A Sexy Journey

by Jasinda Wilder

  Awkward silence.

  "So, how long are you in Chicago for?" Brad asked.

  He was obviously trying hard to cover my blunders. I wasn't sure if he was attracted to me or not. He was leaning close, but it was loud in the bar. On the other hand, I'd caught his gaze wandering to my cleavage several times, so that might have meant something. But then, men did that anyway, so it might not. I told myself to stop over-thinking and just go with it.

  "Oh, for a while. No set plans. We'll see."

  Brad nodded, his brow furrowed. "So, you're in town 'for awhile', and you're here for 'business', and you just met Jose and George at a salon." He seemed to be leading up to something, so I stayed silent and let him continue. "You know what I think, Delilah?"

  I tilted my head, heart pounding. Had I given something away? Said something wrong?

  "I think you're running away from someone." He smiled, a wicked little grin that said he knew he was right.

  I swallowed. "Is it that obvious?"

  "Ha! I was right." Brad leaned a little closer. "I was guessing."

  "How'd you know?"

  His hand brushed up my arm as he set his beer down on the bar-top. "Your finger," he said, touching the line of whiter-than-white skin where my wedding band and engagement rings had been.

  I traced the pale line myself, trying to keep my voice neutral. "So yeah, I guess you could say I'm running from someone. It's complicated." I backed away, expecting him to cut and run, now that he knew I had some kind of personal baggage.

  He didn't though. "You know what you need? Tequila." He raised a hand to summon a bartender and ordered a pair of Tequila shots.

  He handed me one of the shot glasses and a wedge of lime. I wasn't going to admit it, but I had no idea what I was supposed to do with the lime. Then he took my hand in his, shook salt onto the web between my thumb and forefinger. I just stared blankly at him, and then the salt, and back to Brad.

  He looked at me quizzically. "Never shot tequila before?"

  I shook my head. "Nope. Let's just say I'm a little innocent when it comes to city life."

  Brad chuckled, an amused rumble in his chest that made something in my belly tingle. The gleam in his eyes, a shine somewhere in between hunger, lust, and amusement, made my knees weak. I wasn't sure I was ready for what Brad obviously had in mind, but I wasn't willing to back out. Not yet.

  "Well, innocent Delilah, you lick the salt, then you drink the tequila, then you suck the juice from the lime."

  I shrugged and lifted my hand to my mouth, but Brad caught my wrist in his. "Not yet. We have to toast first." He didn't let go of my wrist. "To getting rid of exes."

  He wiggled the fingers on his left hand; his ring finger had a similar white band where a ring had been. He lifted my hand to his mouth, never taking his vivid green eyes off mine, and licked the salt off my thumb, a slow, erotic swipe of his tongue. I blushed and a flicker of fire lit my belly.

  "Your turn," he said, and tipped the shot glass to his mouth.

  He'd already sprinkled salt on his hand. I took his hand in mine, realizing how huge his hand was, how strong, and lifted it to my mouth. My heart blasted in my chest, hammering so hard I thought he was certain to hear it, even over the music and laughter and voices. I ran my tongue along his hand, tasting the salty heat of his skin and then the sudden, powerful tang of the table salt, and then I had the shot glass to my lips and poured the clear liquid into my mouth. I swallowed it, and nearly sputtered it all over Brad, but managed to get it down. My face twisted into a grimace at the exotic, potent liquor, and then Brad shoved a lime into my mouth and I sucked it, the sweetly sour citrus dousing some of the fire in my mouth.

  "Wow," I said, when I could breathe again. "That was...ahem...really something."

  "It is, isn't it?" He was still holding my hand in his, and I wasn't pulling it away.

  His fingers were playing along my wrist, tracing circles and patterns with the pads of his fingers around the inside, not quite tickling. I couldn't look away from his hypnotizing green eyes, and I felt a strange, fiery pressure in my belly, low, deep down where I'd felt it when I touched myself yesterday.

  Then, the heat passed upwards, and something roiled in my belly, and I started to sweat, and get dizzy, and...

  "I think I need some air," I said, trying to keep my feet steady underneath me.

  "Ah, the shot must have hit you. Come on, I know a spot." He took my hand in his and led me through the crowd.

  I felt another hand on my opposite elbow, and then George's voice cut through the dizzy fog.

  "Where are you going, Delilah?" His voice was concerned, tinged with suspicion.

  "I'm taking her outside to get some air," Brad said. "She did a shot with me, and now she's overheating."

  I turned to George, and then to Brad, feeling wobbly. "I really need some air. I feel dizzy and hot. Sitting down would be nice." I glanced at George meaningfully. "Is that okay, George?"

  I hoped he knew what I was asking, and that it wasn't too obvious.

  Brad laughed. "George, you know me. Brad Mullins. I work with Uri. I'll take care of her, I promise."

  George nodded and disappeared.

  I glanced up at Brad, wondering if I'd insulted him. He seemed to be laughing still as he led me up a flight of stairs and out onto a roof. He sat me down on a bench and lowered himself next to me, his arm across the back of the bench but not exactly around my shoulders.

  "I hope you don't think I--" I started.

  "I'd rather you were suspicious than too trusting. Safer that way."

  Now that I was outside in the cool night air, I felt better. Still a little too loose and too dizzy, but not sick anymore. I was intensely aware of how close Brad was, how near his huge arm was to me. I was stuck between wanting him to put his arm around me and being afraid.

  I looked up at him, trying to gauge what he was thinking. His calm green eyes met mine, and I felt like he was assessing me too, not just my level of inebriation, but what I wanted.

  What did I want? A kiss? That would be nice. A good place to start, perhaps.

  I let myself lean a little nearer to him, closer to the curve of his arm. Brad adjusted ever so slightly, and then his arm was resting on my shoulders. It felt nice, hard and protective.

  "Sorry to pull you away from all the fun," I said.

  He shrugged a shoulder. "I needed some air too. Gets stuffy in there with that many people."

  I just stared up at him, willing him to lean a little further. His face was only inches from mine, closer and getting closer, and my heart was thumping wildly...

  His lips were softer than I'd thought they'd be, firm and scratchy with whiskers, but moist and hot and searching. He tasted like beer, not unpleasantly. My hand lifted up and rested on his shoulder, and his palm touched my face, pulling me nearer. This was nice. He wasn't pushing me to kiss harder or faster, wasn't groping me, just kissing me, slowly and gently.

  The man knew how to kiss. Not that I had much by way of comparison, but...if Harry's and Brad's kisses were purses, Harry's would be an off-brand knock off from the bargain bin in K-Mart, the seams already ripping and the zipper stuck; Brad's kiss...oh my. His kiss would be a Louis Vuitton satchel bag.

  I may or may not have moaned just a little, in the back of my throat.

  "Wow, all I did was kiss you," Brad said, when we broke apart.

  I felt my cheeks flame with embarrassment. "Yeah, well...you're a really good kisser," I mumbled into his lips.

  He smiled, a tight curve of lips against mine. "You are too."

  "What? No. You're just saying that." My fingers were somehow in his hair, and I was desperately fighting against the urge to pull him into another kiss.

  "No, really." He touched his lips to mine, a teasing touch. "You taste like tequila, lipstick, and limes."

  "Is that a good thing?"

  "To me, yeah." He grinned. "I like tequila."

  "It seems to be loosening my inhibitions a good bit,"
I said, smirking. "I mean, here I am, first day in Chicago, kissing a strange man on a rooftop."

  "I'm not strange," Brad protested.

  "I meant a stranger."

  "I'm not a stranger, either. My name is Brad Mullins, I'm an architect, and I'm recently divorced. What else do you want to know?"

  "I was teasing. I like being up here, kissing you. It's nice. It's a distraction."

  His eyes bored into mine. "You need distraction?"

  Don't talk drama, don't talk drama.

  "Yeah, it's all still kind of...new." Shoot. Shit. I hadn't meant to say that.

  "New?" Brad seemed concerned, suddenly. Now I'd done it.

  Bye-bye, Brad.

  "Don't worry about it. I'm here, now," I said, hoping to salvage things, if I could.

  Brad's eyes narrowed. "How new?"

  I slumped my head back against his arm. "Let's go back inside. I could use another drink."

  I stood up, wobbling ever so slightly. Brad's hand shot out and touched my hip to steady me. His hand sent thrills of lightning through my body.

  "I think maybe you should hold off on the drink," he said, standing up with me. "How about some coffee instead?"

  "Do they serve coffee here?" I asked.

  He laughed. "No, I meant get out of here, go get some coffee."

  He wanted to talk. I just wanted to kiss a bit more, and then go home. Okay, maybe a lot more. But that was it. Just kiss. Certainly no talking. I'd told my story a million times in the last forty-eight hours, and I didn't want to rehash it all over again. Certainly not with a man I liked, and was kissing. Or had kissed. Or whatever.

  "Sure," my mouth said, in spite of my brain's attempts at interference. "That sounds good."

  He led me back downstairs and I found Jose and George huddled in a corner with two other men, looking very comfy and not a little flushed.

  "Brad and I are going to go get some coffee," I said.

  "Are you sure?" George said, pulling away from his friends. "You're okay?"

  "Yeah, I'm fine. We're just going to have coffee."

  "Okay," George said. "Just remember, don't do anything you don't want to do."

  "I won't." I hugged George, and then Jose, who had appeared next to George. "Thanks, you two. I mean, seriously. Thank you so much. You don't even know."

  George kissed me on the cheek, his palm circling my back. "Oh honey. I do know. I've been where you are. Exactly where you are. Jose here did for me what we're doing for you. He helped me see who I really was." He wrapped his arm around Jose's waist and pulled him close. "Just be true to who you want to be. Don't let anything hold you back. Now. Go have coffee with hunky Brad Mullins."

  Coffee was a long, lazy conversation at an all-night diner, burnt coffee in chipped white porcelain mugs. Brad told me about his divorce, finding his ex in his bed with not just one man, but two. She got a better lawyer than he did and took everything, their high-rise condo, their savings, their car, everything.

  I, in turn, told him my story. Helen Warner and her varicose legs, my sister, nearly every woman between the ages of twenty-one and fifty in the entire town. Taking the savings and running, the makeover, my vague plans of world travel.

  "So this all happened like, days ago?" Brad asked.

  "Yeah. I left on the ten a.m. bus yesterday morning."

  Brad shook his head, amazed. "Well you're handling it a shit-load better than I did. I was a wreck for months. I mean, I got drunk and stayed drunk for a week straight. I almost lost my job until I finally went in and told my boss what had happened."

  My mouth split open in a jaw-cracking yawn, and Brad pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

  "Holy shit. It's past four in the morning. I should get you to your hotel."

  He walked me to my hotel room door and we stood in front of it, hands touching, faces inches away. I let my body take over, leaned up to kiss him. He froze, then returned it, hesitantly at first, and then more eagerly. His hand moved to my waist and pulled me against him. Moments passed, and then more, and then my hands were running across his chest and in his hair...

  I felt something hard bulging against my stomach, and it took a few seconds for the penny to drop.

  And that's when the panic set in. Kissing a man, that was one thing. Touching his hair and feeling his arms around me, that was one thing. But his manhood...the idea of him naked in my room, touching me intimately...

  I jerked free and fell back against the door.

  "I'm sorry..." I said, touching my swollen lips with my fingertips. "I'm sorry, I can't...I can't."

  Brad stepped closer to me, but stopped. I could see the bulge in his pants, pressing huge and hard against his zipper. My body and brain and hormones and heart were all at war, in a free-for-all.

  "No, Delilah, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--" he backed up, realizing where I was looking and interpreting, correctly in some ways, where my fear was concentrated. "I'm sorry. I'll go."

  I grabbed his hand, not wanting him to think I was afraid of him, or upset with him. "Brad, listen...I'm sorry. I hope--I mean, I hope I didn't lead you to assume where this night was going...when it's not, or...it can't." I was flustered, stuttering; I ran my hands through my hair, surprised again at how short it was.

  "You don't need to explain," Brad said. "I wasn't assuming anything. I mean, I hoped, in a way yes. But knowing how recent all this is for you...I wouldn't push it."

  "I'm really sorry, Brad. I didn't mean to lead you on, or...or get you excited and leave you...uncomfortable. I'm just not ready." I was suddenly exhausted beyond comprehension. "I'm not even divorced yet. Shoot, I haven't even filed the papers."

  "Don't apologize any more, Delilah. I understand. You don't need to explain." He kissed me, a gentle goodbye. "You're a beautiful, wonderful woman, Delilah, and your ex is an idiot."

  He pulled a card from his wallet and handed it to me. "If you ever want some company--no expectations--call me."

  He backed away, and I, under a wild impulse, darted forward and kissed him again, quick but hot.

  "Thank you for understanding." I said.

  He smiled, waved, and was gone, pushing through the crash bar to the stairs.

  I pulled out my keycard and went into my room, collapsed on my bed and tried to figure out if I'd just made a mistake in letting Brad go, or if it had been the smart thing to do. My brain argued one way, my heart another, and my body a third.

  I fell asleep, still arguing with myself, cross-wise on the bed.

  June 11

  The last several days have been a whirlwind. I went through the process to get my passport, and I met with Julia's divorce attorney cousin, who drew up papers and sent them by overnight to Harry. I'd been honest about clearing out the savings account. The lawyer suggested giving Harry everything else, the cars, the house, the stocks and investments, everything. I agreed. I just wanted to be done.

  Harry signed and sent the papers back in an overnight priority mail. A weight lifted off my shoulders and I could breathe again. Or maybe, breathe for the first time. I was a single woman again. I spent a day at a spa to celebrate, getting a facial and a mani-pedi, a massage and all sorts of other indulgent pleasures.

  I went to a travel agency and looked at travel packages, but they all came in groups, with hour-by-hour itineraries and all sorts of premade sight-seeing tours. I wanted something loose and personal and free. No plans, no groups, no tours. No itinerary, just me, out there.

  I donated all my old clothes, packed my new wardrobe in a new set of overpriced luggage and bought a one-way ticket to Rome, Italy. I don't know a word of Italian. I've never been out of the country. I don't have a hotel booked, and I don't know anyone.

  I'm terrified and exhilarated.

  The plane is about to land at the Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino International Airport. I have my purse with a bundle of cash, and the rest split between my carry-on bag and the suitcase. I didn't want it all in one place, and I don't know a better way. Traveler's checks?
I don't know. I'll learn, I guess.

  June 12

  Today was crazy. I spent an hour just trying to get out of the airport. I bought an Italian-English dictionary, and then realized the Google Translate app on my iPhone is much more effective. I can just plug in the phrase I want in English, have the app translate it into Italian and show it to the person I'm trying to communicate with. That's how I got a security guard to show me the way to the taxi line, and then found a mid-grade hotel in what I take to be the center of the city.

  OHMYGOD. Rome is incredible. Age and history oozes from every brick, every cobblestone. Even the more modern buildings are older than pretty much everything in the US.

  I stowed my purse in the suitcase and left it in my hotel room, putting what I need to travel in my backpack and my pockets. I wandered around in an awed daze, taking in the many famous sights of one of Earth's oldest and most storied cities. It's dirty in places, tumbledown, ramshackle, haphazard. It's rough, and difficult. It's beautiful.

  I walked until my feet hurt and then showed my hotel's business card to a taxi driver, who answered in clear but heavily accented English, "Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am. You need to eat some food, maybe? You are hungry, no? Too much walking? I take you to a great place. My cousin, he cooks the best pasta in all of Roma. You will die of loving the food, I swear you this. Wine and good food, you will be like new, no?"

  I let him take me to his cousin's place, which turned out to be a few blocks from my hotel, and the food was divine. I'm sitting outside, sipping red wine, clacking into my netbook, watching crowds go by, tourists and locals. Soccer, or I guess I should call it football, is on a TV and the locals clamor as goals are scored, groan as the opposing team scores back.

  I'm free. I'm happy. Anything can happen. I promise myself, as I write this, that I will not let opportunity pass me by. Fear cannot stop me, not anymore. I will let life sweep me away. I have a good head on my shoulders, a sense of right and wrong.

  June 13

  Today I met Luca. Oh Lord. Luca. How do I describe him? Just saying his name is like music, like poetry. Luca.

  Tall, dark, and handsome doesn't even begin to cut it. A physical description won't do him justice, because he's male beauty personified, but I'll try.

  Six foot three or four, lean and hard with broad shoulders and a slim waist, long, thick legs. Inky, glossy black hair, a little too long, a little messy, drifting in front of his eyes, and oh, his eyes. Good gravy. Luca's eyes are the brown of...what? Cinnamon and melted milk chocolate. Rich, dark earth, lit by the sun. His hands are powerful, but gentle. Long fingers, musician's fingers, nimble and sure.