Afternoon Delight (11 page)

“Decaf cappuccino,” she said, and scurried for the door.

Fortunately she didn't have to cage match–wrestle anyone for the table. She slid into the chair closest to the picket fence enclosing the tiny seating area and watched Tim point at various calorie-laden bakery items. He emerged a couple of minutes later with a white paper sack, two plates in one hand, and two coffees palmed in the other. She reached for them both.

“Mine's straight coffee,” he said.

She swapped the cups and scooted back to make room for him. “How do you fit into the places you have to go?”

“It's not easy,” he admitted as they finally found room for her legs, his legs, and the feet supporting the table.

She opened the bag. “We can split this, right? Some now, some later?”

“Sure,” he said, and sat back to watch her put half a cookie on each plate. The Brooklyn Blackout cupcake she cut in half, then in quarters, and lifted a quarter onto each plate. She studied the remaining cake, then said, “I'm being ridiculous.”

That got her a rare, honest, fully creased smile and a set of lifted eyebrows. “You said it, not me.”

“Fuck it,” she said, and added the rest of the Brooklyn Blackout to his plate.

“You're going to regret not keeping your share.”

“We'll see.”

She tried the cupcake first. It was perfect, the cake light and not grainy, the frosting walking a fine line between dark and milky chocolate. A sip of cappuccino and the Love in the Clouds was next. “Oh, my,” she said. Cinnamon, cocoa, and a white cream center. “That's so good.”

“Where'd you get the good hand with a head wound?”

A quick glance at his face showed they were both surprised by the question. As she gathered her thoughts, she toyed with what was left of her Love in the Clouds. Aunt Joan hadn't been gone long, and while her death was very much expected, it still wasn't easy to talk about it. “I was extrapolating,” she said finally. “I took care of my aunt through her battle with ovarian cancer. She died a few months ago. I'd always been pretty carefree, working when I felt like it, saving money to travel, taking off to work in London or France without thinking about anything other than a work visa. I was the person without what my family calls ‘a real career,' and I loved her like a mother, so quitting the restaurant to look after her was an easy choice.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Easy?”

“I couldn't do anything else,” she said. “When it was close to the end, I promised her I'd go back to being that person, the one who took on a challenge without fear. She was sad I'd given up two years to watch her die, but that's not what happened. That's not what I did. Being with her through that taught me how to live.”

He was staring at her, cake forgotten, and this had taken a turn into the depressing. The whole thing was way too serious for a spring fling. She recrossed her legs and sat back with a smile. “It's all on the blog, if you want to read about it.”

A couple with two kids under the age of five paused in the doorway to negotiate a balloon tied to a double stroller, the little girl pushing a doll stroller, an even younger boy clutching a stuffed stegosaurus, and two hot coffees. Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat and finished off her cookie.

Tim lowered his voice and leaned in. “You eat like you have sex,” he murmured. “Full attention. Slow. Absorbing it all.”

Heat trickled along her nerves, like hot coffee and the cooling spring air, hot blood and cooled skin. Relieved, she said, “I thought you were going to make a joke about watching me lick frosting off a fork.”

“I'm watching you do that,” he admitted. A hint of heat suffused his cheekbones. “But that's not what does it for me. It's thinking about you taking that kind of time with me later.”

She whisked what was left of the Brooklyn Blackout off his plate.

“Hey,” he protested.

“We're saving that for
later
.”

“The hell we are. You gave up your share, and I'm eating it now.”

She covered the plate with her hands. “I bet I can earn it back.”

“I've been down that road before. No bet. What have I done to make you think I'm a nice guy? I mean, I am, but we're talking a Brooklyn Blackout. I don't do delayed gratification.”

“You did last week,” she said with a grin.

He frowned at her, his expression mostly teasing, but she liked the teasing, so she played along. Without breaking eye contact she cut off a tiny portion of dark chocolate cake and lifted it to her mouth. Chocolate spread rich and smooth across her tongue, exactly the right amount of overindulgent decadence in that single bite.

“Only for you,” he said grumpily.

They finished their coffee while watching the Upper East Side flow by, until goose bumps rose on her arms.

“We can catch a bus on any downtown street or the train at Eighty-Sixth and Lex,” he said.

“Let's keep walking,” she said.

“You sure? It's almost a hundred blocks to my place.”

“Just until we get cold or tired. I've never been up here before.”

She collected their trash and took it inside to throw away. Through the front window she watched him step right over the picket fence to the sidewalk, carrying both their coffees as he did. There was something incredibly hot about watching a well-made man move. He was so light on his feet for someone as tall as he was.

They walked along the avenues, following the lights toward Lexington, where they could catch a train if they wanted. She grabbed menus at restaurants, window-shopped, and watched night settle over the city. They made it as far as Midtown before she called uncle.

“Train or bus?”

“Bus. That way I can watch the city go by.”

His arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close. She didn't bother with keeping her distance; after she tended his head wound, the boundaries were down, and he gave off heat like a furnace. Fortunately an M15 pulled up to the bus stop when they arrived back at Second Avenue. They climbed aboard, paid, and headed for a seat at the back. “Take the window seat,” he said.

“Where are we?” she murmured.

He peered over her shoulder. “Turtle Bay. That's the UN,” he said, pointing out the opposite window. Occasionally, as the bus lumbered south, he would lean forward and name the neighborhood. “Stuyvesant. Bellevue Hospital is a block over. I've spent a lot of time at Bellevue . . . East Village. Lots of NYU students, artists live here . . . Little Italy to your right, the Lower East Side to your left. Generations of immigrants came through the Lower East Side, including my great-grandparents. Most of them dispersed. We just stayed.”

The city was deep in his bones, part of his DNA. “You really can't imagine living anywhere else, can you?”

He shook his head. “You've seen a good stretch of the east side of Manhattan tonight,” he said.

“I'm learning to like this city,” she said, looking at him. “It's not home, not like San Francisco, but I'm learning to like it. Thanks for the tour.”

“Next time go back up to One-Tenth and do the same trip south, except along Fifth,” he mused. “It would be a completely different trip. Harlem, museums, mansions, Central Park, Fifth Avenue shopping, the library, the Empire State Building, Union Square. It's tourist central.”

“Sounds like fun. Want to—?”

She stopped, because his smile faltered. Sarah realized he'd been thinking out loud, not offering to play tour guide. Before she could say anything else, he leaned past her and pushed the yellow strip signaling for a stop, saving her from jamming her foot all the way into her mouth. Tim obviously didn't make plans for tomorrow, let alone next week, or a summer of playing tourist in Manhattan.

The bus jerked to a halt. Tim opened the door without waiting for the bus to finish lowering. Sarah stepped onto the sidewalk, turned to start walking, then did a one-eighty when Tim snagged her arm. “This way, darlin',” he said, amusement rich in his voice.

He unlocked the door to his building, then the door to his apartment. Sarah set the leftover Brooklyn Blackout on the counter and rubbed her bare arms. Tim lowered the Murphy bed. “C'mere.”

Obediently she sat on the end of the bed. Tim paused, as if not quite sure how to proceed without a challenge in front of him. Sarah said nothing, just waited in the moment, curious to see what he'd do.

He kneeled at her feet and slipped off her clogs, one by one. “We walked about four miles,” he said absently, and applied gliding pressure to her arch.

“That feels good,” she said. Her voice drifted into the air, quiet and light and achingly honest. Her other foot rested on his thigh, near enough his cock to register the blood pulsing into his shaft. She leaned back on her hands and watched him rub her feet. It felt out of character for Tim the superhero-paramedic. If the situation called for immediate action, he'd take it and never miss a beat. But being there for a patient or family member who needed a soothing touch or listening ear . . . ?

As if he heard her, he set her foot on his thigh and dropped his hands to rest in his hip creases. He looked down, blew out his breath, and wouldn't meet her eyes.

Okay, darlin',
she thought.

“Ready for the rest of your cake?” she said.

“Yeah.”

She padded over to the counter, found a plate, and arranged the Brooklyn Blackout on it. “Silverware?”

“Drawer to your left.”

When she came back to the bed he was leaning against the wall, the pillows piled at his back, legs stretched nearly to the end of the bed. She knee-walked to him, then straddled his hips. “Small bites,” she said.

Hands resting lightly on her hips, he accepted the morsel. “What's the challenge?” he said after he swallowed.

“No challenge,” she said, and cut off another section. “It's all yours.”

“It's not like you to chicken out of a bet.”

She waited until he had another bite before answering. “That's the thing about delicious food. You can always make more.”

“You think you could make this?”

“I know I could make this. Right now, I'd rather watch you enjoy it.”

Based on the contemplative look in his eyes, he was chewing over both the cake and her tactic. “Watching me eat is as satisfying as eating something yourself.”

“In a different way, yes.”

He took the plate and fork from her hand, cut the remaining section into thirds, and offered her a bite. She opened her mouth, then closed her lips around the fork.
Excellent quality cocoa,
she thought at the back of her mind, then firmly set it aside to sink into the moment. His dark blue eyes, the way the streetlights caught the silver in his stubble, the fine lines more visible in the stark shadows. The strength of his thighs under hers, the heat of his erection against her sex. The sheer delight of chocolate on her tongue.

“Not bad, but it's not the cake, either,” he said, and handed her the plate back.

She gave him a frowning glare, mostly mock, as she fed him the second-to-last piece. The last piece, the biggest, the softest melting-chocolate center, she scooped onto the fork, brought to his mouth, then leaned forward and stole it right off the tines.

“Hey,” he yelped, then sat up and kissed her, but she kept her lips firmly closed and entertained him with her best array of fake-orgasmic noises. He rolled her onto her back, kissing her breathless, nibbling at her lips, delicately licking the seam, but she gave him nothing at all until she'd swallowed. Then she opened her mouth, licked her way into his mouth, trading kiss for kiss until the taste of chocolate was just another sensory assault, along with the scent of the city on his skin, the rasp of his beard against her cheeks and chin, the play of his muscles under his shirt, the slide of his hair between her fingers, the weight of his body on hers, one thigh between hers. He braced his toes against the bed and used the leverage to grind his erection against her hip. It was sweet and dirty and hot, sex and spice and dark chocolate, and a man she knew she shouldn't fall for.

Except she could. She could. So easily. She wasn't going back to the way she used to be. With Tim, in Manhattan, she was becoming a different version of herself.

“You cheated,” he growled.

She laughed. “I did.”

“I ought to make you pay for that,” he said, and braced himself on his elbow. His deft fingers flicked open the buttons closing her eyelet blouse, then tugged loose the bow that tightened the fabric under her breasts. He bent and licked his way down her throat, making her arch, then continued to the swell of her breasts, keeping his touch to the exposed skin. Her nipples hardened to tight peaks under her basic microfiber bra, chafing a little as she wriggled under him.

“Tim, please,” she said.

His breath ghosted warm and damp over her nipples, then he lifted his head and finished unbuttoning her blouse. He bent to her ribs, tracing them with his tongue before kissing his way past her navel to the waistband of her jeans.

“What do you want?”

“If I tell you, you won't give it to me.”

A rough chuckle. “And this way you might get it by accident.”

Not very likely. “It's a strategy.”

“Maybe I'm a magnanimous winner.”

It was her turn to laugh, but even to her own ears there was a different note to the sound. She knew what she wanted, and she wanted it pretty badly, but Tim wouldn't. Tim would want the challenge, the power play, the dynamic that hinged not on emotions but rather on distractions. It was in his tone, still teasing, still playing the game they'd started out playing. His fingers lingered at the top button of her jeans as he looked at her. “Try me.”

“I want your skin against mine. I want you inside me. I want it to last.”

I want authentic. I want real. I want you.