“Get mad, Astaire.” I move closer.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Take it out on me.” Closer yet. Nothing separates our mouths but a few inches of thick, ripe tension.
“I’m done here.” She moves, slinking past me.
I manage to catch her by the wrist and guide her back, gentle enough so she knows I’m not forcing her to stay.
She’s free to go, but I want her to hear me out.
She needs to hear me out.
“When life kicks you when you’re down, fight back. Don’t lie there and take it,” I say. “Don’t feed yourself some bumper sticker mantra that makes you feel better for all of ten seconds.”
“So I should just be heartless and miserable all the time?”
“Not all the time—sometimes.”
“I’m happy, Bennett.” Her attempt at a convincing tone is a joke, an insult to both of us. “I don’t want to be like you.”
“Sometimes we don’t have a choice. Sometimes we do what we have to do.”
Her chest lifts and falls as our eyes hold, and I narrow the distance between us, my fingertips grazing her delicate jawline.
I know what happens when you keep the darkness in. One day it forces its way out, darker, angrier than ever before. And there’s no telling what it makes you do.
I crush her pomegranate mouth with a kiss and pull her against me.
Flames lick the interior of the fireplace beside us and behind us, city nights twinkle.
Astaire kisses me back, gasping for air but refusing to come up for it as we stumble backwards and sink into the leather sofa cushions. I pull her into my lap, her thighs straddling me as she grinds against me, kisses so hard and determined they hurt—the best kind.
I all but tear her sweater off of her and she lowers her mouth to mine again, her hands working my waistband, slipping beneath my boxers, palming my cock as it grows harder for her by the second.
The magnetism between us is potent, dangerous.
A strange, inner excitement floods my veins before charging into explosive currents.
She grinds against me, and I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of her jeans before flicking the button and tugging the zipper.
Her mouth collides with mine again, this time more tongue than teeth, but when she reaches for my shirt, I capture her hands.
“Shirt stays on.” I move for her bra, unclasping the hook and tugging it down her goose-flesh-covered arms.
I’m not ashamed of my scar, but it tends to detract from the heat of the moment—especially with the sympathetic, heart-of-gold types. I don’t want Astaire to ask questions, to pity me—I want her to ride my cock and not worry if I’m going to have a massive coronary at thirty years old.
Her fiery lips skim mine and she makes a subtle move for my shirt again, and again, I redirect her attentions … elsewhere … in the form of my fingers slipping beneath the soaked gusset of her lace panties. I slide them between her warm, wet pussy lips before plunging two of them inside her.
Tossing her head back, she exhales, body quivering and mouth curling up at the sides—pure bliss with a hint of throttled madness.
Sliding my fingers from her, I bring them to her mouth, inviting her to taste what I’m doing to her … the sweet torture, the conflicted arousal of wanting the very person who makes your blood boil.
“I want you there,” I point to the end of the sofa. “Bent over.”
Her eyes soften, confusion perhaps.
My body aches for her.
Overthinking and second-guessing have no part in this.
“I’m going to fuck you from behind, Astaire,” I spell it out for her. “I want you to feel all of me. Every last fucking inch, all the way to the deepest parts of you.”
She hesitates.
“What? You thought I was going to fuck you missionary-style? Look into your eyes and tell you how beautiful you are while we both pretend this isn’t just sex?” I exhale.
She says nothing.
“You know that’s not what this is about.” I turn her in my lap so she’s facing away, my hand soft around her neck as I lean close and breathe against her ear before taking a nibble. “You and I both know why I invited you here tonight. And we both know why you came. I want you, Astaire. And you want me. We both have our reasons, and there’s nothing wrong with any of them.”
Silence settles between us, nothing but shallow breaths and the gentle glow of the fireplace. Just when I’m positive she’s about to melt against me, cave in to her inmost desires, she climbs off me and begins to gather her clothes off the floor like she’s got a plane to catch—or someplace better to be.
“I’m sorry.” She brushes a strand of hair from her face, swooping, grabbing her panties and bra and collecting everything in her arm. “I can’t do this. I don’t do casual hook ups. And even if I did … I couldn’t do them with you.”
Breathless, she shimmies into her panties and tight jeans and doesn’t bother with her bra, shoving it into her purse before tugging her sweater over her head. The soft fabric hugs her swollen tits and tents around her nipples. She scans the room, gaze settling toward the foyer—her escape.
Jesus Christ, the woman can’t get out of here fast enough.
She won’t look at me, but she isn’t crying. In fact, she isn’t showing a shred of emotion. If I had to guess, she wants to get the hell out of here and pretend like none of this happened.
Good luck with that, sweetheart …
She’s going to be thinking about this night, about me, about how hot the sex could’ve been, about all the strange yet exhilarating ways I could’ve made her feel … for the rest of her life.
Rising, I slip into my boxer briefs and escort her to the door, fetching her coat from the closet. It’s best that I don’t speak. It’s best that I let her have her moment. I’m not going to talk her into sleeping with me, and I’m sure as hell not going to beg her to stay.
“I’m so sorry.” Her hand rests on the knob, her gaze trained on the door. Still, the woman won’t meet my gaze.
“Stop apologizing, Astaire.”
And with that, I let her go.
Nineteen
Astaire
* * *
If it weren’t for the fact that I can still feel the heat of his mouth on mine, still feel the aching tension between my thighs when I close my eyes, I’d be certain the events of last night were a dream.
I jam my key into the back entrance lock at the Elmhurst Theatre Saturday morning, dressed to clean. The owners hosted a Great Gatsby-themed gala last night, complete with live music and catering, and since I’m on the volunteer committee, I offered to show up first thing to help with clean-up.
“Morning, Astaire! There’s donuts and coffee in the staff room,” Conrad, a fellow volunteer, tells me when I make my way across the lobby. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks, Con.” I acknowledge him with a smile and nod, grab a few supplies from the cleaning closet, and head to the balcony to get started. My stomach is so tied in knots, I couldn’t eat if I tried.
I never should have gone to his place.
It was clearly a trap, a setup.
He knew exactly what he was doing luring me there under mysterious pretenses, apologizing like a perfect gentleman, then making his move when he was sure he had me where he needed me—open, vulnerable, confused by our mutual hypnotic attraction.