With a Prince: Missed Connections #2 Read online

  He tasted—oh, hot and masculine, if those were flavors. I’d make a cologne of that, if I could. The hoops on his lip were cold from the air, a bright, hard counterpoint to the softness of his mouth, which he had open from the first. No demure peck, no chaste test—he kissed me with a kind of seeking hunger. I melted into it, his leather jacket stiff from the cold under my clutching fingers, catching a hint of his shampoo under all the bay rum—or maybe whatever gel he used in his hair, a fresh, aloe sort of scent.

  Our helmets clanked and he laughed into my mouth, backing out to give me a softer kiss, then pretending to check my chin strap again, as if we hadn’t done anything. “There. All ship-shape. Ready?”

  I pulled on my mittens. “Should I put the visor thing down?”

  “Nah. It’s tinted, so it would be too dark for night. Really you just want it to keep the bugs out of your mouth on the highway.”

  “Um, bugs?”

  “All frozen right now,” he said cheerfully, squeezing my hands and peering at the mittens. “Cute. Furry.”

  I yanked them away. “They’re warm.”

  “And on leashes.”

  He meant the string that went up my sleeves and through the coat, tied to the mittens on either end. “You can laugh, but I never lose them this way.”

  “Sure enough. Wait a mo.” He unwound the muffler and put it around my neck, tying it in a loose knot under my chin. “Can’t have you catching a chill.”

  “Won’t you get cold though?”

  “Me? Nah—I’m all tough and manly like. No strings on my mittens.” He pulled leather gloves out of his pockets and yanked them on, then got on the bike, kicked up the stand and started it with a roar. Reaching down, he folded out a footrest and tapped, then held out a hand. “Put your foot here and swing your leg over.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “What if I tip it over?”

  He shook his head. “A bit of a thing like you? You’d have to try pretty hard, and I have it braced.” He did have both feet on the ground.

  Horns honked at a car in the near lane with its blinker on, waiting for the parking spot. I put my hand in his gloved one, my foot on the prong, and—fairly graceful, glad I’d worn pants—got my leg over, finding the other footrest. I hadn’t expected, though, the way the slope of the seat had my pelvis pressed up to Damien’s tight butt. I kind of felt around for handholds and he chuckled, reaching back to drag my hands around his narrow hips beneath the jacket.

  He revved the engine. “Ready?” he shouted.

  “Yes!”

  He glanced over his shoulder, waved at the car like they’d been honking to be polite, picked up his feet, and the bike surged forward. I yelped with surprise, squeezing tight so I wouldn’t fly off the back. After that initial acceleration, though, we didn’t go fast. Not with Friday night downtown traffic.

  At the first red light, he turned his head. “Doing okay?”

  “Yes!” And I was. Being on the bike made all the lights that much more vivid, sparkling and up close. Food scents, savory and sweet, wafted past from the food carts on the sidewalk.

  “Where to?”

  “You choose.”

  “Food?”

  “Oh God, yes.”

  He laughed, the light turned green, and off we went, wending our way through the traffic, cutting in and out. I began to get the feel of the bike, how his body balanced it, and the way my body pressing to his worked in concert with that. We got to a quieter part of town, away from the main business district, the Logan Park area where houses and restaurants lined the streets, lights glowing warm gold from small kitchen windows and panes a full story tall. It seemed we went through clouds of various smells, wood smoke here, the tang of chilis there, a bright splash of curry from a family meal.

  Damien found a spot, wedging the motorcycle into a space between cars that didn’t really have a meter.

  “Is that legal?” I asked dubiously, as he strapped our helmets to the bike.

  “Not exactly, but people are usually so glad I didn’t take up a whole parking space for my bike that they don’t complain, and the meter maids look the other way.”

  “I don’t think Chicago has meter maids.”

  “No? They should. Think how lovely—short skirts, high-heeled boots, and those double-breasted uniform jackets that squeeze up their bosoms.” He had my hand through the crook of his elbow again and gestured with the other, making like he squeezed his own cleavage.

  So inappropriate—and he had me cracking up. “That’s quite the prurient fantasy for what has to be a pretty low-paid civil service job.”

  “Maybe they could earn tips. Have a line on the ticket, you know, where you can add the gratuity. ‘Hell, yeah, I’ll pay my fine plus a tenner for the maid who leaned over just so as she tucked it on my windscreen.’”

  “You are so wrong.”

  “Yeah, but you laughed.” He walked up to a place on the corner. The sign overhead had a cut-out ampersand, and stenciled on the window was:

  Eat

  Sleep

  Whiskey

  My stomach frankly lurched. “Whiskey?”

  “Total coincidence!” Damien insisted, then rolled his eyes. “Okay. Not total, because it is me, but you’ll like it, I swear. Believe me—I agree, no more whiskey for you, pet.”

  He opened the door for me, cocking that brow while I peered in and raucous noise poured out. Smelled good, but…

  “All farm to table,” he said. “Great food. And we’re in luck, there’s an open two-top. Let’s snag it.” He overcame my hesitation by grabbing my hand and pulling me in after him. “Bench or chair?” he asked. “Chair for the lady it is.” He held the chair for me when I stared at him blankly, part of my brain still out on the sidewalk.

  So it happened that I found myself sitting at a small table, wedged in between couples on either side of us, while he ordered a fancy whiskey cocktail. “Seltzer with lime,” I replied automatically to the waiter.

  “Not that,” Damien inserted. “Dead boring.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Shush, luv. She’ll have an Autumn Warmer.”

  I fumed at him, inarticulate with it. Sure, I liked his contrariness, but pushing me around? Oh no. “You’re trying to get me drunk again so you can take advantage of me.”

  He sipped his water, eyeing me over the rim. “You are a bit more…relaxed, shall we say, with some whiskey in your tum.”

  I threw down my napkin. “That’s it. I am so—”

  His fingers closed around my wrist. “Marcia, luv. It’s a non-alcoholic drink. Do try to chill.”

  Oh. Well…oh. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m not good at this.”

  “Start with taking off the coat?” he invited. “Perhaps the muffler, too, as you’re in no danger of freezing in here.”

  Great, now I felt really stupid, still huddled in my parka. I unzipped it, shrugging out of it and hanging it over the back of the chair, then tried to hand him back his scarf. He waved that off.

  “Keep it for the ride home. Unless you’ve decided to ditch me again, then do me a solid and leave it for my cold and lonely ride.” He made such a sorrowful face that I scoffed.

  “No colder than any other.”

  “Not true. Thanks, mate,” he said, as the waiter set down our drinks. “After having the voluptuous Marcia snuggled up against my backside, I’m now spoiled forever. Cheers, luv.” He waited, glass held high with significance, all playfulness gone as his intent gaze went to my mouth. “What’s your favorite toast—a family one, maybe?”

  All those years with my mom. Hot chocolate. Glasses of milk. Orange juice when we were flush, tap water when we weren’t. “It wasn’t something we did.” I stared hard at the glass I held, not sure where the vague sense of shame came from, the fountaining bubbles somehow as sparkling as any festive decoration.

  “Ah, room then for us to make up our own, since you criticized my ‘meet beautiful.’ How about: to the good and the bad, and the best of both.”<
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  “It’s very us.” I clinked his glass with mine and sipped, unable to contain my pleasure as the scents of rosemary, lime, and ginger rose on the fine bubbles to meld into a warm flavor on a brightly cold stream. “Lovely.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I put my glass down. “Why are you here, Damien?”

  He sat back, toying with his cocktail glass. “Eat, drink, whiskey.”

  “The sign says ‘Eat, Sleep, Whiskey,’ in point of fact.”

  “True.” He leaned forward and snagged my hand, lacing his fingers with mine. His were cold from the glass. “I wasn’t sure if ‘sleeping’ was on the agenda.”

  Flustered, I looked around, as if anyone cared to be watching us. “I don’t know why a restaurant would have ‘sleep’ on the sign anyway.”

  “It’s like an old-style inn. There’s rooms upstairs.” He cocked that brow. “Shall I see if one is open?”

  This time I couldn’t blame the whiskey. I went hot, flushed, and melting, just like that. The images flashed through my mind. Going upstairs with Damien. Letting him undress me. How those hoops in his lip would feel as he did wicked things to—Whoa, Nelly. I reeled myself back. Damien still held my hand, caressing my palm with his thumb, interested gaze on my face, as if he could track every thought.

  “No,” I said, not without some effort, dragging my hand out of his, pretending I needed both to hold my drink. I forced a laugh. “No, I am so not going upstairs to have sex with you.”

  He left his hand where it was on the table, open to me, and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “For a moment there, you considered it.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did. You even liked the idea. Until you started overthinking.”

  “Is this what you do? Prowl the malls of Chicago, knocking women over and inviting them to drinks as part of a massive seduction plan?”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully, raising his drink to his mouth and sipping. Then shook his head. “Awfully convoluted. Most chicks, it’s easier to just say hey and go from there.”

  “But I am not most chicks.”

  “No, luv, you surely are not.”

  “Then why are you bothering?”

  He finally sat up again, giving me an odd look. “Are you trying to talk me out of being attracted to you?”

  “I find it hard to believe you’re attracted to me.”

  “Maybe I find that attractive.”

  “A somewhat perverted take on things.”

  “Ah,” he nodded sagely. “Yes, quite perverted. You do give me…ideas.”

  “Like what?” I meant to be scornful, but it came out breathless. Anticipation sang through me. So bad and wrong. So alluring.

  “Hmm.” He leaned his elbows on the table, laying his hand on it again, palm up, waiting for me. “Pay the toll, luv.” He wiggled his fingers.

  I put my hand in his. Which felt right, God help me. He beckoned me closer with a crooked finger, so I leaned in.

  “I’ve got this idea of you, bent over my bike. I lift your skirt to reveal that voluptuous bum. Tell me you wear lacy scanties.”

  I didn’t say anything and he crooked a smile. “In my fantasy, you do. So, I pull them down, all slow like, but you can’t do anything about it.”

  My mouth was dry. “Why can’t I?”

  “I won’t let you. And you’re wiggling, squirming, making those little noises like you do—”

  “What noises?”

  “Like when I shock you. And you get all blushy, like now.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Don’t go.” His hand tightened on mine. “Don’t you want to hear what I’d do to you next?”

  I did.

  I so did. I so didn’t.

  I couldn’t believe it was me, doing this.

  I yanked my hand away and gulped my drink, not even savoring it. My face had to be beet red. Like a washer woman. With my fair complexion, every bit of flush showed—heat, embarrassment, frustration—and it wasn’t pretty “roses” in my cheeks, either. Instead I tended to look like I’d rolled in poison oak.

  Damien just watched me, no cheeky grin, cocktail glass loose in his hand and lurid fantasies hot in his eyes.

  “I happen to know,” I said, “that ‘voluptuous’ is a euphemism for fat.”

  He held up his hands in demonstration, as if he were holding me by the hips as he’d painted so vividly, pretended to look down and licked his lips. His eyes shot up to mine, a flash of aqua catching out my rapt attention. “Looks like the perfect size to me.”

  The woman next to him, across from me, looked at me aghast—the whites of her eyes rolling wide with shock. Part of me jerked with embarrassment, wanting to apologize, but the way she twisted her mouth in disapproval, in disgust…well, it pissed me off. She shouldn’t have been eavesdropping in the first damn place. I laid my hand on the table, wiggling my fingers so Damien would take it.

  “Tell me more.” I flicked my eyes at Offended Woman. “Feel free to use graphic detail.”

  ~ 7 ~

  “Ah, luv.” Damien threw a companionable arm around my waist, snugging me against him as we wedged out the door past another couple coming in. “You’re a right devil, you are.” He threw his head back and laughed. I couldn’t help laughing with him. “The way you tormented that uptight bird next to me… you’re my kind of chick.”

  “You knew I was doing that?”

  “Oh yeah. I thought she might stab me with her salad fork. If she didn’t have apoplexy first.”

  “The look on her face—” I broke off, giggling too hard to keep going. The cold night air, kissed with frost, sparkled like bubbles on my skin, making me as giddy as if I had been drinking.

  “And you the whole time, making out all angelic, ‘ooh, tell me more, Damien.’” He cooed it and I elbowed him.

  “I do not sound like that.”

  “No. Sit here.” We’d reached his bike and he turned me, helping ease up so I sat sideways on the seat. I didn’t know what was safe to grab onto, but he edged between my legs, holding my hips, so I put my hands on his shoulders. “No, luv,” he murmured. “You sound much better than that.” He squeezed my hips. “You feel spectacular. I wanted to crawl over the table and do this.”

  And his mouth was on mine, like magic. Like the shimmer of snowflakes only brilliantly hot, searing my tongue. He tasted like good whiskey and the chocolate we’d had for dessert. Like Christmas morning before presents, all the sweet, singing anticipation.

  And I was holding onto him with all the fervent longing I’d ever felt. He kissed me deeper, a hand on the small of my back, pressing me into his groin. Where I became abruptly aware of the rigid line of his member, grinding against my seam. It should have shocked me, but it …oh, it felt so damn good. I groaned into his mouth and he echoed the sound, slowing the movement, seeking just the right spot and driving me wild. Wilder.

  “Get a room!” some passing guy yelled, cackles rising up around it.

  Damien freed a hand to flip him off, not breaking the kiss. I started giggling, though, which did the job. He finally pulled back, giving me a rueful smile. “We should probably go… somewhere.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Are you okay to drive?”

  “Why, are you wanting to take a turn driving this thing?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You could. I’ll ride behind and hold on, making free with my hands. There’s lots the rider can do to tease the driver while they can’t do anything about it.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “Oh, yeah, luv.” He bit my lip lightly, holding it captive in his teeth and tugging. “Terribly dangerous. And you’ve got your prim voice on, which means you want to try it.”

  “I do not have a prim voice!” Though I knew I did.

  “Oh yeah, you do. It’s part of your gig. You look all angelic, sweet, and pure. But you have a dirty mind, don’t you, luv?” He pressed his erection into my sweet spot again and I moaned. “There, that’s th
e noise I mean. Tell me I can get my hands on your sexy body.”

  “I think you already have,” I replied breathlessly. Stalling. Points, right? I should be counting points. And—my fucking virginity! If I wasn’t a virgin, I could just do this, and it wouldn’t be a big deal. I was so tired of that being a big deal.

  “Not enough.” He nipped my neck under my ear. “Naked. I want you naked, Marcia. I want to pull down those lace scanties and…”

  “Oh God.”

  “Exactly. Where can we go—your place?”

  We could. No one would be home. Maybe. How late was it? But still, they all brought men home, and teased each other about the noises. Just because that had never been me didn’t mean it couldn’t be. But Damien, in my bedroom… what would he think? If he laughed, I might not be able to bear it. My desire suddenly collapsed in on itself, what I imagined the female version of losing an erection felt like.

  “What’s wrong?” Damien lifted his head, peering into my shadowed face. His fingers brushed my cheekbone and I melted, in a totally different way. “You okay, luv? We don’t have to—”

  “It’s not that.” I really didn’t want him to change his mind. “What about your place?”

  He winced. “Not really an option.”

  “I’m not picky,” I assured him, while another part of me gaped that I’d ever say such a thing. How the mighty had fallen.

  “Ah, it’s a crap flat and my mates will likely be home, drunk and obnoxious. No place for a lady, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t mind if—”

  “Indulging in… home entertainment, see.” He waggled his brows meaningfully.

  “No…oh.” He meant porn. “Oh!”

  “I love the way you blush. It makes me want to say dirty things to you, just to see you blush more.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  He kissed my cheek where he’d caressed it, then licked it, a shockingly erotic sensation. “My naughty angel. You’re delicious. I want to lick all of you.” He must have worked a hand inside my coat, because he squeezed my breast, pinching the taut nipple through my blouse and bra. I whimpered and squirmed.