Vanilla On Top (4 page)

Five times today, I picked up the phone to cancel with Tony. Each time I put it down and talked myself back from the proverbial ledge. It
’
s a simple evening of talking, drawing out some information about him
…
getting him to open up
…
fooling around a little if things go as planned
…
I can do this, dammit!

I stride to the bathroom to check my appearance again. My hand shakes as I dust on the fine powder to set my minimal makeup. I test the all-day lipstick on a tissue one more time, paranoid it might smear during a crucial moment and make me look like a demented clown. Is seduction always such hard work?

Can I intrigue a man enough to follow my lead or am I the cold fish in bed Jimmy accused me of? He was such a self-centered bastard, always racing for the finish, never caring about my needs. I shake off the negative thoughts and pace my narrow hallway. That one summer of acting in college has helped a lot so far, but I feel like I’m wound tight enough to run to Jersey and back without stopping for water.

Okay, what is the worst that can happen tonight? He laughs at my attempts to be assertive and leaves. That would be the worst thing. Or he could be a maniac who chops me up and feeds the pieces to his dog.

Stop it! You will not talk yourself into a failure this time! Focus on how good-looking he is, and the fact that he wants you.

The doorbell rings and my mind freezes. Yeah, he wants me
—
for now.

Chapter Four

Tony

The lyrical chime dies beyond the closed door while I shift from foot to foot. Her building is nicer than I anticipated and proves that whatever she does for a living, she’s more than moderately successful. My own apartment near the office is subsidized by the company, so I wouldn’t have to commute from my building in Hoboken, thus working longer hours. Nikko is nothing but smart with managing lost employee time versus cost.

I grasp the flowers in my hand, conflicted if I should have brought them or not. Deidra always sends them, picking out lush and lavish arrangements for the latest woman in my life. But this time, I chose my own bouquet. It was an impulsive buy when I saw the vendor on the corner. The sunflowers made me think of Heather the moment I saw them. Bold and simple, eye-catching and strong.

Her instructions to dress casual left me scrambling. Jeans are for working on the old apartment building and going to bars, or hanging out with the guys, not for impressing a woman. The slacks I picked don’t belong in a suit pairing, but their custom fit and soft material look good with the navy polo I’m wearing.

Damn, what
’
s taking her so long to answer? I check the number on the doorplate, wondering if I’m at the wrong unit. My breath releases in a whoosh. I’m at the right place. Maybe she’s in the bathroom or has music on and didn’t hear it. I reach to press the bell again as the door swings open, the sound of James Taylor floating out.

Heather greets me with a slow smile. The black silk of her lounging pants drape elegantly to the floor, covering the delicious legs I’ve fantasized about since Thursday. The red and white mandarin-collared blouse she’s wearing is only halfway closed, a hint of black material peeking through the opening. My fingers itch to undo the knotted buttons to reveal more skin.

“Hi, Tony.” She gestures with a hand while I stare stupidly at her in silence. “Please, come in.”

“These are for you.” I enter, thrusting the flowers toward her. What the hell is wrong with me that I lose all sense of intelligence when I
’
m near this woman?

A look of wonder crosses her face to be quickly replaced by an appreciative smile. “Thank you. I’ll put them in water.”

She closes the door behind me and sashays across the open space, then around the granite peninsula dividing her kitchen from the living area. “Make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.”

I nod and take the time to glance around her apartment. Warm bamboo flooring runs throughout the whole space. The small entryway spills into a step down living room. The dying light of the evening pours through tall windows, casting a soft glow on the couch and loveseat arranged around a shag rug. A deep cream color coats the walls, and over a half dozen framed photographs shine under display lights. They’re black and white pictures from all over the city and other places I don’t recognize.

Off to the left is a large dining area that holds a small table for six and an ultra organized desk in a library-like wall unit. I step farther into her apartment, hearing cabinet doors open and close in the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of her cherry red and white blouse as she bustles toward the sink with the flowers.

The dining table isn’t set for a meal and I turn to the couch area, wondering if we’re going to eat there. A low coffee table, festooned with three long platters of food, has been pushed off the rug. Large pillows in soft earth tones lay scattered across the couch and rug, like a big comfy pit of relaxation.

Tension eases out of me as I realize she’s set up a casual dinner for us to relax and get to know each other. A big part of me worried our first encounter would set the stage and all we’d be about was sex. I’ve had relationships like that before, but in the end you’re left with nothing to talk about—highly satisfied, yes, but emotionally empty in a few weeks and bored. This one looks interesting enough to last longer.

Heather strolls back into the room, her eyes bright and glassy, belying the casual grace with which she moves. Could she be as nervous as I am? She sets the colorful bouquet on the low table amid the dishes and then faces me.

“I thought a meal here would be more comfortable…and intimate.” Her voice drops on the last part of the sentence causing my cock to stir.

Down, fella.
No need to sport a woody two minutes in the door and embarrass myself. I run a hand through my hair. “That sounds nice.”

She turns away, looking like she’s hiding a bit of amusement at my expense. I glance down, reassuring my prick is not noticeably changed or that my pants look funny. Nope. Everything looks good.

The slender woman lowers herself to the rug in an elegant move, one I have no hope of duplicating. Leaning back on a large pillow, she tucks both feet, in their black heels, to the side. “May I pour you some wine?”

My gaze glues to those sexy shoes. I’ve never cared much for women’s footwear before, but on her they seem to draw my eye over and over again. I think they may be the ones she was wearing when I met her.

“Tony?”

I glance up and catch the smirk on her face before she smothers it. “Uh, yes?”

“Would you like a glass?” She holds out a stemless wine glass filled with red liquid.

I remember my manners and join her on the rug, then reach for the offered drink. “Thank you. What kind is it?”

Her eyes meet mine and our fingers brush as I take the glass, sending a jolt of awareness through me. “An Australian Shiraz. I’ve been enjoying them for a few months.”

I settle against a firm pillow and take a sip. The strong flavors, hinting of blackberry and currant, spill across my palate to ignite another sense I’ve neglected lately. “Nice.”

The mellow tones of James Taylor fill my ears, melting away more of the stress and anxiety from the prior week. I don’t think I’ve been with a woman in years who didn’t expect me to take her to a five star restaurant every night, fly her to Vegas in the company jet for a weekend, or shower her with diamonds because she spread her legs for me.

And yet this one doesn’t even know my last name, what I really do for a living, or how much I’ve got in the bank. It’s refreshing. Her home tells me she’s not a gold digger, but come to think of it, what else do I know about her and her job?

“Tell me about yourself, Tony.” She must be thinking along the same lines that I am. “It was a shock running into you in the lobby the other day.”

Ah
…
here it comes. Once I tell her what I do and who I work for, I bet things will change between us. Maybe I can do a little creative avoidance. “Not much to tell.” I shrug. “I’ve worked in Rockefeller Center for nine years now. Pays the bills.”

“Nine years?” she repeats. “That tells me a lot about you.”

“Really?” I cock an eyebrow, wondering what it could possibly reveal about me.

Heather takes a leisurely sip of her drink, pink tongue licking a droplet near the rim before it slides down the side. “You’re loyal and hardworking.”

“How can you know that?”

“Nine years? Most men would have left for a better offer when one came along, so that tells me you’re loyal. You would’ve been canned a long time ago if you weren’t any good—hence, hardworking.” Her eyes narrow on me, traveling up and down my body. “I bet you’re ambitious, and have moved up the ranks fairly quick.”

I think about the long hours and lost weekends, not sure how quick my rise was. From the outside looking in, it might appear that way. I glance toward the stereo nestled under a flat screen TV, not sure how observant she is and how much is a lucky guess.

“Judging by the Breguet timepiece on your wrist, I’d say you love watches.”

My shocked bark of laughter erupts, sounding loud in the air previously dominated by the relaxing music. Heather’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “How did you recognize my watch?” I angle my head and assume a sterner tone. “Did you work at a carnival guessing people’s weight or age, but secretly you were just super observant?”

A sad look crosses her face and disappears. “No, my father had one. My mother bought it for him on their twentieth anniversary. He loved watches, too.” The melancholy moment passes before I have a chance to ask about her parents, and she stares at me with heat in her eyes. “I’d be willing to wager you wear an even more expensive one to work—especially if you’re going to close a deal like you did on Friday.”

I think of my collection of six watches, each well over twenty grand apiece and nestled in custom made self-winding cases. “Okay, now you’re just showing off.”

Heather laughs and grabs a plate of appetizers, doling out a selection of items to a smaller plate before handing it to me. “Tell me, what kind of music do you like?”

Our dinner progresses leisurely for over an hour, music shifting to more modern rock with a slow feel, the conversation flowing easily between us. Upon reflection, I realize she’s asked me more questions than I’ve asked her. I’d like to change that, but it seems every time I ask her something, she offers a minimal answer and steers the conversation back to me.

While I don’t mind talking about my favorite sports, movies, and books, I get the distinct feeling I’m being interviewed. Time to turn the tables and get some of my own curiosity sated.

“I forgot to ask, where do you work in the building?” I raise my wine, watching the simple grace of her movements as she picks another morsel to taste.

“Parkerson Advertising. On the twentieth floor.”

That name sounds familiar. I take a drink of wine, musing on how I know the name…

My sip goes down the wrong way and I sputter, thankfully closing my mouth before I shoot wine across her tan rug.

Holy shit. I received a write-up on Parkerson last week. Nikko mentioned it would be good to own an advertising firm to cut outgoing costs. I put out feelers for candidates and her company came up. We start organizing a bid for them very soon.

“You okay, Tony?”

“Excuse me.” I clear my throat. “Wine went down the wrong pipe.”

Heather moves to gather the small plates we’ve eaten from and I quickly jump up. “Please, let me.” No way can I say anything about a possible buyout. It might not happen. And what are the chances she’d be included in the negotiations?

I take the empty platters and dishes to the immaculate kitchen, pictures on the fridge catching my eye as I pass. One of a younger Heather with an older couple, and one with her and the blonde I spoke to at Manhattan Wine the other night. “Were you at speed dating with a friend, too?”

Heather comes in behind me and sees the picture I’m looking at. “Yes, that’s Carla.”

I nod, unwilling to share that she’s one of the woman who wrote my name on her sheet for a follow up date. I have no intention of calling any of them, and saying something now would be awkward, not to mention stupid.

Heather tilts her head, realizes I’m not going to say anything more, and opens the fridge. She pulls out a small dish of chocolate-covered strawberries, a joyous look of expectancy on her face. “Ready for a little dessert?” One slim hip slams the door shut and she saucily saunters back to the living room, the unspoken command for me to follow hanging in the air.

My mouth runs dry. What is it about her that makes me so freakin
’
horny? I’ve been with models and debutantes, actresses and singers, but none of them made me feel as alive and aware as she does. It’s something about how she carries herself, unafraid and confident.

When I return to the living room, Heather has settled back on the pillows, placed the dish on a sofa cushion, and now slips off her heels. There’s a look of challenge on her face as she watches me toe off my shoes and ease down to my previous spot.

“Would you rub my feet?” Her voice carries a hint of overdone-sweetness. “Those heels were killer.”

I nod and scoot closer, motioning for her to place a foot on my thigh. My hands grasp her foot gently, one scooping her heel while the other digs a thumb into the arch. Her wide legged silk pants slip down her shapely calf, showing more skin than I’ve seen all evening.

A low moan of pleasure comes from her, triggering a response in the blood flow to my crotch. “God, that feels good. Really puts me in the mood to…relax.” An open expression of heat and lust crosses her face, the exact opposite of her words.

I skim my fingers over her sensitive skin, noting no reaction. “Not ticklish?”

A twinkle lights in her eye as she wiggles her tiny red-tipped toes. “Nope. Never have been.”

I’d take it as a challenge to make her giggle if I wasn’t so intent on getting her naked. Not seeing a lot of flesh has made me picture the lines of her body through her clothing, anticipating the moment when I
may
get to see more. There’s no doubt in my mind Heather is in charge, and if I make a move to seduce her, this whole evening will end in the blink of an eye.

Concentrating on her sore feet, I apply more pressure and use the heel of my hand. Each push against her flesh draws an answering pulse in my growing cock. I’ve never experienced this kind of arousal while rubbing a woman’s foot, and damn—it’s hot.

As I watch, her breathing quickens and her movements change. It’s as if parts of where I’m rubbing correspond with sexual reactions within her body. I think I’ve flustered her. She sits up and quickly unbuttons her blouse, slipping it off to toss on the couch.

Or, maybe she
’
s warm.

The thin chemise she’s wearing leaves nothing to the imagination, cupping her braless breasts and outlining her erect nipples. They look good enough to suck and I rip my gaze away, fearful if I’m too obvious I’ll ruin wherever this night might take me.

I
’
d love nothing more than to slip my hands up and…

“You’re good with your hands,” she says softly, leaning forward to snag a strawberry from the dish.

I jerk slightly, caught off guard as I pictured palming her sweet little tits. “Thanks.” I focus back on my task, working my knuckles on the hard spots of her tiny feet. My cock continues its rise, wedged in an uncomfortable position.

Each pass of my warm hands on her flesh makes me think about stroking her pussy the other night. Damn, I want to make this woman let go like that again. It was freeing, experiencing the open enjoyment in her features and the rapture of her release.