“I used to ice skate, and when I was mad, I’d go to the rink and just pound the shit out of a double lutz. Hours and hours. I was mad at everything, so I got real good.”
“You don’t skate any more?”
“Nah. No time. No money. Not enough talent. Turn here and bear right.”
He took the direction, and when he came to my house, I wanted him to keep going. Pass it by. Stop someplace that was fully mine. A house that didn’t bear the scars of someone else’s difficulties. Something new and fresh. I didn’t want to leave my house, but I didn’t want him to see it either.
“Stop right there.” I pointed at the spot in front of my house. “The white with blue trim.”
I’d forgotten to think about my living situation and how unattractive it was. Sure, I lived in a big house in Beverly Hills, but it had been won by my mother in a divorce settlement, and my stepfather lived there. I couldn’t ask him in.
Not that I should have.
Maybe my living situation was saving me from myself. Because I didn’t want this thing with Dash to end. Not now. Not yet. I wanted to extend it for as long as I could. He might never call again if he didn’t get laid tonight, but if I did take him inside and I never heard from him again, I’d feel worse.
“Thank you,” was all I had. I popped the door open.
He reached across me and closed it. “Wait.”
He got out and walked around the front of the car then to my side. He opened my door and held out his hand for me. I took it and let him pull me up.
We walked side by side toward my steps. Mrs. Scotson’s yappy dog barked. A bus rumbled down Olympic. The little brown crickets chirped, and above me, our sycamore tree rustled in the wind, dumping a rain of fluttering leaves.
We stopped at the front door.
“Thank you,” he said. “The whole night would have been boring without you.”
“Really?”
“Why do you look so surprised?”
“I don’t know,” I lied. “Anyway. I liked seeing you. I’m going to do my best to find your glove.”
He leaned down, mouth near mine, breath on me, and whispered, “Good night, sweetapples.”
He brushed his lips on mine, and when I responded, he held my jaw while he kissed me. I parted my lips enough to let his tongue slide against mine, warm and wet, demanding attention. The rustling of the dry leaves slid away. The traffic on Olympic was silent. The universe existed only where our bodies met. My hands on his wrists. His hands on my neck. Our mouths locked in a dance whose steps coursed down my spine to the neglected space between my legs.
He pulled away, and I gulped for air.
“Yes,” I gasped.
“Yes to what?”
“I forgot the question. But it’s yes.”
“The question was, ‘How many times do you want to come tonight?’”
“I…”
How many times?
Was there a number above one? Or sometimes?
He put his finger on my collarbone, at the center of my neck, and moved it outward. My brain shut down to feel the sensation of his finger pushing my neckline aside.
“You’re a beautiful woman. I’ve been looking at your body all night. I want to see it wrapped around me. I want to feel you come.”
Yes. Yes yes yes yes. Yes and yes. God, yes.
I reached for the doorknob. The door was ajar.
“Oh, Dad.”
I couldn’t bring Dash Wallace inside. My father was probably up. What would I do? Introduce this man to my father then slip him into my room, telling Dad we were going to listen to records?
“Dash…” I slipped off his jacket and handed it to him. “I’m sorry. It’s a bad time.”
He took the jacket languidly, draping it over one arm while reaching for me with the other. He drew me close and put his lips against my neck, holding me up while setting my body on fire. “When’s a good time?”
I couldn’t answer before he kissed me with an urgency I hadn’t felt before. He kissed me as if now was the only time in the world because this heat was all there was. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and his hand went down my back to my ass. He pulled me into him, hitching my leg over his waist.
I gasped into his mouth when I felt his erection. My body was about to go from matter and mass to pure energy as I pushed against it. I didn’t care about what he wanted outside sex. Didn’t care if Dad was up. Didn’t care about anything but that dick grinding against me, those hands, that mouth. He pushed me against the doorjamb and moved against me, with me, nose to nose, watching my face as my body pulsed toward him, soft to hard—Goddamnit, what was I doing?
I pushed him away before I had an orgasm on my front steps.
He smiled like a cat who’d just eaten a pet shop full of canaries, taking my hands off his chest and holding them. “Not tonight. That’s fine.” He kissed my right palm. “I want to see you again. This week. Next week. From now until I leave for spring training.”
He pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist. “You have no idea how many times I can make you come in the next few weeks. You’re going to beg me to stop, and guess what? I’m not going to. Not until you forget how to speak.”
I swallowed. “The next few weeks?”