Читать книгу The Wild Side - Isabel Sharpe, Isabel Sharpe - Страница 11

MELISSA SAT ON HER discarded-outfit littered bed, hands tucked under her thighs, knees pressed together, feet pressed together. She had a good view in the dresser mirror opposite her, so she could see firsthand what she looked like when she was panicking.

Not a pretty sight. Her eyes were huge, her face so pale that the makeup she’d put on looked like it was trying to bring her back from the dead. Her jaw was so tight her teeth were starting to ache, and when she brought her hand up to tuck her hair behind her ears, forgetting her hair wasn’t long enough to tuck anymore, her hand was shaking. In fact, her entire body was shaking.

She glanced at the clock. Seven-fifty. In ten minutes she’d go across the hall and do some shaking there. Seeing as guys were always late, at eight-fifteen this Tom person would waltz in. He’d be overly handsome, with tufts of chest hair that poked all the way up to his Adam’s apple. He’d have several gold necklaces glinting through the unbuttoned opening of his rayon shirt, and he’d make that horrible gun with his fingers and pretend to shoot her in greeting. Which was a damn strange way to be charming, now that she thought about it.

No way. She couldn’t do this. She was not a sex goddess. She belonged with someone dependable and a little dull, someone like Bill. She should be married, cheerfully and gracefully pregnant, glowing with peace and good health, helping her husband make their bed in the morning.

She shuddered. Ick. Not yet. Not until she was thirty, anyway. She needed this time to explore, this last chance in her life to check out the wild side. Each of her relationships had lasted longer than the previous one, and she had a feeling Mr. Right would show up soon. So what was wrong with something before then? A little stopgap? Better to screw around now than do it after she was married. Or wonder the rest of her life what a fling would feel like. Right? Right.

She glanced at the clock again. A little sideways flirt of a glance, so that maybe if she took only the tiniest look, time would slow down a little, or maybe stop, and she wouldn’t ever have to go in there and meet him.

Tom would hook his jacket over one finger on his shoulder and wink at her as if she was a cute child. He’d be too huge and musclebound, the kind of guy who’d have to turn sideways to fit through the door, and who’d have no spit at all and kiss her with a dry mouth that he used special lip weights to keep young and firm. The kind of guy who called women he was trying to impress “kid” or “babe.”

Ick.

No way. She couldn’t do this. What were the odds that he would be attractive to her? How many men did she pass in the street, and how many of them were? Really attractive? Enough to want to touch? Hardly any.

So Rose thought he was sexy. Rose dated men old enough to be her father, who had paunches and horrible taste in clothes and probably bad breath and erectile dysfunction.

What the hell am I doing?

The traitorous clock now said 7:58. Melissa took a shaky breath and moved her shaky body over to the dresser. She picked up the key with her shaky hand, her shaky brain still not sure if she was actually going to use the key. But she had to. She couldn’t stand him up. She couldn’t bear the curiosity for the rest of her life if she never even got a peek at him. And she wasn’t going to stoop to peering through the doorway and only coming out if he was cute.

For one thing, she didn’t want him to know she even lived in this building until she decided whether he was someone she’d like to…get to know.

She opened her door and raced across to Rose’s apartment, managed to fit the key into the lock and went inside, trying to take deep breaths into lungs that had developed some kind of weird stuttering problem. She would have loved a small drink—say, a fifth or so of Scotch—but she didn’t drink that much, and wouldn’t want him to smell it on her if he got close enough to.

Oh, God. What was she doing? What if he was totally wonderful? How could she stop herself from falling in love with him? What made her think she was emotionally equipped for intimacy without feeling?

She went over to the window and opened it, thankful for the cool night air that flowed into Rose’s apartment. If it was humid and oppressive, she’d probably pass out. She looked down into the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guy so she could at least get a preview.

No studs. All she saw was that parked TV repair truck, which must belong to someone who had recently moved onto their street.

The knock on the door was perfect. Not loud and insistent. Not timid. Not silly and overly rhythmic. Confident, firm-knuckled, let me in.

Oh, help. Let him in.

She took a huge deep breath, which her lungs suddenly allowed her to have, and went to open the door.

He was perfect.

He was so perfect she wanted to laugh. He was so perfect she wanted to cry. He was so perfect she just stood there and stared and thought about how perfect he was until it occurred to her she was being totally ridiculous.

“Hi, Tom. Come in.”

He nodded. Even his nod was perfect. Up and down of his head, with his firm jaw starting it and his high forehead following. Dark, dark hair, slightly wavy and thick, dynamite brown eyes surprisingly light in color, long lashes, nice mouth, a sexy groove running down one cheek.

She moved back into Rose’s overdecorated apartment and gestured him in, then closed the door and watched as he walked into the room and looked around.

Perfect. Tall, not too tall; built, not too built. Jacket and tie, respectable, well-groomed. Perfect.

And the most perfect thing of all was that he was so perfect, there wasn’t the slightest chance she’d fall in love with him. Who the hell wanted to stare at someone that perfect for the rest of her life? Talk about feeling inadequate.

He swung around and met her gaze, a faint smile deepening that groove in his right cheek. His eyes were penetrating, his expression slightly cynical, totally exciting. She found herself beaming back in breathless, idiotic, hopeful happiness. This could actually work.

“Call me Riley.” His voice was perfect, too, of course. Deep and rich, the kind of voice that went through you and curled your toes. “It’s my middle name. Only my mom and Amanda call me Tom.”

“Riley.” She nodded and stood there. He stood there, too, and she started feeling a little uneasy. He didn’t seem the type for polite small talk. And now that she thought about it, his stare was making her uncomfortable. There was something sort of speculative in it, something almost…disdainful.

Then it hit her. He didn’t find her attractive.

In a scene out of an alchemist’s nightmare, the gold excitement in her chest turned to lead misery and sank into her stomach. Of course. Mr. Perfect would want Ms. Perfect. Rose probably had told him she was Demi Moore’s double to get him to come.

“Do you want a drink, Riley?” Because she sure as hell did. “Scotch okay?”

He nodded. She moved to the tray she’d brought in earlier from her place, and poured out two stiff drinks. While she did this, Tom-now-Riley walked around the apartment, examining Rose’s clutter of knickknacks: her collection of still-life paintings, sometimes two deep on the red walls; the bowls of potpourri that made the room smell like some anonymous chemist’s idea of fresh.

Melissa crossed to him and handed him his drink. “Cheers.”

She raised her glass in salute, then drained half of it.

He lifted an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”

She smiled and laughed somewhat stupidly, which was very un-perfect of her. “Nervous.”

He nodded, which seemed to be his preferred mode of communication. That weird judgmental expression was still on his face. In spite of the fact that he was perfect, and mysterious, and sort of terrifying in a dangerous, wildly erotic way, she was also starting to find him a little annoying. If he thought what she wanted was so disgusting, why had he come? If he thought she was so disgusting, why didn’t he leave? He didn’t seem the type to worry about politeness.

“So.” She folded her arms across her chest and exhaled a short, forced breath. To hell with him. “How about those Red Sox?”

His grin was slow and surprising, spreading across his face and making grooves in both cheeks, a double in the right one. She couldn’t help smiling back. You couldn’t be in the room with a man who smiled at you that way and not smile back. Even if you sort of wanted to slug him in the gut.

“Think they’ll go all the way this year?” She opened her eyes wide and blinked repeatedly.

He actually chuckled that time. Then he took a healthy swallow of Scotch and put it down behind him on Rose’s mantel, without looking, as if he simply sensed it was there. He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, staring at her with an intimate I-know-what-we’re-going-to-be-doing-later look in his eyes.

Melissa drew in her breath. Her face turned cold and probably pale, then reheated in a flush of warmth that spread down her body and made her skin feel as if it was reaching out to be touched. Oh. My. Lord. The man could seduce a nun. Maybe he did find her the tiniest bit attractive, after all. Or maybe he’d promised Rose and felt he had to.

Whatever. Melissa wasn’t ready to get cozy yet, not until she’d figured out his strange attitude. And she had this thing about not kissing men until they’d uttered at least four complete sentences.

She backed away and gestured toward the couch with her drink, nearly spilling it in the process. “Would you like to sit down?”

He sat in the burgundy wing chair, the lace antimacassar looking idiotically feminine and out of place behind him.

Melissa gulped more of her drink, its tingly warmth adding to what she already felt from Mr. Perfect’s incredible sex appeal. Maybe if he’d actually talk she wouldn’t be so freaked out.

“Why are you nervous?”

She barely escaped choking on her Scotch. What the hell did he think? If she hadn’t seen the piercing intelligence in those eyes, she’d wonder about his brain power. “I don’t exactly do this often.”

“No.”

She snapped her head up and gaped at him. He kept his gaze level, unperturbed, slightly challenging. Something in the way he’d said “no” did what women had been fighting against for generations: it meant yes. It meant he thought she invited strange men over to explore her sexuality all the time.

“Excuse me?” She stood up, feeling slightly unsteady, beginning to be annoyed in earnest. “Would you mind lifting yourself above the four-word sentence and explaining that?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Do I need to?”

She came very, very close to flinging her drink in his lap. Instead she slammed it down on Rose’s brass table. What a total jerk. This was a major disaster. And he’d been so—

She wasn’t going to use that p word again. Not for a jerk, not even a perfect jerk.

She pointed furiously down at her shoes. “Flats, so you wouldn’t think I’m a tramp, and because I was worried you might not be tall. Knee skirt, plain navy, no sit-down wrinkles across the front—i.e., not too short, not too tight. Basic off-white top, normal makeup, plain old hair. All calculated during the last nearly sleepless twenty-four hours in an obsessive and carefully laid plan, to ensure that if you didn’t find me attractive, or if I didn’t find you attractive, the rejection would be minimal because I didn’t go all out for seduction.”

She jerked her arm straight out in front of her. “Observe the shaking hand, complete with sweaty palm. If you’d like to feel my pulse I think you’ll find it one step shy of panic level. Now. Please tell me exactly what would make you think I’ve done this before.”

His eyes narrowed, then his expression changed to contain something that seemed like admiration. He grinned that slow sexy grin which changed him from terrifying to devastating. “I apologize. You’re perfect.”

Melissa would have laughed, except he sounded like he was mocking her, and she was still furious. He thought she was perfect? “Two sentences that time. I dare you to up the count.”

He stood and took a step toward her. “I’m not much of a talker.”

The implication was there, in his eyes, in his purposeful nearness. I’m better at other things. Melissa reached down for her drink and walked toward Rose’s tiny kitchenette, unsettled to the verge of tears. She wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready for this man. Two minutes into their meeting he was playing mind games, and she hadn’t a clue why. Maybe he thought it was sexy. Maybe he thought making his victims want to stick pins in him would be fabulous foreplay.

It wasn’t. Not even close.

She drained her glass and poured herself another Scotch, knowing she wouldn’t be able to come close to drinking even half of it. She’d rather not exhaust her dignity by throwing up in Rose’s toilet. But it gave her something to do, something to help her escape his calculating stares and overwhelming presence. Something to help calm her while she figured out how to get the evening back on track.

“Look, Riley.” She clenched the whiskey bottle, not yet brave enough to turn around and face him. “I’m kind of a mess over this whole thing. So if you could make it a little easier on me, I’d appreciate it. I don’t know what you expected, but obviously I’m not it.”

She took a long, healing breath, glad to have all that out in the open…and held it. He’d come up behind her. Close. She could feel his warmth, could feel his eyes on her. She wished her hair was still long so the back of her neck wouldn’t feel so exposed. Her sleeveless cotton shirt had only a slightly scooped front and back, but she might as well have been wearing a bikini top, the way she felt.

“You’re better than I expected.” He drew his hands down her arms in a light, caressing touch that ended with him circling her wrists in a firm grip she had a feeling would tighten impossibly if she tried to pull away. Although his tone still hovered between compliment and insult, Melissa’s heartbeat sped up. She stood entranced, imprisoned, and somewhat shamefully aroused.

“I expected you’d be beautiful.” He said the words softly into the top of her hair. She felt as if his voice was surrounding her, heating her, making her joints go watery.

Beautiful? No way. “Pretty”—she’d been called that. “Cute” tons of times—she hated that. Beautiful?

“I expected you’d be desirable.” He drew his hands back up to her shoulders and let go lingeringly. “But I didn’t expect such…perfect innocence, for all I was warned. You’re quite a woman.”

Melissa swallowed. Warned? Rose thought Melissa was so virginal she had to warn him? “Uh, thank you? I’m not really sure what you…I mean, I’m not that innocent, but I am… I mean, it is kind of the whole point of you being here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He laughed without humor. “Of course.”

Melissa sidled away, putting distance between herself and this totally confusing person. She felt off balance and infuriated, and infatuated, and inebriated and pretty much anything else anyone cared to mention. This had to have been the most confusing half hour of her life. But one thing had been totally decided the minute he touched her, the minute he half whispered words into her hair. She wanted him. As soon as they got past this strange tension, she wanted him to be the one. Rose’s instincts were absolutely right on. This was a man she could stock ice cubes and honey for. But how the hell to get to that point?

Maybe if she got him away from the mind games, maybe if they got to the, uh, purpose of the evening, they could put this bizarre uncomfortable beginning behind them. She took a deep breath and crossed her fingers.

“So. How do you usually…I mean, do you want to talk first or just… Oh, forget it. I stink at this.” She put her drink down and turned in exasperation. “Can we just—”

He was right there. Somehow he’d moved while she’d been thinking and stuttering, and he was right there. She froze, whatever asinine thing she’d been about to say still dangling from the end of her tongue.

He moved forward so his body was all of a half-inch from hers, smiling down with that strange, challenging, know-it-all smile that made her want to slug him and kiss him at the same time. He dipped his head slightly toward her, still holding her eyes with his penetrating brown gaze. “You first.”

Melissa’s eyes widened. “What?”

His smile stretched briefly. “I said, you first.”

“But…you’re supposed to—” Melissa closed her eyes. Okay. So he wasn’t going to take the lead. She could kiss him. She’d done that before. She could do this. To hell with him.

She opened her eyes to find him still there, still staring, still with that smug, annoying-as-hell smirk. Her anger rose. Fine. Jackass. She lifted on tiptoes and planted a loud, closemouthed, little girl smack on his lips, complete with sound effects. “Mmm-ah.” Then she went back down on her heels, shrugged and batted her eyes with rhythmic fluttery precision. “Well, gee. That’s about the best I can do. You really have your work cut out for you, Riley.”

For a second she wasn’t sure what he would do, and it suddenly occurred to her that if he got angry, she could be a squashed bug under his fist in about ten seconds. She’d never felt physically vulnerable around a man, and it scared her.

If the sick truth be told, it fascinated her, too. And aroused her. She suddenly pictured him picking her up and taking her right here, standing in the middle of the room with her legs hooked around him, while he held her up with nothing but the strength in his shoulders.

All of which would not come to pass if he killed her now.

He didn’t. He pulled her against him and kissed her long and hard, a mean, messy kiss that left her feeling punished and violated and wanting to cry. “Is that what you wanted me to teach you?”

“No.” She turned away; he followed, grabbed her arms, lifted her up onto the kitchen table and pushed himself between her legs.

“How about this?”

“What are you doing?” She could barely gasp the words out. This was beyond horrible. Her worst nightmare. The man was a brutal, sick, macho pig and he was going to rape her, and it was partly her fault for coming up with this stupid idea in the first place. She pushed at his shoulders ineffectually, knowing she was totally powerless to keep him from doing anything he wanted. “Stop it. Stop!”

He drew back and looked at her incredulously. She didn’t move, other than to make strange uncontrollable sobbing noises without tears, breath heaving to get out of her chest.

“What the—” He narrowed his eyes and swore obscenely. “I can’t figure you out at all.”

“What do you mean? I’m the most straightforward person on the planet.” Tears spilled out of her eyes and onto her cheeks. “You’re the weird one. You come in here and start playing bizarre mind games. It’s like you hated me from the beginning. If you don’t want to be here why the hell did you come?”

He stared at her again, as if he didn’t speak her language and had no clue what she’d been trying to tell him. Then he released her and walked away, stood by the window, a big, male, solitary figure against the white lace curtains blowing in the soft evening air.

Melissa got down from the table, shaken and crying, and reached for a tissue from the lacquered box on Rose’s counter.

“How many men have you had sex with?”

She started. “What?”

He repeated the question, searching her face from across the room as if he thought her answer was the key to something mystical and life-saving.

She sank into an antique rocking chair and blew her nose loudly, not caring if she looked like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer when she’d finished. Not caring about anything except the immense relief that he’d morphed back into the harmless sexy man he’d been when he first came in. Somehow, even in her badly shaken state, it was slowly entering her awareness that something—maybe something he’d misunderstood from his buddy Rose—had made him think badly of her. And even if it made her a spineless wimp, she desperately wanted to change his mind, to make it right, so they could start again with something approaching a normal meeting, and see if they could work things out.

“Only two. Two men. One in college—it hurt and it was horrible. Then Bill—it didn’t hurt, but it was still pretty horrible.”

“No others?”

She tossed her tissues into a wicker wastebasket, so drained and stripped emotionally that baring her sex life to a stranger seemed the most natural thing in the world. “The others were just dates. Just fun.”

He nodded, looked at her intently, as if he was making up his mind about something. Melissa could even sense the minute he changed his attitude, when his eyes and mouth softened into something strangely guilty and almost tender, and she wanted to cry again, from relief this time.

He crossed the room and crouched in front of her, his huge body compacting lightly and effortlessly. He put his hands on the outside of her thighs and looked up at her, his expression open and sincere for the first time since he’d come in.

“Tell me what you want from me, Rose.”

She almost laughed at his slip, except that she wasn’t capable of laughter at that moment. “It’s Melissa.”

He didn’t look remotely embarrassed by his mistake. “Melissa is your real name?”

“Yes.” She nearly cried again. Why couldn’t he take anything at face value?

“Okay.” He continued watching her closely. Very closely, as if she were his science experiment. “What do you want from me, Melissa?”

She took a deep breath, trying to gather her emotions into some semblance of order. “I…I want to try new things. I want to be safe, but I want an adventure. Something I can remember when I’m fifty and have been under the same guy for twenty years. Anything…except pain or humiliation. Everything but the same old missionary grind.”

“I understand.” His hands slid up her thighs to her waist; he tightened his hold into a strong, reassuring grip, brown eyes holding hers intently. “I make it a habit always to trust my instincts over my information. For some reason, tonight I didn’t. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Melissa gaped, certain he didn’t make apologizing an everyday habit, and somewhat awed that he’d done it for her. “You thought I was a phony.”

He grimaced. “Something like that.”

“But why?” She practically shouted the word. What on earth had Rose told him?

“I thought you were playing a role. That this was all a game.”

“I’m not, Riley. It’s not a game, I promise.” One more tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. He watched until it slid into the corner of her mouth, then stood, lifting her to her feet, and kissed her. Only this was nothing like the kissing he’d done before. Nothing mean or messy or punishing. This kiss was sweet, gentle, languorous, tasting the tear that had fallen on her lips, taking his time getting to know the shape of her mouth, each corner; each lip tugged, tasted, explored.

She pressed herself against him, shocked to feel him hard between them. Oh, man. He wanted her. A guy like this. She could scarcely take it in. He wanted her.

He led her over to the couch, sat and pulled her down across his lap, still kissing her as if he didn’t intend to stop for the rest of the evening. She sank against him, totally carried away by the man and his mouth, and managed only a slight moan of protest when he kissed a line from her lips to her throat and back along her jaw to behind her ear. His hands came up under her skirt, over her thighs, skimmed and settled on the mound of her sex through her panties.

Arousal seared through her; she gasped and arched up instinctively for more pressure, shocked by his boldness, shocked by her own. The nerves of the last few hours, the raw fear and subsequent safety, had fueled her; she’d never been this hot, this ready in such a short time. With his warm hand against her, she was burning nearly out of control, panting like an animal. If he touched her, she’d die. If he didn’t, she’d die faster.

He pushed his hand under her panties, incredibly warm, incredibly strong, incredibly sure. She opened her legs shamelessly and shut her eyes, aware he was watching her face, but not wanting to be aware of anything except the need his touch aroused in her body. He found her wetness, slid his finger inside, then started a light regular stroking in and out, rubbing her gently with his thumb, stopping now and then to tease and dip inside her again.

Melissa lost herself. She was gone. Nowhere. Nothing existed except the unfamiliar fingers of this man’s hand on and inside her, and the sensations he was making her feel. She squirmed against the coming climax, put it off, clenched her thighs to make him slow down. She wanted to feel like this forever.

He resisted, urged her on, pushed inside with two fingers, rubbed harder until she fell apart, gave in, let the burning current wash over her, let her muscles contract helplessly around his fingers, then subside.

She opened her eyes to find him still watching her, an incredulous expression on his face, the measuring look back in his eyes.

Melissa slid off his lap and fell onto the sofa beside him, dazed and flushed with passion, suddenly aware of how crazed she’d become, and embarrassed by it. How the hell could she let a stranger bring her so completely out of herself? Nothing even approaching that had ever happened to her.

She drew her hands down her face and throat and smiled at him shyly. “That was…nice.” The word came out as the ridiculous understatement it was, which made him smile wryly. She glanced at his erection, which was making his lap a thing of beauty and astonishing magnitude. “Uh, can I…I mean, shouldn’t I…do something for you?”

“No, thanks.” He got up and adjusted himself under his pants. “I put you through a rough start tonight. I deserve to suffer.”

“I don’t mind, really. I can—”

“It’s okay.” He pulled her to her feet, brushed aside her bangs and released her. “I ought to get going.”

“Oh.” Melissa wrapped her arms around herself, shocked at his abrupt departure, then chided herself the next second. What did she expect? Affectionate nuzzling for three hours? “Okay.”

He paused at the door, one hand on the knob on his way out. “When would you like to meet again?”

“Uh…” Her mind raced. Would now be too soon? Would he think she was too desperate if she suggested tomorrow or the next day? How long could she stand waiting for another adventure with him?

“Same time tomorrow?”

Yes! “That sounds…” She cringed. “I can’t tomorrow. I have to work. Day after is fine, though.”

She cleared her husky throat, trying to act as normal as possible scheduling sex with someone she’d just been intimate with and didn’t know at all, when her insides were singing the “Star Spangled Banner” because he wanted to see her again so soon.

“Okay.” He smiled under intense, serious eyes. “Day after tomorrow. See you then.”

Melissa waved and closed the door, then turned and leaned back against it, eyes closed, mouth curved in a sappy, happy grin.

On impulse, she rushed to the window and watched until she saw him come out of the building and walk down Garden Street, confident, graceful, masculine. Until he went around the corner and disappeared.

Melissa straightened and slowly closed the window. Rose’s unfamiliar, ultrafeminine apartment felt suddenly still and close and empty behind her.

Okay, Melissa. You asked for this and you got it. No strings. Just the physical. Just what you said you wanted.

She wrapped her arms around herself, lonely and bereft and unsatisfied in spite of the most amazing orgasm she’d ever experienced. What was the matter with her? She should be springing off the walls with self-satisfied happiness. She’d passed the test. She was desirable. He’d passed the test: he was so desirable as to redefine desirable. She’d have her fling, learn everything she could, explore her wild side and build up that stockpile of sensual memories she could draw on when Mr. Right and she were bored to death of each other.