The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“It was a gift,” I say, holding up my palms. “I get things like that delivered to the office all the time from clients.”

“No shit? Well, in that case . . .” He reaches behind me and tips half the bottle into the water. “You can never have too many bubbles.”

I shake my head. “That’s at least thirty bucks down the drain.”

“Worth it,” he says.

My face aches from all the smiles I’ve been suppressing. It’s nice to be in such a good mood for a change. As soon as the thought occurs to me, it’s a damp cloth on my joy. Good moods lift you up—and leave a longer way to fall.

I take a sip, looking at him over the rim, remembering how he sucked whisky off my chest earlier. The man’s a machine. I’ve never been held up and fucked at the same time. The thought of doing it again makes me shudder.

“Cold?” Andrew asks, setting down his drink.

“A little,” I lie.

“Good thing the bath’s almost ready. For the record, this was your idea.”

“All right,” I agree. “It’ll be good incentive for you to keep your mouth shut. If I find out you told Sadie about tonight, the gloves come off. The whole world will know what a girl you are.”

“Deal.”

I like Sadie. She works hard, aims to please, and has smart, innovative ideas. She can’t know about this, though. If I had a brother, I wouldn’t want him sleeping with me, a woman who bashes men like it’s her job. Sadie understands how I got this way—she’s heard enough about my personal life to know how messed up I am.

I turn off the faucet when the bath is nearly full and cross the bathroom to dim the lights. “For ambiance,” I explain, so he doesn’t think I’m trying to be romantic. “You can’t take a bath with all the lights on.”

“Agree.” Andrew peels off his t-shirt. How he managed to get this far in clothing is beyond me. Beyond me or not, any thoughts fly out of my head when I see all of him. Colorful ink paints his chest and upper arms. One tattoo wraps over his left shoulder and a hint of one peeks out from the side of his ribs.

“Wow,” I say.

He tilts his head. “Good wow?” he asks, but by the cocky grin on his face, he seems to think he has me pegged.

His strength was evident when he held me, but now I’m faced with the cut and carve of muscles just beneath the skin. He picks up both our drinks and comes toward me, ink rippling over his olive-toned skin.

“You said you had some tattoos.”

“Did I? More than some.”

I put a hand up to stop him from getting in the bath, suddenly and strangely fascinated by this new body.

“What?” he asks, following my gaze to his chest. “Do they bother you? They’re just pictures.”

“No. I don’t know.” The words come out raspy. Despite his warning, I didn’t imagine him to look like a piece of art. I didn’t expect to uncover a new layer. “Can I touch?”

He laughs. “Of course.”

I run my fingertips over the most vivid one, a bunch of flowers on his pec. They’re the same purple-blue color of his eyes. I’ve never been with a man who looked like this. The tattoos are new to me. As are such defined muscles. He looks as though he spends all his free time at the gym. I don’t think he does, though. As beautiful as they are, I’m not sure how I feel about the tattoos. They’re loud. Permanent. I can’t decide until I know what they mean, but I’m not about to ask. That’s too personal.

“Keep touching me like that,” he dares. “See where it leads.”

I pull my hand back fast, as if his skin burns. Not because I’m afraid of where it’ll lead, but because I zoned out for a second admiring them. I forgot where I was, and I always make a point to be aware of my surroundings.

I take the drinks from him. Andrew gets in the bath and sinks down. “Fuck,” he groans, setting his head back against the lip and closing his eyes. “Really? I can’t believe I never do this.”

My insides tighten. He looks masculine as ever, even up to his neck in bubbles. I’m already getting hot for him again. I went a year without sex, and suddenly I don’t want to wait minutes for it.

He opens his eyes and reaches a long arm over the side to stroke the outside of my thigh. “Coming?” he asks.

“I’m waiting for it to cool a little.”

“But it’s perfect now.” He eyes me up and down. “Turn around. You have the best ass I’ve ever seen.”

I’m sure it’s an exaggeration, but nonetheless, my body warms under his approval. I do as he says and face the bathroom.

“Incredible,” he says.

Suddenly, I’m alone again, and I don’t want to be. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Get in here,” he says. “Put that sweet ass in my lap.”

I move a little slower than him, but soon I’m submerged. He pulls me back against his chest. I’d prefer to sit opposite him, the less intimate of the two options, but his arms are already strong around me. I’m not used to this much affection, especially from a one-night stand. I don’t mind it, but it takes a little extra effort to remind myself every few minutes it’s not real.

Tentatively, I lay my head back against his shoulder. “Is it everything you dreamed it would be?” I ask.

“And more,” he says. “Between work, exercise, and having a daughter who thinks I’m a tree she can climb, I can be hard on my body. Sometimes I forget to slow down.”

I shift in his grip. With two sentences he’s painted me a picture of what he has—a full life—but also what he doesn’t—someone to remind him to take care of himself. Like a puzzle, pieces of him are falling into place. I might prefer our conversations weren’t so personal, but I hadn’t even realized what was happening. We’re getting to know each other.

Silence stretches between us. It’s comfortable, but soon, comfortable silence begins to feel more intimate than casual conversation. “What do you do?” I ask.

“I own an auto shop. Car and bike repairs mostly. Some restoration of classic cars.”

“I’ve never dated a mechanic,” I say. Andrew’s vastly different from anyone I’ve been with, but not just because of what he does.

“I’m more than a mechanic,” he says.

“Oh, I know.” My face, already warm from the temperature, gets hot. For the first time, I wonder if it’s uncomfortable for him to be in another man’s apartment, especially one as nice as this one. “I didn’t mean to suggest you weren’t.”

“It’s okay. You probably don’t even own a vehicle.”

“I don’t.”

“It’s not your world.”

“Not really.” I scoop some bubbles into my palm. “So you like cars? And motorcycles?”

“Since I was a kid. Got it from my grandpa. You ever been on a bike?”

“No.” I can have fun without risking my life and my hairstyle. “It’s not for me.”

“Is it a hair thing?”

I start to laugh but stop so I don’t give myself away. Am I that easy to read? “No,” I lie with enthusiasm. “I just don’t see the appeal.”

“So you have no issue getting your hair messy?”

“Of course not. It’s just hair.”

“Good,” he says, ruffling the top of my head, sending bubbles down my nose.

Instinctively, I reach up and bat his wet hands away. “Hey!”

“That’s better. It didn’t even look like we just fucked,” he says. “Not good for my ego.”

>   “Your ego?” I ask, smoothing my long bob into obedience. “I’m beginning to wonder if girls with unkempt hair and beer guts do it for you.”

He laughs, bouncing my body, then hugs me closer. “You always been this uptight?”

I mock-gasp. He’s teasing me, but he speaks the truth, so I can’t really be mad. “Pretty much,” I admit. “I like things a certain way. I’m not sorry about it. I wouldn’t be where I am otherwise.”

“And where’s that?”

“A successful entrepreneur by the age of—” I pause. “Of the age I am.”

“Which would be?”

“It’s not polite to ask a woman her age, Andrew.” For women, age can be an enemy, especially in New York City. There’s always someone younger looking to take over. At thirty-two, I don’t need to worry—yet—but I won’t always be thirty-two. I prefer not to expose my weaknesses, past, present, or future.

“All right,” he says hesitantly. “You are from a different world.”

“Why? I assure you, the girls you normally sleep with care about their ages too, even if they’re young.”

“How many girls do you think I’m with?”

I lift a shoulder. “One plus one equals two. You’re sexy and single. You must have women falling all over you.”

“A few . . .” he says. I appreciate his honesty, even if it’s a little disappointing. No woman wants to hear about who else is screwing the man she’s sleeping with, no matter how detached she is. Or wants be. It’s only when he admits it that I realize I wish I were the only one. “There’s one regular,” he continues, “and once in a while when I get a night out, I might meet a woman. It’s mostly the one, though. Denise.”

I close my eyes at the name. Fuck. There’s a girl, of course there’s a girl, and she has a name—why? Why couldn’t he have left the name out? If I’m at all jealous, it’s eradicated by a deeper fear that immediately picks up on his subtext. “A regular one . . .? Jesus, Andrew. Please don’t tell me she’s your—”

“Girlfriend? No. I told you, I don’t date.”

Dread knots in my chest. I want to believe him, which is rare. Looking back, Reggie had tells—an inability to look me in the eye when he was being vague, or the way he made me feel foolish for acting suspicious, even though I had a right to be. I don’t see those signs with Andrew, and my gut tells me he’s genuine, but I’ve been wrong before. I could press him for details, try to catch him in a lie, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter. I’ve known enough men to lie about it that I’d never completely believe him, no matter how sincere he sounded.