Fall (VIP #3)(40)
Freckles don’t have any feelings, but I swear it’s as if he’s touching them.
“You’re just noticing this?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but it comes out weak and thready.
His own lips quirk. “Oh, I noticed. It’s distracting as hell. They’re like two little dots of butter toffee. Makes me want to lick them, get a taste.”
Oh, God. Lick them, please. I can almost feel it. I want to feel it.
No. Bad Stella. Behave.
John’s lips part a fraction like he just might take that taste.
“Back off,” I whisper. And yet somehow my traitorous hands find their way to his sides, running over the waistband of his jeans, holding him there.
John makes a sound deep in his throat and tilts his hips, pressing them against mine. A distinctly thick bulge nudges my belly. Both of us lose a breath, and then he’s closer, his cheek touching my temple. “You’ll have to let me go first.”
My thumbs slide under the edge of his shirt and find smooth, taut skin. A tremor goes through his body. I try to think, search for what the hell we’ve been talking about.
His lips brush the crest of my cheek as he murmurs against my skin. “Tell me what you do, Stella. You know you want to.”
My smile feels illicit. Somehow the action is directly tied to all my happy parts, making them draw hot and tight. “I don’t think I do.”
Another hum. “Liar. You’re dying to.”
A soft laugh leaves me. It feels good doing this with him, teasing and buffing up against each other—two objects unable to keep apart. My fingertip skims along his skin, tracing the edge of his jeans, and he shivers.
“Button …” It’s a warning.
I should heed it. I know I should. But he’s warm and solid and smells like my best dream. “Yes?”
He lets out a slow breath. “I don’t know. I forgot what we were saying.”
We both laugh, low and easy.
“You want to know what I do?” I say, a bit hazy, rubbing my cheek against his.
“Yeah.” It’s a whisper of sound at my ear. “Yeah.”
Languid heat melts over me. I sink against the wall, that thick, hard cock of his pressing into the mound of my sex the only thing keeping me standing. A lowlying pulse of pleasure centers there. I push against it to alleviate the pressure, and we both make a sound—pained, helpless, needy.
John rocks against me, barely a movement, but enough to make my lids flutter.
My head is swimming. “I …” I lick my lips, trying to focus.
“You …?” His lips tickle the edge of my jaw.
“I’m …” God, he presses a kiss at the corner of my eye. “I’m …” I’m sinking into him. His lips part and brush like wings along my skin. My fingertips slide over his waist, catching goosebumps. Far away from us, someone laughs.
The honey thickness of John’s voice is at my ear. “You’re …?”
My heavy lids open. The world is a blur. John’s so close, the silk of his burnished brown hair tickling my temple, the scent of warm skin and soap teasing my nostrils. “A friend,” I say.
He stills, not tense but really listening now. “A friend?”
I’m clearer too, but not by much. My fingers still gently trace the edge of his jeans. “Yes. A professional friend. If someone needs a friend, they can hire me.”
I feel the jolt of surprise that moves through him. I hear the little gurgle in his throat. Our bodies brush as he lifts his head enough to meet my eyes. His green gaze is a bit hazy and moving over my face as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re a professional friend?” His voice is husky, cracking at the end.
The sound of his shock has the heat draining from me, leaving my muscles cold and tight. I frown, peering at him. “Yes.”
He stares back, his lips parted but no words coming out. For a moment, it seems he sways. Then he blinks rapidly, high color flooding those perfectly sculpted cheeks. “I …” He takes a step back, his movements stiff and awkward. “I …”
“You sound like me,” I tease, weakly, because my heart is pounding. He’s looking at me like I just landed with the Mother Ship.
John attempts to smile but fails utterly. The best he can do is a wobbly tilt of his lips. He runs a hand through his hair and squeezes the back of his neck, his gaze darting around as if he doesn’t know where he is. And then his eyes meet mine again. Or they try to—he quickly focuses on my face instead.
“I have to go,” he blurts out.
Before I can blink, he’s turning around and striding away as if the place is set to blow.
Chapter Ten
Stella
* * *
“Miss, could you hold the door?” The husky request comes from an older woman at the base of the stairs leading up to my building. She gives me a smile, her lips that perfect shade of crimson the film stars of old Hollywood used to wear. Honestly, the woman could have been a classic film star. Her iron-gray hair is styled in a sleek long bob, her cream and black-trimmed Chanel suit perfectly tailored to her slight frame.
It hits me that I’m simply staring at the woman, obviously struggling to pull her rolling cart of groceries up the stairs. But the oddness of seeing a woman wearing couture, and carrying an honest-to-God Birkin bag worth more than I make in three months, handling her own groceries, has me dumbfounded. Only in New York.