The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue 2)

“Where’d you get these plants?” I ask.

“They’re terrariums. I make them.”

I raise my eyebrows, watching as she moves around the kitchen. “Yeah?”

She nods. “I don’t really do hobbies, but I guess if I had one, they would be it. There are more in my bedroom and my office.”

“You’re talented.”

She sets two empty tumblers on the counter. “And you’re far away.”

I take the invitation and round the breakfast bar separating the two rooms. The countertops are smooth and shiny, and my first thought is that I’d like to fuck her on one, but my second is that they’re legit marble, and Amelia could be quite wealthy. “How long have you lived here?”

“You’re wondering how I afford it.” She bends to open another cabinet. “Reggie bought it when we got married. He’d dumped a bunch of stock right before the market crashed in 2008. Then, with the fortune he’d saved, he bought it all back at a discount. Most of it multiplied in value.”

The market collapsed before I was in any position to own stock, but I knew some people burned by it—and by assholes who cheated the system. What I know of Amelia’s ex doesn’t make him look good. “Sounds shady.”

“It is,” she says, pushing heavy-sounding glass around the wood cabinet. “When we met, he spun it to make himself seem clever. He didn’t go to college, which had been a source of embarrassment for him until he became rich. Then he wore it like a badge of pride—filthy rich on a high school education. I eventually realized he’d been tipped off about the market, which is the complete opposite of cleverness.”

She stands with a bottle and unscrews the cap. When I notice the label, I raise my eyebrows. I don’t think I would’ve been more turned on if she’d taken off her top. “Glenlivet?” I ask, inching closer to her.

“It’s my drink.”

It’s Cellar Collection, and expensive as fuck. “Do you serve that to all your guests?”

“No.” She glances at me from under her lashes. “Just the ones I want to fuck.”

I hum, my chest vibrating, my stomach dropping. Her light perfume mixes with the whisky’s spice. She smells and looks good enough to devour.

She pours each drink carefully. “I hope neat is okay,” she says, and she isn’t asking.

“Perfect.”

She hands me one, and we clink glasses. “To tonight,” she says.

We each take a sip, and the liquor goes right down. It’s been a while since I indulged like this. With the change in my priorities came a change in how money’s spent.

“So,” she says, glancing into her glass, “how do we start?”

“How?” As satisfying as the whisky is, it’s no match for the taste of a woman. I set my tumbler on the counter and close the space between us. For once, she goes still and quiet. Perhaps I can flap the unflappable. I take her waist in my hands. “We can start like this.” I run my thumbs up her flat stomach. She inhales through her nose. “Or this.” I kiss her once on the lips before moving to the corner of her mouth. I brush her hair off her neck and make my way along her jaw. Already, her wispy breaths are bordering on soft moans.

“I’ll get a condom,” she says.

“I have one.”

“Let’s move to the bedroom.”

Her skin is smooth under my lips. I take her earlobe between my teeth. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got this, Amelia.” I place one hand under her skirt, caressing the inside of her thigh to hopefully turn those moans audible. “Just relax.”

“It’s been a while.”

“You said that already.” I pull back a little but squeeze her knee. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” she says quickly.

My urge to have her, especially since it’s been some time for both of us, simmers close to the surface—but she has to be comfortable. “How long’s it been?”

“Reggie was the last . . .” She looks away. “That was a year ago, and even then, it was few and far between.”

“Ah.” A year. Good god. My dick stirs at the thought of how she’ll come apart under my undivided attention tonight. Just for the amount of time she’s waited, she deserves a ride to the moon and back. “Why me?”

“What?”

“Why’d you choose me? To be the first. I know you’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

She smiles a little. “Not really. I work a lot, and the divorce takes up any free time.”

“Bull.” I hold eye contact. “You could have anyone.”

She looks amused. “I thought I wasn’t your type.”

“You aren’t, but I’m not deaf, dumb, or blind.” Amelia surprised me tonight. I’m not used to such a direct woman, even if she is somewhat guarded. There’s no room for misunderstandings here, and I’m discovering, probably due to my unstable dating history, that’s a turn on for me. “You’re smart,” I tell her. “Upfront. Sarcastic. Beautiful, which goes without saying. I think all that’s sexy. But best of all, you know it is.”

She tilts her head at me, a smirk playing on her lips, her self-assurance back intact. “I’m not backing out,” she says. “You don’t have to woo me.”

“I’m not.” I wouldn’t be able to go a year without burying myself in a woman—not just fucking, but enveloping myself in her scent, the feel of her skin, her mouth. Amelia needs this. I need this. “I could’ve easily gone home tonight,” I say. “Something about you kept me in the city. I want to be here with you.”

She lifts one angular shoulder. “Eh. I could take it or leave it.”

I narrow my eyes at her, and she allows herself a small laugh. When I run my hand up the back of her thigh and take a handful of her firm, ample ass, her laughter vanishes. “I’ve been wanting to do that all night,” I say.

“By ‘all night’ you mean the last couple hours?”

I lift her onto the counter by her waist, satisfied with the way her lips pop open for a gasp. She remembers her cool just as quickly and closes her mouth.

“You have a lot to say,” I tell her.

“That surprises you?” she asks.

“No. You’ve been talking since the moment I met you.” I lean in, nab her bottom lip between my teeth, and let it go. “You don’t have to stop talking, but there are other things I’d like to hear you say.”

“Such as?”

“‘Oh, God.’”

“Oh,” she repeats in a moan, “God.”

I try again. “How about ‘oh, Andrew’?”

“Andrew,” she says, drawing out my name like she’s begging for something.

My mouth goes desert-dry, as I’ve forgotten to swallow. The burn of desire scorches my patience. I slide her ass to the edge of the counter, push her skirt high enough to part her knees, and fit myself between them.

“Here?” she asks. The counter is the only thing separating the kitchen from the living room. I can see out her sizeable windows into the night, into the city that never sleeps, into the windows and lives of other New Yorkers. The kitchen lights are on, and if someone were to look in, they’d see us.

“Here,” I say. “For round one.”

“All right then, handyman.” She leans back on one arm and picks up her drink. “Just how handy are you?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” I slide both palms up her thighs until my fingertips brush lace. I peek under her skirt. “You sure you weren’t planning on getting lucky tonight?”

“Definitely not.”

“You’re wearing black lace underwear and your legs are as smooth as glass.”

She smirks. “They aren’t the only part of me that’s smooth.”