Evening Storm (9 page)

“Her panties drop to the floor, then her fingers make short work of my button and zipper. My cock tips into her waiting palm. ‘Condom,' she says while she's got a firm grip on me, and I almost combust then and there.

“Getting a rubber from my wallet while she's stroking my cock might be the hottest thing I've ever done. I roll it down; she gently scratches my nape and my balls with her perfectly manicured nails, and then she guides me into place. I'm looking into her face when the first hint of yielding heat registers, and if I look half as dazed as she does, this is going to blow my mind.

“I think I'm all the way inside, but then she shimmies, seating me that extra bit deeper. She's tall enough to make this easy, and she gives the whole thing that extra bit of stability by wrapping one arm around my neck and the other around my waist. One forearm against the shelves, the other at her hips to support most of her weight, and this is going to be good. She's slick and tight and radiating a confidence that has nothing to do with winning an Oscar and everything to do with you, Simone,” he said.

Simone startled, jerked out of the story when he brought her into it. Except she was already in it, already imagining herself in the library, wet and aching for Ryan.

“She's like this because your designs made her feel like this. Voices sound outside the library door, derivatives, an upcoming natural gas deal, a summer share in the Hamptons, and I freeze, my entire body ringing like a fire alarm from the tight heat around my cock, the position, the possibility of being caught like this. It's the last thing she wants, and I expect her to turn her face away and hide from the door, but instead she turns and whispers
‘Go away.'

“It's a command, or maybe a witch's spell, and it works. The voices move on.

‘Damn, you're good.'

‘Show me how good you are,' she replies.

“The glimmering magic of the fabric and her powerful incantation create a force field of invisibility around us, so I don't rush but take my time, paying attention to her responses until an involuntary little gasp tells me that yes, with
that
particular angle of her hips and mine, I'm stroking her sweet spot. Everything tightens a little, her arms around me, the muscles of her back and bottom under my forearm. Sweet heat drips down my spine to pool in my pelvis. I keep my rhythm slow and steady, sinking into the golden light and the magic spell she weaves. Her leg wraps around my calf, pulling me off-balance. I widen my stance, and her fingers dig into my shoulders through my jacket and tuxedo shirt. Right now she doesn't give a damn about what I say, so I reassure her with movement: steady, deep, and now a bit of a snap to my hips. This time the gasp is a cry until she smothers her mouth in my jacket. She's trembling, quivering, so close, so close, but it's easy to fight the heat in my balls until, with one sharp cry, she comes.

“It's magic all right, fucking
magic
, holding a woman through a full-body orgasm. I wait until she's done, weight resting more heavily on my arm, before she let go. Looking down at the curve of her breasts pressing against that glimmering fabric pulls me over the edge. I don't mean to shove her against the bookshelves when I bury myself inside her, but she gives a soft, surprised, not altogether displeased huff of air when I do.

“My heart's still pounding and her face is still buried in my shoulder when a sharp knock comes at the door. Neither of us wastes any time looking at each other, or the door. I pull out. She spins around. Cock still hanging from my unzipped pants, I zip her dress. She shoves the skirt down, and I bend down, pluck her panties from the floor, and stuff them into my jacket pocket as I sit down behind the desk and lean back with my hands locked behind my head to study the ceiling.

“It's the best I can do. When I look up, Daria's perusing the book from the shelf like nothing happened. She's a better actor than I am. At the second round of knocks she crosses the library floor at a measured pace and unlocks the door.

‘Yes?'

“Jack Castilanio peers around the open door. ‘Uh, sorry,' he says. ‘It was locked.'

“Daria lifts her eyebrows. ‘Was it?' she asks, all bewildered innocence. ‘Did you lock the door, Ryan?'

“I shake my head and smile at Jack.

“Daria's not giving any ground to Jack, but Jack's not backing away, either, and when a blond head belonging to one of the hired ‘entertainers' peers into the gap, I understand why he wanted the room. No one says anything, and Jack retreats with a muttered apology.

“She closes the door. I remove the condom, bundle it in a bunch of tissues plucked from the box on the desk, and chuck it in the walnut trash basket under the desk. ‘I guarantee Charles doesn't empty his own trash,' I explain to Daria as I zip up.

“Her smile swings between amused and bland as she straightens my shirt and cummerbund, but when she's done, it's completely dialed to bland. I open my mouth to say something, although I'm not sure what because we both know what this was, but the door swings open without a knock. It's yet another second-year associate with yet another ‘entertainer.'

“‘Do you think he'd mind if I borrowed this?' Daria says, glancing at the book's spine, then at me.

“Her improv skills impress me. ‘Not at all,' I say, the very picture of magnanimity. It's a Greek tragedy, bound in leather, probably bought by the yard from a seller specializing in old books.

“I clear a path for her through the party that's spiraling out of control. She drops my hand when we reach the elevator bank, and we ride to the lobby in silence. ‘Good night,' she says when we stand in the summer's sultry air.

“I kiss her cheek and hail a cab for her. Only when the cab's number light switches off do I remember I've still got her panties in my pocket.”

The fabric of her shirt was damp with sweat from the heat of Ryan's hand and her own arousal. Simone had no idea how long she'd been sitting in silence after the end of his rather compelling story, but she knew when Ryan lifted his palm, as he inevitably would, she would feel the loss of his touch anchoring her to the stoop. There was something primitively sexy about his hand at her throat, the span of his fingers allowing him to hold her shoulder and stroke his thumb over her throat again and again and again.

Without warning, his hand shifted from its position on her shoulder to slide inside her shirt collar and cup her neck. Her eyes flew open to find him staring at her, desire unabashedly visible in his eyes. It was too intimate, too much, taking them from the realm of fantasy into . . . how did he describe her work? The truth of skin. Skin didn't lie, but Ryan showed her so many different facets of himself, she knew she couldn't afford to give him the truth of hers. “No,” she said.

He lifted his hand and let his fingertips trail through the notch between her collarbone and down her breastbone to the placket of her shirt before finally falling to his lap. Even in the humid air of a summer night in the city her skin felt chilled by the loss of his touch.

“You wanted to give her something?” She'd meant the words to sound amused, but even to her own ringing ears they sounded jealous. Her emotions were all over the map. She wanted him, didn't want to want him, didn't believe she should have him, much less
could
have him, and none of those mental gyrations factored in what he wanted. Also, they were driving her absolutely insane.

He shrugged. “You don't believe that?”

Did she? He'd read Daria impeccably, or at least the same way Simone read her. He'd given Jade the fantasy she so clearly wanted, to be seen, and admired, and envied by the whole of the city. But for Daria the encounter had been intimate, almost custom-tailored for her state of mind. A bespoke lover. The thought amused her; the idea that Ryan Hamilton used her designs to give each woman exactly what she wanted.

There was a better question to be asked, one she had to look at sideways, sidle around, because coming at it too directly might tell her something she didn't want to know about herself.

Why was she listening to these stories? She'd done her best to put Ryan out of her mind by calling Stéphane back immediately and setting a date for dinner. Shortly afterward another pretty present arrived, a beautiful blown-glass globe made by an artist in London, in fiery shades of orange and red. The same bike messenger delivered it, and again, there was no note. How very like Stéphane to assume none was necessary. But beauty was beauty. She'd hung the glorious, vibrant object from the window by the four-poster bed, where it threw sunset colors over her showroom. The presents meant they were beginning the relationship dance again, as comfortable as a worn pair of jeans, and about as exciting.

His visits to Irresistible, and the stories he told her, weren't just exciting. They were thrilling, illicit, secretive, all emotions that set off a cascade of improper arousal and delight and made her feel alive. If they'd been about his conquests she would have turned him away. Instead she listened because they weren't about him. They were about the woman with him, and they revealed a depth of attention uncharacteristic of the average man who walked into Simone's showroom. On the surface Ryan looked like any other Manhattan playboy, but the dark circles under his eyes, the haunted look in their hazel depths, the grooves on either side of his mouth, the stories he told, wove a spell of seductive darkness and complexity that kept her listening.

She couldn't let it go any further than that, but this in-between state was unsustainable. Something would have to happen, but neither option—ending things or sleeping together—was acceptable to her. The tension set her temper simmering. “I don't think I've ever heard a man say he thought sex with an Oscar-winning actress was about her.”

Ryan shrugged. “I think when you get to that level of fame or wealth, there aren't many people who don't want anything from you. Is it so strange I'd give her something?”

“Is that why you focused on secrecy this time?”

“She liked it. Responded to it.”

That was the difference, Simone realized. With Jade he could be describing a standard hot fantasy, but the encounter with Daria could be reality. It was a reality Simone found intensely arousing, the impulsive response to chemistry between two people, clothes half-fastened, the tantalizing nearness of skin, the thrill of possibly getting caught, needing to be quiet. Ryan's gaze never left hers, and suspicion bloomed in her mind. Ryan paid attention when he told her about Jade. Had he given Daria what she wanted, or had he given Daria what he knew
Simone
wanted?

No. He'd perfectly described the lingerie Daria chose: gold silk, retro, the way it gleamed against her pale skin. While she appreciated the uptick in business thanks to increased social media chatter, she was in danger of becoming the third wheel in a series of tabloid-worthy sexual encounters orchestrated by one of Manhattan's most notorious playboys. But neither could she tell him to stop, not with the heat of his palm fading from her shoulder, her skin tingling with his unhurried touch. “Are you going to see her again?”

He leaned his head back against one of the wrought iron supports in the railing, and looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes. “I don't know. She's in town all summer performing at Shakespeare in the Park. They signed her up long before she was nominated for the Oscar, let alone won. It's going to be the hottest ticket in town.”

Simone suppressed a ripple of envy. Tickets to the Public Theater's performances were free, given away to sponsors, and then first-come, first-serve at the Delacorte Theater, or at the Public Theater's box office. People lined up as early as five a.m. for a chance at that evening's tickets. Simone didn't have time to sit on line for a mere chance.

“She'll be wonderful,” she said, striving for equanimity and graciousness. “I've wanted to attend one of those performances.”

“I've been a couple times,” he said carelessly. “MacCarren sponsored the performance when I was a new associate. I used to take clients.”

“Do you like Shakespeare?”

He thought about this question far longer than she expected him to. Finally he said, “I liked the prestige of it all. I liked showing off the city on a summer night. I liked knowing I had access to something other people wanted. I never really thought about the play.”

“You're honest,” she said. “Even when it doesn't make you look good, you're honest.”

“Only to a certain point. Only for you,” he said, looking her right in the eye.

Another truth that concealed more than it revealed. She knew he had secrets, and he knew she knew he had secrets. Ryan wasn't what he seemed, but at least he wasn't trying to hide that fact.

“Why are you listening to me?” he asked.

She gave his question the consideration it deserved, because she really shouldn't be listening to these stories. “You pay attention, so on the surface, the stories are beautiful when I expect them to be sordid. I love beauty. But I shouldn't. The story you just told me isn't the truth. It's not the one you want to tell me. I don't trust you.”

“You really shouldn't. I hate that about this,” he said, gesturing between them, “but you shouldn't.”

In the hopes of catching a passing breeze, she lifted her hair away from her nape and studied him. “I'm not sure about that. You bring me women to dress, play the part of an amoral opportunist, but I don't think your heart is in it, which is almost worse. If you believe your own fiction, no matter how twisted, you have hope. If you don't . . . what's left?”

His expression didn't change, but the bottomless pain in his eyes nearly broke her heart. “You tell the truth,” he said finally. “Why? Almost no one does. We live in a world of half-truths and facades. Why tell the truth?”

She thought about the world of high fashion, the endless scheming and strategizing, the statistical anomaly of the model's figure, the drama. Beauty was so difficult to pin down, and yet she'd devoted herself to calling it from fabric to enhance what was already inside a woman. Living a life of half-truths or outright lies obscured beauty, pure and simple. “After a while, it's too exhausting to live in that world. That's why I do what I do. Skin doesn't lie. It tells the truth of smoking, sun worshipping, babies, injuries, laughter. The costumes we wear shouldn't hide who we are, but rather help us shine. But when you get right down to the barest bones, lying is ugly, and I hate ugliness.”

The words came out harsher than she had intended. His eyes widened ever so slightly, but he didn't look away, and his willingness to take what she threw at him shamed her. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “I have no right to judge.”

“You told me to think carefully before I came back here. I did. You tell the truth. I need to hear it.”

She had no idea what internal demons he was facing down, but he wasn't flinching from them. “Then I'm sorry for adding to your burdens by being unkind.”

“It's all right. Extra weight is helpful right now,” he said, then worked his feet back into the boat shoes. He stood, then held out his hand to help her up.

She took it not palm to palm, like she was shaking his hand, but clasped his hand with her fingers curled around the edge of his hand. It was the grip of comrades, of a rescuer grabbing for someone stranded, an unconscious recognition of a partnership. He pulled, easily hoisting her upright, and momentum kept her going, right into his chest. They were pressed together along the length of their bodies, mouths mere inches apart. For a heady, impulsive moment she thought he might kiss her, and she would let him. Heat simmered between her legs, and the shock of contact only ignited it.

He gently urged her back a step. She relaxed her grip, and their hands separated. “Thanks for the beer,” she said, and smoothed her hand down her thigh.

“Thanks for listening,” he said. “Even though you have every reason not to.”

She waited until he'd picked up the beer and stepped down to the sidewalk. “Why do you think I'm listening?”

“I don't know,” he said. “If it were me, I'd have kicked my ass to the curb when you opened the dressing room door on Jade. Maybe you like the fantasy.”

The thought intrigued her. “What do you fantasize about?”

“You, Simone.” His voice was clear, direct, flexing like a blade through the sultry Manhattan night air. “I fantasize about you. God knows I want you. Every time I see you I want more of you. I want to have all of you.”

The temptation to kiss him and ignite the naked yearning in his voice nearly overpowered her. She was a grown woman with multiple affairs and relationships behind her, and no qualms about casual sex. But the hope of something more than a casual affair stopped her.

“You can have me. All you have to do is tell me the truth,” she said.

“I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I can't. I can't, and I can't talk about why I can't.”

“I'm not intrigued by mysterious, tortured men,” she said.

“Now who's lying?” he said, but he tempered the words with a rueful smile. “You're tempted. You're just too smart to fall for it. And I'm too much of a jerk to make it easy on you.”

“I don't want easy. The truth is anything but simple or easy or free of pain.”

“I can't,” he said again.

“I won't give in,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “That's why I'll be back.”

She didn't have a response to that.
Don't come back
wasn't an option, but neither was
come to bed with me
. Frustrated, she got the last word. “The truth, Ryan. That's all I ask.” Then she got to her feet in silence, and left him sitting on her stoop.

***

On the night of her dinner date with Stéphane, the host guided her through Bouley to a quiet table. Stéphane watched her the whole way. His heavy-lidded, amused gaze raised her hackles a little, but she let it go. While he wasn't in the fashion industry, he spent enough time on its periphery and possessed a Frenchman's love of fine things. Tonight she wore a design that combined elements of her brother's work with her own: a teal silk pencil skirt that stopped just above her knees, and a fitted jacket in a teal brocade with a wide folded shawl collar that revealed her collarbone almost to her shoulders. The brocade pattern was inspired by Japanese design elements—koi, dragons, the symbol for fire. She and her brother had traveled to Japan together several years prior. Simone had gone on to design a line of Japanese–inspired loungewear and lingerie, while her brother worked elements into an extremely successful couture line. Underneath, a matching teal silk full-coverage corset laced her tight, transforming what could be stodgy into sheer seduction. The color glowed in the candlelit restaurant. Her hair was confined in a smooth French twist, the better to show off the jacket's design and her own bone structure.

When she reached the table Stéphane rose and quietly shooed away the host to kiss Simone on either cheek and seat her himself. “Bonsoir, Stéphane,” she said, keeping her back straight as she eased into the chair.

“Bonsoir, Simone,” he replied. The hovering host placed her serviette across her lap, then handed her the wine list. “Have you chosen wine?” she said.

“I ordered a Francois Raveneau. Would you like to start with the oysters?”

The waiter appeared with a bottle of wine, which Stéphane sampled and approved while Simone studied the specials, and gave them a few minutes to look over the menu. When she'd chosen the chilled Wellfleet oysters and the lamb, she sipped her wine.

“First, a little business,” Stéphane said, and slid a folio of papers across the table to her. “You're doing well, a little ahead of projections. You could easily repay your business loan early.”