Chapter 3
[Ruthie]
The night of the actual event, my dress is red.
The deep crimson shade will be one among many women wearing the color in support of heart-health awareness for women.
The gown has thick straps and is tightly cinched at my waist. Layers of chiffon create a full skirt which flows gracefully to the floor.
The back dips dangerously deep to the curve of my lower back. I look like a princess.
Or, as Bolan called me, a beautiful flower.
My mother-in-law picked out this dress, insisting I wear it. The material is exquisite, the fit perfect, and the price out of my comfort zone. The gift, as Nylah maintained, is a sharp contrast to the drab, professional attire I wear daily.
The dress boosts my confidence which I haven’t felt in years. Or maybe that’s the lingering effects of last night. Regardless, I feel desirable, even beautiful, like I’m ready to take on the world. I can’t remember the last time I’d been so extravagantly attired.
My wedding, perhaps?
Glancing at my reflection in the mirror before the festivities begin, I take a moment to note the intricate style in my blonde hair.
The column of my throat is on display thanks to the elaborate up-do.
Mentally, I envision Bolan’s hand around my neck.
I even inspect my flesh as if I can find signs of his touch, but the notion is silly.
Bolan Adler. What an unexpected flash from the past. What a new memory we’ve made.
When our night ended, we went our separate directions again after a romantic spin on the shadowed dance floor.
He smelled like leather and cinnamon, with that hint of lime still on him.
Our farewell would have been the perfect time to tell him I knew who he was.
Who he’d been all those years ago, but I still didn’t speak.
I didn’t want to tell him that I remembered him for fear that he didn’t remember me.
I feared that the kiss I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for over fifteen years would be a moment he didn’t recall, and the embarrassment over something so important to me, that he’d forgotten, would have been damning to my spirit.
The secret of last night would be added as another layer to my former memory.
The stark nakedness of my left hand where my wedding band once rested is the reminder of all the reasons Bolan has been only a sliver of my history. The absence of that gold band is liberating.
I’d loved Clifton Jacobson with all my heart, but I’d been weighed down by our relationship. The last few years of his life had been trying, frustrating, upsetting. And then, there was heartbreak like no other.
The time has come for me to focus on myself.
Wearing silver stilettos bolsters my confidence as I enter the ballroom and fight the reminders of my Valentine’s Eve.
For the first half of the evening, I avoid glancing in the direction of the ballroom dance floor as well as the arched windows overlooking the ocean.
Both locations are triggers. One reckless.
One romantic. Collectively, they ignite something inside me.
Something red hot and cherry sweet, like the color of my dress.
Like the dichotomy of my thoughts. The responsible side aghast at the reckless one while the wild side applauds the liberating burst of rebellion.
Eventually, I need air. I’d been suffocating under the pressure of well-meaning sympathy for Clifton’s absence and the delicious new memories created in this very ballroom.
Making my way to a second-floor balcony, a door exits onto a veranda.
Bursting into the late-winter evening, I take a deep breath and exhale.
The salty scent of the ocean burns my nostrils but clears my head.
In some small way, I’m relieved not to see Bolan Adler wandering the Coastal Resort ballroom. I’d known who he was last night, but would he recognize me in the light of day? Would he acknowledge that our paths crossed? Or would he keep our new secret?
Either way, the foolishness of my decision to have sex with him last night tolls like a funeral bell in my head.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Slamming my hands on the cement railing, I stare out at the swirling ocean. Inky black water churns beneath a moonless sky as I inhale again. My lungs then expel a heavy breath although my body pulses with an achy need I both recognize and reject.
I want to see him again.
However, it might be best that I don’t. At least, not under the present circumstances.
For once, I wanted to feel like I was the one who walked away, not the one left behind.
Hope filled me that last night made an impression on him, and, at least for a little while, he might continue to wonder about the mysterious woman he’d met in an empty ballroom.
Maybe, just maybe, last night will be considered a magical moment for him.
It has certainly made its mark on me.
“Lady in red,” a masculine voice gruffly intones behind me. “Or should I say my beautiful flower?”
Spinning, I see Bolan outlined by the interior lights behind him.
“Looking to jump?”
He has no idea how unfunny that comment is.
“Just trying to get some air,” I murmur, turning around again, placing my back to him, but not before my brief glance takes in the fit of his tuxedo. Definitely custom tailored to fit the broadness of his shoulders and the solid columns of his thighs. His entire body screams strength.
With two broad steps, he’s standing directly behind me, his mouth near my ear. Leather and cinnamon again. His presence overwhelms me, and my breath quickens, my chest rising and falling as if I’m unable to draw in enough oxygen.
“Looks like fate is on my side,” he murmurs to my neck.
“Why’s that?” I question, facing the black night as my head tips back like it has a will all its own.
“I was hoping to see you again.” He chuckles softly, gently spinning me in order to step back and appraise my appearance.
His eyes roam down my body while his fingertips hover just above my skin, along my exposed throat and over my collarbone before his gaze drops, along with his hand. “You’re a vision. Truly stunning.”
He sighs, pausing a second, before his gaze continues to skim over the swell of my breasts and the length of my dress. “Did you know that in the Japanese culture red is a sacred color. It means strength and sacrifice. But it also means peace and joy. Luck. So many emotions in one color.”
With his final words, his eyes land on mine, as if he sees something deeper inside me.
The years of sacrifice. The strength it took and the willpower I’m mustering for the next steps in my life. The peace I want to have in the future. The need to experience joy.
My eyes begin to prickle. The sensation is strange, because I’m not sad, but overwhelmed. Like for just a moment, he sees me. Truly sees me.
He steps forward and twists me once again, bringing my back to his front, keeping his hands on my hips. His nose tickles the nape of my neck as he inhales.
“You smell heavenly, too, flower.”
“Why do you call me that?” I choke, hating how much I like the nickname. The anonymity of it.
“My granddad had a garden when I was child. He loved his precious flowers.” Bolan quietly chuckles. “The moment I saw you, you reminded me of one of them.”
His hand gently encircles my throat and tips my head to the side with a press of his thumb on my jaw. Running his nose along the column once more, he inhales again. His lips follow the trail, tenderly sucking on my skin until he reaches my shoulder.
“You look like a delicate flower.” He pauses, scraping his teeth over my clavicle. “One I want to pluck and keep, treasure even.” He hums. “Want to bloom again, baby?”
Closing my eyes at the sudden burst of goosebumps on my flesh, I say, “I’ve never done anything like what we did last night.” The one-night stand thing. The exhibitionistic risk of having sex in an empty ballroom where anyone at any time could have walked in.
Thrilling yet reckless, and so unlike me.
The moment has replayed in my head on repeat, but that’s all it can be—another moment.
And I should tell him who I am.
“That ballroom seems to be an aphrodisiac, flower. It makes me want you in the worst way.”
“And wanting me is bad?” I ask as his lips tickle my ear. Again, I don’t want to be considered a mistake. I know all about making poor decisions. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of one.
“Not bad,” he growls, sending shivers down my spine. “But I’ve never been good at following the rules.”
“And there are rules?” I question.
“Ones I want to smash to smithereens.”
With him cupping my throat, possessive and strong, he nips at my flesh, while his thumb presses against my pulse, and I don’t want to follow rules either. And the distraction of his mouth on my skin tips me over the decision point.
Whispered like a silent prayer, I suggest, “One more time.”
“One more.” Bolan’s hand instantly rounds my waist and lowers to scrunch up the material of my skirt.
“You have on too many layers, beautiful.” He chuckles against my skin until his hand is beneath my dress and between my thighs. He pushes aside the slip of underwear and easily slides a finger into me.
“Ready to blossom, like I thought.” He hums and I tip back my head, swallowing hard against his hand cupping my throat.
I’m rewarded with a second finger easily slipping inside me.
“Things are fucked up, flower.” Desperation fills his voice.
I hear it, feel it in my core. I know about that sensation—feeling fucked up.
“We need to be quiet,” he whispers into my neck, skimming his nose to my shoulder.
Sounds like a rule I want to break.
He removes his fingers from me, and I whimper at the sudden loss, deflating just a smidge. The unlatching of his belt jangles behind me, instantly restoring the fever. The burning desire to have him inside me one more time.
I hike up the back of my dress while he lowers his pants enough to free his thick cock from the confines.