Offensive Behavior (Sidelined #1) (29 page)

“Cara
could stay here and take care of my plants while we’re gone.”

Now that
was a genius idea. “You don’t have any plants.” She played her fingertips along
Reid’s thighs, bent up out of the water either side of her own.

“I
could get some.”

The
earnestness in his voice had a loveliness to it. It wasn’t his natural way of
speaking. This was Reid doing all he could to please her. “I was thinking we
might go further.”

He
found her hand and wrapped it with his own. “I’d go with you to the moon. You
name the star system.” He was letting her choose.

It was
enough to make a girl love a man.

She
uploaded her audition tape to Madame Amour’s website.

The
next afternoon Cara moved in to Reid’s apartment, taking over the spare room
and setting her sewing machine up in his office, and she and Reid were on a
flight to Paris. Business class because he liked the extra legroom. Zarley
hadn’t bothered arguing cost sharing with him. There was time for that. In
another year she’d graduate, get a job that used her degree, she’d find a way
to pay her share even if it meant continuing to dance nights. Or she’d win the Madame
Amour prize and there’d be different options open.

Surprising
how quickly her old competitor instincts kicked in. It was easier to imagine
winning the prize than it was having a real-world day job. Post college work
was a hazy notion. She was supposed to know what she wanted to do with her
degree. She couldn’t see past graduation and yet all her classmates had
concrete plans. Starting their own businesses, joining companies they’d done
internships with, looking for work in a variety of industries all over the
country. She envied them the certainty of their ambition. She’d once been like
that.

But
sitting beside Reid on the Paris flight, she felt that old ambition stirring. She’d
packed her sexiest costumes and favorite music, but had to narrow her
performance down to one three-minute selection. That was going to take some
thought. But until she heard from the Madame Amour contest organizers, she was
a woman in Paris with her boyfriend. There was sightseeing to do and salted butter
caramel crepes to eat.

“Doing
okay?”

She
should’ve guessed Reid was a nervous flyer. He shifted and twitched and fiddled
and projected his discomfort onto her.

“I’m
great. I like this business class thing.” Legroom galore. Travel for gymnastics
competitions had been coach. “Have you always hated flying?”

“I
don’t hate it.”

She
laughed at him. “You hate it.”

He
screwed up his face. “I don’t hate it. I prefer teleporting, but the Tardis was
in for repairs.”

She
reached for his hand. “You hate it.” She leaned against the console they shared
to get closer. “I could make you feel better.”

He
leaned in. “How?”

“Take
your mind off the fact you have absolutely no control for the next nine hours.”

“Nine
more,” he grumped. “What’s your plan?”

“Mile-high
club.”

He
reeled back into his own seat laughing. Exactly what she’d hoped he’d do. Job
done, now to bring it home.

“I’m
perfectly serious. You’re tense. I’m small and bendy. We can fit in the lavatory
cubicle.”

“That
wasn’t on the list,” he choked out from beneath the hand he’d plastered over
his face.

“That
list was a jumping off point. It didn’t include dining room tables or baths.” Or
public galleries or popular parks.

“It’s
not going to include a passenger airline.”

She
unclipped her belt.

He
twisted to face her. “What are you doing?” If she could only bottle his
expression to drink on days the serious was too damn high.

“I
thought a nice blow job would work for you.”

Although
she whispered it, he must’ve heard it like a shout. He reached for her and
brought her face close. “Are you trying to get me arrested?”

“You’re
the gate-crashing hacker.”

Reid’s eyes
widened.

While
they’d waited at the gate lounge to board, a man with a child on his hip and a
waiting wife and baby approached Reid. He wanted to present a business
opportunity, started straight in, telling Reid how great his app was while shifting
the grizzling toddler hip to hip. Reid had been desperate to shut the man down
but he persisted, making every eye turn their way, using an outside voice in
the crowded space and outright asking for a large sum of money. That’s when
Reid cut him off very deliberately, only to have the man loudly proclaim Reid
was an egomaniac asshole, gate-crashing talentless hacker who shouldn’t be
allowed to leave the country.

She
rolled her lips against her teeth to stop herself laughing. “Too soon.”

He
unclipped his belt.

Oh. He
gave her a game on look and stood. He had the aisle seat. He walked a half
dozen strides up that aisle to the empty lavatory and shut himself inside.

She
drummed her feet on the floor. He’d gotten the jump on her. She’d been teasing,
surely he knew that, right? He didn’t really expect her to . . . in there, did
he?
Oh God
.

She
knelt in her seat, looked around, trying to act casually, screwing it up. Passengers
were reading, watching the entertainment console, most had headphones on and drinks
in hand. No one paid any attention to her. She stood up in the aisle and went
to the lavatories and then blanked on which one he’d entered. Both were
occupied. Great reason to go sit down again. She squawked when a door folded
open and Reid dragged her inside.

He was
almost sitting in the sink. She banged her knee. He tried to close the door on
her foot. He was laughing so hard and they’d made such a commotion, there was
no way they’d get away with this.

He
stood in the zero space between the toilet bowl and the sink, his back to the
mirror, legs spread so she could stand between them. He had to keep his knees
bent, back curled and head ducked.

“Is
this the kinky part, Flygirl?”

He had
his arms around her and she pressed against him, the backs of her knees against
the toilet bowl. The tiny space smelled of floral antiseptic and pepper. It was
hard to imagine a less romantic location, except for the look on Reid’s face. Soft
eyes, the frowny tension in his forehead gone, a quirky smile that was somewhere
between laughter and disbelief.

She got
a hand to his cheek, via an elbow to the door. “Is this one of your fantasies?”
Would he remember that conversation? The one that had her dance for him and led
to spectacular sex.

“Not
until a minute ago. Thought you were bluffing.”

“Thought
you were.”

“No
room to dance in here.” He remembered. That made her heat up from the inside.

This
was still a stupid idea, but it wasn’t impossible. If he sat on the closed
toilet lid. If he was halfway there and they were quick. “Show me what you’ve
got.”

“Jesus.”
He boxed her face in his hands and brushed his nose on hers. “I was joking. We
should get out of here.”

Inconvenient,
unsanitary location, and imminent embarrassing discovery aside, she had to kiss
him; impossible not to. He was so delightfully scandalized and easy to please. It
was a longer, wetter kiss than was sensible for two people who were calling
this crazy off.

Reid’s
helpless groan vibrated in her chest and his lips did a nuclear fusion number on
hers. This man put his body, his mind and his sanity in her hands and she loved
it.

She
broke his kiss with her own moan, but her newest ambition was taking his
delight and making it awe. She sat on the closed toilet lid and put her hand to
his belt. He jerked, smacking his head on the low ceiling.

“Zarley.”
A warning she wasn’t taking because his voice dropped into that low, toffee molasses
thick tone he got when he was turned on. “I don’t think—” She unzipped him. “Oh,
fuck, you’re a goddess.”

After that
he helped, getting clothing out of the way. He put one hand to the ceiling and
gathered her hair in his other. “Need to see you.”

Need to
be quick. She took him in her hand and rubbed her thumb lightly up his shaft,
making the breath come out of him in a slow unsteady stream. With more time she
could draw out the anticipation, have him out of his mind before he came. A
slow lick following the path of her hand, and then she opened her mouth over the
crown of his penis, a titillating flick of her tongue and she took him as deep
as she could.

He
banged his hand on the ceiling and his hips flexed and when she sucked,
hollowing her cheeks, his chin dropped to his chest as if the vertebra in his
neck had dissolved.

Not
since Dalton, when everything was the first time and the experience was
heightened by the sneaking around and the idea they were the only couple in the
world to ever feel so in love, had another man responded to her like Reid did.

His reactions
were an aphrodisiac and she would never have enough of them.

Not
since Dalton had she felt what she felt for Reid. He’d snuck up on her and now
he was in her blood.

“Going
to—”

Yes, he
was, and she wanted it.

Trying
desperately not to pump his hips or make too much noise, he murmured her name
over and over until all she could do was take in the torn wonder in his voice,
clutch his shuddering thighs and swallow him down.

No
sooner had she pulled off, and he dragged her up to his mouth for a kiss worth more
than Paris. For a man who didn’t know how to kiss a few months ago, who still
looked for a sign of permission if he wasn’t already half-cut open with lust,
he topped the class.

The tap
at the door, the question, “Is everything all right in there?” should’ve been
embarrassing, but she’d court any humiliation to have Reid look at her as he
did now—as if she ruled his world.

“Perfect,”
he answered, managing to get a paper cup of water and a wet hand towel to her.

She snuck
out first, avoided eye contact with anyone and was already seated with the inflight
magazine open in front of her when he sat beside her. He leaned over the
console and they kissed.

“I hate
flying,” he whispered against her lips. “It’s irrational, more lives are ruined
in traffic accidents.”

“You
hate irrational.” That’s two reasons for him to be twitchy.

“I’m
coming to see its value.”

She
scratched her blunt fingertips on his head. “How’s that?”

“Never
believed in romance either.”

His
eyes were half closed and his breathing easy. The benefits of the mile-high
club agreed with him. Seeing that agreed with her. “Romance isn’t real. It was
made up by novelists and spread by Hollywood. It’s a lie peddled by every exotic
dancer in every city of the world,” she said.

“Cynic.”
He kissed her again. Not the kind of kiss two passengers on a plane, with an
attendant two rows back discussing dietary concerns, were supposed to share. The
kind that would fire through her body and spark its awareness all over again. That
too was romance.

“If you
keep doing that, I’ll demand a rematch.”

He
snuck a quick pass of his hand over her breast, a finger sliding under her bra
strap. “If I wasn’t almost unconscious I’d be all over that. Once we’re off
this plane, you’re mine.” He sat back in his seat, hit the recline button and
closed his eyes.

At
thirty thousand feet or at sea level, how she felt about him was the same. She
watched him fall asleep and now she was the one who was afraid, because she did
believe in romance, she was his, and she didn’t know what to do about that.

TWENTY-FIVE

The apartment Reid booked was on Rue Charlot in the Marais. There
was a bar at the end of the narrow cobblestone street, a bakery, a cheese shop
and food market. There was a large four-poster bed that made Zarley laugh when
she saw it.

They
had everything they needed and the time together to enjoy it.

They
spent that first day discovering the neighborhood and that first night they
ticked another sex act off the list. In the old-fashioned bed, they had lazy,
slow sex they were both too tired for and yet couldn’t give up. Reid stressed
about it being good enough for Zarley for the five minutes it took to realize this
time she wouldn’t leave him after a night, make him wait a whole week to see
her again.

He woke
alone, but could hear her clattering about in the little kitchen and stumbled
out to see her setting up breakfast. She had fruit and coffee and croissants made
with chocolate that were still warm and smelled delicious. She had groceries
she unpacked. She danced about the small space, going from the countertop to
the refrigerator to the table wearing a pair of cut-off denim shorts in the
school of Daisy Duke, and a skimpy tank.

“Did
you go outside looking like that?”

She
grunted and pointed to a chair. He sat. She slapped a plate of fruit in front
of him. “Yes, and then I realized French women dress better than American
women, but that’s not what you meant.”

He
rubbed his face, but not hard enough to scrub the dickhead out. “I was being a
jealous asshole. You can wear whatever you want.”

“Without
your permission or approval.”

Jesus,
what was wrong with him? He got her undivided attention and then opened his gob
to make her regret it. It’s not that he meant to sound like a judgmental douchebag,
but that’s how it came out. “Of course.”

“Eat
your croissant.”

It
tasted like ashes. This is why he’d been alone; he was no damn good with
people. “Zarley.” She licked a buttery flake of pastry off her top lip and
raised a brow at him. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re
in Paris, I forgive you.”

It
couldn’t be that easy. It shouldn’t be.

“But we
have to talk about money.”

And
there we go. Right as usual.

“If I
win the prize money I can pay you back for the airfare. Economy class, because
you upgraded on points. But I can’t pay you back for this,” she waved a hand
around the apartment. It was bright, airy, furnished with comfort and not the
most expensive he could’ve booked. “I can afford a youth hostel, not this
gorgeous place.”

He went
to speak and she cut him off.

“I know
you know that, and this was your choice instead of a hotel. And I love it. I
can buy food, I can cook for us. I can pay my own way otherwise. But if I don’t
win, it’s going to take me a while to pay you back. And you know it’s quite
possible I won’t even get an invitation to compete. Being in Paris is only one
prerequisite. The performance tape I submitted might not be good enough. It
shows what kind of place Lucky’s was. I might not be good enough. Cirque Du
Soleil artists perform there off-season. If I don’t win, then you’ll have to
wait longer for the money.”

“I
don’t want your money, Flygirl.”

“It’s
not about what you want. Same as what I wear isn’t about you.”

“But—”

“What
are you going to say that doesn’t sound like I’m a rich guy so I get to call
the shots?”

He shut
his mouth with a snap that made his head hurt. She made his head hurt. Frustrating
beautiful woman. He’d only been a rich guy for the last few years. He wasn’t
entirely sure what the rules were but with Owen as his example he’d kept it as
close to his regular life with one enormous exception—he could buy pretty much
anything he wanted. Except, as it turned out, he didn’t want much except the
comfort of his girlfriend.

“You’re
going to win.”

She
snorted, took a sip of coffee and waited for him to bury himself by saying
something dumb again.

“After
I saw the flyer, I spent hours on the Madame Amour website. I watched
competitors from past years and feature artists, I’ve watched you, and I know
you can win. You know you can win or we’d be in Texas.”

“You were
drunk when you watched me, Back Booth, and desperate to get laid.”

“I
wasn’t that drunk or that desperate. I can tell you exactly what costume
belongs to what song and how you wore your hair.”

She
laughed.

“I’m
not trying to be funny.”

“What
are you trying to do?”

“Stop
us from having an argument.”

“You
mean win the argument. Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed.”

“Would’ve
if you’d stayed there with me.”

She
said nothing for long enough he was mentally stripping those tiny excuse for
shorts off her body and he didn’t need a bed to do with her what he wanted, no
argument about that.

“We
should go out,” she said.

“We
should.”

Argument
averted.

Zarley
changed her clothes because this was Paris and everyone dressed better. They
went to the Louvre.

The
Louvre irritated the fuck out of Reid. Hundreds of people taking pictures of
the art, filming their experience for later instead of absorbing it now. You’d
be looking at a painting and someone would pop in front of you for a quick snap
and move on. Too whacked for words. And don’t start about the
Mona Lisa
.
He had a reasonably clear view of the small painting above the crowd of people
with their outstretched hands and selfie sticks. Zarley had no chance of seeing
it, even standing on his shoes, and they gave up trying.

Hours
later their feet gave up.

Back in
the apartment, they chilled. She wanted to cook an evening meal and he thought
better of stopping her. There’d been no word from the Madame Amour people and
she was on edge, taking it out on the vegetables she chopped.

He sat
opposite her at the counter. “You wore a little black skirt with pinstripes,
you were a sexy secretary, and danced to that Bodyrockers “I Like the Way” song
with your hair done in a bun with a pencil in it. There’s a line in that song about
always getting it wrong.”

She put
the knife down and turned to face him.

“You
wore a bra with purple fringing and the tiniest bikini pants, and you danced to
“Let me Think About It” with your hair all teased out.” He made a motion at the
side of his head, wild hair, wild woman. “Yeah, you thought I was too drunk. I
only got properly drunk after I saw you on stage. Want more? You wore this
ripped-up red leather thing, stuck to you like a second skin, and danced to “I’m
A Bitch,”
and one night you danced to “Lightning Crashes” in a white corset,
suspenders and stockings, with red butterflies in your hair. I swear you made
half the men at your feet bawl like babies.”

“Oh my gosh.”
She rounded the counter. “Lou banned me from using that song after that night.”

“I
never noticed any of the others except what order they appeared in and how that
related to you. I never got seriously drunk until your last set was done.”

“I
think I might,” she paused and his breath stalled, what, what? “Swoon. That’s
so romantic.”

“Hmph.”
She was making fun of him. He grabbed for her, got a hand to her wrist. She’d
showered when they got back and was wearing those tiny shorts again. Her skin
smelled of lavender soap.

“What
are you up to?”

“Up to
my neck in you.”

She
fluttered her eyelids at him and skipped out of his grasp. Then, attracted by
laughter outside, she went to one of the tall windows that opened to an iron
window box with red geraniums growing in it. She pulled the filmy curtain aside
to look out at the street.

Like
she’d dropped breadcrumbs and he was starving he followed her, coming up behind
her, putting his hand to her throat and easing her body back into his. She
tipped her chin up and he looked at her upside-down face. “Can’t help it. Can’t
not want you.”

“Greedy.”

“For
you, always.” He used both hands to explore her body. He’d watched her dress, knew
she was naked under the shorts and tank. He pulled the tank over her head, he
cupped her breasts, rubbed his thumbs over her nipples, and pinched, until her
happy noises turned shocked and he looked up.

There
was a man standing opposite them in a window of an apartment building much like
theirs. He wore trousers and a shirt, but the shirt was unbuttoned. He was
older, dark hair, trimmed beard, swarthy skin, in good shape.

Before
Reid could yank their curtain back into place, Zarley trapped his hands. “He
can see us.”

There
was a strange note in her voice and she hadn’t tried to move away. “Flygirl, do
you want him to see us?”

Her
body shuddered and her breath quickened. She moaned and gripped his thigh to
hold him in place. The man opposite lifted his gaze and smiled.

“What
do you want, baby?” He spoke in Zarley’s ear, a whisper because he wasn’t sure
he could share her like this, but he knew she wanted it. He’d thought kink
might be the way she’d used the posts of the bed to tantalize him, tying his
ankles up. But this, this was altogether more than he expected.

Her
answer was another moan. He smoothed one hand down her body to the edge of her
shorts and stopped, with his thumb tucked inside. That movement bared her
breast to their neighbor. “Do you want me to undo these?” She’d wanted to tie
his wrists as well, but he’d argued he might come to harm if he couldn’t touch
her.

“Yes,”
a shaky hiss.

He
popped the stud and undid the zipper. Zarley’s whole body was shaking, and when
he put his hand inside her shorts and cupped her, she thrust her hips forward
and slammed her hand down on his.

He
might come to harm now. This was confronting.

“You
want me to make you come while he watches?”

Her
head thrashed, rolling on his chest, no? But she worked her hips into his hand
and her eyes were glued on the watcher. Reid’s were too. Their neighbor had
undone his trousers, his hand, in a slick parallel of Reid’s, was in his underwear.
He nodded to them, as though urging them on and Zarley breathed in excited
gasps.

“He sees
you, Zarley. He thinks you’re sexy, beautiful. He wants to jerk off while I
pleasure you. Do you want that?” Could he do it, take her while another man watched?
There was an entire laneway, sheets of glass and sound barriers between them
but it felt like the man was in the room with them. He had his erect cock in
his hand now, stroking slowly.

“See
what you do to him, baby.” Reid was hard too, and fast losing the sense of what
the right thing to do was. If he pulled Zarley away from the window, he’d keep
her safe from being seen, but nothing in the way she reacted told him she
wanted that. “See what you do to me.”

The
scent of her arousal filled his nose and she ground against him, hips and ass. He
buried his face in her neck and his fingers in her wet core. She was going to
come hard and fast like he’d done in the lavatory on the plane. Across the way,
the man’s chin was up, his eyes narrowed and his mouth moved as he brought
himself on. Reid could do this for Zarley, because it’s what she wanted, so he
wanted it for her.

“You’re
going to make him come.”

She
jerked in his arms, “Yes, yes.”

“You’re
going to make me come.” He was still fully dressed, but he got his shirt off
over his back and head with one hand, while Zarley moaned and thrashed. When he
checked the window there was a woman in the frame, blonde and busty. She turned
her head to see them and Zarley cried out.

The
woman smiled, then went to her knees in front of the man, accepting his cock in
her mouth and his hands in her hair. The man’s mouth kept working, instructing
the woman, and his eyes never left Zarley.

“Reid.”

He
shoved Zarley’s shorts further down her hips so he could get his fingers inside
her. Silky and hot and perfect. He sucked on her neck and she came on a keening
cry, bowing forward, hands gripping his wrists, then rocking back into his
chest making a song of his name.

Over the
way, the couple had changed positions. The woman stood, palms planted on the window
glass. Her blouse was open, her tits spilling from black lacy bra cups yanked
aside. Her blue skirt was flipped up over her back and the man thrust into her
from behind. The woman’s eyes were closed, but the man still watched Zarley.

“More,
Reid. Please more.”

Now who
was greedy? He wouldn’t take Zarley like that. He wouldn’t share her that far. The
woman’s mouth was open, she panted and pushed back against the man, tossed her
head so her hair flicked about. She was going to come hard too.

He
released Zarley long enough to ditch his sweats and drag a dining chair in
front of the window. He placed it so his back was to the window and Zarley
could watch through the window. He sat and she kicked her shorts off and straddled
him. He forgot about the other couple when Zarley lowered herself onto him,
kissing him with soft, slack lips and a hand tight in his hair as comets zipped
across his vision.