Not Until You: Part VII (6 page)

Tessa shook her head again, even though her mind was already fast-forwarding and picturing how decadent it would be to sit and sip sangrias with this stranger. But she couldn’t fall into her old habits and let him pay her way. It didn’t matter that he was gorgeous or that he didn’t seem to mind or that he was wearing a watch that said two hundred dollars was a drop in the bucket for him. “I’m sorry. I can’t take your money.”

Before the stranger could protest, she moved past him and the few people waiting behind them to head for the door. She needed to get out—now. She knew it was ridiculous, but she had the sudden urge to cry, to scream, to pound on something. All she’d wanted tonight was to relax and have a fun girl’s night with Sam. Instead, she’d been reminded of the life she used to have, how feeble her bank account was now, and how fucked-up she was when it came to men.

She moved through the hallway that led back to the main dining room at a rapid clip, hoping to reach the parking lot before the tears broke free, but a hand touched her shoulder. “Hey, hold up.”

The quiet command of his voice and the gentleness of the touch had her halting her step before she could think better of it. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and turned around, speech prepared. But when she saw the genuine concern on his face, her words got stuck in her throat.

He tucked his hands in his pockets, the move pulling his black dress shirt snug across what looked to be long, lean muscles beneath. His eyes scanned hers. “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to chase you off.”

She put her hand to her too-hot forehead, trying to catch her breath and center herself. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t you. I’m fine. This night just isn’t working out like I thought it would.”

“Expected to meet your perfect match?”

She made a sound that was some mixture of a snort, a sob, and a laugh. “Oh my God. Hardly. What a joke that is. A perfect match.”

His mouth lifted at the corner, his blue eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement. “So you’re telling me you paid two hundred dollars to attend something you don’t buy into?”

“I didn’t pay,” she admitted. “A friend told me she’d get me on the list. And I—I wanted to learn to cook and to taste the food.”

He chuckled and glanced back at the closed door. “A party crasher. How scandalous.”

His low laugh was like a gust of summer air across her nerve endings, reminding her of someone long ago. Someone she hadn’t had to be a chameleon for. She found herself smiling, her dour mood lifting. “That’s me. A scandal a minute. And now I’m causing more. I’m sure your perfect match date is anxiously awaiting you inside.”

“Nah, I don’t believe in perfect matches either. Just instant attraction.” He stepped closer and the air in the room seemed thicken, warm. “So answer me one question. Are you leaving because you were opposed to the money or me?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the question and his nearness. “What?”

“You came out here tonight to take a class and have a nice meal. I was happy to help you do that. So, did you turn down my offer because you think the money comes with strings or are you just opposed to spending the evening with me?”

“I—” She wet her lips. The way he’d said
spend the evening with me
had her mind conjuring pictures of him braced over her, his blond hair mussed, his eyes heated, and that sensual mouth whispering dirty things to her. Her thighs clenched, and she tried to come up with something to say that wasn’t
God, you’re beautiful, please push me up against this wall and make me forget my name.
“I can’t accept the money.”

That answer seemed to please him. “And me?”

She couldn’t tell if it was the warm, smoky spices from the restaurant mixing in, but even the scent of him was exotic and dangerous, tempting. She wanted to bury her face in the open collar of his shirt and inhale. All her resolve seemed to disintegrate in the space between breaths. “I’m not opposed.”

He reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, the simple brush of fingers like lightning rods touching her skin. “So if I promised you I wouldn’t pay a dime for the rest of the evening, would you agree to spend it with me?”

She swallowed hard, the notion almost too much for her psyche to absorb. She knew what he was offering wasn’t simply dinner and a chat. There was a ripple of heat beneath each uttered word, a promise. Her body was on board with this plan, whether her good sense agreed or not. Already, she could feel the flush of arousal tightening her nipples and dampening her panties. She hadn’t been touched by anyone other than Doug in years, and her experiences with him had always been underwhelming. Just being this close to this mystery man made everything inside her feel hot and alive. But it’d be stupid and reckless to say yes. She’d never had a one-night stand. She didn’t even know if she was capable of it. Plus, what if she really
was
boring in bed?

She’d told herself that Doug had thrown that out there just to hurt her, but what if there was some truth to it? Her sexual history was brief since she’d gotten married so young. What if she hopped in bed with this guy and was completely out of her league?

“I can’t leave. I’m my friend’s ride,” she said, her voice thready and breathless from his being so close.

His smile was slow, sexy. “I never said we had to leave.”

She closed her eyes, his mere presence overwhelming her system and making her heart pound in her throat. “What do you mean?”

His breath brushed her ear. “Just take my hand, and I’ll show you.”

A shiver worked its way down her neck and along her skin. Every nerve ending screamed for his touch, all the years of pent-up frustration surging to the surface. She needed this escape, this release. She needed to feel like a woman again.

When she looked up at him finally, the pure confidence and interest shining there in his eyes had her nerves smoothing. She knew in that moment that this man would never allow her to be boring in bed. This was a man who got what he wanted. A man who wouldn’t be afraid to tell her exactly what to do, how he liked it, and how he was going to have her.

Suddenly, she wasn’t so interested in sangria anymore.

Or sitting in the car alone to have a good cry.

She reached out and let her hand slide into his.

Maybe she’d scratch something off her list tonight after all.

Roni Loren
wrote her first romance novel at age fifteen when she discovered that writing about boys was way easier than actually talking to them. Though she’ll forever be a New Orleans girl at heart, she now lives in Dallas with her husband and son. Visit her online at www.roniloren.com