“Brandy, Water, Wine…?’
“Brandy,” I tell him.
He gives me a small nod, then walks across the living room to a bar by the side, where he pours two glasses, then adds ice cubes. I manage to tear my eyes from his body so I can look around my surroundings. The room is tastefully furnished, the classic architecture complemented by a décor that’s luxurious without ostentation. It feels like a home. A place you expect a family to live.
I wonder if he’s married.
Well, it’s not as if I’m planning to sleep with him, I tell myself, continuing my admiration of the room. Some of the furniture are classic antique pieces, and the walls are covered in some sort of textured finish, with paintings hanging here and there. There’s a family portrait featuring a couple that’s obviously his parents, based on his resemblance to the man in the picture, and two children, boys.
He’s clearly the older one of the boys. It’s the same perfect face, only younger. Next to the portrait, there’s a large black and white original of a beautiful ballerina, her posture graceful as she leaps through the air. It’s the same woman in the family portrait, his mother apparently. At the bottom of the frame, I recognize the Andrew Marvell quote, “A thousand years should go to praise thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze.”
“Here.” I turn away from the picture as that soft raspy voice pours over me again, making me shiver. He sounds like temptation, and I cannot imagine any woman who wouldn’t agree to any suggestion made in that voice.
He hands me the drink, his eyes on my face, and I do my best to hold my hand steady when I take the glass from him. I almost fail when his warm fingers brush mine. It’s just a tiny touch, but I feel it everywhere from my fingers to my thighs.
Still watching me, he drops gracefully beside me on the sofa. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I feel almost as if I can look at him forever.
“You like ballet?”
“Hmm.” I’m so lost in staring at him that it takes a while for his words to register.
He gestures at the print of the ballerina. “You seemed interested in the picture.”
“Well, I like ballet, as much as any little girl who ever wanted to wear a tutu.” I laugh nervously. Both Laurie and I had attended classes, but I’d stopped only after a few months. I preferred to read, even then. “But I was looking at the quote in the picture,” I continue, “It’s from one of my favorite poems.”
An eyebrow goes up, only a little, but it draws my attention to his eyes again. They look like sapphires, I decide, dark and rich, with an irresistible glitter in their depths. “Had we but world enough and time,” he quotes, “this coyness, lady, were no crime.” The corners of his sculpted lips lift in a small smile. “But you’re not coy, are you? That would be inconsistent with your profession.”
I frown, not sure what he means. He’s doing a slow perusal of my body again, almost as if he’s undressing me with his eyes. I should be annoyed that this stranger is ogling me so openly, but I’m not. Instead, I can feel my body responding. Heat unfurls in my belly, spreading until I can feel the insistent need all over my body.
What am I doing? A few minutes ago I was devastated because I found out that I’d been waiting in vain for Jack to decide I was the girl for him. Now here I am, letting another man turn me on, which, to his credit, he was doing just by looking at me.
I should explain that I’m not whoever he thinks I am and leave. But not yet. I want…
I want him to keep looking at me with that sensual, smoldering gaze. I want to keep hearing that sinful voice. I want to feel his hands on me.
I take a quick sip of the drink he gave me, breaking the contact with his eyes. I can’t be considering casual sex with a total stranger.
An insanely hot, sexy stranger, who has me aching for him without even touching me at all.
I drag my eyes back to the print on the wall, and the line of poetry, even though I’d much rather be looking at him. “The woman in the poem,” I say, “Was she being coy, or careful? Many people have tossed caution to the wind and surrendered to passion, and yet come to regret it later.” I’m rambling, but I can’t stop. It’s the only way to escape the spellbinding effect of being so close to him.
He doesn’t reply, so I turn back to look at him. His eyes are on my face, a curious, speculative gleam in their blue depths. How can his lashes be so long? I wonder, half in admiration and half in jealousy.
“You’re absolutely right,” he says finally, with a small chuckle. “Though only my brother would find a hooker who talks about poetry on the job.”
A what! I swallow a mouthful of brandy, and the hot fiery liquid goes down all the wrong places. I sputter, almost dropping the glass as I try to get my throat under control.
He’s at the bar and back in what seems like milliseconds. “Here,” he takes my brandy and hands me a glass of water. “Drink this.”
I take the water from him and take a huge gulp. He thinks I’m a whore!
No wonder! He’d been expecting a hooker. I give the water back to him, unable to meet his eyes. I should tell him now that he’s wrong, but his fingers close over mine. They’re firm and warm and hard, and even from that slight touch I can feel the heated pulsing intensify between my thighs.
He thinks I’m a whore!
“Are you alright?” he asks softly.
His fingers are still on mine, distracting me, making me think of all the other places where I want him to touch me. It’s only sex, I tell myself, and heaven knows that after two years of being stuck in the friend zone with Jack, I could do with some of that. If only to get my mind to move on to other things.