Page 56 of The Cruiser
A week ago, that nugget, that Morgan-ism, would’ve cemented his status as loser number one. But now there’s some context. “Throwing it right back at me, huh?” I say, although not unkindly.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” He stares into his wineglass, and I believe Morgan de Rohan-Chabot might be learning a lesson or two.
“It’s all right. I’ve gotten used to you.”
He looks up. “Is that good or bad?”
“Mostly good.” He scans my face, reads the smile, but is on the hunt for something more. It’s appallingly easy to fall under the spell of his eyes. They push me closer to the edge I’m fighting against. I feel myself teetering on the lip of a sinkhole. “But I might change my mind if you keep staring at me like that.”
“It’s hard not to look at you, Vandana,” he says.
A nervous laugh spills out. “You’re making me blush.”
“You didn’t blush when you were sucking my thumb.”
My eyes dart to his, and dart away just as quickly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I’m pretty sure I know what you were thinking. The same thing I was.” His finger brushes my bare thigh, tracing an imaginary circle, over and over. I feel my heart lift into my throat.
“I get it. Is that why you brought me here?” I ask.
“Are you suggesting manipulation on my part? Because you did come willingly.”
“I can always leave.”
“Not without the keys.”
I smile back. “It’s come to blackmail, has it?”
His full hand comes to a territorial rest on my thigh. “If anything, I wanted to ravage you properly in a worthy setting.”
I lick my suddenly dry lips and the word squeaks out. “Ravage?”
Reaching for my wineglass, he threads the stems of both his and mine between his fingers. His other hand flowers open, fingers beckoning mine as he stands.
“Come with me.”
He helps me to my feet and the walk across the patio, up the three uneven steps and into the house, is like being in a dissociative state. I feel heavier by a few pounds, the weight of what’s about to happen landing squarely on my shoulders.
In the kitchen, he peruses wine bottles in their horizontal perches. “I think this calls for something headier, no?”
“Uh, yes. Sure. But I’m … I need to use the restroom first.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
His lips brush against mine, and we’re fools to think that’s going to be enough. Instantly our mouths hunger for each other’s. He pulls me close, the wineglasses in his hand clinking against my butt. That damn tongue of his works me over and the thought of it invading my lady parts, all the sublime damage it can cause, brings a soft whimper to my lips.
“Okay,” I say, pulling back, breathless and feeling slightly dizzy from the sun and wine and lack of food. “I’ll be right back.”
I grab my purse from the kitchen counter and in the bathroom, try to calm the hell down. At Stanford, I never left home without my ‘night out’ kit: condoms, blueberry scented lube, baby wipes, and a pair of roll-up flats so the walk of shame could happen quickly and quietly. My updated Ziploc bag, Italian version, only contains wipes and an array of condoms. I take one, debate two, then put the second one back. Can’t look like too much of a keener. After tidying myself up, my parting glance in the mirror is one of heroic determination.
It barely prepares me for the tableau in the living room.
Forget about the view behind Morgan.
He is the view.
Leaning against the headboard, one knee bent and the other leg straight, both are rippled with muscle and a light dusting of hair. He’s got a glass of wine in one hand and his balls in the other. Isn’t it just like him to be that confident and totally, utterly naked.
