Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(31)

He reached down to anchor my hips against his, aggressive hardness nudging into a lush, intimate ache. I quivered and began to breathe in long sighs. Remembering what it had been like – the way he had filled me – I was overcome with disorienting heat, and all I wanted to do was sink to the floor with him and have him take me right there. I welcomed the stroke of his tongue, opened for it, and a groan resonated in his throat. His hand slid to my breast.

Dimly realizing that the situation was about to blaze out of control, I struggled and pushed at him until his arms loosened. Panting, I wrenched free. Just as he reached for me again, I held up a staying hand, my fingers trembling.

“Wait… Wait…” I was breathing as if I’d sprinted a hundred yards. So was Joe. I made my way to a big upholstered chair and sat on the arm of it. My legs were weak. Every nerve shrilled in protest. “I don’t think we can talk without a buffer zone. Please, just… stay over there and let me say a couple of things, okay?”

Sliding his hands in his pockets, Joe gave me a nod of assent. He began to pace slowly.

“Just to be clear,” I said, my face throbbing hotly, “I was more than satisfied that night. You’re great in bed, as I’m sure a lot of women have told you. But I want an ordinary guy, someone I can be sure of, and you… you are not that guy.”

The pacing stopped. Joe gave me a confounded glance.

I licked at my dry lips and tried to think over the clamor of my pulse. “You see, it’s like… a long time ago, my mother wanted a Chanel bag for her birthday. She taped a magazine picture of it to the fridge and never stopped talking about it. My stepfather bought it for her. She kept it on the top shelf of her closet in the special protective cover it came with. But she never carried the bag. So a few years later I asked her why the Chanel bag had always stayed in the closet, and why she’d never taken it out. She said it was too nice for every day. Too fancy. She didn’t want to worry about it getting damaged or lost, and besides that, it didn’t go with any of her clothes. It didn’t fit who she was.” I paused. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Joe shook his head with baffled annoyance.

“You’re the Chanel bag,” I said.

His scowl deepened. “Let’s drop the metaphors, Avery. Especially ones where I’m in a damn closet.”

“Yes, but do you get what I —”

“I want a real reason for why you won’t go out with me. Something I can understand. Like you don’t like the way I smell, or you think I’m an *.”

Looking down at the fabric of the chair, I traced the geometric pattern with the tip of my fingernail. “I love the way you smell,” I said, “and you’re not at all an *. But… you are a player.”

An unaccountably long pause followed before I heard his bewildered reply.

“Me?”

I lifted my head. I hadn’t expected him to look so stunned.

“Where did you get that idea?” he asked.

“I’ve been with you, Joe. I’m a personal witness to your hookup skills. The conversation, the dancing, the way you knew exactly how to play it so I’d feel comfortable with you. And when we were in bed, you had a condom conveniently ready, right there on the nightstand, so there was no pause in the action. Obviously you’d figured out every step beforehand.”

He shot me an affronted glance, color heightening his tan to a shade of rosewood. “You’re mad because I had a condom? You’d rather have done it without one?”

“No! It’s just that the whole thing was so… so practiced. So smooth. A routine you’ve perfected.”

His voice was quiet but biting. “There’s a difference between having experience and being a player. I don’t score women. I don’t have a routine. And setting my wallet on the nightstand doesn’t make me f*ckin’ Casanova.”

“You’ve been with a lot of women,” I insisted.

“How are you defining ‘a lot’? Is there a number I’m not supposed to go over?”

Stung by the note of scorn, I asked, “Before last weekend, had you ever slept with a woman the first time you met her?”

“Once. In college. The rules were understood beforehand. Why does that matter?”

“I’m trying to make the point that sex doesn’t mean the same thing to you that it does to me. This was the only one-night stand I’ve ever had, not to mention the first time I’ve slept with someone since Brian. You and I have never even been out on a date. Maybe you don’t think of yourself as a player, but compared to —”

“Brian?” He looked at me alertly.

Regretting my slip of the tongue, I said curtly, “My fiancé. I was engaged, and we broke it off. That’s not important. My point is —”

“When did that happen?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I stiffened as Joe began to approach me.

“When?” he insisted.

“A while ago.” I stood from the chair and took a step back. “Joe, the buffer zone —”

“When was the last time you slept with him? With anyone?” He reached me, taking hold of my arms as I shrank back. I ended up against the bookshelves, crowded by his big frame.

“Let go,” I said faintly. My gaze ricocheted as I tried to look anywhere but directly at him. “Please.”