She was thinking.
“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously while setting down her wineglass stem and giving him her full attention.
“Just what I said. Do you find me attractive?”
He was thinking about her husband, Miles. How could he not? They had been talking about him earlier. And Ryan found that he was comparing himself to the man. Ryan was thin and lanky, like a ball player, whereas Miles was muscled, stocky. Ryan was light-skinned; Miles, on the other hand, richly brown. Ryan wore his hair short, tapered, professional, almost boring to a fault, whereas Miles wore his to fit his personality—wild, free, unencumbered. His locks were thick, dark, and long. Women loved his hair. He received stares and comments from women everywhere he went. Sometimes it made Ryan sick.
Olivia stared at him for a moment, pondering the question, and in the ensuing silence, he wondered, Could I have gotten her? Could I have been her man?
Her brow furrowed. She smiled and then said something simple that blew him away.
“I think you’re beautiful.”
Ryan considered her words for a moment. Head tilted down, he pondered their meaning.
He didn’t see her get up, didn’t notice her move to his side of the table until she was bending down. He glanced up, meeting her stare as her mouth opened. Before he had time to consider further action, her mouth was upon his, kissing him, loving him with her mouth, those luscious lips pressing against his with a passion that ignited something so deep and primal he hadn’t felt in decades.
When she was done—he wasn’t sure if it took mere seconds or minutes—Olivia finally pulled back, wiped the locs from her eyes, and sat down. She then picked up her wine and took a sip. No words were needed. He knew now how she felt….
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks, bringing him back to reality.
He smiles in remembrance. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“You. Me. The party a few weeks ago.”
Olivia grins. “Fucked me up.”
His breath catches in his throat. Then, he smiles. “Yeah. Almost.”
Olivia stares at him unknowingly. “What do you mean?” she asks.
He ignores the question. Instead, he drains his drink and places the glass down, staring into the kaleidoscope of ice patterns for a split second before sucking in a breath, then exhaling loudly.
“Let me ask you a question.”
“Shoot…”
“That night, did you want things to go all the way?”
Again, that look. Furrowing brow.
“Pardon?”
“You…me…the party. Hel-lo?”
She laughs. For a moment, the tension had risen to the point where one could cut it with an axe. Seconds later, thanks to her mirth, it had dissipated. So, he laughs with her before turning serious.
“Something funny?”
Olivia responds. “Yeah. As I recall, we were all pretty fired up. You, me, Carly—oh, my god—”
“This isn’t about Carly,” Ryan states, interrupting her, willing her to stay on track. To not talk about his wife.
She pauses. Stares at him hard.
“Okay.”
“I’ve known you a long time, Olivia. We go way back, right?”
“Right.”
“So, no sense in pussy-footing around.” He chuckles at his own joke. “I mean, it’s something we need to discuss.”
She opens her mouth to speak, then thinks better of it and nods instead.
“That night at the party, something happened between us. Something that can’t be denied. Two weeks later, we’ve yet to fully acknowledge it. I don’t know about you, but I can’t just waltz around here like nothing happened, ’cause that’s not the case.”
“Ryan—look, I know—”
The annoying clamor from her cell phone cuts the conversation short. Olivia reaches for her hip, mouthing her regret as she answers it. Her face changes—a glow emerging in place of a frown.
Miles…
He stands, slaps some bills on the table, and is walking away before she stops him with a brush to his elbow.
“Miles wants me to remind you about Friday. He’s made reservations at Bluespace for noon,” she says, gesturing to her phone. “Don’t be late, he says.”
Olivia smiles in an attempt to cut through the apprehension that has risen again between them. He smiles in return, but their conversation is done. Dejected, he heads for his room.
Chapter 2
He was standing by the refrigerator, the door open and shielding his lower body from view. To someone standing across the room, one might assume he was naked. Fact is, he was wearing boxers—the Scooby-Doo ones Carly gave him for his birthday as a goof.
He was just standing there, head pounding from a night of crabs, Coronas, apple martinis, and cigar smoking. Just the last two were more than enough to make his head spin.
One-thirty in the morning, standing in the kitchen of his best friends’ home, Olivia and Miles asleep upstairs, Carly crashed on the futon in the basement below—and Ryan, his cotton mouth and tongue begging for moisture as he rummaged through the fridge searching for something to drink. He found a liter of Sprite and, not having the strength to search for a cup, tipped the bottle to his lips and thirstily drank.
As he dropped it back into the slot in the refrigerator, he stepped back to close the door.
That’s when he saw her.
She was standing motionless, observing him silently. He was caught off guard. What he saw took his breath away.
Olivia was clad in a button-down shirt—little else. The shirt hung open and he could see the dark patch of pubic hair that spread over her mound—and a large purplish nipple peeked out from the side of the shirt. Her hair hung free, locs surrounding her beautiful darkened face. Between her lips hung a burnt-out cigar. She moved forward on her toes, like a dancer; she seemed to glide toward him effortlessly. He glanced quickly toward the closed doorway that led to the basement stairs. Behind her, the back of the family room couch was sprinkled in shadows; the rest of the room was indigo.
He couldn’t wrestle his gaze from her body, which seemed to writhe as she moved near—the illusion of a serpent—and the fullness of her spoke to him. Not like Carly’s slender form, certainly not overweight. Just curvy hips, meat on the bones like his mama. Legs and thighs that spoke of substance and full breasts that hung invitingly. When she was within touching distance, her eyes never leaving his, the cigar now inches from his face, his cock swelling in his boxers with the certainty of a raging flood, he reached for her. Her legs parted; her eyes were unblinking. His fingers traced a line down the cotton fabric of the man’s shirt, past buttons, parting the halves, and resting a hand lightly on her breast. Gently, he circled the hard nipple before dipping down farther past her navel, which he traced gently with his fingernail before meandering through her dark patch of hair. Finally, after a splendid minute, he felt the rise of moistened flesh that met his touch.
She reached out and expertly slipped her hand inside his shorts. His cock came alive as she palmed the bulbous head, stroking the shaft, raking her fingers lightly over his balls. He found her opening effortlessly, slipping a finger inside.
His cock stretched out in front of him, gently bobbing beside