The Virgin Society Collection

5. The Right Thing

5

THE RIGHT THING

Layla

Is this what a good date feels like? This fizzy feeling spreading through every molecule of my body?

I’ve felt this way for the entire meal, here in the warm night air, surrounded by the scent of the ocean on the patio of this open-air café on South Beach. Throughout the meal we’ve chatted about what we love about Miami (almost everything), what I love about New York (my friends and the way the city challenges me every day), and what Nick loves about London (the speed and the energy, but never ever the weather, and he still misses California, where he lived for a few years after he grew up in New York).

Now, as the meal winds down, I take a final bite of the plantains and peppers dish. The flavors snap, crackle, and pop in my mouth, but then finish like a sugary kiss.

After I chew, I set down my fork. “It’s a little sweet and a little spicy,” I declare.

Nick lifts a brow playfully. “Are you talking about the dish or the night?”

This man is such a dirty flirt. I bob a shoulder and give it right back to him. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”

A rumble comes from his throat, sexy and carnal, then he says, “I’d definitely like to find out.”

Tingles shimmy down my spine. He’s so forward, so different from the guys I’ve dated. There is no “ just so you know ” to Nick. He puts his cards on the table. Like the fact that he’s leaving tomorrow morning, which he told me after we ordered. “Don’t worry. I’m leaving then too,” I’d said.

Translation: I don’t want strings either.

Except…I suppose he hasn’t technically put any sex cards on the table yet. He hasn’t exactly said if he wants this date to end in his suite or mine. Or the third, and horrid option—here at the restaurant.

I don’t want to presume. I don’t want to ask either. Maybe because I don’t want to be disappointed if he’s not angling for a one-night stand, like I am. This is a role reversal for me, to be the one wanting it.

And I am wanting it badly with him. From his swagger, to his confidence, to his maturity, Nick’s everything I’ve been waiting for.

But I’m not quite sure how to play this round of do-we-or-don’t-we poker. Best to wait. I glance around Catalina’s, savoring the sultry atmosphere of the bustling patio, the vibrant music, the clever dishes. “This place is amazing. Thank you for dinner. Are you a restaurant scout? Because…wow.”

Nick smiles but doesn’t gloat. “I’m glad you like it.”

He leans a little closer, then lifts a finger, gesturing toward the edge of my eye. “So is that a winged eyeliner?”

My chest flutters. No man has ever asked me about my makeup before. “Yes. I did it myself.”

“I had a feeling.”

My pulse flutters even harder. He must have googled me after seeing The Makeover on my conference name tag. “Did you watch my videos?”

He takes a moment to take me all in. “I did. Like your blue eyeshadow one. You are gorgeous in blue, especially with your ink,” he says, his gaze drifting to my left shoulder. My daisy’s covered right now, but the stem is visible, including the two leaves at the bottom—designed like music notes instead of leaves. I feel a little self-conscious when he looks at it so I’m glad he doesn’t linger too long before he returns his gaze to my face, then says, “Especially with your stunning eyes. But I suspect you look gorgeous in… anything, ” he says.

But I hear what’s unsaid.

You’d look gorgeous in nothing too .

Only, I want to hear from his lips that he’s dying to see me wearing that. So I wait. I’ll wait all night if I need to. “Thank you, Nick,” I say.

“I watched several of your videos earlier,” he says and it’s not said as a confession, like he’s embarrassed he looked me up, or like he thinks he engaged in some dirty little secret as a heterosexual man watching a woman’s makeup videos. There’s pride in his tone.

“I had a feeling,” I say.

“I wouldn’t know a damn thing about winged eyeliner if I hadn’t been addicted to my phone while I was getting ready earlier. My phone got a pretty good workout.”

“The image of you watching my makeup videos while you got ready to see me is going to be hard to get out of my head,” I say, unable to suppress a smile or to stifle the zing in my belly.

In fact, I do the opposite of stifling it. I’m jazzed from his interest, so I kick my sandaled foot under the table back and forth, feeling good, feeling frisky. Then Nick surprises me, capturing my ankle in his big hand.

First my elbow, now my ankle. These unexpected touches light me up.

With an audible hum, he slides his hand up, wrapping his palm around my calf.

That feels so good. So decadent. His hand is strong and determined. He rubs, leaving tendrils of heat in his wake, sparks that spread all over me. “I liked watching your videos, Lola. I felt like I was getting to know you. To understand you.”

“What did you understand?” I ask, fighting to stay in the conversation rather than melting into a puddle.

“You love teaching, sharing, talking. You’re vibrant, and I enjoyed watching you work.”

There’s a subtext to his words—he finds it sexy that I like what I do. He wasn’t just staring at my videos because he thinks I’m pretty. He likes that I like my job. Perhaps because he so clearly likes his.

“I liked watching you work earlier today too,” I say, winging a smile his way.

“But turnaround is fair play,” he says devilishly, traveling his fingers down my calf now. “Maybe I need to find a way to distract you.”

This is my chance to kick the door open more. To push closer to what I want without being a Bryce. “You could, say, leave comments online about what you want to do to me,” I offer suggestively.

Immediately he grips my calf harder, tighter. Then his hand ventures up my knee, reaching the fabric of my dress. He pushes the material up, covering my knee with his palm. His fingertips stroke my skin, higher, a little higher.

“But see, I’m not the kind of man who’d leave comments online for the woman he craves. I’d tell you face-to-face. So I can watch your reaction. Savor it,” he says, then grazes his fingers up my thigh. Heat spreads to the ends of me. “I just haven’t decided.”

My breath catches, and I feel wobbly even though I’m in a chair. “You haven’t decided what you want to do to me?” I ask, so I’m crystal clear.

There’s a confident nod. An intensity in his eyes. “There are so many ideas flickering through my head. So many things I desperately want to do to you later,” he says, like he’s playing with ideas, weighing possibilities.

Arousal floods me like a warm river. I’m wrapped in a cocoon of pleasure and lust thanks to his words, his voice, his heady intensity. His raw sex appeal. Then, he lets go of my thigh, leans back in his chair, and parks his arms behind his head, all cool and man in charge. “But not quite yet.”

I want to scream for him to touch me again.

He picks up his glass, takes a final sip, then signals for the check when he spots the server.

I take a moment to catch my breath. To fan myself.

After he signs the check, Nick turns to me and says, “Thank you for letting me take you out to dinner.”

“Thank you. I had an amazing time.”

“Me too.” He stands, offers his hand, and I take it. We leave the restaurant and stroll down the block, neither one of us wanting this night to end, it seems. With a hand on my lower back, he says in a low voice, “I need to spend more time with you to decide what to do to you first, Lola Jones.”

It’s not the first time he’s said my name tonight, but for a few seconds, a smidge of guilt wedges into my chest over the use of it. If I’m going to sleep with him—if I’m going to finally have sex—should he know my legal name?

But then I kick that guilt away. There’s no need to tell him my real name because there’s no need to bring up my too-well-known family. Not my mother. And certainly not my father. My chest squeezes painfully but I don’t want to poke around the hole in my heart.

I only want to feel good tonight.

When I hear a poppy tune drifting down from a nearby club, I’m desperate to stay in the moment with us, not my dark thoughts, so I ask, “Do you like to dance?”

Nick seems to chew on the question, then he stops walking, dropping his hand from my back. A crease digs into his brow. “I keep meaning to ask. How old are you?”

Whoa. That’s a mood killer.

This conversation was inevitable, despite how long he’d waited to ask the question, I’d wondered if it was a non-issue for a one-night stand. I could lie. I could tell him I’m twenty-five. That feels old enough . And how would he ever know the truth? I’m not going to see him again after tonight.

But I’m not going to lie to get him in bed. I’d be livid if a man did that to me. So I lift my chin, all tough girl now. Only, before I can answer, my phone trills. I grab it from my clutch purse to silence it. The word “Mom” flashes across the screen.

My stomach roils.

Are you kidding me?

She’s the worst person in the world to call right now. I hit ignore. But Nick’s already seen the name winking on the screen.

Mom, Mom, Mom .

Could I seem any younger?

His expression shifts instantly. Gone are the sparkling flirty eyes. In their place is an all-business gaze. “If you need to talk to her, it’s fine.”

Just ask when it’s my bedtime, why don’t you?

I try to smile it away—the kind of unknowable smile I learned to use when I was exhausted from everyone asking how I was doing once I finally returned to my junior year of high school after that night . “It’s fine. She’s just a worrier,” I say, lightly.

But I understand her worries. Truly, I do.

“Do you need to call her?” There’s distance in his voice, like this whole exchange bothers him. It bothers me too. But I see she sent me a text.

Sweetheart, are we on for lunch and tennis Sunday at the club? I want to hear all about Miami. Also, lock the chain on your door.

She knows I do, but she always reminds me anyway…but I get it. Also, I always lock the chain.

“She wants to get together when I’m back in the city. I’ll text her later,” I say to Nick, but I don’t mention the tennis club because that screams Richie Rich. Then, fuck it. If this date is going tits up because I’m young, so be it. Better now than later. “To answer your question, I’m twenty-three. I graduated from business school a few months ago. I started The Makeover app while I was getting my MBA.” Maybe this whole short-lived tryst with Nick will be over before it begins. I’ve finally had a great date and it’s spiraling down the drain. But so be it. “So if that’s a problem, then I’ll say goodnight. Thank you for dinner, and I had a lovely time.”

I take a step to leave.

“Whoa,” Nick says and grabs my wrist, stopping me. He looks me in the eyes, intense, powerful. “I had a great time. I’m still having a great time. But if you’re ready for this night to be over, I’ll walk you back to the hotel. I’ll say goodnight in the lobby like a gentleman after I make sure you get safely in the elevator. But if you want to dance, then I want to take you to that club,” he says.

I’m thrilled and relieved at the same time. It’s not the end—it’s the start of the rest of the night. “I do want to go with you.”

He takes my yes —rightly—as permission to hold my wrist tighter. “I asked your age because, one, I’m curious. Doesn’t take a genius to work out that there’s more than a decade between us. But I also asked because I’m thirty-eight, and I don’t usually go to clubs. I will take you wherever you want to go, but I’m not going to thrust my arms in the air and toss back shots and jump up and down.”

I laugh at those images. “I don’t want you to dance like that.”

“Good.” He inches closer, crowding me here on the sidewalk, the beach to one side, the South Beach scene to the other. He drops my wrist, his hand snaking around my waist instead. With him this close, I catch a hint of his cologne—he smells like fresh-cut wood and snow. Intoxicating. “If we go dancing, I’m going to dance like a man who wants a woman. Close to you,” he adds, letting those words linger in the air between us like sweet smoke. “My hands on your soft arms, my chest pressed to your lovely back, my nose in your beautiful fucking hair that I’ve been dying to inhale all night long.” His fingers travel lower, curving over the fabric of my dress covering my ass. “Is that how you’d like to dance with me?”

I can’t speak.

I have no words. I simply ache .

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Good. Then let’s go. But first…”

He reaches into his back pocket and takes out his phone. He slides open the screen, clicks on it, then shows it to me. It’s a text message to him from his mother.

I hope you’re remembering to wear sunscreen, Nick.

I laugh, all the tension defused. My wariness vanished into the night. “Well, did you, Nick? Remember to wear sunscreen?”

With a twinkle in his eyes, the gorgeous man shakes his head as if he’s relishing his naughtiness. “I don’t always do the right thing.”

“But you said you’d walk me back to the hotel. That seems like the right thing,” I say, back to teasing.

“I’m not sure dancing with you like I want to fuck you is the right thing. But I’m going to do it anyway.”

I blink.

This is true speechlessness.

Then he brushes his lips against the shell of my ear, whispering, “Be a good girl, Lola. Write back to her and tell her you’ll see her Sunday. Because later, you’re going to be very, very busy.”

Desire swoops down my body, pulses hot between my thighs.

I can’t wait to be very busy.

He steps back as I click open the message from my mother and tell her I can’t wait for lunch.

Then I stuff my phone in my clutch, shut the purse with a decisive snap, and take his offered hand. He leads me into the club, paying the cover charge. Under the deafening beat, he guides me to the dance floor, weaving between hot, sweaty bodies as we go. We pick a spot, and he moves behind me. Yanks my body against his. My back to his chest. My ass to his erection.

As promised, he buries his face in my hair and draws a long, lingering scent.

Goose bumps flare all over my body from his possessive, carnal move.

He can’t seem to stop playing with the loose strands of my hair falling from my clip, catching hits of me as his hands slide down my arms then wrap around my waist.

I lift mine above my head, dancing the way I like. Free and easy. Living in my body. Embracing the night, grooving to the music, letting go.

But I’m dancing a whole new way too.

Close to him. My body melting against his.

As we move and grind, I have so many answers about this man—answers I didn’t know I was seeking. Nick Adams likes foreplay. Nick Adams likes to take his sweet time. Nick Adams likes…me.

Lola Jones, the woman without a history.

And as he runs his nose along my neck, I have another answer too. I don’t want to wait any longer.

I can’t hear a soul above the loud thumping of the music, but my words are unmistakable when a few songs in, I slink around in his arms, face him, and mouth fuck me .

We’re out the door in seconds.