AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I spot Alexandra by the railing. She’s staring out at the night sky. Beneath the full moon’s glow, I can see the tops of the trees in Prospect Park. Manhattan’s skyline is on the other side of the building, but all I want is a view of my girl, naked and draped over her outdoor furniture.
A sideways glance confirms the lounge chair is still up here. A heat lamp that would look more at home in a restaurant or at a wedding hovers over the lone chair.
She won’t freeze when I pull her dress to her waist.
I cross the cement pavers and wrap my arms around Alexandra’s slim waist, drawing her back to my front. She can’t miss how the mental picture in my mind turns me on. The evidence is pressing against her lower back. Even in her three-inch heels, she’s a good bit s
horter than my six-two build.
“I want to bury my face between your legs,” I murmur in her ear. “I’m going to lay you down on that chair, reach up under your dress, slide you panties down your legs, and—”
“I’m not wearing any underwear,” she announces in her low, sultry voice.
Her voice oozes with the promise of sex, and I would bet my BMW that men call to reserve the squash courts at the gym just to hear her purr in their ear. Until last month, I was one of those guys. After the second phone call, I stopped by the desk and asked her out.
Her response? “I knew you would come to your senses and take me to dinner.”
Bold, confident, and sexy as hell. Maybe she’s the one. Maybe I’ve finally found Mrs. Right.
I step forward, using my body to gently guide her across the patio to the chair. We’ve been here before. Not on this roof-deck. Last time, we slipped away at a museum opening and found a quiet hall. No cameras. I made damn sure there wouldn’t be a recording of my girlfriend on her knees in front of me. But when I zipped up and we returned to the party, I knew I’d found a woman who saw more than dollar signs when she looked at me.
Now she steps free from my grasp. The front of her calves bump against the lounge chair. Then she turns to face me. “But I didn’t invite you up here for sex. At least, not to start.”
I school my expression, dialing down the exasperation and the lust. If she wants to talk first, I’m in. I give her my best you-have-my-complete-attention look, the one I’ve practiced in countless business meetings.
Alexandra is special. She deserves more than a quick orgasm during a party.
“I’m listening,” I say, shoving my hands in my suit pants pockets. I want to be clear. I’m not reaching for her. Not yet.
“First, I have something to show you,” she says.
I hear a trace of nerves in her tone, and I sure as hell like her use of the word show in place of tell. Most women I’ve dated for a month or more eventually have something serious to share with me. Their feelings. Their hopes and dreams for our relationship. Or the expected size of their future engagement ring.
For the record, I’ve never bought a ring.
Alexandra’s fingers work the latch on her clutch, and my gaze follows her movements. Her hands are trembling, hard. Finally, the latch gives, and I catch my breath.
I’m immediately turned on. My imagination’s running wild with the potential outcomes from her little game of show-and-tell. Whatever she’s hiding in her purse must be small. Something that pushes my bold, beautiful girl out of her comfort zone. Something that leaves her shaking.
She pulls out a thin slip of paper and holds it out to me.
My brow furrows. I pull my right hand free from my pocket and take it. It’s in my hand before I realize I’m not holding a paper, but a picture. The image is old and slightly discolored, probably dating back to the days when people used cameras and then visited the grocery store to develop the film.
Like when I was a kid …
No.
My jaw tightens, grinding my molars together as I force myself to look at the image. My childhood and this picture—they aren’t connected. It’s not possible.
But a single glance tells me I’m wrong. I know that scrawny, beaten kid in the old photo. Any thought of sex suddenly takes a back seat to the dread stirring deep in my gut.
“How did you get this?” I demand, looking Alexandra straight in the eye.
She’s still shaking like a fucking leaf, but she’s holding her chin high. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me,” I say, biting out the words.
I’d thought I’d wiped all records of my humiliation off the face of the earth. But now I’m holding a picture of my weakest moment. I recognize the bathroom floor in the image. The tile matches the house where I grew up. And I should know. I spent a lot of time there, licking my damn wounds, knowing I would have to go to school the next day and face the fucking bullies again.
