Far Too Tempting (18 page)

“You’re not supposed to be,” I say, smiling at her. “You’re six. Now move over so I can have some room to read to you.”

Two books later, Sophie rubs her eyes and slinks farther under the covers. I kiss her cheek, dim the lights, and say good night. As I leave the room, I glance back one more time. She’s already asleep. It’s like someone slipped her an Ambien.

I walk gingerly across Kelly’s living room, listening for sounds. I pick up a few phrases from their kitchen conversation.

“You have to believe me. There’s nothing going on…”

“I don’t know if I can believe that…”

I don’t want to overhear this conversation. I’d rather hear Kelly’s version at Harajuku. I’d rather be there for her after the fact than be a fly on the wall during it. I decide the best course is to walk loudly, the sound of my boots echoing across their spacious living room, knock on the kitchen door, and poke my head in.

“Sophie’s asleep,” I announce.

They both turn to me. “Thank you so much, sweetie,” Kelly says.

“Thank you, Jane,” Grant manages.

“I’ll just let myself out.” I push back on the kitchen door, glad to be of help but equally glad to be leaving. As I hail a cab, my mind drifts back to the arguments I never had with Aidan. We weren’t fighters. We didn’t argue. The most we did was bicker from time to time over whether he would ever clean while he cooked and whether I had any right to criticize when I never cooked. We always got along, our little charade of a marriage a silent ticking time bomb.

Still, I have to wonder if there was an undercurrent my blinders didn’t let me see. If I
had
needed Kelly to put Ethan to bed one night during one of our “Do you think you can ever clean while you cook?” mini-tiffs would she have been able to detect what was wrong with our marriage? Because I feel in those few seconds when I witnessed Grant and Kelly together, raw, exposed, and vulnerable, I saw the underbelly to their marriage. The parts that maybe they don’t understand. That Grant is matchstick and wildly worried. That Kelly is terrified of losing him. That Sophie would become some sort of pawn if they split.

As I leave, I’m left to wonder whether Kelly sees any of this.

We all wear rose-colored glasses at times, maybe most of the time, never really letting others see what we don’t see, or want to see, ourselves.

Chapter Nineteen

Matthew doesn’t pick up. I’m already through the park and onto Columbus Avenue and he hasn’t answered his phone. I try him a third time. I get the same five rings, the same chipper recording, the same tone.

I’m not even sure where to tell the cab driver to go. Matthew must have left the restaurant by now. I tell the cabbie to stop at Ninety-First and Amsterdam. I’ve only been to Matthew’s place once, but I can picture the building and I remember he lives on the second floor.

I find a ten-dollar bill in my wallet, pay the driver, and get out of the taxi in front of Matthew’s apartment. His name is on the outside, along with the other tenants, so I press the buzzer for 2B.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

I hear the faint sound of a halfheartedly barking dog a floor above me. The Doctor’s home alone.

I stomp my foot once, pissed at myself. I scan his block up and down from my vantage point on the stoop. But I don’t see a tall, handsome man anywhere.

I hastily retreat down his steps and head to the restaurant, in case he’s still there.

I break into a trot, holding my right hand onto my bag so it doesn’t fall off my shoulder, even though I know how stupid New Yorkers look running down the street in heels, clutching their personal effects. I don’t care right now, though. I jog noisily, heels clacking over the two blocks, until I spy the sign for Happy Cow, the vegetarian restaurant. I slow down, taking my hand off my bag and giving my abused lungs a few feet to calm down. Two blocks in boots almost leaves me more winded than running with Natalie.

I’m about to push open the door when I spot a tiny little store right next to the restaurant. An olden wooden sign, like the sign for a tavern, hangs above the entrance. An Open Book. Under the name is an illustration of that—the inviting image of fat pages filled with words.

An open book
.

I know someone who’d have a hard time resisting an open book. Who’s powerless to turn away from a tale. He’s in there; I know it. I go inside and I feel like I’m casing the joint as I scan the rows of shelves stuffed into a space smaller than the cafés at most big bookstores. Matthew’s not in new fiction, he’s not in mystery, he’s not in literature.

I turn down a nonfiction row, defeated. Matthew wouldn’t be caught dead reading about something that really happened.

But there he is, leaning against one of the shelves, thumbing through a book, utterly at home. I tap him on the shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here. I never thought I’d find you in the—gasp—nonfiction section.”

He puts a finger to his lips. “Shh…don’t tell anyone.”

“I tried calling you. But you didn’t pick up, so I went to your apartment and then to the restaurant and then here.”

His eyes light up. “You searched all over.”

“I had to hunt for you, even in this tiny little store.”

He sighs. “I have to admit, I was a little annoyed.”

“You were?”

He nods, a little sheepishly.

“Were you avoiding me?” I ask softly. “When I tried to call?”

He shakes his head. Then he pauses, shrugs, looks away. “Maybe. I don’t know. I really wanted to see you and then I felt like an ass sitting there waiting.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way,” I say, and place my hand on his cheek so he has to look at me. So much was unsaid at Kelly’s house, so much was hidden with Aidan and me. I don’t want to be like that with Matthew. I don’t want to be saddled with secrets or with fear. I have a golden opportunity to start anew, and I don’t want to second-guess every move, like Owen is doing, or overreact like Grant. I want a relationship built on trust and honesty and openness. So I give him that. “I wanted to see you too. I thought about you all day.”

A brief smile flickers on his face. “And I didn’t even know if you were going to show up. Anyway, it’s not a big deal. I knew you had to help your friend. I just really wanted to see you.” Then he stops and gives me a sweet little look. “I said that already, didn’t I?”

I smile back at him and nod. “Yes, you did.”

Then his lips meet mine and suddenly he’s not mad and I’m not blowing him off and my heart is beating faster, but it’s not from running two blocks in heels at all. A man I want,
the
man I want and the man who wants
me
, is kissing me in public. The world is round again. Right is right and up is up and I don’t have to gawk at the Starbucks Couple anymore. I am the Starbucks Couple right now.

He reaches for my hand. “I rather like the idea of you hunting for me, though.” His fingers slip through mine and we walk to the counter like that, already hand in hand one day later, already a couple. I like both the gesture and the way the warmth from his hand transfers to me as his fingers curl around mine.

He buys the book he was reading,
Sex, Drugs, and Updating Your Facebook Page.
I’ve seen the book on Jeremy’s desk. It’s supposed to be the definitive look at how artists have impacted sales through fan interaction on the Internet. It’s an odd choice because even though Matthew’s a music industry expert, he told me once he doesn’t read nonfiction. As soon as he is safely away from the office, the phone, and the plethora of music industry lunches, dinners and after-work fetes, he’s off the clock and ready to dive into a story.

But before I inquire about the unusual reading choice, we exit onto Broadway, and he turns to me. “I was just wondering if you even deserve dinner now, or if I should take you back to my place and spank you instead.”

I lower my eyelids, look at the sidewalk, then back up at Matthew. I’m almost embarrassed that a quick burst of desire floods my body when I admit, “I’ve never been spanked.”

A grin plays on his lips. “Would you like to be?”

“I don’t know. Would I?”

“I would be more than happy to help you discover if you like it.”

I shrug and grin mischievously, then reach my hand around his neck, playing with the back of his hair as we walk. “There’s a lot to find out, isn’t there?”

“Fortunately, I am an intrepid explorer.”

I like the sound of that, so I stop, grab his arm, and pull him close. “Explore me,” I say to him in a low voice.

His blue eyes light up with hunger, and it thrills me that I recognize the look, the feeling. That there’s no confusion on my part as to what he wants. “Damn woman, you should blow me off more often. It makes you all frisky.” Then he lowers his voice. “But I’m really glad you didn’t blow me off.”

“Me too,” I say softly. “Do you want to order a pizza?”

“Are you inviting yourself over?”

I nod.

“Ask me nicely, Jane.”

“Matthew Harrigan, may I please come over and spend the night and learn whether I like being spanked?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

…

It turns out I don’t mind spanking. I don’t mind it at all. Maybe that’s because I’m already intensely aroused and I’ve already come twice from a fantastic reprisal of what Matthew did to me on my couch last night.

The things this man can do with his tongue amaze me. The things he can do with his tongue and his fingers at the same time astound me, and I’m sure I set some sort of land-speed record for fastest route to multiple orgasms when he went down on me minutes ago as soon as the door clanged shut and he stripped off all my clothes. Now, he’s seated on a wooden chair at his kitchen table, I’m straddling him, and he’s massaging my bottom.

I grip his shoulders as I move up and down on him, riding him, and then on the descent, there’s another smack.

“Ouch,” I say, but the word is chased by a low moan, so he brings his palm back to my ass with a quick smack.

“You like that?”

I nod, and smile, and my response makes him groan and curve his free hand around my neck, pulling me in for a quick kiss. His lips are delicious, and I can taste myself on him.

“You taste good,” I whisper.

“That’s because I taste like you.”

“How do I taste to you?”

“Like the woman I’ve turned on. That’s why you’re so fucking delicious,” he says in a hot, rough voice.

I press my palms against his chest, running my hands up and down, as I rock my hips against him.

Then I feel a sharp sting on my behind, and I suck in a deep breath. “Oh God,” I gasp, and it’s followed by a light smack. I feel a quickening in my belly, and I know I’m close. There’s another soft whack, then he rubs his palm against my bottom as he drives into me, and I’m speeding over the edge, sensations like I’ve never felt racing and spreading through my whole body. He brings me down hard on him again and again, filling me so deeply as I start to climax, pleasure ripping through me in a fierce frenzy, blotting out everything else in the world right now except for him, for the sounds he makes, the way he says my name, his hard, heavy pants as he thrusts inside me one more time.

Soon, I take a deep breath, open my eyes, and smile like a stupid, drunk person at this gorgeous man. “So maybe we can try handcuffs next time?” I wriggle my eyebrows.

“We could tie you up too. Bring some scarves over and I’ll tie you to the bedposts and have my way with you all night long,” he says, as he layers hot kisses on my neck that’s damp with perspiration.

“You already have your way with me,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says with a soft sigh. “And I love it.”

An hour later, after devouring a half-mushroom, half-sausage pizza, we’re in his bed underneath his off-white comforter. He says he picked that color to blend in with The Doctor’s hair, since she has a habit of sleeping on the bed while he’s at work, a habit he doesn’t care, nor is able, to break. I tell Matthew about my evening, the phone call from Kelly, the misunderstanding, the fight in the kitchen, putting Sophie to bed. I don’t share the private details, that her husband erroneously suspects she’s fooling around now. Those aren’t my details to dole out.

“So that’s why I wasn’t able to change or take a shower or get all dolled up.”

Matthew sniffs me. “Yeah, you’re a little mangy right now.”

“Stop it.” I pretend I’m about to fire off a pillow in his general direction.

“But seriously, it just goes to show how incredibly complicated relationships are. I mean, you know that already from your marriage. But you peel back the layers of any relationship and there’s all sorts of weirdness and compromises that you can’t even imagine from the outside. And then there’s the compromises you won’t make.”

I hear the dog’s rhythmic breathing as she sleeps by the foot of the bed, playing the obedient dog when he’s home. Matthew puts his arms behind his head. “Your girlfriend from a year ago?” I ask.

He nods. I wait for him to offer more. I don’t want to probe at this tender, early phase, when relationships, like freshly ripening fruit, can bruise in an instant.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but I’m a little protective of my background.”

“I’ve noticed,” I say.

“I don’t want people to like me or suck up to me because of my family. Because of a name. Or a title.”

“Sure.”

“I was dating this woman here and she was English. We met in New York and there was that whole ‘Oh, you’re from England, I’m from England’ kind of thing.”

He tells the story while lying half under the covers, his hip bone exposed, the streetlights from Manhattan streaming in through the half-open blinds, blanketing his naked chest with shadows and light. “Her name was Angeline and,” he pauses, “she was a model.”

I groan. Then he shoots me a devilish smile. “Just kidding on that part.”

I laugh, because only Matthew would joke right in the middle of a serious story.

“Actually, she had a dreadful profession. She was a corporate attorney. Nowhere near as captivating as a rock star,” he says, nibbling on my neck.

“Don’t think you can make it up to me now.” Though I breathe a sigh of relief that she’s not a model. I am also glad I have a cooler job than practicing law. If there’s a surefire way to send someone running at a cocktail party, just tell them you are an attorney.

“Anyway, we went together for a year or so. And when she found out about my family, I asked her to keep it quiet and I told her why. I happen to like privacy. So sue me. The next day she went and told pretty much everybody.”

“And so you ended it with her?”

“No,” he says with a laugh. “Well, I suppose yes. It was quite mutual when she demanded to be married to the Baron Somerset and I said no bloody fucking way.”

We both crack up, and then he shifts to another topic. “Tell me about your son. I’d love to meet him someday.”

“I want you to meet him someday. Someday soon.”

“What’s he’s like?”

I smile. “Oh, you do know the way to a woman’s heart. Let her go on and on about the love of her life.”

So I do, telling Matthew about Ethan and our shared Harry Potter obsession, about karate, about the vagaries of Ethan’s rule-making in his card game. About how much he loves dogs.

“My parents have three dogs. All border collies. And Ethan goes nuts for them whenever we visit my parents in Maine. I’m taking him there in April to see my mom’s production of
Tommy
, and I’m sure Ethan will spend most of the time with the dogs.”

“We should introduce him to The Doctor at some point,” Matthew offers.

I light up. “That would actually probably be the perfect way for him to meet the man in my life.”

“I like being the man in your life,” he says, and then he kisses me again. I linger on his lips for a minute, then dart down to his neck where I taste the warm saltiness of his skin, mixed with the fading scent of his aftershave, a smell that—in this instant I am struck by this thought—feels like
mine
. I could walk down the street years from now and collide with my memory of the way his neck tastes, by the clarity of the recollection, by the belief that his smell belongs to me. Even if this ends, even if it ends tonight, or in two weeks or two months or two years, I want to imprint him on my senses so I never forget. Because I am being reprogrammed right now, relearning everything about how it feels to know that someone can be yours, that you could be theirs too, and neither one of you has to be Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill through eternity.