Текст книги "Tryst"
Автор книги: S. L. Jennings
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Chapter Eleven
I don’t hear from Ransom all day Thursday, so I definitely don’t expect to on Friday. However, I can’t help but feel somewhat slighted that he hasn’t texted, emailed, sent a carrier pigeon—something. Not that he should. Not that I should want him to. Which really is just poetic justice, considering that apparently I am on a roll when it comes to rejection.
I woke up oddly refreshed, ready to make Friday my bitch and start my weekend. Maybe I was still on a Ransom Reed high or just excited for some downtime. Either way, it was odd for me, seeing as I was not a morning person.
Tucker was already up, of course, and had just finished his 6 A.M. workout with his trainer. I could hear the shower beating down against sweat-stained skin and frosted glass, and a jolt of excitement ran through me like electricity, lighting up my nerve endings like a Christmas tree. I slunk to the bathroom and silently slipped out of my nightgown, and joined my husband under the steaming hot spray. He started at the first feel of my arms wrapping around his taut torso from behind, but it took him only a second to realize my intentions, and he turned to face me.
“Good morning,” he murmured against my lips before capturing them between his. I opened for him—morning breath be damned—and let him drink in my desire. My nails ran a slick path up his back before raking down to the dimples above his ass. I felt him grow between us, nudging my belly, and I brought one hand to that rigid intruder. I began to stroke him—softly, at first—letting the water collect in my hand to heighten the feeling of warm slickness. He moaned and delved into my mouth deeper, his hands grasping my hips, my ass, my breasts.
I wanted him. Needed to feel him filling me in the worst way. I turned around and pressed my chest to the cool tile of the shower wall, my back arched to give him better access to the heat between my thighs, not that he’s ever needed help finding it. His hands were on my shoulders, gently gliding down my spine to the arch of my ass, then . . .
Nothing.
I turned around to see what could be the hold up, to find Tucker studying the mosaic rocks of the shower floor. A frown dimpled his forehead and he panted, causing the water dripping down his face to shiver before dissolving into a thin spray. Then without looking up at me, he turned back to place his face under the hot spray.
“I have a client first thing, babe,” I thought I heard him say. I can’t be sure. It was hard to hear over the roar of blood rushing my face. Moments later, he stepped from the shower, abandoning me to the heavy veil of steam and water to hide my frustrated tears.
By the time I had collected enough dignity to step out of the humid safety of the shower, Tucker was gone. And I was left with the blaring reality that my life—my boring, mundane, beautiful, stable life—was trickling down around me, pooling at the soles of my bare feet.
I file the morning’s incident under Shit I need to deal with but am too chicken shit/busy/stubborn to do so, and turn my attention back to my cell. It remains silent aside from Tamara’s constant updates on the event my firm is hosting for a premium tequila launch tonight. I let her take the lead on this one, forcing myself to resist the need to micromanage and give her enough space and opportunity to flourish on her own. She has it in her—we both just need to trust it. However, I insisted on updates on everything from the catering to room layout to the swag bags for guests. My name was still stamped on this party, and I would demand no less than perfection.
I’m punching in a reply to Tamara’s inquiry on the guest list when a deep, sinuous voice stops me dead in my tracks, leaving my finger hovering over the Send key.
“You know, you really should hire reliable help. Anyone could just walk in here.”
I look up to find Ransom filling the space of my office entrance, leaning against the doorjamb with the grace and swagger of a man who knows and loves every inch of his body. I don’t doubt that he does. I’ve only had the pleasure of seeing a glimpse of it, and I still can’t erase that image from my mind. Who would want to?
“Anyone like you?” I quip, schooling my features into a cool expression. I don’t smile. I won’t let my happiness be manipulated by this man.
He’s unruffled by my cold demeanor and enters the room without invitation or apology. The best way to describe it is saunter. Ransom saunters into the room, but there’s nothing flamboyant about him. It’s as if he’s completely unbound by bones or skin, the way he moves as fluid as the silk of his voice. He stops in front of my desk and regards me with a devious smirk before folding himself into the chair across from me. He doesn’t play by the rules. He just creates the game. At some point, I need to stop being such a willing participant. I need to quit playing myself.
Neither of us speaks for a hot minute. We just stare each other down as if we’re seeing one another for the very first time. Or for the last time. Before I can find good sense enough to clear my throat and question him on his presence, he speaks up.
“Exactly like me.”
I blink half a dozen times, causing the hardened ink on my lashes to gently bite my eyelids. “Excuse me?”
“Anyone like me could just walk in here. And you don’t need that. You don’t want that.”
What the hell do you know about what I want? I silently ask him. He smiles as if he’s stolen the question from my lips.
“You’re right,” I say, not meaning a word of it. It still doesn’t dissuade his grin. “What can I do for you, Ransom?”
Relaxing, he folds a leg over the other so that his knee juts out to the side. His fingers rest atop his knee and begin to tap rhythmically. “Your POA proposal.”
“What about it?” I set my phone down and give him my undivided attention. Business. This is about business. I can do that.
“We’re doing SNL tomorrow night.”
“I’m aware of that.” Obviously, that had been in the works for weeks, at the hands of his agent.
“I want you there.”
I pause, snapping my lips shut on my initial response. Why does he want me there? Why would he need me there? The band is performing—that’s it. And from what I’ve seen, they make a cameo in a short skit alongside featured host, Rebel Wilson. Essentially, a publicist wouldn’t be needed.
“I’d feel better if you were there,” he shrugs, reading the questions escaping my expression.
“Why?” Why me? Why now?
I don’t say it, but I know he can see it. I know he can see me.
“Why not?” Because I want you.
Suffocating silence lies between us when my cell rings, and I scramble to answer, assuming it’s Tamara. I don’t even think I replied to her text earlier.
“Bunny, I’ve only got a quick minute.” I can hear the urgency in Tucker’s voice, and it instantly sobers me.
“What is it, Tuck?” Instinctively, my eyes drift over to Ransom and I cringe. I don’t know why I do it; I don’t know why there’s the distinct knot of guilt caught in my throat, but there is.
“I’ve got to work late tonight. Something’s come up.” Translation: One of my patients is in the midst of a crisis, and they need me more than you do. “I know you have that thing tonight. Will it be all right if I pass?”
Without rhyme or reason, my gaze goes to Ransom, who lifts a curious brow in response. “Sure, honey. Not a problem.”
“I’m sorry. I can try to make it later. It’s just . . .”
“It’s fine, Tuck. I’ll be fine. I’ll make an appearance and head home. No need to come, I promise. Go on . . . go be amazing.” There’s a smile in my voice, but it doesn’t touch my face.
“Ok, babe.” There’s a rustle on the other end as if he’s on the move. “You know I love you, Heidi.”
I suck in a breath, drawing in those sweet, tender words and letting them fill the space he left empty early this morning. The space that’s remained empty since he pressed me face-first into the wall almost a week ago.
“I know,” I respond on an exhale. “I love you too.”
When I look up, Ransom is regarding me with unmasked wonder.
“What?” I ask, almost annoyed with his candor.
“What can’t he make?”
The papers on my desk serve as the perfect distraction, and I focus on shuffling them into neat piles. “My firm is handling the launch party for Lujo Tequila. I have to actually head over there soon to ensure everything is set for tonight before getting ready.”
“Really?” I can’t tell if his interest is feigned or genuine, but he suddenly sits up straighter. “What time does it start?”
“Eight P.M. Why?”
Ransom climbs to his feet just as lithely as he sat, and I am hurled back into the memory of his body sliding out and off of mine. I shiver, the need to feel that heat again fresh on my mind.
“Because I’ll be in front of your place at seven thirty.”
“What? Ransom, no. I don’t need you to do that.” I’m already moving around my desk to stop him from leaving with that crazy notion on his brain. He turns just as he hits the doorframe.
“I know. But I’m doing it anyway. So be ready.”
He doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t give me a chance to refute his offer—no—his demands. He just turns around and walks away, taking my good sense with him.
I finish the afternoon in a robotic, yet efficient, haze, which isn’t far off from the norm for me. When I stop by the venue to ensure all is set for tonight, only Tamara notices that I’m less than present. But even she’s too preoccupied to give a damn.
By the time I head across town to our condo, I’m seized with nerves. I don’t know why. I could easily text Ransom right now and tell him to forget it, that his presence isn’t welcome. That it is highly inappropriate for us to carry on so casually. But as I step through the threshold of the front door to see that Tucker isn’t home, I release a sigh of shame-laden relief.
I dress in a simple black dress with a modest neckline and a back dip so low that my entire spine is on display. It’s the mullet of dresses—business in the front, and all party in the back. I can get away with it at a function like this, but just barely. Still, I clip my ice blonde hair up to show off the dramatic plunge. If there’s one advantage of having fun-size breasts, it’s definitely being able to rock a daring outfit sans bra.
I’m anxious as I make my way downstairs. Part of me hopes he was just bluffing. A much larger, more physical part of me hopes that the black limo at the curb in front of my building contains one Ransom Reed.
It doesn’t.
Instead, the driver opens the door to usher in Mrs. Worthington from downstairs, who is dressed to the nines in a cacophony of silk and sequins.
“Good evening, Mrs. Worthington,” I manage to smile through my disappointment. The much older woman nods at me fondly, taking in my equally formal attire.
“Oh, good evening, dear. I see you have a steamy rendezvous tonight as well.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink before dipping into the backseat of the dark car, leaving me surprised and a little envious. I snap my mouth closed and turn to the doorman of my building to ask for a cab when the seductive purr of a V8 engine captures my attention, just as a black metallic Maserati GranTurismo pulls up to the curb. Without even seeing his face through the dark tinted windows or smelling his scent of spiced smoke and earth, I know Ransom is behind the wheel. No one else could drive a car this sexy and pull it off so flawlessly.
With almost feline elegance, he unfolds himself from the car and comes around to where I stand on the sidewalk. He’s dressed in all black—tailored black slacks, black dress shirt with the top few buttons undone, and clean, black boots. And although this is the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him, he wears the tighter clothing just like he does his worn jeans and tees—like they were made to grace his body.
“You’re here.” What was supposed to be skeptical is masked by the breathy sound of my voice. Dammit.
“I said I would be.”
He doesn’t greet me or tell me I look beautiful. He hardly even looks at me. He just opens the passenger side door and steps aside to let me in. Reluctantly, I slide onto the crimson leather seat, taking extra care with the hem of my dress. He doesn’t want to look, so God forbid I give him something to look at.
“Nice car,” I murmur as he filters into bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Thanks. It was a birthday present to myself,” he replies stiffly, keeping his eyes on the road. Somehow, he seems to find every open spot and zips his way between lanes. I’m pretty sure the sweet ride has something to do with it too. Respect must be paid when a Maserati is on the road.
“Well, you sure know how to spoil yourself.” It’s a lame comment. Lame. One out of nervousness just to fill the empty space. Music plays quietly in the background, and I take it upon myself to turn it up, breaking cardinal rule number 1: Never touch a man’s stereo. Nev-er.
“What are you listening to?” I ask, as the enchanting sounds of a male voice comes through the speakers. I feel like I’ve heard the singer before, but I can’t pin down a name. The musical accompaniment is minimal, as it should be. The man has a beautiful voice, his upper register so impressive that it’s almost feminine. However, there’s a raspy attribute to it that gives it a certain edge.
“Matthew Koma.”
I nod but silence the questions on my tongue to take in the music. His song is one of desperation, pain, and surrender. It’s heaven to my ears, yet stirs something dark and hot within me. I know the name, I just didn’t know he could sing like this.
“We’ve been working with him on our new material,” he answers without me asking.
“New material?” That gets my attention and I turn in my seat to gaze at him through our capsule of darkness. Shadows play across his sharp features, brilliant, neon lights brushing kisses across the edge of his jaw. His hair is completely slicked back tonight, making him seem even more severe. Almost menacing.
“Yeah. We’ve been writing. Got to step into a booth earlier. Felt good.”
“Wow.”
He doesn’t miss the hint of disbelief in my voice and turns momentarily to face me, his brow furrowed in offense. Artists are sensitive motherfuckers. “What?”
“Nothing, that’s great,” I quickly assure him. “It’s just . . . his sound is so different from yours. The artists he works with are just . . . not like Ransom.”
He shrugs with nonchalance, yet the tick in his jaw gives him away. “We sing—we play—what we feel. Change is good. Growth is good. Especially when it’s felt. We’re still Ransom. We’re just evolving. Shouldn’t that make you happy?”
Make me happy? Why would he even care about my happiness?
“Stay off of Page Six with drunken brawls and sorority girl hookups, and that would make me happy.” I tack on a nervous laugh, which Ransom doesn’t return. Damn. Something surely crawled up his ass.
Luckily, we pull up to the venue, which is a popular hotspot in the Meatpacking District. After his baby is secured with valet, Ransom comes to stand beside me, of course, drawing every flashing camera and catcall on us. I keep my head down and go to stand off to the side so Ransom can do his thing, but find that he keeps perfect pace with me, gently placing a hand on the bare skin of my lower back to guide me into the building. I’m flattered for a hot minute before full-on terror coils in my gut. Well, that surely will be front-page news. Ransom Reed Steps Out with Older Woman. The press will not be kind.
Once we cross the threshold, servers with shots of the featured tequila bombard us with offers. We each take one to be polite, especially since my clients are in attendance. Ransom looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to join him in a drink.
“What? You don’t actually expect me to drink this, do you?” I say low enough that no one hears.
“Why not? It’s free booze . . . that you happen to represent. Shouldn’t you have faith in your client?”
I roll my eyes, all the while shooting fake smiles and waves to familiar faces around the room. I don’t want anyone to think that Ransom is any more than a business associate. “Forget it, Ransom. Tequila and I don’t mix.”
“Just one drink, Heidi. Just have fun with me. Loosen up. Please?”
I finally allow myself to gaze up at him, and I plunge into the dark depths of his onyx eyes. Even with the nose ring and keen features, there’s something soft and vulnerable about him. Something that I can only unravel when I get this close to him. I saw it that night we spent together, right after he sang to me while stroking me from behind. And when he kissed me, I felt it too. I felt it all over me, intoxicating me. Filling my lungs with his own brand of potent smoke. I inhaled deep and held it in, refusing to let it go. And when it hurt too much to hold on to, I exhaled, gasping his name in my desperate need for air.
“Yes.”
It seems like I’m always saying yes to Ransom Reed. I can’t fathom any woman ever telling him no.
He taps his shot glass against mine, and then raises his glass in salute. But instead of tipping it to his lips, he brings it to mine. Eyes locked, breaths ragged, I let him feed me a sip of the fiery elixir. It burns all the way down, but I lick my lips in craving, needing more. Just one taste is all it takes to hook me. All it takes to break me down.
“Heidi! Girl, where have you been? The caterer thinks we’re going to run out of crab cakes within the hour. We got some stragglers outside trying to get in with fake invitations. And I swear, some of these old ass rich bitches are smuggling bottles in their bags.” Tamara throws her hands up dramatically and wraps me in her thick arms. Luckily, I hand my shot glass to Ransom before she spills it.
“Ok. Calm down. I can handle this.” I pull away from her and nod toward Ransom. “Tam, this is Ransom Reed. Ransom this is my assistant Tamara, the person who usually keeps just anybody from walking into my office.”
Ransom nods and smiles to a starstruck Tamara, who gushes and squeals like a brace-faced Belieber. Ransom accepts graciously before excusing himself so we can get down to work. Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I need if I want to get through this night unscathed with my dignity in check. I have the caterer put out bacon-wrapped scallops to replace the loss of crab cakes to the menu. I double up on security at the entrance. And I make sure the staff keeps the alcohol behind the bar when they pour, replacing the ones on display for decoration with empty ones filled with colored water. Let those cheap old biddies steal that. Ha!
I don’t even realize how much time has slipped by when I am done putting out all the PR fires until I look up to find that Ransom is nowhere in sight. I swallow down the knot of disappointment when I realize that he’s left. I’m not sure why it bothers me—I’ve hardly paid him any attention. And it’s not like I can’t get a ride home.
I’m directing a few partygoers to the swag table to grab a few freebies when I hear the faint, melodic sounds of piano coaxing me from the pounding rhythm of Top 40s pop anthems blaring from speakers around the room. I follow the sound, sniffing it out like a hound in search of sustenance, and find that it’s generating from a smaller space reserved for special events. Tentatively, I push open the door, and my gaze eagerly discovers Ransom sitting at a Steinway, his eyes closed as he regurgitates his soul through black and white keys. He doesn’t look to me when I enter and shut the door behind me, but I know he feels my presence. A slight smile falls on his lips as he continues to play without falter. I know this tune—it’s one of my favorites that Tucker plays at home on his record player. And even though Ransom isn’t singing the words, I can feel the beauty of those lyrics as if they were etched on my heart.
Ransom finally opens his eyes when I sit down beside him on the bench, and his smile stretches wider. I can’t help myself. I smile too.
“I didn’t peg you for a Stevie Wonder fan,” I say as he restarts “Ribbon in the Sky.”
“My parents were . . . deeply religious when I was growing up. He was one of the few secular musicians they allowed in their home.”
I nod, soaking it all in. Ransom Reed is telling me personal information about himself. He’s opening a wound to let me in. Why?
“I learned every one of his songs. This one was one of my favorites.”
He begins to hum, the sounds feral and intimate, like the way he sings seductively on stage in front of thousands of fans, grinding his hips to the beat of an equally suggestive Ransom tune. Or the way he moans when he thrusts deeper, until he’s completely embedded in me, the tip of him stroking the sweet spot that causes me to clench around him.
Heat explodes in a swirl of red and pink and coral on my cheeks that I know he can see even under the dim lighting. Yet, he just continues to play, every skillful finger pressing the keys perfectly to produce magic. His fingers were one of the first things I noticed up close about him. They’re long and slender—perfect pianist fingers. They were created to make love. To fuck. To create.
I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until I hear him singing beside me, causing me to wake from my dream. It’s just the first line of the first verse. But it’s enough to have me panting with the need for him to trace those lyrics with his tongue all over my body. I have to get out of here. I have to get away from him. If I don’t, I’m not sure what I will do. And I’m even more unsure whether he would stop me.
Ransom reads my frantic expression like sheet music and smiles. He slides those long, magical fingers from the keys and places his hands in his lap, turning to me with wonder resting on his brow. I stare back, my lips parted and my breath shallow. I stare and I wait and I beg.
“Heidi.” My name is like an elixir on his tongue, potent and sweet. Too strong to swallow all at once, but intoxicating enough to crave it inside him. I move in a fraction closer, wanting to taste it. Wanting to smell my scent on his mouth.
A hiss filters between his teeth, and Ransom abruptly turns back to the black and ivory keys. A frown shadows his smile for just the barest of moments, but it’s long enough to break the spell.
“Come on,” he rasps in the voice reserved for the secrets he sings in the dark. “Time to go.”
