“You know where I live. You can stalk me back. Or file a restraining order.”
“True. Okay.”
A moment later his phone pinged for a text, and an address popped up.
“Do you need a link to MapQuest?”
“Very funny.”
“How dressed up does your congregation get? I mean, are they jeans and dress-shirt kinds of people?”
Saks took this as a good sign. She was getting into the idea. “Little more than that. Not full out, but I wouldn’t wear jeans.”
“Snooty. But I can do that. But what about you? I thought you had to wear your leather jacket. Isn’t that part of your thing as a biker?”
“No, darlin’. I don’t have to wear it. You’ll be surprised how good I clean up.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Ooh, you got me there,” Saks replied in mock pain. “Be nice.”
“I’d rather be good than nice. Am I good, Saks?”
There was a flirty note in her vote that made Saks’ cock take notice. “Oh, yeah, baby,” he said in a low growl. “You’re the best.”
“Good,” she said, as brightly as a cheerleader. All seduction dropped from her voice. “I’ll see you in the morning.” With that, she clicked off the phone.
Saks leaned his head back into his pillow and groaned. What a tease. The little minx played him. She wasn’t going to let him get the best of her. And what’s more, he loved it. There was nothing less interesting than a sure thing, and all too often that’s how women played it with Saks, at least to get him into bed.
But not Chrissy. No. Even if she didn’t realize it, she was putting out a challenge to him to overcome her resistance. And he was determined he would do just that.
So, despite some discomfort through the night, and one bag of ice that turned to water, he woke with a smile on his face. He was going to see Chrissy, and the thought warmed his heart. Saks couldn’t remember when he’d last gotten so stupid over a woman, but Chrissy was worth it.
He whistled as he got ready, something he hardly did, and after a shower stepped into black dress pants, and a light tan V-neck linen pullover which cost him half his paycheck when he bought it. Though Saks didn’t splurge that much, he did like nice clothes. Then he finished the look with a summer-weight black wool jacket, and a gold chain with a cornicello, an Italian Horn amulet. So maybe that was a little ’cliché, or maybe it was just a classic look, at least for an Italian man. But he thought he looked good on him and he hoped Chrissy thought so to.
“Who are you kidding, Saks?” he said to his image in the mirror. “You look awesome.”
Still, he was sure Chrissy wanted more than good looks in a man. And his mission today was to find out what those things were so he could be those things for her.
He took out a pair of black leather lace-ups and gave them a good buff with a shoe brush and slipped them on. Saks was ready, but he felt butterflies in his stomach. Damn, he hadn’t been nervous about meeting a woman since high school.
His nerves beat a syncopated rhythm as he drove to her house, dancing a conga in his brain. Damn. She got him wound tight, though in the most pleasant way possible. It made him think of Chrissy riding his cock, holding his shoulders to the bed while he thrashed under her.
Down, boy, he told himself and his stirring cock. We’re going to church. Not exactly the place to display a chubby. But he couldn’t help thinking about that wild night in his bed. Everything about Chrissy screamed sex, from her gorgeous dark eyes to her body with the wicked curves. He was going to have to go to confession if he kept this up. After, he told himself.
Her apartment was in a small complex with four units, two on the bottom and two on the second floor. Saks checked her address on his phone again. Second floor. Right. His legs chopped up the steps and time crawled until she opened the door. He smiled when his eyes lit on hers, and he breathed deeply. He didn’t realize he had held his breath until that moment.
“My, my, Mr. Parks. You do clean up good.” She looked over his shoulder down to the parking lot. “Where’s your bike?”
“I didn’t want to muss your hair. I brought my cage.”
“Cage? Oh yeah, your car.”
“It’s the finest in beater cars, fit for the predations of Connecticut’s corrosive salt-slicked winter roads.”
“A real beast?”
“Six under the hood and four on the floor.”