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“And the music?”
She tilts her head. “Why all the questions, Saul?” she asks.
Every time she says my name, in that just-Sadie way, the gorgeous mix of shyness and budding bravery, I feel something whirl inside me. The universe, fate, whatever it is—whatever word I’m using now that I never would’ve used before.
Something.
My cock pulses, a second heartbeat when she’s around, her legs creamy and thick and bare, her breasts bulging and tempting to grab.
“How about this?” I say. “You answer my question and you get to ask one of your own?”
She pouts, making a hmmm noise, exaggeratedly thinking. Her cuteness is killing me, executing my self-control.
“Okay, you’ve got a deal.”
“So, why the music?”
“Because I like it,” she says.
“Copout,” I groan then grin. “Of course you like it, Sparkplug. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be listening to it. But why?”
An eerie look comes into her eyes, as though she’s reflecting some unseen image. I find that we’ve closed the distance to each other without really choosing to or realizing it.
We’re inches apart, somehow.
Staring into each other and I think we both know, deep down, where this has to go. I think we know it was decided the moment I laid eyes on her.
Was that really only yesterday?
“Do you want the truth?”
“From you? Always, Sadie.”
I reach down and I take her hand. I just take her hand without asking, without us ever having held hands before, and somehow we both silently acknowledge that it’s okay.
There’s no awkwardness.
Sparks fire, sizzling sensation a thousand times stronger than I’ve ever felt before, than I ever dreamed was possible from just touching a woman. Touching her.
I flip my hand and interlace my fingers with hers.
How is this happening? Why aren’t we more shocked by each other?
“It was the album I was listening to when I got the phone call that … that my parents had been in a car crash,” she whispers. “And sometimes – I don’t know why – but sometimes I just listen to it on repeat. Over and over. Because—”
“What?” I urge.
“I can’t,” she murmurs her tears like wet diamonds in the lights. “Another time, maybe, if you’re still interested.”
I give her hand a squeeze, the feeling thrumming up my forearm and down my torso and right to my length.
Take. Her. Raw. And hard.
Even now, as she’s baring her emotional side to me, these thoughts fire and jaggedly tear at me. But how couldn’t they? She’s sex on thick grab-me legs. But I push that feeling down, let my genuine interest in her soul rise instead.
I’m starting to learn that functioning around a woman as heaven-carved as Sadie is a matter of degrees.
“Anyway,” she says, “it’s my turn.”
“Go ahead,” I smirk, the pathos passing.
For now.
“Why the suits?” she asks. “I mean, I see right now that you’re in, you know, what a normal person wears around their house. But yesterday and all day today you were walking around the place suited-and-booted like you were about to go to a business meeting.”
“I’m a spy, Sadie,” I tell her. “About halfway through my Formula One career I was recruited for my driving skill. I worked for Homeland Security, driving bomb-disposal teams in special government cars that were based on Formula One vehicles. Anyway, in the intelligence community, they all wore suits, so I guess I just …”
I cut off, grinning like the wild dog I am when I see her eyebrow cocked in sassy luxuriousness and her lips twist in endearing incredulity.
“Do you really expect me to fall for that?” she says.
“Okay, okay,” I chuckle. “No, I’m not a spy.”
She folds her arms, pushing those breasts together.
We’ve let go of each other’s hand now, a natural evolution, with the silent understanding – I can scent the understanding in her, fucking hell – that we’ll do it again. And maybe not mention it.
Maybe we’ll do more and silently agree to keep it quiet, no explicit reasoning required.
I drag my gaze from those bulbous fleshy pleasure givers to her face.
“But that’s exactly what a spy would say if they were a spy and regretted admitting to being a spy, right?”
“Exactly,” I say. “So, you believe that I’m a spy. I’m glad we agree, Sparkplug.”
“That is not what I said.”
She darts her hand out and lands a sportive slap on my pec, the imprint of her hand burning through my T-shirt and causing my skin to flare imperatively.
“So … why the suits?”
“I was born dirt poor,” I say. “Growing up, my old man was always ranting about his suits, about how he wished he could have a whole room full of them, wear a new one every day. It started as a joke with the old fella, but then it sort of stuck.”
She smiles. “Where is he now?”
“Gone.”
“Where—Oh,” she cuts off, reading my face. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “Cancer, one hell of a thing. He was seventy. My mom is alive and well, she lives in Malta with her new husband and … And I don’t know why I’m telling you any of this, Sparkplug.”
