Jasmine started when she felt Sarge’s hands on her shoulders, his chest brush against her back. “I didn’t realize they made you feel like that. I’m sorry.” His lips traced up the back of her neck. “We know that’s bullshit, Jasmine. That’s what matters. If you need what we do to stay in this apartment, I won’t fight you on it. But I will fight you on your theory that you failed.”
When Sarge traced her earlobe with his tongue, she could only nod, even though the argument was one she’d already won in her head. “Not tonight, okay?”
Sarge turned her around, his eyes raking up and down her body. “Do you still have that blue dress, Jas?”
“Wait.” She did a double take, certain she’d misheard him. “What now?”
He stepped away and took an unrushed turn around her room, pausing occasionally to stoop down and look at framed photographs. “The one you wore at the Feast of San Gennaro. When you sang that solo with the church choir. Do you remember?”
Did she remember? She thought about that day constantly. The feast was an Italian festival that took place once a year. Food vendors, contests, and various forms of entertainment took over the neighborhood for an entire week in September, although in recent years it had lost some of its traditional feel, becoming more modern and infused with pop culture to draw a younger crowd.
The year she enjoyed it the most, she’d been twenty-three, still trying to jump-start her flatlining music career. The choir director for Holy Cross Church, a lovely older woman named Adeline who liked to tip back an occasional whiskey sour during the day, had insisted Jasmine join the group for a solo on the main performance stage. When she wouldn’t take no for an answer, Jasmine had relented. And God, it had been well worth giving up an hour with her date. That day marked the first and last time Jasmine performed for a riveted crowd, people gathering on sidewalks, climbing streetlamps to see her. She’d never sounded better in her life.
It was also the day she’d peaked.
“I don’t remember seeing you there,” Jasmine murmured.
Sarge picked up another photograph, this one of her and River. “I was across the street playing Whac-A-Mole. Or I was, anyway, until you started singing.”
An uncomfortable lump formed in her throat. “Why would I still have that dress? It was worn out back then. It would be a total rag by now.”
His glance in her direction was one of total confusion. “Because you looked incredible in it.” He set the picture down and turned. “Because when I picture you, it’s in that blue dress.”
“I don’t have it,” Jasmine insisted, far too quickly. There was a parting of gray skies taking place here, and she was terrified to know what they would reveal. When I picture you. How often did that happen? Since Sarge blew into town—had it only been two nights ago?—he’d been pursuing her. No hesitations. No momentary lack of focus on his goal…a goal that appeared to be her. The more he spoke and revealed, the more Jasmine wondered how far his crush extended. Did she want to know?
No. She didn’t. Didn’t want to be responsible for anything more than slaking the urges of her body. Eliminating the craving he’d originated in places she hadn’t felt sparks as far back as she could remember. If she allowed that to happen while knowing there were deeper feelings involved on Sarge’s part, the guilt and responsibility would keep her from experiencing the physical completion he was offering. The chance to have this captivating man close, so close, just for a while. Before he left and didn’t come back, possibly for another four years.
Maybe for Sarge, this wasn’t some long-carried torch. Maybe he just wanted to mark Jasmine off his spank bank list, the way men felt sentimental about their first taste of porn. The older woman he’d lusted after as a kid—no better time to satisfy that particular fantasy than on an impromptu visit home. While that possibility caused a suspicious ache deep in her stomach, it suited her far more than Sarge having feelings for her. Yes, it was much, much better. If he simply wanted his fantasy fulfilled, this was a two-way, solely physical street.
When Sarge had almost reached her, Jasmine took him off guard by meeting him halfway on that final step. The move brought their bodies flush, chest to knee, Sarge’s erection pressing against her belly button. “I have the dress.”
His upper lip twitched. “Put it on.”
Jasmine smoothed her hands up his ridged chest, biting her lip over the dips and valleys. “Don’t you want me naked?”
“Yes, I want you naked.” He grazed a thumb down the side of her breast, sending a shudder of heat straight between her thighs. “I also want to be the one who made you naked. The dress, Jasmine.”
It was hot. That was how Jasmine had to categorize a man remembering what you wore almost seven years earlier. Hot that he wanted that particular garment to be the thing he ripped off your body. Yes, hot. Not telling or emotional in any way.