The way I used to feel about God.
Thinking of church and God brings with it a habitual spike of cold irritation, and it forces me to compose myself. I’m sure this woman thinks I’m nuts, coming up to her and then not even sustaining eye contact. Head in the game, Sean, I coach myself. Victory lap, victory lap.
“Nice night,” I offer.
She turns her head even more, the ends of her curls kissing her bare shoulders as she does, and suddenly all I want to do is kiss her bare shoulders myself, brush her hair aside and kiss along her collarbone until she whimpers.
“It is,” she finally answers, and God, her voice. Sweet and alto, with just the tiniest bit of husk to the edge of her words.
I cant my head back toward the party. “Doctor or donor?” I ask, trying to subtly warm my way to the real question—did you come here alone?
Her eyes widen again, and I realize my words have surprised her, although God knows why, it seems like a normal enough question. And then there’s a flash of something unreadable in her eyes before she tamps it down.
“Neither,” she says, and I know I’m not imagining the guardedness in her voice.
Fuck. I don’t want to spook her—but then again, I don’t know that what I do want to do is that much better. She’s so young, too young to invite back to my place, too young to pull up into a hidden balcony so I can drop to my knees and find out how she tastes…
God, I should walk away. Stick to my usual buffet of socialites and strippers. But even though I straighten up to go, I can’t actually make my body move away from her.
Those copper-tinted eyes. That luscious mouth.
It wouldn’t hurt just to talk, right?
She squares her shoulders as I’m thinking about this, lifts her chin as if she’s come to a decision. “Which are you?” she asks. “Doctor or donor?”
“Donor,” I say with a smile. “Or rather, my firm is a donor.”
She nods, as if she already knew the answer, which I suppose she did. Most doctors have a decent tux in the closet, but let’s face it, they aren’t always known for their style. And I’m nothing tonight if not stylish. I reach up to adjust my bow tie, just so she can see the glint of my watch and cufflinks as I do.
To my surprise, she giggles.
I freeze, suddenly afraid I have food on my face again. “What?”
“Are you—” She’s giggling enough that it’s hard for her to squeeze out the words. “Are you…preening?”
“I am not preening,” I say with some indignation. “I’m Sean Bell, and Sean Bell does not preen.”
Her hand is up covering her mouth now, all long slender fingers and nails painted a shimmering gold. “You are preening,” she accuses through her fingers. Her smile is so big I can see it around her hand, and oh my God, I want lick my way down her stomach and look up to see that smile while I’m kissing between her legs.
“You know, women don’t usually laugh at me like this,” I say in a long-suffering voice, even though I’m smiling too. “Normally, they’re very impressed by my preening.”
“I’m very impressed,” she says with mock-earnestness, trying to school her face into an expression of fake awe, but she can’t do it and she just ends up laughing even harder. “So very impressed.”
“Impressed enough to let me bring you a drink?” I ask. It’s part of the script, a response that comes from years of habit, and so it’s only after I say it that I remember I don’t even know if she’s legal for alcohol. “Uh. Can you drink?”
Her smile slips a little and she drops her hand to her waist, where she runs abstracted lines along the silk. “I just turned twenty-one last week.”
What’s the rule again? Half my age, plus seven?
Shit, she is definitely way too young for me.
“So you can drink,” I say, “but I’m too old to be bringing you drinks, which is the real problem.”
She arches an eyebrow, her voice gently teasing. “Well, you are really old.”
“Hey!”
That smile again. Christ. I could watch that mouth move from a scrumptious little moue to a giant smile and back again for the rest of my life.
“Anything but wine,” she says, still smiling. “Please.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling back too. Grinning as if I’m a kid who’s just gotten asked to dance for the first time at a middle-school mixer. What is wrong with me? One pretty twenty-one-year-old and my victory lap has turned into a hike through eager newbie territory. And I’m anything but a newbie.
But still, my heart is pounding fast and my cock is stirring against my pants as I go get this woman a drink. Even though she’s too young. Even though I don’t know her. Even though she laughed at me.
I kind of like that she laughed at me, actually. Usually I’m taken very, very seriously—in bed and out of it—and I’m surprised at how good it feels to have to work for this girl’s admiration.
That’s it, I decide. That’s what I want: to win her over the tiniest bit. Maybe it would be wrong to take her home, but if I can make her leave tonight wishing I would’ve taken her home, that will be enough for me. Enough to scratch the itch.
I get her a gin and tonic from the bar, asking the bartender to take it easy on the gin, and get myself another scotch, and then I return to the terrace, relieved to see her still there, staring pensively out at the skyline with her arms wrapped around her chest.
“Cold?” I ask, prepared to shrug out of my tuxedo jacket and hand it to her, but she waves me off.
“I’m okay.” She takes the gin from me, taking a careful sip, then making a face. “Is there any gin in this?”
“You’re young,” I say, a bit defensively. “Your tolerance is low.”
“Are you this protective of every woman you meet?” she asks. “Or am I special?”
“You’re definitely special.” I deliver the line with all the charm and panache I’ve collected over the years, throwing in the dimple for good measure, and then she laughs at me.
Again.
I sigh. “Is it just utterly hopeless?”
“Is what utterly hopeless?”
I take a sip of my scotch, giving her my best puppy eyes. “Getting you to like me.”
She takes a sip of her own drink to mask her smile. “I think I like you just fine. But you don’t have to do the charming guy thing with me.”
“Well then. What thing works for you?”
She thinks for a moment, and the breeze toys with the ends of her hair, making them sway and dance. That strange feeling pulls at my chest again, as if the play of her hair in the wind is some kind of spell, conjuring up memories of stained glass and whispered prayers.
“I like honesty,” she decides aloud. “Try the honest guy thing.”
“Hmm,” I muse, tapping my finger against my scotch glass. “Honest guy thing. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“It’s the only thing that works for me,” she warns, an impish grin playing across her features. “I need complete honesty.”
“I’ll tell you what—I’ll be honest with you if you’ll be honest with me.”