The Dollhouse(62)

“Not everyone has to have a grand plan,” said Darby.

“That is so true. You could be more than a typist, though. Don’t you agree, Sam?”

Sam put his hands in his lap. “People should do whatever they want to do.”

The lateness of the hour made Darby bold. “My hotel is full of girls who want to be someone famous. Movie stars, models. And most of them are really struggling, from what I can tell. Not everyone who dreams of fame gets there.”

Esme’s lids fluttered open. “Sorry, I’m being awful. Come dance with me.”

She reached out and grabbed Darby’s hand and pulled her up.

“I don’t want to dance.” But Esme pulled her close and began swaying, and rather than fight it, Darby relaxed into her touch. She was exhausted and slightly tipsy and didn’t want to argue.

Eventually, their group disbanded, the musicians heading to the green room to collect their instruments.

“I’ve got to go. I have a test tomorrow.” Darby grabbed her purse from the floor.

“We’re all going out to Minton’s,” said Esme. “You have to come. Might as well stay out all night, right?”

“No more, I can’t take it. You go; you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’ll put Darby in a cab,” offered Sam.

Esme trundled off, giggling and silly, while Sam signaled for Darby to stay put. “I have a surprise for you.”

He locked the front door behind the departing revelers, and Darby followed him back into the kitchen.

“I really have to get going. I was supposed to get up early and practice.”

“What’s the test on?”

“Business methods.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Is boring.”

“Well, this isn’t.”

He yanked open the icebox and pulled out a bin with the word vanilla on the outside.

She couldn’t help herself. “Isn’t vanilla ice cream the definition of boring?”

“It’s not ordinary ice cream.” He twisted off the top of a small jar and sprinkled a finely ground powder onto a plate, then rolled a scoop of ice cream in it. “Taste.”

She opened her mouth and let him feed her a spoonful. The texture was slightly crunchy, with hints of tart lemon. A groan escaped from the lowest part of her belly.

Sam broke into a huge smile. “That was the reaction I was hoping I’d get.”

“You’re amazing. What is it?”

“A blend of crystallized honey and some spices from the Middle East.”

She opened her mouth again and was rewarded with another spoonful.

Sam took his thumb and touched the corner of her mouth, then put it into his own. “Tastes even better that way.”

She opened her mouth again, the cold metal of the spoon against her tongue contrasting with the tang of the ice cream against her palate. This time, Sam rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip, and reflexively she opened her mouth to draw it inside. His gray eyes reminded her of the color of the East River on a cloudy day.

He slid his finger along the bottom row of her teeth and she darted her tongue out to touch it, a whirlwind of flavors swirled on that one patch of skin. Her breathing was ragged and she held herself perfectly still, afraid to move an inch and break the spell.

His other hand went to her hip, lower than what was decent if they’d been dancing together. An unwelcome image of Sam and Esme popped into her head. Had Esme stood in this spot, had Sam touched her lips? Esme was far, far prettier and more outgoing than Darby. Any man would be drawn to her.

She stepped back, exhausted and confused.

Sam placed the spoon in the bowl. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. Fine.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, instead placed his hands on either side of her face and drew her to him. She lifted her head and he paused for a moment, gazing down at her. “You’re beautiful.”

“Not really.”

“No, you are. I mean, onstage, all dressed up and with makeup, you look like a movie star. But I like you like this.”

“Plain?”

He shook his head. “Plain? Why would you say plain?”

“I’m not fancy pretty. Or even pretty.”

“To be honest, most men don’t like fancy pretty. The hairdos are sticky, the makeup thick. I like you like this. When I touch your skin, I’m actually touching you.”

She’d never thought of it that way. In Defiance, all the women wore makeup and had their hair done once a week.

He ran his hands through her hair, and her scalp tingled. “A guy gets tired of all of the fakery and perfume. I want a girl who’s real, like you. And one who tastes like you.”

“What do I taste like?”

“Let me see.”

His lips were on hers, but they weren’t wet and messy like Walter’s. He didn’t dive into her mouth with his tongue but waited for her cue.

She parted her lips slightly and gasped when their tongues met. She still had the taste of the spiced ice cream in her mouth, and his lips retained the hint of the bourbon he’d been drinking.

The kisses grew deeper; she moaned ever so slightly and he echoed her sound. Dizzy with desire, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him to her. He inched the shoulders of her dress lower and lower until it slid down around her waist, then undid her bra with a flick of his fingers. She looked down, embarrassed.