Damaged Goods (14 page)

the edge.

“Austin, I"m…” I gasped for breath. “Don"t stop… Please, don"t stop.”

“I won"t. Not until you come.” His rhythm faltered when he met my eyes.

Recovering quickly, he held my gaze, and his eyes were on fire with lust, with need.

“You"re close, aren"t you? I can feel it, you"re…”

Looking right back into his eyes, I whispered the one word my tongue could

form: “
Faster
.”

Sliding his hands under my back, he gripped my shoulders and let his head

fall next to mine, fucking me hard enough to knock the air out of me. In seconds he

pushed me over the edge, and everything went white, and just like the last time—

just like almost every damned time he made me come—I tried to cry out but

couldn"t. My voice stopped somewhere in my throat, and only a soft moan, barely

more than a sigh, left my lips. The faint sound echoed in what little silence wasn"t

already consumed by the bedsprings and headboard and our bodies colliding with

every thrust. It wasn"t nearly enough to do justice to the wildfire of intensity he

unleashed inside me, but it was all I could manage.

Austin moaned. “Jesus, Jocelyn, you"re so—”

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Lauren Gallagher

Our eyes met, and his rhythm faltered. Though he recovered quickly, neither

of us looked away, and the electricity thrumming in the air wasn"t just because of

the way our bodies moved together. The longer we looked at each other, the slower

we moved—or perhaps it was time that slowed down, I couldn"t be sure—but still

the intensity grew as our eyes made a kind of unspoken connection, exchanging a

level of intimacy that thrilled and terrified me. We weren"t supposed to be this close,

but I"d be damned if I was going to pull away.

“Oh my God,” I heard myself say. The sound of my voice seemed to shake us

both out of paralysis. He came down to me and kissed me as he fucked me hard and

fast. I wrapped my arms around him and—perhaps in spite of my better

judgment—surrendered.

Whether we intended it, or wanted it, or even thought it was a good idea, this

wasn"t what I"d paid for. Tonight we"d slipped beyond the realms of escort and client

and into a comfortable intimacy two strangers couldn"t possibly share, and now that

intimacy carried into this moment as we blurred the line between fucking and

making love.

No—as we
crossed
that line.

It was much too soon to know
what
was happening between us, but much too

late to deny that it was. This wasn"t business anymore.

“My God, Jocelyn, I could do this all night,” he groaned. “All goddamned night.

You feel so—” He cut himself off with a sharp breath, closing his eyes and slowing

down, taking a few long, deep breaths until he was back in control. Then he looked

into my eyes and picked up speed again. “Your body is…perfect.” He slowed again,

his body shaking from either exertion or his struggle to stay in control. Maybe both.

He was close, and yet he held back, but I wanted his orgasm like I"d wanted

my own. The very thought of watching him come, feeling it, made me bite my lip to

hold back a whimper. Running my fingers through his sweaty hair, I said, “I want

you to come, Austin.”

As soon as I whispered his name, his breath caught, and he forced himself as

deep inside me as he could. His fingers tightened over my shoulders, hot breath

rushed past my neck, and for the first time since I"d known him, he truly let go, a

throaty groan escaping his lips as his body shuddered against mine.

After the shaking subsided, he raised his head and looked into my eyes again.

As soon as our eyes met, I knew I was right about the intimacy between us. His

expression mirrored my exhilarating fear that we"d crossed some unseen line

between physical desire and emotional need.

While he got up to get rid of the condom, my stomach fluttered. Tense, queasy

nervousness replaced the lingering shudders of my orgasm. Without the distraction

of the need for release, I couldn"t keep the unsettling questions about this and about

us away from the forefront of my mind.

His return didn"t help. He lay beside me, and when he looked in my eyes, the

same questions were undeniably in his.

Damaged Goods

65

I took a breath. “Well, this was…unexpected.”

“You"re telling me.” He brushed a strand of unruly hair out of my face. “So,

what do we do now?”

“No idea.”

Austin pursed his lips. Then he cleared his throat. “Whether it was a good idea

or not, I have to admit I liked it.”

“So did I.” Did I ever.

“Would it be too forward or awkward for me to say I"d like to do it again?”

I swallowed. “Probably. But I would too. So, whether we should or not…” I

raised my eyebrows. “Sounds like we both want to.”

“Yeah, it does.” His touched my face. “Why don"t we just start out simple? No

strings attached, no expectations. Maybe just a date that doesn"t start with you

having your credit card preapproved.”

I laughed. “That would be a good start, wouldn"t it?”

Austin chuckled. “A good start, yes.” His expression turned more serious. “So

with that in mind, do you have plans tomorrow night?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Why don"t we start with dinner and go from there?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

66

Lauren Gallagher

Chapter Nine

Since his apartment was about halfway between my house and the restaurant

we"d chosen, we agreed that I"d meet him at his place and he"d drive. We were

headed for a low-key café tonight, a world apart from last night"s five-star. I was

dressed casually, but I couldn"t say I felt terribly relaxed. Part of me was still

puzzled about what we were doing and how we"d gotten to this point.

I was probably more nervous tonight than I"d been the first night. Before, we"d

bypassed all the bullshit that usually preceded a one-night stand. We"d skipped the

games, passed Go, he"d collected a few hundred dollars, and now we had to somehow

start from the beginning. This wasn"t the first time we"d met, wouldn"t be the first

time we"d slept together if we did, but it
was
the first time we"d started out without

the pretense of a prearranged, paid deal.

I wasn"t opposed to that, or I wouldn"t have come to his apartment, but I had to

admit I didn"t have the faintest idea what we were doing or how to do it.

Only one way to find out, I reasoned as I pulled into the parking lot.

The Austin who answered the door was a far cry from the Sabian who"d walked

into the restaurant last night. I"d never seen him dressed down before, and he still

looked like pure sex in jeans and a half-buttoned black shirt over a white T-shirt.

“You"re right on time.” He kissed my cheek, then stood back to let me in.

“I"m kind of obsessive about that,” I said. “Being early or on time.”

“So am I.” He nodded down the hall. “I just need to get my jacket and wallet.

Come on in.” I followed him down the hall into his living room, and he made a

sweeping gesture at his surroundings. “This is my place. Isn"t exactly the Playboy

Mansion, but it does the job.”

“Seems like a nice place to me.” It was a small apartment, probably a two-

bedroom. In the living room, one wall had been painted a deep red as an accent

wall, which complemented the simple black-and-white furniture.

Beneath his flat-screen TV, a couple of game consoles caught my eye.

“Looks like you and my son would get along great,” I said.

He looked up from getting a jacket out of the hall closet. “Oh?”

“Xbox. He and his father love it.”

“It"s a bit of a bad habit of mine. I probably play it more than I should.” Austin

pulled his jacket on. “Then again, it helps with manual dexterity, so…” Our eyes

met, and he winked.

Damaged Goods

67

I laughed. “I can"t complain about it, then, can I?”

“I should hope not. Well, if you"re ready, I think—” His brow furrowed and his

eyes lost focus while he searched his pockets. “Damn it, what did I…”

“What"s wrong?”

He clicked his tongue. “Wallet. I"m always leaving that thing all over the

house. I"ll be right back.” He disappeared into the bedroom, and I took in more of

the scenery.

The walls, red and white alike, were lined with colorful framed photographs of

varying sizes. They were mostly landscapes and cityscapes with the odd still life

and a flower arrangement that was anything but bland.

“You don"t put your own work on display?” I asked when he came back into the

room.

“Sure I do.” He smiled. “Everything you see on the walls is my work.”

“It is? But I thought you were a paint—” The hand-painted signature,
A.

Landis
, on the bottom right corner of a photo of a waterfall caught my eye. When I

looked closer, I noticed a faint imperfection in the riverbank. Not a mistake per se,

just a division between light and dark where a photograph would have been slightly

sharper. Looking at the whole picture again, I realized it wasn"t a photograph at all.

“These are…paintings?”

He nodded, lips pulling into a shy smile. “Well, that one is. Those two are

mostly colored pencil.” He indicated an image of Times Square and another of a

cathedral. Like the waterfall, they were photos at first glance, hand-rendered at

second.

“Austin, these are amazing.”

He gave a quiet laugh and dropped his gaze, cheeks coloring.

“I"m serious. These are…” I shook my head. His work as was close to

photorealism as I"d ever seen. “These are incredible. I can"t believe you have a hard

time selling this stuff.”

“Well, it would probably help if I put more effort into selling it,” he said. “I"m

admittedly not the best salesman in the world, particularly when it"s my own work.”

He shot me a boyish grin. “Whoring myself isn"t my strong point.”

I eyed him. “Now isn"t that ironic?”

“Just a little.” He grinned. “Honestly, if I had someone like the girls running

the agency putting my artwork out there, I might have better luck. I"m just not a

salesman.”

“You may not be a salesman, but you"re definitely an artist. I"m amazed at

these. I really am.”

His grin turned back into to a shy smile. “Thanks.”

“My son wants to learn to—” I stopped, rolling my eyes. “Sorry.”

Austin cocked his head. “What about?”

68

Lauren Gallagher

“I don"t like being „that mom" who talks about her kids constantly, but…” I

shrugged. “They are a big part of my life. So they come up a lot.”

“I wouldn"t expect any less.” He cupped my chin and kissed me gently. “It"s

okay. You can talk about your kids.”

“Okay. But promise me one thing.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“If I start rambling incessantly about them, promise me you"ll tell me to shut

up.”

He laughed. “I don"t think that"ll be a problem. So, your son wants to learn…?”

“He loves drawing, and he really, really wants to learn to do it well.” I gestured

at one of Austin"s paintings. “Like,
that
well.”

Austin opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. After a second, he said, “Well,

I"d offer to give him some pointers, but…”

“Oh. Right.” I shifted my weight. “Maybe someday.”

Our eyes met, and something in my gut twisted. Shit, second time in his

presence as something other than his client, and I was using words like „someday"?

Slow down, Jocelyn. Slow down.

But Austin just smiled. “Maybe someday.” Then he quickly cleared his throat.

“So, should we get out of here?”

“Lead the way.”

Down in the parking lot, Austin opened the car door for me before he went

around to the driver"s side. For whatever reason, I"d had this illusion that men in

his line of work had candy-apple red convertible sports cars parked in front of their

penthouse lofts. Short of a hippie-painted VW Bug, Austin"s car couldn"t have been

any further from what I"d imagined: at the foot of a modest apartment building, a

nondescript maroon four-door. It was probably a few years old, undoubtedly had

plenty of miles on the odometer, but it was immaculate inside and out. I guessed

Austin was the kind of guy who could make a car last to two hundred thousand

before it fell apart.

He turned the key in the ignition, and as the engine came to life, the radio

kicked on in the middle of a Garth Brooks song. Austin quickly clicked it off.

“You listen to country?” I asked. Another stereotype shot down, apparently.

“Among other things.” He put the car in reverse and backed out of the space.

“What do you listen to?”

“Whatever"s on the radio that isn"t rap, a commercial, or a political

commentary.”

Shifting into drive, he chuckled. “Yeah, me too. I usually just channel-surf, but

I have a few presets. Country, classic rock, one of the news stations that actually