If he’d been on three, it meant he’d checked up on Darlene, made sure she’d taken her meds. At eighty-four, Shawn was still sharp as a tack, and he kept tabs on everyone. He claimed to be a writer, but no one had seen anything he’d written. No matter. He was a good guy.

  “How you doing, Shawn?”

  The man sauntered in, and the wet dog smell was complicated by camphor and Old Spice. “As my father used to say, I’m as right as could be expected for a man destined to become dust.”

  “Not today, old man. Today, you’re up and about and causing trouble.”

  Shawn nodded. “That’s right. I’m here to comfort the tormented and torment the comforted.”

  The elevator resumed its creaky ascent, and Jay silently urged it along. If Shawn started talking, there was no escaping for a good ten minutes. But Jay liked the man, and his partner, Bill. They’d been together for almost fifty years. It hadn’t been easy, but they’d stuck it out.

  “You know,” Shawn said, leaning back on his slightly humped shoulder. “I miss your granddad something fierce.”

  Jay nodded. “Me, too.”

  “He was a good fellow. A mighty good fellow.”

  “That he was,” Jay said, the familiar sadness blossoming inside. His grandfather had passed away four months ago, and had been sick for a couple of years before that. Jay had taken care of him, and they’d grown close. So close, Jay had decided to stay on living in the apartment, even though he was the only one below retirement age in the whole damn place. It was cool. He helped out the old guys now and again. They were his grandfather’s friends. Hell, his friends. Not to mention the fact the apartment was rent controlled. For three hundred a month he had a two-bedroom place that most people he knew would kill for.

  The elevator stopped on five, and Jay let the older man out first. “Take care of yourself, Shawn.”

  “The same to you, young man.”

  Jay headed down the dimly lit hallway. He opened his door, still expecting the scent of his grandfather’s pipe smoke to waft over him. It didn’t, of course. The pipe had been buried right alongside the man, per his request.

  Jay took off his jacket and tossed it and his helmet on the couch. He grabbed a beer from the kitchen, took a swig, then went straight to the computer. A few moments later he was at TrueConfessions.com, reading the journal entries of one Good Girl, and the rest of the world faded to black.

  2

  The way he walks is sex itself. Not self-conscious, but sure. Arrogant. As if he knows. When he looks at me, my body aches with wanting him. But I’m not the woman he wants. I can’t even smile at him, talk to him. I burn with desire, but I burn hotter from my cowardice.

  JAY TOOK A PULL from his beer, only to realize the bottle was empty. As if coming out of a trance, he focused on the room, on the shadows playing against the wall. He stretched as he stood, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders. One more beer and then he’d stop. He had things to do. Nothing that was more interesting than Good Girl’s confessions, but he still had to do them.

  He opened the fridge, and the jar of Jiffy made his stomach rumble. Damn, it was after ten. How in hell had that happened? Skipping the beer, he grabbed the strawberry jam, bread and peanut butter. It wasn’t fancy but it would do. And he could eat at the computer.

  He put one sandwich on a paper plate and took a bite out of the other. As he stashed the food, he snagged the milk carton, then headed back to the living room.

  Through the course of the night, he’d built a picture of Good Girl. Incomplete, of course, but still, she was clear to him. Bright, articulate, passionate and crippled by shyness. She wanted to break out of her shell, but she didn’t know how. All she could do was write about her fantasies. Poor kid. She deserved more.

  If only she could see how
attractive she was. Stop trying to disappear into the woodwork. She even had a good sense of humor. A wry appreciation for life’s ironies.

  He clicked to the next entry and read as he ate.

  So sex has a name. J.W.

  Jay choked on his sandwich and spent the next few minutes coughing. J.W. had to be him, right? She’d been talking about him? Holy… He was the guy in her fantasies? He walked like sex itself?

  Jeez. He’d figured she was talking about Brad Pitt. She’d mentioned the actor’s name a couple of times, and it had never occurred to Jay…

  This changed everything. Man. He shoved his remaining sandwich to the side of his desk and hunkered down. His gaze shot down the screen until he found her next entry.

  I’m walking under the Washington Square arch. It’s late. I should have been home hours ago. I hear footsteps behind me, and my stomach tightens, but come on, it’s New York. When wouldn’t I hear footsteps? I keep walking, not looking left or right. Suddenly, I’m slammed from the back and I cry out as I fall to my knees. A hand grabs my purse, and before I can see who he is, or even what he’s wearing, he’s off like a shot. But then, there’s someone else, a man, chasing him. I watch, stunned, as the second man tackles the thief from behind. They’re on the ground now, fighting, and I struggle to my feet. Before I take a step, it’s all over, and the thief is running away, limping. The man who tackled him gets up, brushes off his trouser legs then looks at me.

  He walks toward me, my purse in his hand.

  It’s him.

  He holds out my bag. “I didn’t know if you were hurt, or I would have gone after him.”

  “It’s all right. In fact, it’s extraordinary. You could have been killed, and you don’t even know me.”

  He grins at me. “Oh, but I do know you, Amelia.”

  My heart pounds. Is this some trick? Some con?

  “I’ve seen you in the café. And I know what you do on that computer.”

  “You do?”

  He nods as he takes a step toward me. “I know all about you. What you like, what you want. What you need.”

  I can barely breathe. How is it possible? “What I write is private. Anonymous.”

  “I don’t need to read anything,” he says, as he reaches his hand to cup my cheek. “I read you, Amelia. I see past all your defenses. I know how remarkable you are. I know how hard you’ve worked for your education. How much you care about your aunt. I know everything, Amelia. But mostly I know that you’re the most incredibly sensual woman I’ve ever met. Every other man on earth is a fool, because they don’t see it. They don’t see you like I do.”

  I can’t speak. How can he talk to me like this? We don’t know each other at all…or do we?

  He touches my cheek. Holds me captive with his gaze. Then his lips touch mine, and the rest of the world disappears. I’m drowning in his kiss as he folds me into the safety of his arms. His hands run down my back. He touches my waist. Then below my waist. He cups my behind and pulls me tight against his body. I feel his erection. It’s huge!

  Jay coughed, nearly choking on his beer. She thought he was huge? He looked down at his jean-covered half-hard cock. He’d never been ashamed to walk around in the locker room, but huge? Damn.

  He went back to the story.

  His kiss deepens, and then he pulls back. “Come with me,” he whispers.

  “Where?”

  “To my bed.”

  “But—”

  He puts his hand gently over my lips. “Don’t be afraid. You know you want this. Almost as much as I do.”

  I nod slowly, knowing it’s foolish to fight the truth. He—

  It ended. Boom. Just like that. Jay scanned the next several pages, but the rest of the fantasy wasn’t written down. What the hell? Why’d she stop just when she was going to come to his apartment? When she knew it was foolish to fight the truth—

  He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head at his own stupidity. It was a fantasy. Not a promise.

  Yet.

  AMELIA PUNCHED the time clock on her way out of the library. Almost four, and she was done for the day. She worked in the stacks, shelving and dusting. It was a quiet world, perfect for her, even though the pay was dreadful. She should go work on her term paper, but all that was left to do there was a proofread, and it might be wiser to wait for a day before she did that.

  Or was that just an excuse? Either way, she wasn’t going home. Not yet. She headed down Bleeker Street, toward Washington Square and the café. Would he be there? Her heart raced at the thought. Just like it always did.

  Her crush on him was ridiculous, she knew that. But it was also the only thing in her life she was truly passionate about. Except for her studies, of course, but that was a totally different kind of passion. Jay made her skin tingle, her stomach clench. She’d read a word somewhere, limerance. It meant that state of deep, addictive infatuation that happens when someone falls in love. She was absolutely there. Unequivocally. Shamefully.

  Unfortunately, the man she was in limerance with didn’t know her name. Thought she was a joke. And yet, as she neared the café, her pace quickened along with her pulse. She said her “Jay mantra.” Please, oh, please.

  Once she was at the door, she hesitated. Pushed her hair back, moistened her lips. Then she remembered how he’d almost touched her. Perhaps if he’d had a reason? She loosened a strand of hair by her cheek.

  She walked in, instantly certain he wasn’t there. The air was just air. Brian was at the bar, joystick in hand, making shooting noises as he destroyed enemy ships or some such. What an odd fellow he was. One would never guess his true age. He spoke like a teenager and played teenage games. On the other hand, he owned the café—and from what she could tell, it was a very successful venture. Two people were at computer terminals—the girl she’d seen before and a new guy. Young. A freshman, probably. They didn’t look at her.

  She walked over to her favorite workstation, but before she booted up, she took a couple of deep, calming breaths. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t here. Why should it? Even if he were, so what? He was out of her league, and she was out of her mind.

  Her aunt Grace had told her many times that her imagination was going to be the death of her. She shouldn’t waste her time on daydreams. On wanting what she couldn’t have. Aunt Grace might be a little extreme in her attitudes, but she had a point about the woes of an active imagination.

  All of Amelia’s problems were a direct result of wanting more than she could have. On the other hand, her aunt had been certain Amelia would never get accepted into the graduate program, or get financial aid. It had shocked them both when she’d won the fellowship. Full tuition, including books. It had been a miracle.

  So who was to say there couldn’t be a miracle here? Right?

  She turned on the computer and logged in. She typed in the URL for TrueConfessions.com, and went directly to her journal entries.

  What if I dropped something? And he picked it up? And our fingers touched. Sparks, electricity. Magic. Our eyes would meet and he’d smile, but not his regular smile. This one would hold surprise, would ask a question. I’d smile back in answer. Yes. My interest is real. Then he’d ask me my name. Sit at the edge of the table. See me. Not the blush, not the fear, but me. The part of me that is desire. That is passion. He’d touch my cheek and the caress would last, and it would stoke the flames inside us both. He’d lean over. Kiss me gently on the lips.

  The front door opened, and her heart leapt. Only, it was the other guy from the motorcycle shop. The one with the glasses.

  She sighed, already feeling the foolishness of her fantasy. The loneliness.

  Maybe I could say hello. That’s all. Just hello. Would that be so earth shattering? Would the heavens fall and the oceans rise if I just said a simple hello?

  Amelia stopped her fingers, stopped her thoughts, too. She didn’t want to wallow in self-pity. Nothing bothered her more, and yet she found herself going there with alarming frequency. Again, it
was clear that her problems were about expectations. Dreams that were too big for her little life. Quiet desperation.

  No. That wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted serenity. Satisfaction. Passion. Romance. Sex. Lots of sex. Mind-blowing sex.

  She focused on the computer monitor once more.

  I can’t stop thinking about it. About making love. It’s as if I have a compulsion, an illness, and the only medicine is two rounds with J. and plenty of water.

  She smiled at that. Two rounds with Jay. When she couldn’t even write out his name. What’s wrong with this picture?

  Maybe I’d be better off cutting my association with this place. If I never saw him, I’d forget about him. Maybe even become interested in someone else.

  I could go out with the girls. They always invite me to their sorority parties, and I never say yes. That’s it, of course. I’m going to go. I’m going to take a risk and see what happens. Who knows? It might turn out to be fun.

  The line about the monkeys and her posterior came up again, only, this time it wasn’t quite so amusing.

  Why can’t I get over this crippling shyness? What lesson am I supposed to learn, huh? To be brave? How can I be brave when I feel like I’m going to pass out? I hate this. I want to be someone else, anyone else. Donna or Kathy or Tabby. They all lead such exciting, wonderful lives. No wonder they leave the dishes for me. What else have I got to do?

  She frowned. Not exactly her best attempt at cheering herself up. Before she could make things worse, she saved her work and logged off from the Web site. With forty minutes still to go on her time, she debated working on her paper, but decided instead to do something more uplifting. She typed in the address for her favorite online bookstore, and lost herself in page after page of book descriptions, knowing she could only buy one. She’d narrowed her selection down to three, when a shadow darkened her monitor.