Far Too Tempting (14 page)

“Jane,” he says gently.

“Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t have a normal MO. I just write what I write. Oh, and that’s partly because no one has given a shit when I produce another album till now. Because I used to suck. Remember?”

“Okay,” he says, still a little wary of me.

I glance back at the notebook. “Can I make my deadline, you want to know? Yes. And let’s address this last item.
Jane Black is coming up dry
.” Then I stare at him.

“Okay…”

“Well that’s not a very nice thing to say is it?”

“Is it untrue?” he asks, finally answering me back. Good—I love a good fight. I don’t want a man just
okay
ing
me.

“That’s not the point.”

“But that is the point. You are struggling to write, aren’t you?”

And it’s all your fault
, I want to say.
It’s all your fault because I’m completely distracted by you, and I can’t write when all I think about is how much I love your hands on me and your e-mails and our chats and your charming, irresistible self.
“Yes, I am. But why do you have to write it like that?”

“Those are notes. That’s not the finished story. I haven’t even started writing it,” he says gently, but I won’t be swayed.

“And,” I continue, jamming my index finger against the notepad to emphasize, “you wrote
just a cover tune
. It was your idea that I do the cover tune!”

“And you should do the song. But you also have a deadline.”

“And so do you, apparently.”

“I want us both to make our deadlines,” he says, softening. “But let’s be honest here. You do have writer’s block, don’t you?”

I sigh deeply and close my eyes. “Yes.”

“Well, what can we do about that? Can I help you in any way? Whisk you off to the family estate in England and let you write in peace?”

I open my eyes and meet his sparkling blues. He’s admitted it. To me.

“You are? A baron?”

He nods, then places a finger on his lips. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“It’s our secret.”

He scoots closer to me. He holds the dog’s leash in one hand and places his other hand on my leg, grazing my thigh. A small whimper escapes my throat.

“We have other secrets too,” he says in a low and sexy voice.

“Do we, though?” I ask. “Are all the things you say in your e-mails true? Or are the things in your notebook true?”

“They’re all true.” He looks at me and if he’s lying, I wouldn’t know it. His eyes are so pure, so sincere as he speaks to me. “Everything I say to you is true. I would never lie to you or manipulate you. You have to know that. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. But I also know what you’ve been through, and I would never toy with your feelings,” he says, then slips his hand inside my coat, wrapping his fingers around my waist, and lowers his voice even more. “You really don’t know how much I want you? Because there aren’t enough adverbs to describe how much. Insanely, immensely, ridiculously. I could go on.”

His words send an electric charge through my veins. “It’s hard for me to trust a man,” I admit.

“It’s hard for me to resist you,” he whispers. Then he lifts his right hand and ever so gently places it on the back of my head, his palm barely resting against my hair. “Incredibly hard,” he says, his voice rough with desire and innuendo.

I am racing, speeding out of anger and charging headfirst into lust. But I have to hold up the warning sign on one very important point. “Please don’t fuck with my heart,” I say in a voice that threatens to break.

“I won’t,” he says.

I make a choice to believe him. I make a choice to trust. And I make a choice to tell him something that became crystal clear to me last night. Barely under my breath, I say, “I can’t write. Because of you.”

“What?” It’s as if I just knocked the wind out of him. He pulls back to meet my gaze.

“Because of this.” I gesture from him to me.

“What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“Because I like you. Because I want you.”

“I like you too. I want you too. I thought that was pretty clear,” he says with a crooked little smile. “Abundantly clear. Just, you know, to toss out another adverb.”

I shake my head. “I like you a lot, and it’s messing with my head. And I can’t focus on writing. The only songs I’ve managed are angry ones. Like the one you said sounded like
Crushed.
I can’t write about how I’m feeling because I don’t know how to write when I’m starting to feel like this.”

“I suppose I should take it as a compliment that I’m the cause of your writer’s block?”

“Yes.”

“What are we going to do about that, then?” he asks, and I love that he says
we
, that somehow we’re in this together. “What do you want to do about it?”

At first, I have no idea. But then I let that word resonate.
Want.
I know what I want. I know what I need. Because this is the way the Starbucks Couple starts. This is not differential calculus. This is not Japanese. This is The Postal Service and Rilo Kiley. This is Johnny Cash and Arcade Fire. I am not imagining this. In this moment, I have zero doubts about men and women.

“I know what I want,” I say, and my voice is breathy as he trails his thumb along my jawline.

“Tell me.”

“I want to break down your resistance,” I whisper.

He tenses momentarily, then cups my chin, so I’m looking at him. “What do you mean?”

I throw caution to the wind and let the words spill out, holding his gaze the entire time. “Writer’s block or no writer’s block, I just want to touch you. It’s driving me crazy not to. I want to take off your clothes, and I want to feel you all over. I want my hands on your body. I want to know how you respond to me. I want to taste you. I want to take you in my mouth.”

“Fuck,” he says, breathing out a long stream of air.

“Can I?” I look him in the eyes, needing this so desperately. “I want you to come undone for me.”

He looks as if he’s buzzed; his expression is hazy. He shakes his head several times, as if he’s trying to clear his brain as he scrubs a hand across his jaw. “I’m going to tell you something about straight men,” he says, and then he swallows. “When you’re into a woman, and she says she wants to give you a blow job, there’s never any answer but
yes
. And
now
. And let me go hail a fucking cab immediately.”

Minutes later, we reach his place.

I imagined Matthew’s apartment spilling over with records. But I don’t see a single shred of music—there isn’t a stereo, an iPod player, or the requisite too-cool-for-school collection of vinyl—and his shelves are filled with books. More by Raymond Chandler and James Ellroy, and the complete works of Shakespeare. He tells The Doctor to lie down on the couch, and she obeys instantly, curling up in a tight dog ball. He takes off his boots and his socks, and then he raises an eyebrow, tipping his forehead to the bedroom.

I am nervous, but I’m also not. Because I want him. He wants me. And now all I want is to drive him wild for me. Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe that makes me needy. Maybe I’m both, and then some. I take his hand because I am leading this and guide him into his room.

He stands by the bed, holds his arms out wide. “You’re in charge. You can do whatever you want.”

“I can?”

He nods. “Yes. I want you to.”

His body is my playground.

I press my teeth against my lips, sharp, sweet goose bumps radiating from my belly to my fingertips. I step closer and reach for the bottom of his long-sleeve pullover shirt. I tug it up, my fingertips grazing the hard planes of his stomach. He sucks in a breath as I touch him, and I catalog his reaction in my file of amazing moments. Then he raises his arms for me, and I remove his shirt, taking my time pulling it over his head, so I can drink him in with my eyes. I run my hands down his arms, savoring the feel of his toned muscles. He’s not gym strong; he’s just toned and trim, and I love everything about his body. I explore his chest, and he closes his eyes for a moment, his chest rising and falling as I learn the contours and shape of him. I trail my hands along the waistband of his jeans, eliciting a low moan from him. The sound makes me heady, and sends a rush of heat between my legs. But of course I’m turned on. That was never in question. I want to turn
him
on, I want to bring him there, I want to watch him and feel him lose control for me.

I unbutton his jeans, then unzip them, and I am so fucking eager to touch him, to feel what I’ve done to him, to discover that I can do this. He threads his fingers in my hair. “Please,” he whispers.

I kneel and pull down his jeans, and he’s wearing snug black boxer briefs that reveal everything. I am ignited. I am lit up all over when I first place a hand against his erection that strains against the cotton of his briefs. He’s so hard, and he twitches against my palm, and this is all because of me. I lean my face against him, inhaling him, feeling how ready he is for me.

“I need to take all these clothes off,” I say, as I trace my fingers against his briefs.

“Yes, you do.”

I press my palm against his flat belly, and push him onto the bed. He falls easily, shooting me a quick grin, that playful, mischievous side of him reappearing briefly. He props himself on his elbows, watching me as I take off his jeans, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Then my hands feather their way up his legs, until I reach the waistband of his boxer briefs, and I tug them off, my mouth watering as I see how aroused he is.

I am completely clothed and he’s totally naked lying down on his bed, and this asymmetry is what I need more than air right now. His breathing grows shallow, his eyes widen as he watches me wrap a hand around his hard length. I shudder when I touch him, because I love this. I have missed this terribly. I have very nearly forgotten what it’s like to be with a man who wants me to touch him, who wants my hands on him, my mouth on him.

But this man, my God, it’s the most thrilling and powerful feeling to have him want more of me. He grabs my hand, wraps his fingers around mine, so I can grip him harder. Every little gesture from him sends me spiraling deeper into both desire and power.

He guides my hand up and down, and whispers hoarsely, “God, I fucking love that.”

Pleasure cascades through my body. “Me, too.”

Then he reaches for my face with his other hand, tracing my lips with one finger. First the top, then the bottom. “I want your mouth on me, Jane,” he says, his voice all rough and hungry, as he curves his hand around my neck and tugs me closer to him. I have never wanted anything more in the bedroom than his feverish need for me to get him off.

“I want you to watch me,” I tell him as I bend my head closer.

“That can be arranged,” he says, and then his words turn into a loud and glorious moan when I run my tongue up his hard length, teasing him, toying with him, licking every fabulous inch, as I trail hot wet kisses along him, until he’s grabbing for me, and practically begging with his body for me to take him all the way. He threads his fingers in my hair, and that move alone sends me soaring.

I am powerful. I am sexy. I am beautiful.

To a man. To
the
man I want.

His breathing quickens as I bring him deeper, enjoying every inch of him with my lips, my mouth, my tongue, all while exploring his thighs, his flat abs, even the fabulous firm swell of his ass with my hands. He groans louder, biting off a string of curse words as I roam my tongue up and down him, and I grin—as much as I’m able to right now—as I delight in his response to me.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then slowly starts to rock his hips into me, as his breathing turns erratic and stilted. Then faster, heavier breaths, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I glance up at him, and as promised he’s watching me, his gorgeous blue eyes wild with desire right now. His mouth is open, he runs his tongue along his teeth, and I quicken my pace, wanting to devastate him with a powerful orgasm. I want to make his vision go blurry, reduce him to only the tremors in his body as the world around him is obliterated.

This is nothing like getting back on a bike. This is a million fucking times better because I’m about to send him off the cliff with my mouth and my lips and my hands and the fact that I’m the woman he wants.

He grasps my hair, and groans my name so loudly that his neighbors might hear him, and nothing in the world could thrill me more than this reaction as I make him come, his hands gripping my head tight as I finish him off, and he shudders once more.

Then, I crawl up to him, and flop next to him on the bed, feeling the greatest sense of accomplishment.

Fine, it was only a blow job.

But still, for a woman who was unwanted by her man for years, it’s like I got my groove back, and hell if that isn’t absolutely fantastic to me.

He shifts on his side. Runs his hand from my breasts to my waist to my hips. “So, yeah,” he says in a deadpan voice, nodding several times. “That worked pretty well for me. What do you think?”

I laugh. “Glad to hear that.”

Then he wiggles his eyebrows, and plays with the waistband on my jeans. “My turn?”

I shake my head.

His eyes widen with surprise. “You deny me the great and absolute pleasure of going down on you?”