“Look at this,” she says. She passes her laptop over to me. “Over 119k likes on this post and 75k shares. In just a few hours. Amazing.” She blows out her breath as she scrolls through my other social accounts. And she shakes her head, exactly as I’ve been doing for hours, as she scrutinizes photos and short video clips of the conference.
“Oh, no! There’s me, debating whether to grab my shoes or not and looking like an idiot.” She laughs, partly because it is funny, and partly out of embarrassment.
“You look great. You’re doing something perfectly normal, and you look gorgeous.”
“You would say that, of course, with my ass in the air like that as I’m bending down. I should have just grabbed the shoes and given them a real show.” She laughs. I can tell she’s forcing herself to get over it. I’ve done the same exact thing myself.
“Your ass looks great.”
“Until it shows up in a tabloid with a headline like, ‘Riker Lord’s Fiancée Shows Off the Goodies He’s Getting’ or ‘Lord’s Secret Lover Shows Us How They Do It.’ I’m serious. Remind me to pick up some copies.”
She snuggles against my chest as her fingers unbutton my shirt. She covers my chest with little kisses and comes back up. She leans back and looks in my eyes.
“I really appreciate how you stood up for me. Some of those questions just blindsided me, and I was afraid to say anything, something that could backfire or that I’d regret. I didn’t have my lawyer façade on, I guess because I was so focused on acting like your fiancée plus all the distractions. And . . . Well, I just couldn’t think fast enough. So thanks.”
I kiss both of her lovely cheeks. “It was no big deal. Mostly my habit of finishing other people’s sentences when I get impatient or irritated at how slow they’re going.” I laugh. “Seriously, I hated the direction a couple of them were headed. Trying to find fault with you, and I just rose to the occasion. I felt . . . protective, I guess.” I laughed at the thought. Protective? Me? Of a woman?
“Mmm. You rose to the occasion, did you?” She moves her hand down to my crotch, and I groan. It’s like an instant electrical connection with Jane, and it’s not just a desire to get off. It’s more like getting into her, getting close, experiencing her.
Jane’s not just any woman. There’s much more to her than that. Something I respect. I don’t know what it is, and right now I can’t think as her lips travel down my belly, tracing the hair from my navel on down.
I’m hard as a rock, and I’m dying to feel her mouth around me. I can’t stop my hips from rising upward, reaching for her, yearning for her, pumping as if I’m inside of her. Like instinct has taken over and I can’t stop it.
And finally, her mouth closes around me. My groan is almost a scream as she moves her lips and tongue over me in a way I’ve never felt before. It’s almost painful, and though I’d normally like to surf awhile and enjoy it, letting myself almost crest, almost to the top, then slowing down and back up, over and over again. But this time I don’t want to. I can’t.
My entire body explodes, jerking like she’s rammed a cattle prod up my ass. I hear my screams like I’m out of my body, like they’re far away, and with the final explosion, everything goes dark.
The room is the same when I wake up, but I don’t know if it’s minutes or hours. I drag myself up and hit my cell phone. Hours. What the hell? Slowly, I gain consciousness and awareness of my surroundings. She’s gone.
“Jane? I look around. Nothing. “Jane?” I call louder. I shake my head, run my fingers through my hair, and that’s when I see it. A note on the coffee table. I wait a few minutes to make sure my head is clear, and I read it.
Riker,
Was it as good for you as it was for me? I thought you were blasting off to the moon. I checked your pulse, and since I was fairly certain you were alive, I went home. I have to spend time with Nia.
Call me.
Jane
Whoa. I still feel woozy. No sense trying to pump up some energy, though, since it’s late. I head for the bar and a glass of brandy. On the way back, my cell phone’s blinking. I pick up and swipe. It takes me a moment to digest the letters, the words.
Ana Marx. Oh, no.
“I’ve missed you! And what’s with this story about you being engaged? Were you engaged when we were together last? It was only a few weeks ago!”
Shit. What can I possibly say? Well, I’m not really engaged, so come on over . . .
That won’t work. And it’s not only because I can’t tell anyone what the real deal is. It’s because I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure I want to make up an excuse. But maybe I owe her an explanation. She was a real sweetheart. Not that I’ve thought of her much. Not since I’m always thinking about Jane.
I message back:
“Why don’t you stop by tomorrow night. We’ll have a couple drinks, and I’ll tell you all about it.” I hit send and fall back in the sofa.
I shouldn’t have invited her. I should have just ignored her. I don’t really want to see her at all, and besides, what would I say? I can’t tell her the truth. But I’m not going to lie, either.
I shouldn’t have picked up in the first place. But it’s just Ana, and we had a good thing going. But . . .
I get tired of arguing with myself and decide to let it
