Copyright © 2008 V. Artemis Reid
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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She stilled beneath him, unsure what had happened. They had wrestled like this in the past, and she’d ended up in this position more often than she could remember, but this time, something was different. She wanted to close the space between them, to kiss him and, with a searching glance, she wondered what exactly she risked if she gave into this spontaneous desire.
“Nathan,” she whispered, her hands trembling beneath his.
“Yes?”
“If I kiss you….”
“Yes?”
“Will that change things?”
“It’ll change everything.” The light faded from his eyes again, leaving him as sad as he’d been when she’d walked in.
“But….”
He moved one hand and placed a finger over her lips. “Listen to me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You say the word, and I’ll let you go, and you can go out just like you planned. I won’t hold it against you. I won’t even bring it up again. But I don’t want you to wonder for the rest of our friendship what could’ve happened. It’s up to you. The choice has always been yours, Amanda.”
She looked up and kissed him. He released her hands, and she ran them over his bald head, wrapping them around his neck, pulling him in closer. She kissed him, drinking him in and pouring her need into him. He traced her face, fingers trailing over the filmy fabric of her dress and beneath the neckline, drawing a moan from her as he caressed the curve of her breast under her bra.
She dug nails into his back. Nathan gasped and collapsed on top of her. “Do you know how many times I’ve wondered?” he panted.
* * *
Copyright © 2008 V. Artemis Reid
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
“I don’t do this,” he said, sliding the beer into her hand.
“You don’t do what?” She put the bottle to her lips and took a sip.
He looked away, pushed the lime wedge into his beer and watched the alcohol fizz around it with intense concentration. “I don’t…I don’t pick up women at bars.”
Chloe smiled. “I bet you say that to all the women you meet.”
He spun her barstool around and leaned toward her. The music lulled, and in an unmistakable whisper, she heard him say, “No, just you…you with your magic beer fingers, getting the bartender’s attention like that.”
That scent lingered there, just beneath the cotton of his polo, intoxicating without being overwhelming, and Chloe realized with a surprising start that she wanted to take him home. Whoa, Chloe, back it up!
The music picked up. “I don’t do this,” she yelled.
“What’s that?” His face hovered a breath away from hers.
So tempting, just to close that space. One quick kiss never hurt anyone, right? Instead, she raised her bottle.
“I don’t accept drinks from strange men in dark, smoky bars.”
Her ‘stranger’ smiled, placed his bottle on the bar and sat on the stool next to her. He wiped a hand on his pants leg and offered it to her. “Hi, my name is Denny.”
She moved her fingers along the rough calluses of his palm and firmly shook his hand. “Well, hello, Denny, I’m Chloe.”
He turned their hands and let go, his fingers trailing along her palm. Chloe froze and stifled the breath of sound rising to meet this most intimate touch. She looked up, and their eyes met. She wondered if he felt her like she felt him—all that chemistry sparked by the minute lines of his fingertips.
Denny licked his bottom lip. “So…come here often?”
Chloe rolled her eyes and laughed.
* * * *
They said their goodbyes that night. He walked her to the car and closed the door behind her, and she watched him disappear in her rearview mirror. Chloe returned to the bar the next week and she had to admit she was tickled pink to see him waiting outside. They found a quieter corner of the club and talked over the music. She even coaxed him into dancing a couple of times.
She liked Denny, found him refreshing, and for the first time in a long time, she enjoyed a man’s company without weighing his possible position within her former lifestyle. No analysis of his breaking points. No contemplation of his fetishes. He seemed so, dare she say it, normal?
No, not ‘normal’ per se. The weeks turned into a month, and she discovered the man definitely had his own quirks, like his insistence on ordering for her— from beverage to dessert—when they ate out, and how he constantly played with the long braid she usually wore down her back. Little compulsive behaviors, yes, but nothing that set off warning alarms in her head. So she moved forward, cautious, but with a sense of confidence. She deserved a good relationship, and damn if Denny didn’t look like a prime candidate.
Then, one night as he walked her out of the bar, she asked, “So you want to come home with me?”