Page 14 of Silver Player

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I’m back at Roxanne’s bookstore. Only this time, I’m at the back entrance staring up the outside staircase to the apartment above the shop. Most of the buildings down Main Street have a second floor, several of which are residential rentals. Over the brew pub, we had to overcome all kinds of zoning issues when we turned the second floor into a private party room.

“See anything interesting up there?” The gravelly feminine voice behind me sends a shiver down my spine.

Roxanne. My, how this woman can grate on my nerves, but I admit for the second time this week, I need her. I close my eyes and inhale, steeling my resolve as I spin to face her.

“Roxanne,” I drag out her name. “How wonderful to see you again.”

She stares at me a long moment, those piercing eyes doing things to my belly at the same time as they make me want to cover the family jewels.

Should have covered them before because she might be family. The thought strikes me as inappropriate and possible. Roxanne wouldn’t be direct family, though. More like baby mama’s sister. And as for coverage, it had to have been faulty prophylactics because I haven’t been uncovered with someone since my ex-wife.

“Cut the bullshit, William. What are you doing creeping on my staircase?” She carries a grocery bag in each hand, and I reach for them, not allowing her to refuse me. We struggle for a moment as I slip the bags from her wrists, and she slaps at my quick reflexes.

“What the…?” She stops swatting at me and puts her hands on her hips. “Are you going to try to shove my groceries down your pants this time?” Her eyes lower for my zipper region, and then they leap upward, meeting mine. I wiggle one brow, making my eye dance, until she says, “I suppose zucchini might be an improvement.”

My mouth falls open. Is she kidding me? “More like an eggplant.” I snort.

Her lips separate, a soft gasp escaping. Why is that making my belly flip? Then she starts to laugh.

“I mean, I’m more comparable to an eggplant,” I explain, my face heating.

Her nose scrunches up, and her lips sneer. “Ouch.”

It’s my turn to chuckle. Why are we comparing my junk to vegetables? I’m all protein down there.

“Anyway,” I draw out and tip my head in the direction of her stairs.

“What are you doing?” she questions.

“Inviting myself to dinner,” I say, lifting the bags I now hold in my hands. “Truce, Roxie. For five minutes, I’m waving a white flag.” I give her my best pouty face and puppy dog eyes, and Roxanne shakes her head while I hold my ground. Finally, she acquiesces and passes me. I follow her, taking my time, telling myself I shouldn’t be admiring her backside as she climbs ahead of me, but my eyes have a will of their own. Roxanne’s ass is perfectly tight under another flowing skirt in a swirling pattern which hits above her knees. Her hips sashay in this sexy way, side to side, with each step she takes. If I pause a few steps below her, I might get a peek up her skirt, and that makes me feel like a pervert. It reminds me of my twelve-year-old self hoping to catch a glimpse under the uniform of Tara Lou Perry.

“It’s red,” Roxanne says, while my eyes roam up the back of her knee-high boots and swallow at the exposed skin behind her knees.

“What?” I choke.

“My underwear. It’s red.” Her monotone voice is dry, even bored sounding. Did she just tell me what color her underwear is? “I know you’re looking.”

I snort, trying to cover the lie. “You wish.”

“I wish you’d see my underwear?” she questions, and it’s just too much of an opening.

“So, you admit you do wish I would see it?” I tease. She stops short, and I practically run into her from a step below her. This means my face comes level with her fine ass, except she abruptly turns to me and now I’m eye level with …

“Eyes up here, William.”

“Roxie,” I breathe against her skirt near my face. Her hand cups my chin and tugs my attention upward. Narrowed eyes glare down at me.

“What are you staring at?”

Damn, her hand on my jaw feels good. Why does that feel good? What’s happening to me?

I swallow under her gaze. Is her thumb stroking my jaw? It takes a moment for me to realize that it is. As my chin rests in the palm of her hand, the pad of her thumb slowly glides over the edge of my face, scraping against the scruff.

“What are you staring at?” I ask, my voice cracking like the twelve-year-old me as I drag my eyes up her body. She’s bent forward and more than a hint of cleavage presses against the V-neck of her shirt.

“It’s soft,” she mutters, her voice dropping as the pressure of her thumb increases. Is her head lowering? My eyes fall to her lips, and she rolls them inward, then out before her tongue slips along the seam.