“Uh, take a look in the mirror.”
He sighs. “I need a new wardrobe. And no, I’m not. My grandmother helped me out with the deposit on this place, she left me some money when she passed. And right now, I don’t even know what I’m doing. I’m working for this buddy of mine, running a concierge service, but I don’t know . . . I think he’s about to fold.”
“Concierge?” I move closer as Jacob goes to pour us some drinks. “You mean like getting concert tickets for tourists?”
“Pretty much. At least, that’s how it started. But I love it when we get weird requests, like last week, some guy wanted us to find a first-edition vinyl pressing of Fleetwood Mac for an anniversary gift. Do you know how hard those things are to find?”
I shake my head. Jacob is looking weirdly animated as he passes me my drink.
“I wound up tracking down the liner notes and calling everyone who worked on the record. In the end, I found the guy who ran the recording studio, back in ’78, and got him to check his attic. He had a whole box, mint condition, he’d forgotten he even had.” Jacob looks so proud, it’s like he brought in a fresh carcass for the pride. Then he deflates. “But my partner doesn’t know how to run a business. We’ve got about six months before the investors pull their funding.”
“So go solo,” I shrug. “People always want what they can’t have, right? You could be the guy who gets it for them.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He swishes whiskey in his glass. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I groan. “I want to be a curator, but there are five thousand of us chasing the same six jobs. So you’re looking at the deputy assistant manager, shoe department.” I do a little curtsy, and he grins.
“Does that mean you can hook me up with a pair of those heels?”
I laugh, and kick them off one by one. “Knock yourself out,” I say, and then sigh happily. “Oh my god, that’s better.”
I don’t want to dwell on my professional failures, so I take a sip of whiskey and wander around, barefoot, looking at his stuff.
“You’re a movie guy?” I ask, surprised. There are framed prints of The Maltese Falcon and In a Lonely Place, Cool Hand Luke, and more. Was it possible that this guy has an actual soul underneath all that cocky jadedness? He certainly has good taste, that’s for sure. Not that I’d ever tell him as much.
“Those guys knew a thing or two about being men,” Jacob replies. “They didn’t take anyone’s shit.”
“Oh, right, you mean in the good ol’ days, where men were men, and women knew their place. Real original.”
“Says the girl who probably has a picture of Audrey Hepburn on her wall.” Jacob shoots back, and I stop. Busted. Well, it was college!
“Yeah, that’s all well and good,” I say, waving my hand dismissively, “but what about romance? I mean, isn’t that what most of these films are? Romances?”
“Nope,” he says, refilling his glass. “It’s an illusion. A way to get women into bed. Nothing more.”
“Oh, so love’s an illusion, romance is an illusion . . .” I nod, remembering how cynical he was back at the bar. I’d almost forgotten, what with the petty revenge and smoldering good looks, but clearly, this bitterness ran deep. “I’m sensing a pattern here. You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, you know.”
“Speaking of . . .” Jacob strolls over to a record player and picks out an old vinyl record. Frank Sinatra. Curiouser and curiouser.
“So . . . the music, the posters . . . are they like props?” I ask, trying to figure him out. “You lure women into your web with the promise of old-fashioned romance and then boot them out into the cold light of day empty-handed?”
“Well, not empty-handed exactly,” he grins, shooting me a devilish look and running one hand over the rough stubble on his face. Immediately, I blush, picturing how that sandpapery skin might feel against my thighs . . .
Jacob strolls closer, and my heart stops. Because I’m actually doing this. The no-strings NYE rebound I’ve been talking about. My mind goes blank, and I try to think of something witty and charming to say, but before I can do anything, he’s kissing me. His mouth is hot on mine, tasting of the sting of whiskey, and he kisses me hard and deep until I want to devour him.
Hot, cocky, drunk, and an excellent kisser . . .
Mmmm . . . I sink my teeth into his lower lip, biting softly until he groans, and I feel it all the way between my thighs. We stumble back onto the couch, making out like a couple of teenagers, and then he’s pulling my skirt off with practiced hands, laying me out right there on the leather.
Part of my brain is screaming WTF, this is going from zero to sixty in ten seconds flat, but then he nudges my thighs apart and strokes against my clit and I don’t give a shit.
This feels too good to hit the brakes.
I moan, pressing against his hand as he pushes my panties aside. He kisses my neck and bites down gently on my neck and damn, it’s been too long. Too long since I felt this hot, like every nerve in my body is wound tight and screaming for release. Jacob grinds against me, and god, I want him right now. Because Todd may have been many things, but sexy . . . ? Well, let’s just say he left a thing or two to be desired.
And by thing, I mean, my clit and how to find it.
“Uh, hello?”
I snap back and find Jacob looking at me.
“Sorry. I was just thinking about Todd.”
Jacob gives me a look. “Not exactly the words a man wants to hear right about now.” He strokes my clit again, sure circles, then delves deeper to dip his fingers in my already-soaking pussy. I moan. “Better.” He gives me a knowing look. “Let me guess, Asshole Todd didn’t know how to find your G-spot.”
He looks so smug right now, I almost lie. Then he pulses his finger up inside me, and fuck, that’s better than sodium thiopental for truth serum because I’ll say just about anything to make him do it again.
“The G-spot is a myth,” I gasp, clinging to my self-control. Sure, he’s driving me crazy right now, but that doesn’t mean he gets to be so smug about it. “It’s an illusion, like romance, right?”
“Wrong.” Jacob pulses inside me again, leaning in to nip my earlobe. “Count yourself lucky I’m here to enlighten you.”
“God, you’re insufferable,” I manage, just as he yanks my top up and closes his mouth around one of my breasts. He flicks my nipple with his tongue and I clench around his fingers. “Totally . . . utterly . . . annoying . . . ”
“Hush, woman.” Jacob rolls his eyes. “I’m working here.”
I open my mouth to protest, but then he slides another finger in, stretching me wider, and my complaint turns to a whimper.
“Better,” he says. “Now, keep quiet, and let me prove you wrong.”