martinis, and cigar smoking. Just the last two were more than enough to make his head spin.
One-thirty in the morning, standing in the kitchen of his best friends’ home, Olivia and Miles asleep upstairs, Carly crashed on the futon in the basement below—and Ryan, his cotton mouth and tongue begging for moisture as he rummaged through the fridge searching for something to drink. He found a liter of Sprite and, not having the strength to search for a cup, tipped the bottle to his lips and thirstily drank.
As he dropped it back into the slot in the refrigerator, he stepped back to close the door.
That’s when he saw her.
She was standing motionless, observing him silently. He was caught off guard. What he saw took his breath away.
Olivia was clad in a button-down shirt—little else. The shirt hung open and he could see the dark patch of pubic hair that spread over her mound—and a large purplish nipple peeked out from the side of the shirt. Her hair hung free, locs surrounding her beautiful darkened face. Between her lips hung a burnt-out cigar. She moved forward on her toes, like a dancer; she seemed to glide toward him effortlessly. He glanced quickly toward the closed doorway that led to the basement stairs. Behind her, the back of the family room couch was sprinkled in shadows; the rest of the room was indigo.
He couldn’t wrestle his gaze from her body, which seemed to writhe as she moved near—the illusion of a serpent—and the fullness of her spoke to him. Not like Carly’s slender form, certainly not overweight. Just curvy hips, meat on the bones like his mama. Legs and thighs that spoke of substance and full breasts that hung invitingly. When she was within touching distance, her eyes never leaving his, the cigar now inches from his face, his cock swelling in his boxers with the certainty of a raging flood, he reached for her. Her legs parted; her eyes were unblinking. His fingers traced a line down the cotton fabric of the man’s shirt, past buttons, parting the halves, and resting a hand lightly on her breast. Gently, he circled the hard nipple before dipping down farther past her navel, which he traced gently with his fingernail before meandering through her dark patch of hair. Finally, after a splendid minute, he felt the rise of moistened flesh that met his touch.
She reached out and expertly slipped her hand inside his shorts. His cock came alive as she palmed the bulbous head, stroking the shaft, raking her fingers lightly over his balls. He found her opening effortlessly, slipping a finger inside.
His cock stretched out in front of him, gently bobbing beside her waist. She stroked it with her palm, then, just as she found her groove stroking him, she ceased and moved to the back of the couch that was dappled in darkness. Her hands spread lengthwise along the edge of the furniture as she bent forward and down, lifting up the shirt in the process—Miles’ shirt, the same one he had been wearing earlier that evening—and spread her legs wide, exhibiting in all of its splendor her heart-shaped, chocolate-colored ass.
He groaned contentedly, marveling at the exquisiteness on display before him. He could clearly see the lips to her sex, which glistened even in the half-darkness. He thought of the kiss they had shared months before, her intoxicating scent that night in the elevator, the way her skin felt when he massaged her shoulders in his office, the electricity that coursed between them. He gripped himself decisively, readying to impale his hardness into the wetness of her sweet cavern. Suddenly, unable to contain his hunger, he lunged forward with a purpose that surprised even him.
In that same moment, they clearly heard the rustling coming from upstairs, the weighty, uncoordinated footfalls, and Miles’ unmistakable deep voice calling out, “Olivia, baby, is that you I hear?”
Chapter 3
The hallway is silent. He stands in front of the door to her room, glancing down at his feet, listening for sounds, willing his breathing to slow. It is after one A.M.; the hotel and most of its occupants are fast asleep.
He has been standing there for the better part of five minutes, not moving, fingering the letter he holds in his hand. He’s ready to slip it under her door, but each time he musters up the strength to bend down and release it, an ache appears out of nowhere, righting him.
He knocks on the door. Hears rustling. Knocks again. More noise, then footsteps. Locks and bolts undone. The door opens, and he finds himself facing her.
“Know what time it is?” she inquires, wiping at the corner of one eye. She is clad in a wrinkly, man’s button-down white shirt, way too big for her frame. He looks her over, musing about what, if anything, she wears underneath. Immediately, his thoughts return to the party two weeks ago, and the night that made him a man obsessed. Even at the lateness of this hour, her sensuality reaches out and tickles his skin, caressing him in the lonely hallway. He smells her, takes in the smoothness of her skin, the roundness of her cheekbones, the surety of her stare. Her graceful curves cannot be concealed by another man’s shirt.
All of this conspires to confuse him, tear him down, and make him weak, a slave to the physical. Yet, it is his stare that is unyielding now. He can hear the pulse in his ears. He is growing hard, can feel it tighten his jeans, and is certain she can sense his awakening, too.
“Anything wrong?” she asks, her gaze washing over him hastily, hand on her hip, making no move to let him pass.
“Need to talk—didn’t get to finish what we started earlier.”
“This can’t wait?” she inquires, somewhat exasperated. The hour is late.
“Obviously not.”
They stare each other down for a moment before he hears her sigh. She retreats, and he enters the room.
The bed is unmade, oversize pillows and thick comforter haphazardly situated. She climbs onto the bed, exposing thighs. A hint of white emerges—and he conjures up images of silk panties, erotic g-strings, and other sexual things. She witnesses his stare. Asks him what it is exactly that he wants.
Silently, he hands her the letter, which has occupied his time for several evenings.
“What is this?”
“How I feel.” With nothing more to say, he sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.
She repositions the comforter over her legs, ensures she is buttoned up top, unfolds the letter, and glances over at him. Then she begins to read.
It takes her a minute to complete. He is silent watching her. Her expression doesn’t change, as if she has been expecting this. When she is done, she refolds the letter slowly and glances up.
“Ryan.”
“Yes.” He is waiting, breathless.
She is cautious with her words.
“This is my fault,” she says. “I’ve led you on. Things happened after that party which cannot be undone. I would be lying if I said I regretted them all, but the truth is”—and here she pauses for a moment to search the ceiling, as if she can find comfort there—“they shouldn’t have happened.”
He is silent. She takes his silence as an approval to continue.
“For several reasons, Ryan. One, I am married. We both are. We love our spouses, and are not about to jeopardize what we have.”
A statement, not a question.
“Two, you and I are friends—been that way for as long
