Chapter 1
1
[Ruthie]
15 years later
You are cordially invited to
The Red Dress Affair
In honor of a celebrated life
Joanna Elizabeth Frederick
Beloved wife, mother, and cousin.
A s I stand in the empty ballroom for what felt like forever, I don’t know why this random memory comes back to me.
The Kiss Experiment.
Oh, to be eighteen, carefree and foolish .
At thirty-three, I am so pulled together I can’t breathe.
However, The Red Dress Affair is something special to Nylah, and because of my devotion to her, I’ve been helping her organize the fundraiser in honor of her cousin who died of heart disease, a top contender for the leading cause of death among women.
A broken heart is certainly eating away at my life.
For Joanna Elizabeth Frederick, her condition had gone undiagnosed, and she left behind a husband and three adult sons.
The timing of this year’s event is appropriate—Valentine’s Day—which, in my opinion, is one of the most contrived holidays in existence.
Shouldn’t every day with a partner be a celebration of love?
Ironically, Valentine’s Eve happens to fall on a Friday this year, thus Friday the thirteenth. And while most single women my age might be out celebrating Galentine’s Day with girlfriends, I’m standing here in California’s Coastal Resort ballroom waiting on Nylah, who has mysteriously disappeared.
The dimly lit space overlooks the Pacific Ocean through three gloriously large, arched windows. In my lagging patience, a gin and tonic was delivered to me by a harried waitress who told me Nylah would be back soon to finalize some last-minute detail that probably doesn’t need finalizing.
My mother-in-law is efficient. Or as she prefers to call herself, my mother-in-love, being that I married her son, Clifton, and she fell in love with me as well. The daughter she never had and always hoped for.
Is she technically my former mother-in-love? She’s not necessarily an ex-mother-in-law, right? What is the proper term for a woman whose son had been your husband, and said husband has passed away? Either way, Nylah Jacobson has been more of a mother to me than my own, but those thoughts have no place here this evening.
Neither do thoughts of Clifton. For the past eighteen months, I’ve been swimming in memories.
For only a moment, I want to forget.
Maybe Nylah is right. She’s been hinting that it might be time to open my heart to new possibilities. Strange advice from a former mother-in-law, but also so typical of Nylah.
“Fuck.”
My thoughts scatter when the expletive in a deep masculine grunt echoes throughout the empty room along with the distinct sound of someone tripping on the parquet dance floor in the center of the space. From my position near the three floor-to-ceiling windows, I’m obscured from his view.
“Excuse me.” I scoff, giving away my presence. I’ve been nursing the gin and tonic Nylah sent, holding the glass in my hand despite my crossed arms. A defensive stance. One in which I can never determine if a shield to protect myself or a clamp to hold myself together.
The intruder swipes a thick hand over his head and gruffly asks, “Where’s Nylah?”
He approaches my little corner of the room, and a strange vibration overtakes me. A weird energy crackles between us. I don’t feel threatened, but more like a familiarity with him, like something inside me recognizes him.
Which is impossible.
The man is broad and tall, his build athletic, with a stern expression that conflicts with the roundness of his face. In the backlight of the chandelier behind him, his hair appears brown, the color not distinct, and heavy scruff covers his jaw. He could be anyone and no one of importance. In the sports management industry, I see so many athletes that their images blur together unless Imperial Sports Management represents them. Not that this man is an athlete. In his pressed suit and crisp button-down shirt, he looks more like a businessman.
“And who might you be, flower?” His gaze blatantly skims over my body, undressing me with dark eyes that might border on deep green if the light were better in the room to distinguish the color.
His visual appraisal feels nice, if a bit intrusive. In my slim-cut pencil skirt and pearl-buttoned blouse that I can’t wait to strip off myself, I’m no one distinct. It’s been a long day. And I’m not certain men look at me like they really see me. The woman beneath the buttoned-up shirts and fitted skirts.
I can’t remember the last time I experienced the sensation of a man’s hands on me.
“Do I know you?” His thick brows cinch and that questioning voice sends a shiver down my spine. Does he feel it too? Does he sense the energy crackling between us?
“Have we been together?” His tone is sharp, and like a pin in a filled balloon, my hope-filled questions burst.
Maybe the sense of familiarity is just a result of the tension from the storm brewing over the ocean outside the windows. Rain is predicted. And this guy’s insulting insinuation is a lightning strike against him.
Blinking at his brashness, I stammer, “Excuse me?”
“I feel like I know you.” He snaps his fingers and points at me, like the motion will help jog his memory.
“Know me?” I choke, shifting to face him better, as if looking me directly in the eyes will jar his memory, which must be full of unfamiliar women he’s been with. My arms remain crossed. Definitely a shield in this situation. “Is that some kind of weak pick-up line?”
Being hit on feels like an impossibility. The concept of dating is foreign. I haven’t been with anyone other than Clifton. Ever.
“Do you want it to be a pick-up line?” The sudden arch of his thick brows and the way his mouth twists into a teasing smirk pops out a deep dimple, like a parenthesis on the curve of his lips. Lips that look rather full and emphasized by the punctuation of that dimple.
That spark of innocence on his face has me choking on an answer. “I . . . ”
“That’s what I thought.” He sighs heavily, lowering his shoulders and glancing around the empty room.
The tables are covered in snowy-white linen awaiting the floral arrangements due to be delivered tomorrow. I have no idea what Nylah’s last-minute detail could entail. The room will eventually be a hub of who’s who among athletes and business associates of Imperial Sports Management, all gathered for a good cause. For now, the space is quiet, hushed despite its cavernous size. Like a secret tucked into a corner of this resort.
“Do you happen to know what time it is?” My purse is on a chair on the other side of the room. I should have my phone in my hand in case Nylah tries to call me, but I’d gotten sidetracked by the windows and the view.
My intruder flicks his arm outward, exposing a thick silver watch on his wrist, and reads off the time. “Ten-fifteen.”
I’ve been waiting almost an hour for Nylah.
“Expecting someone?” he asks, bringing those dark eyes back to me.
“I was, but she’s late.” I take a sip of my drink as my mouth suddenly feels dry thanks to the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s still trying to undress me.
His eyebrows hitch again.
“She’s my?—”
His raised hand stalls my explanation. “You don’t need to explain. Whatever wets your petals.”
What the hell?
“Gotta girlfriend? That’s cool.” His left leg jiggles as his head nods in three short juts.
I should clarify that Nylah is my mother-in-law, but then I’d have to explain how I’m a widow, blah-blah-blah .
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” My voice comes out a little abrupt, because who is this man to be asking me such personal questions about my love life, five seconds after meeting?
“Boyfriend, then?” One brow arches .
I shake my head, the movement lessening the tension in me.
“Husband?”
I swallow thickly but shake my head again, lowering my gaze.
“Secret lover? Affair with the boss? Obsession with a hockey player?”
“What?” I stammer at the ridiculous list that reads like the tropes of a romance novel. “None of the above.” I chuckle despite myself.
“How do you feel about crushing on a baseball catcher?”
“I have no feelings about a baseball catcher,” I toss back at him.
Am I flirting with him?
Is he flirting with me?
“Yet.” He winks.
I should ask if he’s a baseball player, but I don’t. Instead, I sort of revel in the mystery of not knowing him despite the continual crackle of recognition. Something tells me I do know him; I just cannot place him. And even though he sensed he might know me, I’m suddenly appreciative that he doesn’t.
He doesn’t know my relationship with Nylah. He doesn’t need to know my marital status, or lack thereof.
“How do you know Nylah?” I ask curiously.
He tilts his head, assessing me. Those dark eyes have become a little more distinguishable.
“Now, that’s a very long story.” He offers a soft smile, one that borders on sadness, but quickly disappears as his mouth curves wider.
That smile. Those lips. Definitely something about him.
My racing heart almost confirms the strange sense of familiarity.
I lift my glass for the final dregs of my gin and tonic. The ice has melted. The remaining liquor watered down. I hold up the empty glass in salute. “Well, I’m off to bed.”
There’s no reason the statement should sound like a proposition, but it comes out throaty and thick. Tempting even. Or at least, it sounded that way in my head. Instead, I probably sounded like a strangling cat.
“What’s the rush, flower?”
The rush is a long hot bath and a romance novel calling my name. And with this sudden antsy sensation swirling around me because of this man’s appearance—broad shoulders, tempting eyes—he might play nicely in a little self-love fantasizing.
Strangers in a ballroom should make his checklist of relationship statuses.
Not that it would ever be my status.
I brush past him. Probably closer than I should be, because my long-sleeve-covered-arm rubs against his suitcoat-covered one, and a spark crackles through the layers of material. The flicker causes me to stop moving.
Or maybe it’s the sudden touch of his hand at my elbow. The warmth seeping through the thin, silky fabric of my blouse. The pressure cradling, tender yet firm.
“Wait.” The hesitation after he stops me has our eyes locking on each other.
A look. A moment.
His eyes come into view better in our shifted position. With his face in the light of the chandelier above the dance floor, those eyes sparkle. Definitely green. But there’s something else familiar about the deep mossy color with flecks of gold dancing inside them. In the better lighting, his hair appears more rust-colored with sprinkles of gray at both his temples and along his jawline. However, I still can’t dismiss this niggling sensation that suggests we have a connection .
“Have a drink with me.” He isn’t really asking, more like softly commanding. “It’s been a day.”
I know the feeling. It’s been a day of days and a year of days. Hell, eighteen months of days.
“My drink is gone.” I lift my glass and jiggle it, emphasizing the emptiness. “And I’m tired.” Suddenly, I’m bone weary. As much as I’d like to flirt with him, deep inside, I know flirting won’t lead anywhere because I’m me.
Responsible Ruthie . Always doing the safe thing.
He pouts at my excuse, blinks his eyes like a begging child, and something inside me snaps, like one of those glow-sticks they sell at stadiums. The kind you crack in the middle, and they illuminate, lighting up fluorescent and bright.
“I’ll get you another one. What’s your poison, flower?” He nods at the glass, before taking it from my hand, giving it a sniff, and setting it on the nearby banquet table which will hold an extensive spread tomorrow evening.
Flower . This is the third time he’s called me the term of endearment. At least, I think it’s an endearment. His voice turns a bit growly over it, sending a ripple up my spine, and making me feel like precious flora, delicately dancing in a breeze.
“Five minutes.” He holds up his large hand, spreading his fingers to emphasize the time. “One drink.” He curls his fingers so only his index points upward, long and thick, and strangely intimidating.
“And how do I know you won’t go get me a drink, spike it, and then drag me off to your room?”
His brows furrow in thought. His jovial face turns serious a second, acknowledging the reality in the risk. “I like your way of thinking. Safe. But, give me a chance to prove myself. I promise not to spike anything, and we’ll never leave this room.” His eyes suddenly flicker, the explosion of gold flecks like an oath. Another flash of flirtation .
I chuckle, shaking my head, uncertain why I’m agreeing, disbelieving it before I say, “Okay.”
“You’ll stay?” His brows lift, surprised yet hopeful.
I nod as he backs up, keeping his eyes on me with each step he takes backward. Hands raised, palms out, as if holding me in place.
“Stay.” His mouth curls again. One corner ticking higher than the other and that dimple sneaks out once more.
Do I have a thing for dimples? Where have I seen that dimple before? Are dimples recognizable?
The back of his heel smacks into the dance floor causing him to stumble a bit, similar to how he might have fumbled entering the room. The edge on the parquet flooring isn’t raised more than an inch. A slight incline from carpet to wood surface, and yet, he’s found the gap and tripped over it.
And something in that moment has me committing to stay put.
When he finally turns toward the door, feet forward and moving quickly toward the exit, I turn back toward the windows, wondering what I’m doing. What have I been waiting for?
Time has passed since Clifton’s death. Hours of emptiness that existed even before his passing.
I stare outward at the rolling ocean, crashing against the large bluff. Rain has finally broken free of the overcast clouds, pummeling the glass, forming tiny streams that slither down the slick panes. The image reminds me of tears.
Too many tears I’ve shed over someone unworthy of my grief.
My phone pings, the sound reverberating across the room in the eerie silence, and I cross the space to check the notification.
I’ll see you in the morning, darling .
Nylah. No surprise, she isn’t returning.
I could be angry that I’ve been waiting, angry at lost time, angry about so many things. Like the rain raging against the windows, I’m a storm, bottled up and eager to break free.
Strangely, I feel lighter at the moment.
Maybe it’s simply the sense of relief that Nylah doesn’t need me, and I can return to my room shortly.
Suddenly, a rush of a man re-enters the room. His steps are quick as he hits the parquet flooring in the center of the space, then stalls as he stares in the direction of the windows.
“Flower?” His voice sounds . . . disappointed. Like he believes I’ve left.
I’m probably imagining the tone, but something inside me stirs. Quickly, I tuck my phone back into my purse and cross the room toward him.
“Hey.” My throat struggles on the call, especially when he turns to look at me holding a full bottle of tonic underneath his arm, two crystal glasses with ice pinched between his fingers, and a green bottle of gin in his other hand.
Relief seems to settle on his shoulders which lower when he faces me.
Recognition strikes me full-on again and smacks my cheeks.
It can’t be, can it?
The gleam in his eyes. The twitch of his mouth. Those dimples.
Now would be the time to ask him who he is. Seek confirmation. If he is who I think he is, we do have history.
Is this serendipity? I’d just been thinking about that past moment. Those powerful sixty seconds. And now I’m being presented with a new minute. Not that this is a second chance or anything. Not that he’s going to kiss me, but still?—
“Flower.” He repeats the nickname with more confidence. “Where’d you go? ”
I shake my head. “What?”
“You look kind of deep in thought there. You aren’t thinking of bolting, are you?”
Would he chase me if I did? The idea is too absurd to ruminate over. My brain is already muddled between the painful memories of Clifton, the reminder of a special moment in my past, and now this. Him. Here.
I should reveal who I am. Instead, I mutter, “I’m good.” My voice is still a bit shaky as I watch him step over to the banquet table and set down the bottle of gin.
“Gin and tonic?” I confirm. “My favorite.”
“Lucky guess.” He winks before he moves the tonic water from beneath his arm to the table as well and settles the two glasses beside it, like a minibar.
I step closer to his position beside the table.
“Exhibit A.” He lifts the green bottle of gin and twists the cap. The sharp crack of the seal reassures me it’s a fresh container, unopened and free from any dangerous additives.
He pours a generous amount into each glass.
“Exhibit B.” He waves his hand in front of the tonic bottle.
I laugh at the dramatic display before he picks up the container and twists the sealed cap, which releases a long hiss of carbonation. He tops off each glass with tonic. As the sparkling liquid glugs over the ice, the tiny bubbles of carbonation release, and my belly fizzes like the sound.
What is happening here?
Then he slips his hand into his suit jacket pocket and pulls out a lime. He tosses the green citrus between his hands. “Shit. I didn’t think this part through. I don’t have a knife. Didn’t want to scare you. But now I don’t have a way to cut this thing.”
He inspects the lime a second, then bites off the end. Removing a hunk of rind from his mouth, he shoves his thumb into the fruit to separate it, ripping it in half.
“That was . . . brutal.” And yet something about it was freaking hot. The way he bit the tart citrus. The way he forced his thumb into the fruit. The way he cracked it open with no real effort.
He shakes out his hand—something about the motion also triggering a memory—before squeezing each half of the lime into our separate glasses.
A drop of lime juice still lingers on his lips, drawing my attention to it, wondering how it might taste. How he would taste.
“I love extra lime,” I offer for no reason, while my heart continues to hammer so loud I’m certain he can hear the beat across the distance between us.
“To extra lime.” He lifts a glass and holds it out to me, and I take the final steps to bring us closer.
He raises the other glass and taps mine, but his eyes remain on me, waiting for me to take my first sip.
With those dark-green eyes watching me, my gut rumbles.
Tell him.
However, I don’t say anything. Instead, I take a drink, relishing the explosion of tart lime on my tongue and then choking on the strength of gin.
“Whoa.” I pucker and sway a bit on my heels.
“Easy there, flower.” He chuckles, catching my elbow again. “Don’t wilt on me yet.”
The warmth of his hand seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse once more. The heat growing from a slow burn to a flaming inferno as he swipes up my arm to my shoulder where he squeezes at the joint.
Before I know it, his palm is on the side of my neck and his thumb rubs up the column of my throat to my chin. The scorching blaze spreads throughout me. If those eyes are a thicket of trees, he’s just lit a forest fire inside me.
“Your skin is soft,” he marvels, pausing a second. “Wonder where else you might be tender? ”
Ensnared by his eyes, I’ve stepped even closer to him, or maybe he’s come closer to me.
Again, I grapple with admitting who I am. Suggesting I know who he is. Omission is a dangerous game, and I’m so bad at playing them.
Instead, I’m breaking rules without knowing the instructions, and for once, it feels so damn good.
While his touch is strangely soothing, it brands my skin. The width of his hand is so large, his fingertips press on the back of my neck. Essentially, he’s cuffing my throat and there is something tantalizing and thrilling about the position.
Would he pin me down? Hold me in place?
A rush of everything unfamiliar, and surprisingly pleasant, sweeps up my center, clogging said throat. My body thumps in a lower place. A place longing to be touched. To be spread open the way he forced that lime.
Swiftly, his hand slips from my throat and glides across my upper chest before lowering to my breast.
The shock sends a conflicting sensation through my body, and I step back, snapping the connection between us.
He quickly lifts his hand, palm outward. His brows lift, eyes wide. “Shit. Sorry. That was a bit fast.”
“You think?” Despite the sarcasm, my tone is breathy, a contradiction to the harsh reprimand and leaving me questioning myself. Am I truly offended?
Responsible Ruthie screams yes . Inappropriate. Unacceptable. But the wannabe Rebellious Ruthie buried deep inside me, taunts all my uptight morals and wants to break free from restraint.
“I shouldn’t have—” He points awkwardly toward my breasts with a thick finger and draws a big circle in the air with his fingertip. “That was crossing a line. One you clearly aren’t interested in stepping over.”
He sets his drink on the banquet table. In frustration, and perhaps a bit of shame, he rubs a hand over his short hair, averting his gaze and shaking his head.
“Fucking idiot,” he mutters to himself.
Following his lead, I set my drink down as well and cross my arms over my chest again.
“It’s okay.” Disappointment suddenly seems to have a hold of my throat, and I want his hands back on me. I want that thumb beneath my chin and those fingers on my nape. I want that big palm to actually squeeze my breast, where my nipples are now hard and aching for additional attention.
“I’m sorry.” He finally risks a glance at me. “I’m not known for making the best decisions.”
And touching me was a mistake .
Is there something deeper than disappointment? Something gut-punchingly lower than what I feel? Because I don’t want to be a slip-up for him.
“Apology accepted.” I risk reaching for his hand, curling my fingers around the thickness of his thumb. The one that split open a lime. I squeeze with the intention of quickly releasing him.
Only, he captures my fingers before I can pull away from him, pinning them against his heated palm. Glancing down at my trapped fingers, the sensation between us is no longer sparks and crackles but warmth and comfort. Understanding. Patience.
Could he remember me? It’s clear he doesn’t recognize me, but does he sense the connection? On some deeper level, does he feel a pull toward me like I feel toward him?
The thoughts feel otherworldly. Like the Universe is speaking but I can’t read the script.
He surprises me once more by leaning forward and placing the lightest kiss against my cheek, softly repeating his apology, “I’m sorry.”
How often have I heard those words in the past eighteen months and yet nothing has sounded as genuine as the phrase on his lips.
He doesn’t know me. He knows nothing about me, but his apology brings a prickle to my eyes. A burn of tears I fight to dismiss.
Swallowing against the thickness in my throat, the swell of disappointment before I have a right to be disappointed, I whisper again, “It’s okay.”
The reply is simple, innocent enough, and yet, somehow . . . permission.
He doesn’t have to recognize me. He doesn’t need to understand me on a deeper level. I just want more from him. Another moment.
Tipping up on my toes, I brush my lips over his. A whisper of a kiss. A breath of connection. The move is the most forward I’ve ever been, and I’m slow to pull back, desperate to link us together while accepting I’ve gone too far.
Still, heat radiates over my mouth. The brief exchange has once again turned into something electric.
I don’t know who moves first but suddenly, our lips are locked. His hand returns to my throat and I’m clutching the lapel of his jacket.
He tugs me closer to him. Or maybe I pull him to me.
Nothing matters other than the explosive connection of our mouths. The reunion of our lips, because in this exact moment, there is no doubt about who he is.
Bolan Adler.
Star college athlete. Man about campus.
My sixty-second kiss experiment partner.
The tingle of recognition has unraveled into fiery longing. One deeply rooted inside me. The connection moves from electric sparks to something firework-level. Something grand finale at Disneyland. Or the symbolism of a New Year’s celebration.
However, beneath the dizzying display is a little voice of reason, telling me not to venture any further. Exert caution, it warns, because this moment might come back to bite me in the ass later. But I don’t listen. I’m tired of listening to reason, when all I want to do is feel reckless.
I wrap an arm around his neck, still clutching the lapel of his jacket with my other hand, as if he’ll slip out of my grasp once again. In sixty seconds, he’ll be gone once more.
His hand presses on my lower back, plastering me to his chest. My breasts ache. Nipples peak. The softness of my bra is too much against them. The firmness of his chest sharpens the need within me.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth. “You taste familiar.”
The limes. It must be the lime he so aggressively bit, and the gin and tonic on our tongues, which swirl against one another, sweeping deeply inside each other’s mouth as if we can drink the other in.
“Want to taste you in other places.”
I pull back, shocked by the brazen admission while another rush of excitement floods my lower belly and sets the throbbing at my core to a rave-worthy beat.
Yes. Yes. Yes .
I’m desperate for him to commit to his statement. Willing to let his tongue slice me open like his thumb forced its way into that citrus fruit. He must sense my desire, because he lifts me by my backside. My skirt is too tight to spread my knees and wrap around him, but no matter, as I’m suddenly seated on the edge of the banquet table.
His thick fingertips fumble with the precious pearl buttons on my blouse and he watches where he struggles with the tiny closures. “Need to see more of you.”
“Yes,” I whisper. Please see me .
“So delicate, flower.” His rugged whisper is scratchy like the scruff on his jaw.
My blouse is unbuttoned to my waistband, and he slips his hand inside the material to cup my breast over my silky bra. With his other hand, he tugs the bottom of my blouse free from my skirt. He releases my breast, and I whimper at the loss of his touch. Hastily, he finishes unbuttoning my shirt and returns to the cup of my bra, tugging down the covering, and palming the bare swell. Desperate for him to give me more, I arch my back, closing my eyes at the pure pleasure racing over my skin.
“Oh no, flower, you keep those eyes open and focused on me. Here and now.”
This moment will not replace the memory of our first meeting. This time will mark me as a second encounter.
The thrill of the empty ballroom, in the quiet corner of the resort, intensifies the edge of excitement. Kissing him again. Being intimately touched by him. My whispers sound loud to me. My pleas and whimpers echo around the vacant space. My pulse is skyrocketing, caught between concern someone will walk in, and a curious interest in voyeurism. The freedom is scintillating.
But my focus is wrapped up in this man as his lips move over mine, drawing me into him while his hand continues to work my breast, kneading, teasing, plucking my nipple.
Then his fingers are on the move again, tickling down my belly and hitching up my skirt before dipping beneath the bunched-up material.
When his thick fingertip swipes across my damp panties, I nearly leap off the table.
“Holy fuck, flower, your petals are so wet.” His cheeky comment has me narrowing my eyes.
“That’s the worst line ever,” I choke, drunk on him, dazed and mesmerized by where he’s touching me, how he’s touching me. With care and skill; firing a deep need to be closer.
He shoves aside the slip of underwear and parts those petals he’s mentioned. A thick finger enters me with ease, and I cry out. My hips buck upward as I fall back, catching myself on my hands. He plucks at a spot, sensitive and swollen, greedy and grateful for his touch.
He wants me. He wants me not. He wants me.
An orchestra of wings flutter within my lower belly, scattering imaginary petals in their rapid fluttering.
Lightning flashes beyond the glass. A rumble of thunder clangs, drowning out my cries of pleasure.
The anticipation builds, spiraling like the clouds rolling across the sky and the waves crashing down below.
I brace for the final flight, knowing this moment will be unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
With the rush of his second finger inside me and his thumb on my clit, I jettison upward. Outward. Like lightning crackling across the midnight-black curtain in violent pink and vivid blue.
The takeoff is instantaneous, coinciding with a burst of hard rain and another tumble of thunder.
The flight is long and sweet, a soaring, chasing, freeing moment, one I never want to descend from.
However, eventually, I coast back to earth, feeling light and spent as I fall against the tabletop where a very handsome stranger is pillared over me, holding himself upright on extended solid arms
“That was beautiful.” Pride laces his whispered praise before he removes my underwear and cups my ankles to place my heels on the edge of the table. With his face between my raised knees, he’s staring at me like I’m a feast he’s about to devour. Confirming my thoughts, he states, “Next course.”
Too weak to move, the first lap of his flattened tongue turns me into a honey drizzle in warm tea. I’m melting, spreading, sinking into every swirl. Every lick. Every swipe. He leaves no drop unsavored until I blossom a second time.
Blooming like the flower he’s taken to calling me.
Nothing. Has. Ever. Felt. Like. This .
Eventually, I press against his head, signaling I’ve had enough. He’s too much. With a final kiss to my inner thigh, he stands and holds out a hand to help me upright.
The intensity in his eyes sends another wave of memory through me.
Just look into my eyes for a second. Breathe .
This moment feels like the first breath I’ve taken in years. Maybe decades.
Clasping my hand, he leans forward and kisses me, ravishing my mouth. His tongue tastes of me—salty, sweet, and pungent. I’m nearly dizzy before I find the strength to press his shoulders, pushing him back.
With his hands on my hips, he pops me off the banquet table and I right my skirt, forcing it downward and back into position. When I glance at him, before me is a wall of chest, and I skate my fingers along the buttons of his now-wrinkled shirt.
“Whatcha doin’, flower?”
“Want to touch you too.” I hardly recognize my own voice. Sated while seductive. I don’t recognize myself , this needy woman, desperate to take him in my mouth, and bring him to his knees.
With trembling fingers, I travel down the front of his shirt, popping open the buttons. His jacket has already disappeared. His impatience takes over, and he tugs at the sides of his shirt, sending the buttons pinging, and exposing his solid, barrel shape.
He’s unlike any man I’ve ever known. Any . Man.
My eyes catch on a silver, rectangular medallion dangling from a woven black strap around his neck.
Despite the tremor in my hands, I rub his molded pecs and rounded shoulders, pressing back his shirt enough to expose the broadness of him. Drifting over his bulging biceps, I take my time to inspect him with a light touch .
Once again impatient, Bolan cups my backside and tugs me to him. The smoldering heat of his bare torso hits the coolness of my covered breasts, and we collectively gasp.
Suddenly, the dim lights of the ballroom go out.
We both still before he glances over my head. In this corner near the windows, we remain undetected. Possibly a banquet worker turned off the lights. Maybe the storm has knocked out the power.
Whatever has happened, we are shrouded in darkness.
“I want you,” he murmurs into my ear before nibbling my neck.
Another crackle of lightning illuminates the sky behind him. A momentary flash in the room.
A shiver runs through me. “I’d like that.” I want to be wanted, desired, cherished. And standing in front of me seems to be a second chance at something that slipped through my fingers once upon a time.
In an instant, my back is against the cool window, rain pelting the outer side. The hammering of the drops is like an orchestra reaching a crescendo. The sound heightening, lifting something inside me once more. The chill against my skin is refreshing because his heat overpowers me.
My skirt is once again shoved up to my waist while I work at his belt and loosen his pants. My blouse hangs open. My heels remain on.
He tugs something from his back pocket and holds up a foil packet. The suggestion is clear. I hadn’t thought to ask. Reckless, Ruthie . Risky. However, my experience is limited. And I don’t want to overanalyze his preparedness.
With brawny strength, he easily lifts me, and my legs wrap around his waist. For only a second the heat of his tip rubs against tender skin, teasing me, taunting me. He hisses at the contact before he lowers me once more, taking care to cover himself .
I watch in wonder. His length. His shape. The all-around masculinity on display before me.
As I’ve only been with one man my entire life, I’ve never witnessed someone rolling on a condom. Once covered, this beautiful man reaches for my hand, guiding me to wrap my fingers around his heavy shaft and stroke him a few times.
Desire that hasn’t dissipated spikes.
Thunder that sounds like cymbals clashing rattles the glass behind me. The echoing rhythm matches the pulse in my chest. The beat of my heart.
Once more, I’m lifted, legs easily spreading around his hips. He’s quickly notched at my entrance and with a swift surge, inside me.
I gasp, blinking back tears sparked by the rushed intrusion. With my arms around his neck, I cling to him.
“Fuck, flower.” He pauses for a breath, allowing me to adjust to the sudden, delicious fullness.
“It’s been a long time,” I admit, closing my eyes in embarrassment. I shouldn’t feel ashamed but I am.
“How long?” The question comes on a strained exhale as his fingertips dig into the back of my upper thighs.
“Long enough.”
His eyes seek mine, searching them a second, before something shifts in his demeanor. “Time to make up for the loss.”
Another bang of thunder and a fiery burst of lightning punctuates his words. This moment will erase all others. A baptism of sorts.
Then, he moves with skill and practice, filling me, plundering me, spreading tender flesh and dipping into my ripe channel.
I’ve never felt anything like this sensation. Incredibly beautiful. Blissed-out overwhelm. Connectedness and freedom in one stroke .
As much as I want him to recognize me, I revel in the disassociation.
Strangers in the dark. A vacant ballroom. A storm brewing. My romantic brain gets carried away, but I quickly rein it in.
This is only a moment.
“Blossom, baby,” he demands through gritted teeth. The tension suggests he’s holding back, waiting on me.
For too long, I’ve been a dried flower. A keepsake under glass. What was once shriveled, faded and dusty, has come back to life.
Unfolding.
Reblooming.
Blossoming into color.