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Holy hell. A British accent. Plus he sounded altogether too relaxed. I looked around the dim lobby nervously. What if we’re caught in here?
Trust. Doitdoitdoit.
“Are we alone?” I whispered, my heart sounding louder to me than my own voice.
“I think so,” he said, his tone bemused. He put his hands in his pockets and stepped out of the shadows towards me, confirming that he was, indeed, a very fine black man, one from across the pond.
“You think so? You don’t sound very convinced.”
“Do you accept the Step, my darling?” he asked again, with not an iota of concern. And that accent.
I looked around the lobby again. Even if someone saw, what could they say? That Solange Faraday entered the museum in the French Quarter after hours? So what? That a handsome man encircled my small wrist with his expansive grip? Who cares? He could easily be my boyfriend. Maybe he worked here and had forgotten something in his office?
But once inside, there were no witnesses. No one could see him pull me towards an old-fashion elevator, coaxing me in and smashing the cage shut behind him. They couldn’t hear my heart pounding as he turned to face me, taking off his fedora and throwing it to the floor to reveal his sculpted face, his amused eyes, black and intense, his closely shaved, rather magnificent head.
“Solange, one last time, do you accept the Step?”
“Yes!” It came out fast and loud. This man was so devastatingly attractive, there was no way I could turn him down, despite my fears about the privacy of our encounter. I wanted him to talk more in that liquid velvet accent.
I swallowed as he came closer and loomed over me, his deep voice now a rasp. He grabbed the wall of the elevator cage behind me.
“Well, my dear, how shall we play?”
Except for two guys in college and a brief setup last year, I’d dated mostly black men, including the one I married. Not that I wasn’t attracted to other races—clearly I was—but this man standing before me summed up everything right about how God made a man. Without waiting for my reply, he hit a button and the old-fashioned elevator shuddered to life, lifting us perilously above the ground. He took off my hat and threw it to the floor too.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “Here for me. Is that right, my love?”
I could feel the cage vibrate against my back as I watched the marble floor of the museum’s lobb
y shrink away from us. His hands reached for the knot of my coat belt.
“Yes,” I said, averting my eyes. I did not want to come across as a breathless schoolgirl, but I was utterly speechless.
I watched as he easily undid the knot. He hit the button again and the elevator stopped with a jerk, suspending us in the cage over the lobby. We could see everything below, including the parade of pedestrians out for a night on the brightly lit square, but no one outside could see us.
Or so I assumed. Hoped. Prayed.
“We’re high up,” I said, swallowing.
“I like heights,” he said. “Do you?”
“Not really.” Truth be told, I was feeling a little faint.
“You’re in good hands. I fly planes.” And I was in good hands. Firm, experienced, pilot hands.
He slid one of those good hands into the slit of my coat opening. When his palm hit the skin on my stomach, I quivered. I actually quivered. When was the last time I had done that? Had I ever quivered with Julius? With his other hand, he clutched my chin and tilted my head up, the light of the elevator casting his chiseled face in shadows.
“Now, there’s a rule. We have to be very, very quiet, darling. Can you do that for me?” he asked, slipping my coat off my shoulders, revealing my bare torso.
I forgot I was naked under the coat! He looked down at my breasts, his hands tracing my curves, his expression one of deep concentration, as though I were a valuable piece of art no one was allowed to touch. There was a plan hatching in this man’s brain, I could see that, and before I could open my mouth to speak, he opened my arms and lifted them over my head, instructing me in the barest of whispers, “Hold on to the cage behind you and don’t let go.”
I did so. “What if someone down there sees us? What if we’re caught? I’d lose my job, my credibility—”
“I want you to listen to me.” His voice was as warm and reassuring as a cashmere throw. “Remain silent no matter what I do to you, and all will be well. Relax. I’ve got you.”
Now his mouth was on me, kissing my neck and my breasts, caressing me into a state of arousal. I moaned quietly and let my head fall back against the mesh, felt the cool air on my skin where he kissed and bit his way down to my stomach, making my legs shake. To steady myself, I put my hands on his head. Not that he needed guiding. This man knew what he was doing. This man knew where he was going. His palms flattened against the soft brush of my hair, prying me open like a treasure. Impatient, he slung one of my thighs over his shelf of a shoulder and pressed me back against the cold, metal rail lining the elevator car. At first, all I felt was his warm breath against my clit, his arms wrapped under me. I let out an involuntary whimper, a plea really, as his broad shoulders leaned in, spreading me farther open to him.
“Want me to make you come right here, right now, love?” he crooned.
