But now, seeing Carolyn….
Shit.
What the hell do I do?
I want her. I want to peel the red dress away from her skin and kiss the curve of her shoulder where it joins her neck. There’s something electric in the air between us, and she doesn’t turn her eyes away from me.
Then Jess says something to her and she sits down, her eyes still on mine. Every movement of hers seems precise, deliberate, so unlike the way Elisa flitted from place to place, never staying long.
That should have been a warning.
When the waiter leans down in front of her to fill her water glass, Carolyn looks away with great effort, finally settling on Eli, who begins an animated conversation with Jess—something about autographs and babies, I have no fucking clue. The words swirl around me, meaningless, blending in with the crowd noise that consumes the room, utterly pointless because I can’t take my eyes off Carolyn’s face.
She steals another look at me, and her eyes narrow, just slightly, and she presses her lips together, dark eyes glittering in the light from the candle centerpiece.
Time slows, stretches out.
And then she stands up, breaking the moment. She’s made a decision, and my entire body tenses. What’s she going to do? If she leaves, I’m going to have to follow her out of here. I know it like I know that if I text Noah right now, he’ll have the car out front in four minutes. It’s an absolute certainty.
But she doesn’t leave. She doesn’t signal to Jess that she wants to talk privately. She doesn’t make an excuse about going to the bar. She walks directly around the table and slides into the seat next to me, shakes out the napkin, and drops it in her lap, another finely honed movement that she’s had to have done a million times before.
Her body displaces the air as she sits, and the scent of her washes over me, clean with a hint of something floral and bright. My cock is instantly at attention, straining against my pants.
I almost burst when she leans toward me, the curve of her breasts peeking over the neckline of her dress. The hint of that soft skin is enough to drive me wild, even more than if the dress had the kind of plunging neckline that’s in vogue at the Swan tonight.
My head is screaming at me to stay cool, to stay distant, not to let myself get drawn in by this woman. Don’t forget Elisa, shouts the voice in the back of my mind, and there’s a flash of stabbing pain in my chest.
It’s a searing reminder that this is the outcome of falling in love.
But this isn’t love. What I feel for Carolyn, right now—it’s not love.
It’s need, urgent and raw and primal.
“So, Ace, formerly Aaron, tell me all your secrets.”
Her voice is low and rich and sultry, and there’s a glimmer in her eyes that makes me want to fall right into them, to block out everyone else in the room.
So, fuck it, I do.
“I don’t have any secrets.”
She gives me a half smile. “Don’t you? Then why is everybody in the room talking about you right now?”
I lean in close, like I’m about to reveal something, and her breasts rise under the dress. “Look at me.”
Carolyn takes me at my word, rakes her eyes down my face to the front of my suit. “I’m looking.”
“That’s why they’re talking.”
She laughs. “Oh, so you’re God’s gift to humankind?”
“To womankind, at least.”
Fuck. The heat between us is scorching. Every breath makes me want her more.
She cocks her head, considers me. “What brings you back to New York?”
“Change in circumstances.”
“I won’t pry.” She purses her lips.
“Does it really matter why I’m here? All I care about is that I’m here. Next to you.”
The smile returns, and my chest turns to molten heat. For a split second, I think she might fish for a compliment, blush and turn away, shaking her head, but no. “Is here really the best venue for an intimate conversation?” The sentence is dripping with possibility.
“Do you have somewhere else in mind?”
“Your place.”
Damn.
Chapter Seven
Carolyn
This is exactly how I end up getting hurt. I go all-in on a man at the Swan, or at some other party, and I fall hard. I fall for his body, and then I fall for his mind, and then I’m swept up in the heat of it, the romance, and it’s all over. It’s over even at the beginning, before it starts, because inevitably problems arise, like he turns out to be a selfish asshole who can’t keep his hands off of other women, even when I’m staying at his place four nights a week with a toothbrush in one of his bathroom drawers.
That kind of man is exactly why I started Rainflower Blue—so that women could warn other women. Most of the traffic there focuses on confirming or refuting that kind of rumor.