Page 16 of Wicked Design
They fell into a mostly comfortable silence, the velvety night pressing close. Reggae pumped from a Jamaican restaurant. Laughter rang out. Garlic, curry chicken, and beef scents wafted by. Young and old couples strolled past, the mature ones holding hands, the others kissing.
Clover touched Van Gogh’s arm. Pleasure sizzled down his chest and spine. His balls and cock sprang to attention.
“That’s me. Or rather, us.” She pointed at an older two-story building.
Its ground floor hosted an upscale gift shop with a vintage sign that read Alice’s Wonderland. An older woman with gray hair smiled sweetly from the front window, late customers behind her still perusing the wares.
“That’s Alice, my landlady. She’s super nice. Wave. Please.”
He did.
Alice returned the greeting.
Van Gogh craned his neck. “Does she have your jewelry in the window?”
“Near the register for impulse purchases.”
There couldn’t have been as many as Clover had implied earlier, or with her other outlets, if she’d had trouble paying her utility bills. He trekked up the outside stairs behind her, his damp top clinging to his back. If things heated up between them, maybe he could encourage her to turn on the juice and let him spring for it.
She stopped at a door on the left. Several white bags with Castillo’s logo stood to the side. “Wow, they’re faster than Domino’s. Hungry?”
He wasn’t—for food. The muggy air and heat intensified her fragrance, the scent surrounding him. He inhaled deeply. “You?”
“I could eat. Come on.”
“Wait. I have it.” He gathered the bags and tried not to stare at her place. The dining area, kitchen, and bedroom flowed into one another, the bathroom walled off to the side. An old-fashioned spread sporting lace and ribbons covered her mattress. Large enough for two.
Even in his wildest fantasies, he hadn’t expected this.
He pulled his gaze away before she caught him staring and hesitated putting the bags on the long table. Pliers, scissors, hammers, and wire took up the space. Serial killer tools if not for the glue gun, beads, and other artsy stuff next to them.
“Put the food on the bed.” She opened another window and turned on the fans. “We can eat there.”
If he could get anything down his throat. His hands shook so badly, the bags rustled as he lowered them to the mattress.
“Would you like something to drink? Beer? Ice water? Apple juice?”
Water was probably the best bet to keep him from melting, but his hammering pulse demanded booze. “A beer. Thanks.”
She tossed her silver bracelet on the table.
He cleared his throat. “Do you want to use plates or eat from the, ah, the…”
Clover dropped her tank top on the chair. She hadn’t worn a bra. Her breasts were firm, nipples surprisingly large, pink, and puckered despite the outrageous heat.
Every word he’d ever known evaporated. His mouth went dry.
“Eat from what?” She kicked off her sandals and slipped out of her shorts.
She hadn’t worn panties, either. Dark curls hugged her mound.
He reeled.
She padded to him, naked as the day she was born.
His heart slammed into his chest.
“Go on and undress.” She cradled his sweaty cheek. “It’s okay. It’s hot in here.”
