Page 11 of Mating Theory
It’s almost like I conjured her up. Or maybe I’m hallucinating. Alcohol can do that to you, even if it’s been eight hours since I touched a drop. If she isn’t real, there’s no reason not to touch her, not to fuck her. No pesky morality to keep me from paying for the privilege.
Besides, he does not seem like the type.
The type of man who likes tits and ass, you mean?
The type of man who likes to pay for them.
I’ve never paid for a fuck, either. It would be a new low for me. I’m full of those lately.
I bend down to nuzzle her cheek, the underside of her jaw. Her neck. I kiss her there, and she shivers. We’re standing in a cold drizzle, but she actually shivers at the feel of my lips. Ashleigh is an orchid in a snowstorm. She’ll never survive.
“Come home with me,” I murmur, finding the hollow at the base of her neck. Slipping my tongue out for a taste. Rainwater. The weather has slicked away her flavor.
“There’s a motel,” she says, breathing hard even though I have her trapped, because I have her trapped. “Two blocks away. The Rose and Crown. We can get a room there.”
A motel that rents by the hour. “I want the whole night.”
Her gaze doesn’t leave mine as she shakes her head. It’s a refusal that has nothing to do with money. Everything to do with her fear over a soft kiss.
I bend my head to take her mouth, searching the depths through the rain and the air until I find the elusive flavor of her, the fire of her. I drink it down and relish the burn. My palm cups her cheek, and she jumps. Only by slow degrees does she melt into my hold.
“Sutton,” I say, my voice thick. “That’s my name. Sutton Mayfair. Say it.”
“Sutton,” she whispers, and the sound makes me tighten.
Her body becomes pliant against the brick and my body. I lap at her, slow and hungry, showing her the way I’d fuck her. Not so different from the way I kiss. She may teach me how to do it rough and meaningless. That’s a lesson I need to learn, but I’m going to show her how good it can be. My tongue moves against hers in a sensual glide—patient, patient, patient until she flicks her tongue in timid answer. The feel of her, the warmth, makes me ache. My cock throbs in my dress pants, and I press forward, seeking more pressure. She’s boneless against me, willing—and if I could bet my entire construction business—between her legs, she would be wet.
Finally I lift my head and look into her lust-drowsed eyes. Triumph beats in my chest, as if I’ve proved some kind of point. Her lips are swollen and stung from my incipient beard. She waits, lax, for whatever happens next. I could kiss her sweet little cunt up against this wall, gravel digging into my knees, the wind whipping at her hair, and she’d let me.
Because you’re fucking paying her.
“Two hundred dollars,” I say, and she flinches, coming awake.
“That’s what you gave me.”
“We’re not done yet.”
“A kiss. That’s what I offered you. That’s what you took.”
“And dinner,” I remind her. My stomach growls as if remembering that I’m starving. Alcohol is rich in calories. It keeps me from getting hungry. “That was part of the deal. I’m going to get you dinner. What do you like? Chinese? Steak?”
She licks her lips, and I know that I have her. It feels a little dirty, that I’d tempt her this way, this little slip of a woman, so slender I know she’s gone hungry. Well, I have some experience with the feeling. The gnawing inside your stomach, as if it’s going to eat you from the inside. The yawning pain that keeps you from sleeping no matter how tired you are.
I glance up the street, where you can see the bright lights of a Thai restaurant. “Curry? That’s the good thing about Tanglewood. You can find every kind of food here.”
“Not curry,” she says, her voice trembling.
How long has it been since she ate anything? “No curry, then. You let me decide. There’s a great place only a five-minute walk. You usually need reservations, but I know the owner.”
Chapter Six
Ashleigh
If I had thought about dinner, I would have thought about burgers or burritos from a fast food joint. Maybe, if we were dreaming big, I would have thought about a Styrofoam container of cheese fries from the diner. I could not have imagined this place.
Intricate stained glass windows send shards of colors across pristine white tablecloths. Wooden arches soar above our heads. It was a church, the maître d’ explains as he leads us to a secluded table for two. A church from the 1920s that was restored for this restaurant. The other patrons are wearing suits and evening wear. I’m in a top I found in the trash and a skirt I found in the thrift store. Did Sutton bring me here as a joke?
