2. Antonio
Antonio
Idiscreetly pretend to scratch my nose so I can sniff my fingers like some kind of goddamn creep. A groan threatens as I smell the scent I’d only gotten a whiff of earlier when shaking Ophelia’s hand. Jasmine and maybe citrus?
It suits her, delicate and sweet. It must be her hand lotion. And she most certainly uses lotion because her hand was smooth and supple in my rough one.
I like that her scent is subtle. Ophelia doesn’t douse herself in perfume or lotion like the women that hit on me in bars.
Not that I really go to bars anymore. The tedium of getting all dressed up to go out and find someone to warm my bed for a night has gotten old, only to end up being disappointed later.
I’ve found that as I've gotten older and gained more gray hairs, the women who are interested in me have gotten progressively younger. Not sure why they’d be interested in an older man like me. Daddy issues, maybe?
Maybe it’s their lack of maturity, but I can’t stand talking to most of them. Their fakeness and high giggles grate on my nerves, but thankfully, the majority of them are fine with a single night of the pleasure I can bring them.
They’re definitely eager in bed, though I’m left mostly unsatisfied.
I mean, I have orgasms, but that’s it. There’s no deep satisfaction that makes me want to spend more time with her, to pull her against me while we fall into an exhausted sleep.
I can’t remember the last time I spent an entire night in bed with a woman.
Hell, I can’t remember the last time I even got laid.
Racking my brain, I force the memory. Her name was Kylie or Kaylie or something.
I think I tried to block it out when she told me afterward that she was twenty-five years old.
Jesus, that’s over twenty years my junior.
I’ve never ordered a ride home for a woman more quickly, feeling disgusted with myself.
It’s not like I went out looking for a woman that young, but she approached me and was very forward.
To my credit, she appeared to be in her thirties.
That was around seven months ago and marked the last night I’d been to a bar.
I drag my hand over my facial hair, hoping to preserve a hint of Ophelia’s sweetness there so I can enjoy it later. Yep, I’m definitely a creep.
Ophelia laughs at something on her phone, and the sound is so alluring, a deep, genuine laugh that makes me smile. She’s the kind of woman I need to be with. She’s real and…
No. That can’t happen, you arsehole. She’s Remi’s mother.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, glancing over. Damn, she really is beautiful.
“Have you heard of Urban Dictionary?”
“Mmm,” I hum. “I don’t think so.”
“My friend Claudia introduced me to it. It’s a website with all kinds of definitions for slang terms.”
“Ah, I bet that could come in useful for parents these days. I have no idea what half the teenagers are saying. Like, what the hell is rizz?”
“Oh,” she says, nodding her head and making her hair bounce. “I came across that one the other day. It’s short for charisma, but the kids use it for a guy who can get lots of girls.”
“Makes sense. So what made you laugh earlier?”
Ophelia hesitates before asking, “You’ve heard of cock blocking?”
I almost veer off the road at the sound of that term coming from her classy mouth. And great. Now I’m thinking of her mouth and my cock in a scenario that’s far from classy.
“Aye,” I grunt, tensing every muscle in my body to keep from springing an erection. It doesn’t work.
Ophelia laughs again, looking at her phone. “Well, a clam jam is the female equivalent of a cock block.”
I burst into laughter. “I’m going to have to look up this website.”
She crosses her legs, and my gaze shoots down to the skin exposed just above her knee. It looks as creamy and sweet as ice cream, and I picture myself on my knees for her, having a taste to see if she’s as delicious as she looks.
“Avoid any entries that have the words hot pocket in them. Trust me.” She shudders. “My friend sent me an interesting one the other day. Girl math.”
I turn on my blinker to merge into the left lane. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s girl math?”
“When a woman justifies a purchase using shady calculations. Like if you find a pair of hundred dollar shoes for sixty dollars, that means you still have forty dollars of free money to spend. Or if you preorder a book on your Kindle, when it releases, it’s basically free since it’s already paid for. ”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” I say with a teasing smile. “Maybe I’m actually a girl.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Ophelia biting into her bottom lip. “I don’t think you need to worry about anyone thinking you’re not all man, Antonio.”
Fucking. Hell.
Needing a change of subject before I burst from my pants, I clear my throat and ask, “Is there also something called man math?”
Ophelia rolls her lips between her teeth. “Yes, but it has to do with the strange phenomenon of men overestimating the, um, lengths of… things,” she says pointedly, recrossing her legs. “Like if a man says something is nine inches, but then you find out it’s only five, that’s man math.”
I’m inordinately relieved when I pull up to a red light because I’m not sure I can focus on the road right now. My eyes find Ophelia’s, and when I speak, it sounds like someone ran my vocal cords over a cheese grater a couple times.
“It’s a shame some men feel the need to do that. I think a woman deserves to know exactly what she’s in for.”
She swallows, and for a brief second, I see her eyes flicker down between my legs.
The man behind the zipper rises to the occasion like he’s performing beneath a spotlight.
Our stare lingers, and the prettiest flush rises up Ophelia’s neck.
Just as I begin to fantasize about other ways I can turn her skin pink, a horn behind us lets me know I’ve lost track of time.
I turn my attention back to the road, and once again, I feel the need to switch topics. “You mentioned your Kindle earlier. What do you like to read?”
“Anything with some good banter. I love Harlan Coben, but I also enjoy romance. AK Landow has some good spicy ones about couples who are a bit more mature, which is refreshing because it gets old reading about twenty-somethings all the time.” Ophelia tilts her chin up a little.
“Just because someone is of a certain age, that doesn’t mean their desires go away, and I think they deserve to have their stories told as well. ”
Do you have desires, Ophelia? I don’t voice it, but the question is certainly at the front of my mind now.
As we approach the gate in front of Ophelia’s neighborhood, I roll down my window. “The code is 0203,” she informs me before I can ask. A minute later, I pull up to her home. It’s a large, stately, red brick two-story with white columns and beautiful landscaping.
I’m not exactly poor. Remington Hale pays me very well, and I’ve made some solid investments over the years, but this kind of wealth is way out of my league.
As is the woman who owns it, I remind myself.
“Thank you for the ride, Antonio,” Ophelia says, reaching for the door handle, but I stop her with a hand on her arm.
“Please. Let me.”
She stops and dutifully waits for me to exit the SUV, round the front of it, and open her door.
When she takes my offered hand, I feel an electric sensation travel from my fingers and up my arm.
The step down is a little high for her, but with my help, she manages it gracefully.
Hell, everything about this woman is graceful, from the delicate curve of her neck to her designer skirt and top, which are a flattering shade of periwinkle.
“Thank you again,” she says when I release her hand.
“I’ll walk you in,” I reply, like we’re on a damn date. When she opens her mouth to protest, I narrow my eyes. “I insist on making sure you get inside okay.”
Ophelia’s lips are painted the softest shade of pink, and she gives me a small smile before nodding. She leads the way up the slate-lined walkway, and I fall in step beside her, my hand itching to rest on the small of her back. Instead, I allow it to hover just behind her.
She punches in a code on the front door, and we enter her high-ceilinged foyer. The floors are a light-gray marble, and everything in the space is light and airy, from the eggshell walls to the pastel artwork.
Ophelia sets down her purse on a side table. “Would you like a glass of tea or lemonade?” Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s something a bit hopeful in her gaze.
“A lemonade sounds great,” I say. I really should just go, but fucking hell. I’d like to spend a few more minutes with her. And when her lips curve up at the corners, I know I made the correct decision.
I trail her down a short hallway lined with a variety of family photos. When we turn into her expansive kitchen, Ophelia gasps.
“Oh shit.”
Water is pouring from beneath her sink and inching across the floor. I jump into action, removing my suit jacket and tossing it onto the back of a chair before rolling up my sleeves. “Do you have a tool kit?”
“I, um, yes,” she says, staring at the mess with a mixture of horror and panic.
“Go get that for me,” I order, sloshing through the water to the island.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve stopped the leak and patched the pipe beneath the sink. I wipe my forehead on the sleeve of my shirt as I stand. “That should hold it, but you’ll need to contact a plumber to repair it properly.”
“Thank you, Antonio. I’m so glad you were here. Otherwise, I would probably still be waiting on someone to get here to help me, and I’d have water up to my knees.” Her smile is warm and genuine, but it fades when her eyes rake down to my sopping wet clothes. “Oh no. You’re all wet.”
“It will be fine,” I assure her. “But I might need to borrow a towel.”
Ophelia grabs one from a large stack on the breakfast table. I guess she gathered them while I was working. But instead of handing it over, she unfolds the sky-blue towel and begins drying my bare arms.