“No,” fell like a lead weight from my lips, landing between us with a dull thunk, and I stared at the floor, feeling the fool.
“C’mon.” He stood and made his way to the trash bin. “I‘ll walk you to your car.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary. I live just around the corner.”
“Then I’ll walk you home.” His hand landed on the small of my back, urging me toward the exit, leaving no room for argument.
Cold, damp air blasted through my too thin jacket. My shivers, though, had nothing to do with the temperature and, shamefully, everything to do with the man holding the door open.
Cole walked me home. We stood outside my building and talked for another half hour, speaking nothing of consequence, sharing friendly banter.
It wasn’t until I entered my apartment that I realized I’d used the front entrance to my building for the first time in ages. And I hadn’t looked over my shoulder all night.
“Thanks for dinner, Nats. That was amazing.” Martin tossed the dishtowel in the sink, hooked an arm around my waist, yanked me flush against his hard body, and doused me with kisses, starting at my cheek, traveling down to my neck, then to my collar bone.
“You’re welcome,” came out breathy and hopeful.
He hovered over my breasts and lifted his eyes to mine, brows quirked in a silent plea for permission.
I lifted my chin, allowing him access.
Warm hands slid under the hem of my blouse, then traveled upward, his thumbs blazing a trail over the lace covering my tight buds.
I ached with need. But it wasn’t Martin’s touch I craved.
He moved one hand to the button of my jeans.
God, how long had it been since a man had made me orgasm?
Martin had yet to get me into bed. We’d started many intense make-out sessions that always ended before the fireworks began. His phone would ring, calls from work. He didn’t have condoms. I had my period. New Year’s Eve had been a dud—he drank too much and passed out on his couch the second we got back from a ridiculously lavish party Ellis had invited us to attend.
Funny thing? I was always relieved.
Still. We had fun, though I never got the feeling I was a priority. His cell rang all hours of the day, and he was often called away at the drop of a hat.
Maybe that’s what I liked about Martin. He wasn’t clingy. And Lord knows, I’d had my fill of clingy men.
But I was a woman with needs, and as he worked my jeans open, then down my hips, I shivered with anticipation, because I was finally, finally going to get some much needed relief.
Martin was attractive for sure. And if he made love like he kissed, I was in for a treat.
He helped me disrobe, then hoisted me onto his counter, the gray quartz cold on my backside.
His khakis had made it to his ankles when his phone buzzed.
Face flushed, he huffed, “Jesus. Fuck. I’m sorry. Gotta take this,” then dropped a kiss on my nose, righted his pants, and left me naked in his kitchen.
Bits and pieces of his conversation drifted my way and went something like, “Yeah. No. No. Not busy. Tonight? Fuck yeah. Does he know? Sure. Sure. I know. I know. No. No. No. Come on. What do you think?” He huffed. “You know that can’t happen. Okay, I’ll be there. Bye. No. Bye.”
Martin found me in the same position he’d left me. He scrubbed a hand through his thick hair. “So sorry. Have an emergency flight to Georgia.”
“Tonight?”
He stepped between my legs, pulling me against his arousal. “Be back day after tomorrow. We’ll go somewhere special.”
“Sure.” I shoved him away before he could claim my mouth, then dropped to my feet.
“I’m sorry, Nats. It’s my job. I’ll make it up to you.”
“No worries. Really.” On with my jeans.
“You’re mad.”
Duh. “I’ll be fine.” Hook the bra. Shirt next. “This works out great, actually. I’ve got a super busy weekend planned, and now I don’t have to worry about juggling my time.” I shoved my feet into my Uggs, snagged my handbag off the coffee table, and made my way to the door.
Martin stopped me, palm to the wood, towering above me, worried eyes meeting mine. “What kind of plans?”
“Girl stuff.”
A strong hand curled around my neck, thumb caressing. “I’m sorry, baby.”
He didn’t get to call me baby. Baby was a term of endearment reserved for lovers. Soft and slow, I gripped his wrist and pulled his arm away from me. “No need to be sorry. It’s your job. I understand.” I gave his shoulder a quick rub. “Fly safe.”
Martin leaned in for a kiss. I slid to the left, slipped through the door, and threw over my shoulder, “Good night. See ya’ around.”
I loved Barolo. Two bottles resided in my wine rack at all times, for special occasions such as finding myself alone on a Friday evening after almost getting ravished by a handsome redhead with a killer body but sent on my merry way. Whatever.
I had wine. I had a Ray Donovan marathon. I had my comfy couch.
Two episodes and one and a half glasses of wine behind me, my phone buzzed under my left butt cheek. Took some finagling, but I managed to untangle myself from my throw blanket and find my cell.
“Hello?”
“I hear you’ll be a swinging single tomorrow evening.”
Every nerve in my body tingled, his rich voice like a verbal massage, hitting all my erogenous zones.
“He told you?”
“Cried like a baby. Said he had to go out of town and you were upset.”
“I’m not.” Irritated would better describe my mood.
A heated pause. “Does it bother you, Martin going out of town all the time?”
“No,” I answered, not entirely dishonest. “I really do enjoy my alone time.”
“So why did he call me, worried he’d ruined things
