Drift (Lengths) (15 page)

The wine that comes out seconds later is delicate and perfectly dry, like a tart plum on my tongue. I drink more than I should, faster than I should, but Isaac isn’t drinking much.

Mostly he’s watching me.

“I was being serious when I said you didn’t have to come to Yom Kippur services,” I tell him. I try to imagine Isaac in the synagogue, and my imagination blanks. Richard never bothered to show up despite my mother’s frequent invitations, so there was never a worry about him.

“And I was being serious when I said I was going to uphold my end of the bargain,” he says, refilling my glass with a twist of the wine bottle. “Unless it’s uncomfortable for you?”

“Why?” I ask the question too fast. Which is pretty much my tell. For an attorney, I have a very shitty poker face.

He cocks an eyebrow and smiles. “I just thought it might be strange to explain...us...to your family. I noticed your brother doesn’t seem to approve of me.”

“Cohen?” I scoff. “Please, before Maren, my brother invested years of time and energy in a girl whose single life goal was to be on reality TV. If Maren hadn’t showed up and shook the stupid off of him, he probably would have married that idiot. So, trust me, you don’t need to feel like you have to get Cohen’s approval.”

He runs his fingers along the crisp white tablecloth, toward my fingers. I wait, breath held, for his skin to touch mine. “You’re very close to your family. It must matter to you. What they think?”

I settle back in my chair and watch the way the candlelight flickers over his face. “I love my family. Part of the reason I went ahead and finished my law degree was because my father was so proud of me he was always bragging, and it was humiliating to think of him having to tell everyone on earth that I didn’t finish after all. But other than that, I’ve tried really hard to do what I need to for myself. I try to make sure I’m happy first. Maybe
because
of that.”

Isaac leans forward and catches my hand before I can take another sip of wine. I let him brush his fingers over mine because I’m well on my way past buzzed to drunk, and I don’t want that kind of distraction. I want pure feeling. I want to be aware. Of him, of us.

I want him so badly it’s a tensing ache that holds me captive.

He’s nineteen. What am I doing?

I want to clutch onto him and this tenuous pull of pure need.

Nineteen.
How can he be nineteen?

I want to be completely present for every single thing we’re about to do.

I don’t care about his age. I want him.

A flash forward to our post-dinner activities gives me another shock of
goose bumps. This time, when he sees them, he doesn’t ask if they’re from the cold.

Instead he throws me a smile that’s hungry.

Knowing.

“You had a time when you weren’t sure if you wanted to pursue law?” he asks.

“I did,” I admit, finding it difficult to readjust to normal conversation after the explosion of images that just ran through my brain. “It was just before I finished my final year. I felt like everything—classes, family, life—was racing past me. Just going so damn fast. And then I had this crotchety professor who told my class that if we thought being law students was unforgiving, we’d better quit, because it was nothing compared to trying to make partner at a firm.”

I can still clearly see Professor Stiveson’s sneer when he delivered that tidbit. Two students, exhausted and beaten down, sobbed in class. One of the criers and three others didn’t come back again after the weekend.

I know I wasn’t the only one who looked at their empty chairs with a prick of envy on Monday morning.

“Was he right?” Isaac asks, his eyes trained on my face.

“He was.” I laugh, but it’s less the sound of me chuckling over how naive I was and more a sudden, desperate realization. I’d been so busy proving Stiveson wrong for the last couple of years, I’d never really considered that he didn’t necessarily care about being proven wrong; he cared about telling us the truth, harsh as it might be.

“But you learned to love it?” He’s giving me a wary look. I love that he doesn’t like seeing me upset.

Even though I know very well that the only one who can make me happy or not is myself. And if I ever doubted that’s the truth, I just had to think back to my crash and burn a few weeks ago, then connect the dots to Richard’s betrayal.

“I can get pretty stubborn. It felt like my professor was daring me.” I blush and take a quick gulp of wine. “I guess you know how I get around a dare.”

“Fierce. Strong. Amazing,” he lists.

I press my hands to my cheeks, not sure if they’re on fire from his words or the wine. Before we can say anything else, the food begins to arrive.

Plate after plate of divine food that melts on my tongue and has me biting back moans of pleasure. Coniglio, agnello, veal in black truffles...there are things I can’t identify, and when I ask Isaac what they are, he shakes his head and holds a forkful out to me. Every time I close my lips over a bite, there’s a new taste: honey glaze, lemon-thyme pesto, pear. We drink more wine.

Or
I
drink more wine. I feel like I’m doing all the drinking and eating, and Isaac is sitting back, watching.

There’s something wholly erotic about having a beautiful man watch my every move so intently, like he can’t bear to tear his eyes away.

“What’s your favorite?” he finally asks.

I wave my fork over the rabbit. Then slice off another tiny sliver of ravioli. I whimper over a scallop and finally set my fork on the table and hang my head. “No idea. Don’t force me to choose. Did you order the entire restaurant?”

“Just a sample of everything. Did you enjoy?” He’s pushed the plates and candles and serving sets that were in front of him over to the side, so there’s nothing between us except our wine glasses and the one plate we’re both eating off of. It’s like he’s trying to close the gap between us any way he can, even if it means shoving everything off the table.

“I loved it. I loved every single bite.” I feel sleepy and full. “Thank you for taking me here.”

“You’ve done me a favor,” he says, his voice dipping low. “The last time I came here was with my parents. I forget, now and then, how impossible they are to be around. It was a long meal. Not in a good way. Every time I’ve been tempted to come back, that memory rears up. But after tonight, I’ll think of you when I think of this place. So my paintings better sell well, because my dining out budget just exploded.”

I laugh and reach for my purse. “This place is expensive, isn’t it? It’s fine. I can get it.”

I can. I’ll put it on my credit card that I’ve tucked away for emergencies. This was worth it. Worst comes to worst, I’ll have to get a less expensive car and possibly get a roommate, but I have a nice robust savings account to tide me over for a while, even if I don’t get my job back.

Ugh. Not that I want to think about that right now. Or ever.

Isaac throws a hand over mine, his eyebrows low and his mouth set in a grimace. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to sound like I was asking for a handout. I insist on taking care of this, Lydia.”

Richard was very open to the idea of splitting bills. Or, even better, me exercising my status as an independent woman of means and footing the whole damn thing. But Isaac looks like he’ll argue this into the ground, so I back down and nod.

He takes care of the bill while I head to the bathroom. When I fix my makeup in the mirror, I take one last long perusal. And I feel...sure of myself. I feel ready for whatever we’re about to do together. I feel like I want this. I want him. And I’m not holding back. Not tonight.

I walk past the crackling fireplace to the table where Isaac waits. Where he’s standing, hands in his pockets, hair slightly mussed, eyes a deep, gorgeous green and gold. And the look he gives me
—dark, starved, full of delicious promise—is the most intense foreplay I’ve ever experienced in my life.

13  ISAAC

The car smells like the sweet crush of flowers and her skin, warmed by the wine and the fire and that
desire
that runs so deep it’s humming like an electrical charge between us. I can’t look sideways at her profile because I’ll want to pull the car over if I do.

She’s trying to initiate conversation, but it’s proving difficult, since my answers are monosyllabic. I realize that, after all the civilization of a proper date with starched white table cloths and sumptuous dishes, my acting like a barbarian won’t sit well with her.

But I feel like I’ve been on my best behavior all night, watching her eat her food like she was making love to each bite while I gritted my teeth.

I sat with my hands clenched under the table as she leaned forward, her cleavage inviting me to bury my face in her warm curves and get beautifully lost.

I listened to her resonating laugh and checked the urge to throw her over my shoulder and march her to the backseat of my car, where I wanted to strip her down, cover her body with mine, touch and kiss her until her moans echoed in my ears—

“Is something wrong?” Lydia asks after she’s tried a few different topics with no decent outcome.

“I can’t...I can’t concentrate on so many things at once.” My voice lashes out like a cracked whip.

“So many things?” she snaps back. “Like driving and talking? That’s only
two
things, Isaac. I’d think someone as brilliant as you are could manage two simple tasks.”

“Two?” I bite out the word on a laugh. “You want me to drive and talk? I guess that would be easy. Except I’d have to stop my brain from imagining what you look like with your clothes stripped off and scattered on the floor. What you sound like when I’m licking every inch of your skin. What that skin will feel like when I rub my hands up and down your body. It’s impossible to censor my brain that much, Lydia. My one and only goal is to get you to a bed safely, so I need to keep my mind on the road. Excuse me if I can’t answer your questions about Barcelona and my uncles and the novel I just read. You’re taking up every spare corner of my brain right now.”

“Your brain? You’re sure that’s what you’re thinking with?” she asks, and her voice shakes around the words.

I don’t answer until we’re back to the outskirts of campus. “Where do you want to go?” I ask, realizing I may have pushed this too far already. She may be ready to get out of my car, flip me off, and never speak to me again.

“My apartment,” she says, her voice flat. She only speaks to tell me where to turn and to point to a parking lot.

I pull in and turn off the ignition. She opens her door to get out, and I follow suit, watching her over the hood. “I’m walking you to your door.”

It’s not open for compromise. Whether my acting like an asshole ruined tonight or not, I refuse to put her in harm’s way by allowing her to walk to her apartment. Alone. In that tight, low-cut dress that’s driving me fucking crazy.

She turns slowly and looks me up and down, her eyebrow raised. “Walking me to my door?” She juts a hip out and taps one of those unbelievably sexy heels. “I hope you don’t think you’re stopping there. Because after that you’re stripping me down and carrying me to my bed. You promised, and I’m sure as hell collecting.”

Without waiting for an answer, she marches ahead of me.

It takes two seconds, tops, before I’m jogging behind her, not sure, again, what to say. So I say nothing. Nothing that comes out of my mouth is going to make sense or smooth anything over anyway. But I’m more than prepared to show her what I feel, what I want for her and me.

She drops her key outside the door. I swoop down to pick it up, and, when I place it in her hand, her fingers tremble so hard, she can’t fit it in the lock.

“Let me.” I take it from her, and she only resists for a second. I slide the key in the lock and push the door open. Her apartment is classy and elegant with gorgeous paintings on the walls and sculptures on the bookcases crammed full of titles. I feel like I’m seeing a tiny part of her, a part I’ve never seen before. I hope I’ll be seeing much more soon...

She stands in the doorway, nibbling her bottom lip. “Do you want to—”

“Get in,” I order.

Her eyes flash up to my face and a smile quirks on one side of her lips. She steps in. I slam the door and lock it, take her by the shoulders and turn her so her back is to my chest. I brush her hair over one shoulder, watching her pulse thrum under the delicate skin of her neck. Without thinking, I dip my head and drag my tongue over that spot.

“Isaac,” she gasps. Her hands comes up and curve around my neck, pulling me closer. I lick and suck below her earlobe and down to her shoulder, loving the subtle briny taste that still clings from our day in the waves.

“Lydia,” I murmur next to her ear. I suck her lobe into my mouth and bite down, gently, waiting to hear the hiss of pleasure she makes by sucking her breath through her teeth. When I hear it, I grab the pull of her zipper and tug it down.

She goes still, so the only sound in the room is the press of my lips on her skin and the whine of the zipper, opening wide to reveal her smooth, caramel skin. The dress falls back and exposes delicate shoulder blades, the line of her spine,
and the two dimples just above a perfectly curved ass. I press it off her shoulders and it pools on the floor.

I press my forehead into the slope of her shoulder. “You’re not wearing anything underneath.”

She turns in my arms, her naked body pressed so hard against me, I can feel the heat of her through the light cotton of my shirt.

“You told me not to.”

She runs my tie between her fingers, then makes a fist around the silk and tugs my face down, kissing me full and soft on the lips.

She’s warm and sweet. Her tongue coaxes my mouth open and slides in, lazy and confident as she undoes the knot in my tie and lets it hang loose around my neck. Her fingers work my buttons free, the way they did at the art show. But she doesn’t stop at cautious touches. As her tongue darts into my mouth and slides back out, she presses my shirt and jacket off my shoulders and down my arms.

Lydia backs up and looks at me. While her eyes drink me in, her hand runs up and down her own body, stopping to circle her tight nipples before dipping lower, to touch between her legs. She rubs once, twice, then moans and pulls her hands away from her skin, and attacks my belt, pushing up against me so her tits are pressed to my chest and the length of my dick juts against the warm skin of her thigh through my pants.

She’s working so hard on my belt buckle, her fingers tangle and she laughs, her mouth puckered over my nipple. The feel of her breath on it sends a chill through me.

“Cold?” she asks, then flicks her tongue out. My body shudders again. “That’s not a good thing. I only have half your clothes off.” She runs her hands over my arms, and I reach down to flip my belt open. Her hands fly back to work the button and zipper open before she presses her hands onto my hips, over the waistband of my pants. “This is my favorite part.” She shoves them down and giggles as her fingers brush over the fabric of my boxer briefs.

“Is something funny?” I ask, tugging her close. I flatten my hands and push them up and down her back, cupping her ass and squeezing until she moans. I’m having a hard time grasping the fact that she’s standing, naked, in front of me, excited to take my clothes off.

“You’re very hard,” she says, rubbing her hand over the head of my cock through the fabric of my boxers.

“You’re very sexy,” I qualify. “Very. You don’t know how many times in class I had to stand behind that damn podium because of you.”

She clasps her hands behind my back and tilts her head up, her dark eyes focused on me. “I guess I’m pretty hot when I take notes?” she teases.

“Intelligent women make me horny as hell,” I confess, dipping my head down to catch her bottom lip between my teeth and bite gently, then a little more firmly. She moans, and I lick the spot, then lick again, deeper into her mouth, my tongue twining over hers.

She’s shorter than I am, and it’s hard to keep up with the hungry pace of her mouth. I grab her under her ass and yank her into my arms. She wraps her legs around my waist tight and locks her hands around my neck. Her body arches against mine, pressing hot and sweet as she squirms.

“Am I heavy?”

She pulls her mouth back. Her lips are plush and rosy, her eyes bright. I run my hands over her hair, knead her neck and shoulders, and brush the back of my fingers along her perfect tits, tugging at one nipple, then the other.

“Are you serious? You weigh nothing.”

When she moans, I lift her a little higher, so I can suck the nipples that are now hard and ready for me. She presses her body onto mine, sliding against the tip of my dick until I can feel the heat of her damp center.

“That’s it,” I murmur, moving one hand to cup her ass while the other works between our two bodies, sliding my fingers along her folds. “You’re so damn wet.”

“Isaac,” she moans, pressing her tits deeper into my mouth. I work my fingers slowly, circling the tight bead of her clit until her breath comes out in pants. “Please, Isaac, now. Please, I’m going to...Isaac! I’m going to..c-c-c—”

“Come?” I supply, lowering her body as I bury my fingers deep into her and she begins to shudder and buck, her teeth biting into my shoulder as she stifles her scream. It’s a sharp, perfect pain.

She pulls back and watches, wide-eyed, as I bring my fingers to my mouth and suck the sweet taste of her off of me.

“Oh,” she whimpers. She squirms in my arms and frowns. “I wish you’d put your dick in me when I asked.”

The fact that she’s not hinting, not shy about saying what she wants sends shocks of torturous need through me.

“I want this night to last,” I say unrepentantly. “We’re just getting started.”

She shakes her head, all her shiny hair falling over her shoulders. “I just...I have a hard time coming during sex. So I have to take advantage when it happens.”

I close my arms tighter around her and look at her gorgeous face. Especially those sexy eyes, tipped up at the corners and thickly lashed, avoiding my gaze.

“You don’t orgasm during sex?” I ask, shaking my head. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard anything sadder in my goddamn life.

This goddess of a woman doesn’t orgasm during sex? It’s blowing my mind.

“I do,” she rushes to explain. “Once and a while. If it lasts long enough or if I get started some other way.” A fierce blush paints her cheeks. “Not to imply that you won’t last...It’s just that, in my experience, most guys don’t go long enough to get me there.” She shrugs and presses her hands to my chest. “This is probably the most uncomfortable pre-sex talk ever, right?”

“Not at all.” I loosen my hold so I can look deep into her warm eyes. “And I’m glad you told me. I want this to be amazing for you. And I love that you’re not afraid to tell me what you want. It’s a huge turn-on.” I kiss her and finally kick the pants that were tangled around my ankles off. I back up and she giggles.

“Socks-only is a
really
hot look on you.”

Damn, she’s gorgeous. I laugh as I tug them off, then stand, completely naked, in front of her. Her hands go back to her body, inching over her own skin again.

“Wow. You look fine as hell in clothes. But out of them?” She takes a shuddery breath. “You should model. Underwear. Or naked. Less clothes definitely better.”

My nerves buzz from the copious amounts of testosterone coursing through me. I’m glad she looks at me and admires my body. If she’s half as turned on by me as I am by her, this is going to be an amazingly long night.

“If my art career fails, I’ll keep that in mind as a backup.”

She walks around me slowly, looking me up and down like I’m a fine piece of artwork she’s appreciating. “What is this scar from?” she asks softly, running her fingers over a puckered gash between my fourth and fifth ribs on my back.

I look over my shoulder at her. “I fell out of a tree in Tanzania when my father was on safari. I landed on a sharp rock, and, since the nearest hospital was over fifty kilometers away, my parents decided to let it heal on its own.” I reach back and both of our hands run over the skin. “I probably could have done with a few stitches. Ugly, but it was mostly a flesh wound.”

She traces down further, along my spine. “And this one?”

“Fishing on Robinson Crusoe Island. One of the kids in the group cast badly and the hook caught me.” I close my eyes as she presses her lips to the scar, then kisses a trail up my backbone.

“Robinson Crusoe Island? Is that a real place?” I can hear her smile. I want to see it. But I want her to keep touching me the way she is. So I stare ahead and answer her instead.

“It is. Off the coast of Chile. It’s supposed to be the island that Alexander Selkirk was marooned on, which inspired Daniel Defoe.” I hold my breath as she moves lower, down on her knees, and comes forward. I look down my body at her face, tilted up to gaze back at me. Her thumb runs along a scar on my thigh.

“And this one? Spelunking in Brazil? Skydiving in Hawaii? Ice-fishing in Canada?” She winks at me, the slow press and close of one gorgeous eye.