Secret Invitation: Tempted By Pleasure Part 6

Not for anything he has to offer. That's a complete lie. I want to suck his tongue into my mouth. And if I had any courage, I'd take care of my little virginity problem right now. I don't value my innocence like some women. I see it as a handicap. I'm a business owner, educated and cultured, world-travelled, and an extrovert. But I've never made love. And this man has the power to shut me down. Why?

He gently tugs me from the corner. "Want a drink?"

Wine will help you relax. "Please."

He walks to the credenza and opens a door, retrieving two gla.s.ses. "I have a bottle of Lafleur open, or do you want something lighter?"

I'm accustomed to the finer things in life, but once I left home, I learned to budget. Foster seems to have no limitations. I accept the drink and take a tiny sip, tasting licorice and raspberry. "A simple red would have satisfied me."

His permagrin stretches wider. "There's nothing simple about you."

"Stop it."

"What?"

"Saturating everything with s.e.xual innuendo."

"Can't help it." He moves to the table and pulls out a chair. "Join me?"

I feel safer sitting down. Every measured step he takes, every move, reminds me of a stalking panther. And at the moment, I'm his only prey.

"Tell me everything about yourself, Erin."

He takes a long drink, then sets his gla.s.s aside. Our gazes meet, and I can't resist admiring the incredibly thick lashes that frame his dark eyes-coffee bean brown with specks of gold if the sunlight hits them just so. Or if I were being less complimentary-s.h.i.t brown.

I clear my throat, wondering where I should start. He altered my future drastically, gave me every reason to leave home. "After I graduated, I attended college at Texas A & M."

"You know we missed each other. That's where I did my undergrad."

I'd heard rumors about him being around. Maybe that's why I chose to study instead of socializing. "It's a small world."

"Too small." He cradles my hand in his, ma.s.saging the soft flesh between my thumb and ring finger. "Feel it?"

"What?" The more disinterested I act, the quicker he'll get the message. I hope.

"Want me to spell it out?"

"Stop imagining things, Foster."

"Am I?" He caresses my neck.

As if on command, I sigh with pleasure.

He smirks and blows on his fingers. "Haven't lost my touch."

I roll my eyes. "Lunch."

He leans back in his chair. "But I'm enjoying the conversation. I'll change the subject if it will help you get more comfortable. Why a bookstore?"

"I majored in literature and always appreciated the cla.s.sics. After Grandmother died, I decided to use my inheritance to invest in something I loved."

"Is it profitable?"

"Depends on what your definition of success is. My store does better than most independently owned shops in South Texas. The publishing world is in flux. With the closure or downsizing of so many national chains, readers rely on small stores like mine."

"And the name, Shakespeare's Quill?"

"I'm fond of The Taming of the Shrew."

He chuckles. "Didn't you land that role in theatre freshman year?"

Feeling complimented, I say, "I can't believe you remember that."

"How could I forget? You were hot, but didn't have a lick of acting talent."

I punch his shoulder playfully. "That's a horrible thing to say."

"That red dress put you on my radar and half the football teams."

I laugh so hard it hurts. "What about you, Mr. Peac.o.c.k? Strutting around on the football field like you were G.o.d's gift to the sport."

"I was."

"You had a mullet."

"Bulls.h.i.t." He shoves his chair back and launches himself at me, his strong fingers digging into my sides, tickling too hard. "Mullet?"

"There's proof. Glamor shots!" I practically scream.

"You still have that picture?"

"I-I . . ." Can't breathe anymore. "I'm going to hyperventilate."

He stops, and I slowly catch my breath.

"Where's the photo?" His lips twitch.

"In my bottom drawer at my parents' house."

For a moment he's quiet, studying me. He cracks another boyish grin, warming my insides. "Make sure it stays there or I'll pay them a visit."

He repositions himself on his chair. "How are your parents?"

"As ridiculous as ever."

"Still treating you like a teenager?"

"Try twelve."

He laughs. "Care to explain?"

"You know, phone calls every day, probing questions about my private life, unsolicited business advice."

"Anything I should know?"

"Thomas Kingsley." Why did I let that slip?

His eyebrows furrow. "He's a douche."

"And my make-believe fiance."

"What?" He looks confused. "Are you engaged?"

"Do you even need to ask? No." Give me some credit.

He rakes his fingers through his hair. "Then why do you refer to him as your fiance?"

"Can we forget I ever mentioned it? I didn't eat breakfast and I'm hungry." Hungry for calories and him.

He agrees to let it go, but I can see how irritated he is. Stretching, his jersey hikes up just enough to reveal his six-pack or is that an eight-pack? I can't stop staring. His sculpted torso is peppered with dark hair and his caramel-colored skin looks so smooth and edible. My attention doesn't go unnoticed. He tips my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Like what you see?"

"Please . . ."

"We've been apart for eight years, Erin. Eight f.u.c.king years and I still make you squirm."

I need to ignore him. I reach around and grab the folded linen napkin off the plate in front of me. "Food."

He disappears into the kitchen.

I take advantage of the moment alone and grab my cell out of my purse, six missed texts. I scroll through them, all from Katie, all equally offensive. The last one makes me choke. Are you having fun with his ginormous c.o.c.k yet?

Just as I'm about to reply, Foster returns carrying a tray. I stash the phone and meet him at the table.

"Cornmeal-crusted tilapia tacos, baked mussels, and key lime pie," he announces as he sets the plates down.

"Oh. My. G.o.d." Everything looks so good. "Is there a chef slaving away in that kitchen or did you cook?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you." He gestures for me to sit.

Between bites we catch up on where everyone we attended high school with lives and works. By the time I taste the pie, I'm buzzed from drinking two more gla.s.ses of wine.

He shovels a generous forkful of dessert into my mouth. "You have a great appet.i.te, Erin."

"I enjoy food."

"I'll remember that."

"By the way, how did you remember I love orchids? I forgot to thank you."

"I'm glad you like them."

He's so hard to read, intense one moment, laid back the next. But he's still the conceited boy who tried to seduce me in high school, only hotter and more polished. Whatever his intentions, I want to know. "Now tell me why I'm really here."

"I'd like to be friends."

"Friends?" I doubt it.

"Hang out, eat dinner, and maybe catch a flick once in a while."

"Chick flicks?"

"Whatever you want."

While I think of ways to torture him with foreign films and Nicolas Sparks movies, he clears the table, stacking the dirty dishes on the credenza. A fork falls off a plate and he bends over to retrieve it, his ridiculously firm a.s.s within touching distance. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s suddenly heavy with desire. He's right. Eight years, and I'm still hopelessly attracted to him, something I can't let him take advantage of.

"What time is it?" I stare out the gla.s.s doors.

"Three-thirty," he answers. "Why?"

"Time to go."

I'm mesmerized by the sparkling water below. My body tenses when Foster hooks me from behind and tugs me close, his erection poking me in the back. My body hums to life, breaking every promise I made to myself before I stepped inside the condo. Don't let him put his hands on you.

"I love the way you smell." He nuzzles into my hair.

As soon as his lips meet the back of my neck, I'm in trouble. Moisture pools between my legs. If I were smart, I'd let him be the solution. One night of meaningless s.e.x with Foster would break me in, and probably make me limp for a week.

"Erin?" He spins me. "I want to kiss you."

I shake my head, resting my palms on his chest. "I don't think . . ."

"Don't think." He slants his mouth over mine, testing my resistance at first, his tongue gently tracing the seam of my lips.

He's so built and tall, so unbelievably warm. My hands slide up his biceps, enjoying the ridges of muscle. G.o.d help me. I open up to him and his tongue knifes into my mouth. He walks me backward until my shoulders. .h.i.t gla.s.s.

"Erin," he growls, closing his eyes and tilting his head for deeper penetration.

"No!"

His eyes open. "What?"

"I can't, we can't do this. If we're going to be friends, we need to establish some boundaries."

"Chemistry," he whispers.

"I'll let you know if I need a f.u.c.k buddy." I push him away, my heart pounding.