“Here?” She dabs at it, but her nose is still powdered.
“Here,” I say, scooting closer to her on the picnic bench and brushing my thumb over the tip of her nose. Once she’s pristine again, I let my hand drift, tangling my fingers in her blonde waves and running my thumb over the impossible softness of her cheek. “You’re beautiful.”
She smiles. “You’re handsome.”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
She nods.
And I do. I tilt her head up, bring my lips down to meet hers, taste the sugar on them and the natural sweetness of her skin. Brooklyn melts beneath me, melts into me, and for a moment, I forget we’re in the middle of a busy street festival.
The music, the people, the noise from the carnival games… all of it disappears and there’s just Brooklyn.
Perfect. Heavenly. Mine.
Then I pull back before I lose myself completely and do something decidedly unsafe for public consumption. Brooklyn is looking at me with stars in her eyes, her expression a perfect reflection of how I’m feeling right now.
A fierce possessiveness comes over me and I stand up, extending my hand to help her up.
“Where to now?” she asks.
“Let’s get out of here.”
5
Brooklyn
Prescott takes me back to his house, and my pulse is racing by the time we get there.
That kiss… this man… this night… it’s all so perfect and I can’t wait to see what happens next.
Prescott’s place turns out to be a renovated mid-century ranch in a quiet neighborhood. The outside is something I’m sure Cassidy would love, with her penchant for all things retro, but the inside reminds me of Cory and Martha’s house. It’s warm and comfortable, a place I instantly know I wouldn’t mind spending some time.
“Nightcap?” Prescott asks.
I nod. “What do you have?”
“How about a French 75, in keeping with the whole Casablanca theme this evening?”
“Never had one,” I say with a smile, “but I’m in the mood to try new things.”
He grins back at me, a wolfish look that heats up my core, then tells me to have a look around while he goes into the kitchen to prepare our drinks. I take him up on the offer, wandering from the living room into a small office area, and then into what is definitely the best room so far.
There’s a library with built-in bookshelves on all four walls, each one completely packed with books. There are a couple of comfy-looking lounges in the center of the room to curl up on, and there’s even a rolling ladder on tracks that go all the way around the shelves.
This guy isn’t just well-read… he clearly loves books as much as I do. Maybe even more, judging by the collection.
I’m just perusing his shelves and thinking about the fact that Cassidy and Nora never found me at the festival like they promised—and wondering whether that had been by design—when Prescott appears in the doorway with a couple of stemmed glasses in hand.
“Didn’t take you long to find my favorite room,” he says as he crosses the floor to meet me. “Were your librarian senses tingling?”
“It’s hard to miss a space like this,” I point out, accepting the French 75 he holds out to me. I lift the glass and notice the bubbles rising in it. Taking a slow sip, I savor it and ask, “What’s in this?”
“Gin, of course,” he says. “Lemon juice, simple syrup, and champagne. What do you think?”
“I like it,” I say. My pulse is still a little elevated, and inside I’m thinking, I like you even more.
Prescott is standing close to me, his deep, intelligent eyes sweeping over me, and I can smell the sweetness of the champagne on his breath. I sway a little closer, wanting a repeat of that kiss at the festival.
Instead, for some dumb reason perhaps having to do with the fact that this is my second champagne of the night, my mouth doesn’t know when to quit working and I tease him, “I have to ask… how is it that you have the complete works of Jane Austen?”
He smiles and looks at the shelf I’m referring to. “What, a guy can’t enjoy a little eighteenth century romance now and again?” He nods in the direction of a beautiful leatherbound edition of Pride and Prejudice and adds, “‘I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.’”
“It really is excellent,” I say. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him how he can afford so many nice books and a cozy house like this on a non-profit owner’s salary, but that seems like a rude question for a first date, and besides… he’s looking at me with that grin again, like he wants to swallow me whole.
And honestly, I’d like nothing better.
I allow Prescott to take the half-empty glass from my hand, discarding both of them on a nearby bookshelf before he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. His body pressed up against mine is firm and strong and heavenly, and when I feel his cock against my inner thigh, already rock hard, a little shiver works its way through me and I know I have never wanted anyone as bad as I want Prescott right now.
“I like you, Brooklyn,” he says, his lips so close they brush mine. “More than I knew was possible in such a short time.”
I like him too—God, I like him—but desire and champagne have scrambled my thoughts and all I can manage is, “Shut up and kiss me again.”
He chuckles, then says in a growl, “Yes, ma’am.”
Our lips meet, and then his tongue finds my own. I melt against him, moving my hips subtly against his cock until he groans with pleasure. Then I do it a little more brazenly.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he complains, his hands finding the curves of my ass. “Been driving me crazy since I first saw you in this dress.” One hand hooks under the hem
