Chapter 35
35
She waits for me at the Lincoln Center fountain, perched on the stone edge, the water arcing behind her in moonlit choreography.
Her foot swings back and forth, a red high-heeled shoe drawing me like a beacon. My eyes drink up the view of her blonde hair cascading down her bare shoulders, her light-blue dress both hinting at and hiding the lush body that lies beneath. She’s never been flashy in her clothes—she always shows just enough to light my imagination.
As I walk toward her, her eyes stroll up and down my frame, giving me the same treatment I did her: a comprehensive checking out. Good thing I’m dressed the way she likes me best—tailored slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie.
It also helps that I can follow instructions like it’s my fucking job, since she texted me and told me the attire.
When I reach her, she gives me a final survey then a low, appreciative whistle. Standing, she reaches for my tie and yanks me in close with it. “You look hot as hell,” she says, and before I can even murmur a thank you, she claims me.
She kisses me hard. Possessively. Blotting out all the patrons at Lincoln Center. Hell, she erases the rest of the city as she consumes my lips and turns my body white-hot.
I cup her cheek, clasp her face, and kiss her back with the same ferocity. When we separate, she wobbles, and I steady her, reaching for her elbow.
“Why, yes, I do believe we’re on the express train to Summit Town tonight,” she murmurs.
Laughing, I drape an arm around her and gesture to the buildings that house the arts. “And I’ll be your conductor. But first, sherpa me.”
She leans her shoulder against mine, smiling. “The place I had in mind is about fifteen blocks away. On Amsterdam. I just wanted to meet here because I like these fountains.”
I glance at the sprays of water tangoing brightly behind us. “They’re quite romantic.”
Her eyes widen and her tone is laced with worry. “Is that bad?”
My brow knits. “No. Not at all. Why would that be bad?”
She fidgets with her earring. “Just didn’t want to imply anything.”
Is the idea of romance anathema to her? Is she against relationships? Maybe she’s so damn focused on work and her rescue she’s not even thinking of romance. Hell, maybe I’m the only one who’s let his mind wander down that path.
Then I kick myself.
You’re not going to have a romance with her. You work with her father. You work with her. It doesn’t matter how easy Jonathan and Sam make it seem to have an office relationship. That doesn’t mean a romantic relationship will work for you. The only romance you should be thinking of is the kind that’s part of the seduction. That kind is one of the key tools to help her reach the peak. You’re her guide.
Just guide her.
I run my fingers over a few strands of her hair. “The fountains are beautiful. And you looked even prettier framed by them.” There’s some romance for her, safely couched as a compliment. We walk down the steps. “Now tell me about the place you’ve picked for tonight.”
“I think you’re going to love it. I asked Piper for advice—she’s an elite wedding planner, and she knows everything about the city. She said there’s a great underground lounge with hipster drinks and red curtains and purple couches that looks like something you’d find in a New Orleans speakeasy, and there’s an up-and-coming singer named Delilah who puts the torch in torch singer. She’ll be performing tonight.”
“What does she sing?”
“Billie. Linda. Norah. You’ll love her.”
I hum my enthusiasm. “Linda. Damn, woman. Now you’re taking me to O Town.”
She laughs. “I had a feeling you might like Linda Ronstadt.”
“And I’m man enough to admit it to anyone.” We reach the crosswalk and stop.
She shoots me a saucy look, her eyes narrowing. “Do it. Proclaim your love for Linda.”
I scoff. “Please. That’s easy.” I hold my hands out wide, turning 180 degrees and shouting loud and proud, “Linda Ronstadt is a goddess.”
A guy across the block with a hoodie and a knit cap gives a rocker salute. “Right back at you, man.”
An older woman laden with a canvas bag bursting with books pats my elbow. “Bless your heart. A young man with taste is a rare breed these days.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile.
“He does have great taste,” Sloane adds. “He’s a Sinatra man too.”
The woman raises her salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “If he’s good in bed and treats you right, then you should keep him.”
The lady turns the corner, leaving her wisdom wafting in the evening breeze.
Sloane whips her gaze to me, a hint of a smile crossing her lips. I’m not entirely sure where to go after that last comment, so I sidestep it. “Looks like I just launched an impromptu Linda Ronstadt fan club.”
Sloane follows my lead. “And you have so many charter members already. By the way, count me in . ‘I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You’ is a favorite tune of mine.”
The reference isn’t lost on me. We kissed to that song seven years ago. Kissed to the whole damn number. I hum a few words as we walk.
She squeezes my arm. “If you do that . . .”
“If I do that, what?”
“I’m going to jump you.”
Laughing, I add a few more lines, a little louder, a little deeper this time. She runs her hand down my arm. “It’s your fault I’m aroused.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I fully take the blame.”
“Hey!” She stops walking and grabs my arms. “You should record an album.”
I laugh it off. “Please.”
“No, you should. Do it for fun. It’s an adventure. Put something together. And then everyone can swoon the way I do.”
“You want to share me?” I tease.
“That’s the only part of you I want to share. But look at it this way—you could help couples everywhere. Your voice is total sex.”
And as I hum a few more lines to her, she’s like a cat, rubbing against me.
When we reach the club, she tugs me close and whispers, “You were warned.”
We make our way down a wooden staircase, below ground level, and find a velvet couch. Sloane slides in next to me and is all hands on my legs and fingers in my hair for the next hour. It’s distracting and heady as she whispers sweet nothings in my ear. As she tells me she wants me. As she tells me how good I am to her.
I’m buzzed, I’m drunk, I’m wildly aroused.
With Sloane’s busy fingers and constant touches, I barely hear a word Delilah sings.
Nor do I care.
I’m nothing but an electrical line, charged and ready.
I’m not sure who’s seducing who. But from the way she kisses my neck and slides her hand along my pants, I think she’s leading me up the mountain tonight. I have the idea, too, that the more she leads, the harder I’ll fall.
The more I’ll be the one wanting the romance.
The more I’ll be the one singing the love songs about the one who got away.
Singing it and meaning it.
That’s the problem.
My jaw tightens as reality inches back in, undeniable.
I’m falling for her.
Yet again.
By the time the singer finishes “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry,” I desperately need to go. I need to reframe this night, put the focus back on sex and seduction.
If I stay in this club, with these songs and her sweetness, I’ll be a sad, pathetic jerk begging her to stay with me for another week, then another.
That’s not our deal.
I call a Lyft, and the whole ride downtown, I take control, whispering to Sloane all the things I want to do to her when we get inside. I tell her how I want to touch her, taste her, strip her down to nothing. By the time we make it to my apartment, she looks like she’s hovering on the edge.
I intend to send her all the way to the other side.
That’s what I need right now.
To recalibrate us back to pleasure and pleasure only.